Her offer is met with silence at first, as well as a flash of uncertainty that crosses his face. He should be kinder to her, he chastises himself, or at least tolerable, especially when she seemed to express some concern for him, despite their last conversation. Carlisle pushes himself off the wall, wiping at his chin with his arm -- the bandage there is already stained from previous times like these, the patches of black faded, but still evident through the layers.

He doesn't normally invite people into his private abode, but what circumstances can a man hacking up ink consider 'normal'? "This way," he says, meandering past her and around the corner, toward the door. "I'm sorry, I don't- I don't quite recall your name."

Or he never got it with all the snitty remarks he sent her way. Whichever.