"Cazuela," Faolan repeats, not understand what that could mean at all, save that the smells wafting out from the kitchen beyond seem to smell amazing. He glances at Lancelot to see if he will give him more of an explanation, but he supposed that he'll find out regardless. Anyway, he's not picky, and anything homemade for him will be good in his books.

He drops his bag where he can find the space and follows Lancelot into the kitchen, wandering to the table and making himself comfortable as he has done several times before. This time needing little prompting from Lancelot himself as he sheds his jacket and sinks into a chair there. A little bemused at all the options that the other man is rattling off for him. "Water?" he asks. "If you've got it," he adds, with the quirk of a smile. He'll probably beg a coffee off of him later, but he's too tired to drink and hold a conversation at the same time, and that's saying something.