It's the sort of all right Alistair knows too well. He looks away, toward the fire.

(It would be awfully nice, he thinks distantly, if he could do something right for once. Just once.)

The kettle hasn't begun to whistle yet, but enough steam pours from its spout that it'll probably start its screeching any minute now. Alistair rises; unhooks it; fetches down the tea and a pair of mugs. Scoops the tea to the kettle. Waits, in silence, as it brews.

It'll give Cullen a moment to collect himself, if nothing else.