It's hard to describe the relief that floods through him when Cullen agrees with him. Half the bloody frustration of this dry spell has been the fact that it really has been the responsible thing to do. So many times, they've kissed or nuzzled or gripped hands, and one of them has had to make the choice to withdraw before things got too hot and heavy. Usually Cullen, as one might expect, since he's the responsible one. If he'd dissuaded Garrett this time, he really did believe he might scream.

He breaks away from Cullen with an eager nod, and immediately starts disrobing. His boots come off, his trousers next, and he yanks the laces of his tunic open, leaving it hanging appealingly off his shoulders. The hated bandages are still wrapped thick around his waist, holding the clean gauze that now protects his mostly-mended wound.

He's just sliding his smalls off when Cullen finishes. Cracking a grin at his own desperation, he takes his hands and lets him lead him up onto the makeshift support. "This is the only time you'll get away with calling me that in this context," he teases. With Cullen's aid, he gets into a comfortable position, lounging back against the sacks. More supportive than a bed, less uncomfortable than the floor.