After a few minutes, Alistair takes to idly winding bits of Cullen's hair around his fingers. It's too languid for fidgeting, but maybe borne of the same place: if he can't walk and can't keep running his mouth, at least he can keep something moving.

Besides, it's fun.

He turns his head, watches dim patches of sunlight shift across Cullen's face. (Maker, he's beautiful.)