Carlisle's immediate inclination is to deny he has a problem, but he's well aware that such behavior does him no favors in terms of convincing anyone of that. He pulls his glass to his lips, closing his eyes, savoring the smell of it -- though not a terribly appealing scent, it has it has been a period of months, enough to feel like a lifetime since he had a drink. It's pungent, revealing the strong nature of the liquor despite its whimsical container.

And down the hatch it goes, the entire glass in one take. Fire blossoms in his throat, igniting his chest from the inside out. It's a welcome warmth to fight the chill he's felt at the back of his neck all day.

Another will help settle his nerves; he pours it out carefully. "And what it is you have to be miserable about these days, Miss Rey?"