There's water, icy-cold, and Cullen knows it'll have a frozen scrim on the surface by morning. He washes as best he can, uses the small and tired-looking bar of plain soap, and kneels by his trunk to fetch something clean to put on.

It feels better than he could have accounted for. Like he's a person again. For once.

Maybe he should review the report in bed.



Under a too-light blanket, Cullen sleeps, fingers curled toward the report.