[That genuine gratitude hits Carlisle hard; he pushes a quiet sigh from his nose, the air rattling in his throat.]

You may not know this now, but I haven't a doubt in my mind that you would have done the same for me, were I the one in need. You have not hesitated to come to my aid in the past, however poor an idea it was. There must be something we can do.

[He sets his satchel on the nearby desk and goes digging for his journal. The leather tome has seen better days if the wearing along the spine is any indication. He unties it and pulls off his work gloves before flipping through the pages, his notes all hand-written in ink. In case Qubit needed any more evidence that his friend is odd, he's wearing a second pair of gloves — ones that match the leather of the rest of his outfit — under the first.]