Glacius barely makes it through his question before the door flies open, revealing a disheveled Carlisle on the other side. His eyes are wide with the terror that comes when one cannot tell if he's truly awake, or simply facing a hallucination of a desperate mind; through the tears welling in them is the glow of agitated energy. Beyond him, the room is a mess, strewn with notes and journals, heavy with the smell of liquor.

Though he hesitates for a second or two, Carlisle reaches for Glacius' scar and, upon feeling the chill from the alien's icy layer, he breaks. His teeth grind as he chokes on his breath; he wraps his arms around his partner, holding onto him as though he has no other respite from the anguish that has tormented him for days now.

And perhaps he doesn't, if the state he's in is any indication.

Carlisle cannot even begin to question what Glacius has gone through; he cannot even wonder if Glacius truly died and was revived, or if he was simply stolen in his unconscious state. The clergyman's entire body shakes as his limbs tighten in the embrace, fingers curling against the ice, scratching at it as though it'd convince him that this was not some mere specter: Glacius has been returned to him.

"I- I tried, Glacius," he sputters. "I tried to wake you. I- I tried for days!"