Alistair watches him go. With a silent sigh, he runs his fingers through his own hair and follows.

He doesn't need much prep for bed: he's alread in his linen trousers, since it seemed unlikely he'd venture out again after he settled down to write those letters. (Or try to write them.) He strips off his shirt -- maybe Cullen's favorite view will cheer him up a little as well? -- and yanks off his socks before settling onto the mattress, turning toward Cullen without hesitation.