As much as Carlisle might have liked to stretch his legs, it's obvious he won't get the chance as Glacius presses further against him, his arms coming around the clergyman to return the embrace... and it's then, of all times, that Carlisle is struck with indecision. He knows in his gut that it's better to keep his distance -- despite what Glacius says, he is still quietly convinced he is a blight upon not only the alien, but the entirety of existence. That's his place as a twice-cursed, a mentality ingrained into him by the very world he comes from.

But as someone who has spent a good portion of his life shunned and afraid, he covets this feeling of acceptance and assurance so much. He feels protected, better than he could ever hope to be on his own, no matter how much he'd like to think otherwise.

And so he leans back and closes his eyes, dozing off himself. There's no practical reason to stay awake -- he and Glacius are both safe and sound for the moment, and he'd better take advantage of it while he can, as such moments are often so fleeting.