The scowl's expected. The shift in expression immediately after...isn't. Alistair's gaze flicks to the report under Cullen's arm, back to his face, then away.

"As for the 'do something' part," he goes on, "I've more than stamina draughts in here." He lifts the bag, shakes it a little to make the vials inside clink. "If it would help. Or -- I expect you didn't eat anything on the ride back?"

A nap, so often being the Standard Alistair Recommendation for Cullen's many and varied ills, goes unsaid for now.