Carlisle's head dips, his disappointment clear -- it is not with Glacius, but with himself, with their circumstances. "We do, indeed."

He stares sadly at Glacius' hands only another moment before closing his eyes. The alien can no doubt feel the quiet thrum of energy course through his knuckles, magic wrapping around and reaching into him to repair the damage done, traveling the courses cut by the microweave and into his musculature. However, despite what Carlisle had insisted he do, that energy stops before it travels up Glacius' limbs, leaving his hands the only parts healed.

"There," he whispers. Though apparently done with his work, Carlisle keeps his hold on Glacius' fingers. "A compromise on how far we push ourselves in this trying time, then."