His arm tightens around Alistair's shoulders in reflex.

It's late enough that any runners coming in would do so in an actual emergency. Which means... it's quiet. Maker willing, it'll stay quiet.

Alistair's had a hard day. Cullen doesn't know, and oughtn't to speculate, whether Alistair has had a bad day. Either way, it's just... a lot.

Everything's a lot.

(Even now, his mind turns to the unfinished work: if he puts his head down when he's alone, and sifts through the reports, piecing together information to make his best guess at the enemy's movements -- the enormity of what they face, and the weight of all those lives, won't crush him back into that terrified nineteen-year-old. All those lives.

But here's one, who's safe. Who seems to trust him.)