Alistair stretches both arms overhead, briefly twines his fingers together, and cracks his shoulders one at a time before heaving himself off the chaise. "Thanks for the meal," he says; his smile, however slight, is completely sincere. "Is your bed...?"

He peers up at the lofted space above Cullen's desk. It makes sense: there's open sky and he's no more than a ladder's length from any work that needs doing. (Because of course he is.)