Those eyes alight in the darkness, green and bright despite Glacius' obvious exhaustion. Despite knowing he should keep his distance -- this is his fault, Carlisle reminds himself -- he reaches to the alien for some form of comfort, desperate to be forgiven for the mess he made, for Glacius' suffering, for everything.

His fingers bump into the glass of water in the shadows; it's not what he was looking for, but he does take it, wrapping both hands around the glass before bringing it to his lips. It soothes neither his throat nor his head for long, and does nothing for his guilt.

"Thank you," he mutters. "Are you—?"

No, of course he's not all right. What a stupid question to even ask.

"I'm..."

No amount of apologies will fix what's been done, what damage the double managed simply because Carlisle didn't warn Glacius to the danger immediately. What a fool he was.

"Um."

So much for words.