Alistair turns enough to look over his shoulder. He rolls onto his back in short order -- the angle's too awkward to watch Cullen like that for long.

"But you shouldn't have to give up your own -- " Your own comfort, he almost says, but Cullen will just echo the rejoinder from earlier. Alistair gestures to him, helpless, plaintive. "You had reservations. And that's fine. I want to know, I don't want to guess about it and do something like..."

Not like Morrigan, maybe, but like that other trip to Orlais two years ago, when even while Cullen was weeping in his arms afterward he kept insisting it's fine, it's fine.