Cullen would heave a sigh, but doing so would probably bring a reprimand. He'd glare at Alistair, but -- well. He doesn't want to be a bear.

So he holds still -- except to mutter something about how the ribs are covered in flesh and the flesh itself is bruised, so that ought to count.

He almost can't feel the healer draw upon her magic. Almost. But there's still that little twinge of awareness, and he flinches before he can stop himself.

But Cullen holds still. He's tired. He's on edge. He's hurt. She deserves better from him.