[Carlisle's eyes follow the cork as it goes flying across the room, his shoulders stiffening for a moment in mild alarm.]

Right. Wouldn't want [cough] them flying out of some injured [cough] person's hand and straight into [okay, still coughing] into, um—

[He scrambles for that jar on the table, his hands unsteady as he tries to get it open, ink already seeping through his teeth. He finally gets the lid off and hacks into it, spatter of the black bile dotting his glasses from where it splashed into the jar.

He drags his mouth along that bandage on his arm before finishing his sentence, as though this is perfectly n o r m a l.]

Straight into their eye. Kind of defeats the purpose.