Cullen's smile turns bemused, but he lets the man do what he will. Wonders if it would be all right to take another spoonful of soup while the questions come. His stomach says it would be an excellent idea, but the rest of him suspects it might be poor form. He listens to the rest, grudgingly.

"I'm not drunk," he answers plainly. "And my head is--" --aches and pains he cannot explain, coming and going as they please. Sometimes trivial, sometimes a small terror. The man seems troubled enough, best not mention it. "--fine, I didn't hit it anywhere."

Cullen risks another smile, just a small one this time.

"And if you want to know if you're dreaming, you just probably poke yourself instead of me."

Which is all well and good, but it seems to do little to ease anyone's mind, or-- Was the joke in such poor taste? He wouldn't have thought, but something changed rather rapidly, and there are only so many causes in this room he can name. Concern turns his expression serious.

"Are you... all right? Did I do something wrong?"