Alistair nods. It looks more like defeat than agreement.

He casts his gaze to the knife, debating whether to bring it along; glances to the bed, to judge the distance. If he leaves it here, he could probably dive out of the bed and reach the weapon in time, if he put his mind to it. Probably.

And it'd lessen the chance that he'd accidentally stab Cullen if he dozed off and got caught in a nightmare.

He gets to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. He doesn't pick up the knife.