Happy to just lie there a moment while Glacius wanders off, Carlisle closes his eyes again, trying to relax and focus on what energy he has running through him. One advantage to being so attuned with the flow of magic through his own body is he can tell just where injuries still lie, and redistribute his energy accordingly. He is indeed still bruised where the shears had gone into his back, but that will heal on its own -- more worrying is that stiffness in his limbs, about which his magic can do nothing. Using any more would actually exacerbate his condition.

But Glacius has a plan, one he can hear from the couch. He doesn't need to sit up to know the alien is in the kitchen somewhere, and he privately hopes Glacius might be making him tea. He'd have suggested it himself if he weren't so busy considering how much of a burden he is at the moment, troubling his alien friend with carrying him home, tending to his wounds, and even cleaning him of blood and ink. To be fair, he did get stabbed with a pair of shears by a man who looks just like him. It's been quite a day for both of them.

He nods off for a moment, but the chill of his body keeps him from resting for too long -- it reminds him too much of his nightmares. Thankfully, Glacius returns only moments after he stirs, and he does indeed bring tea.

"Please," Carlisle hisses as he tries to sit up himself, only for his limbs to refuse to bend very far. He's back to trembling again, though it might be from the cold rather than his fatigue. He is missing most of his clothing, and is slightly more aware of it than he'd like.