Trying to focus on the task at hand and simply pleased that Glacius stops aggravating his own wound, Carlisle unfortunately misses the reverence with which the alien takes his conjured light. The orb stays bright, and is slightly warm to the touch, but it feels fragile, like delicate glass. Carlisle is used to handling them, but never thought to warn Glacius to hold it with care. Thankfully, the alien does just that without his guidance.

"Good. Now just stay still a moment."

With one hand holding the bottle, he places the other just below Glacius' jaw, the touch of his fingertips gentle as he nudges Glacius' face a little higher. The wound has healed well, but the salt water has done him no favors -- he pours a little of the fresh water onto the injury, clearing away the obvious bits of sand that have flecked onto his scarring underbody. There's another moment of scrutiny, then more pouring, and after another repetition, he decides that it's as clean as they're going to get it for the moment.

"There," he says softly, setting the bottle down and using both hands to maneuver the alien's face so the light can reach the various nooks and crannies of his jawline and the spot where his missing mandible should be. Though trying to be absolutely thorough, Carlisle is conscientious with how much pressure he uses to prompt Glacius to turn his head this way and that, not wanting to overstep is boundaries. They have done this sort of inspection over and over again throughout their injured days together, and he knows well enough that the alien wouldn't let just anyone handle him like this, but he cannot help that feeling that he's going to ruin this camaraderie they have between them.

And given how said camaraderie has made him feel, he would do nearly anything to keep it. That, too, is new for him.