As Glacius hoists Carlisle into his arms, the clergyman doesn't fight, doesn't argue, doesn't push him away as the alien might have expected. In truth, as much as he wants to find his double and see him rightfully punished for whatever he may have done to Glacius -- and to him, can't forget the shears that spent so long in his back that he nearly died -- he's too weary to actually do just that. Glacius is right: he needs to recover.

Carlisle can focus on how his double may have ruined everything he holds dear later. For the moment, Glacius is helping him, providing him with that sense of security he so desperately needs when his paranoia is rising, threatening to swallow him as quickly as his ire had. He rests his head against his alien friend, letting the coolness of his icy shell help soothe his head.

"Right," he utters, his voice graveled from all the coughing he's been doing. There's still ink running down it, mingling with trace of blood that linger there. "Right. You're right. Let's" —he takes in an unsteady breath— "let's go home, and he can be dealt with later. Should be dealt with. Just as long as- as you are all right."