Maybe he shouldn't have. He did this. It's his fault.
He should be able to ask for --

The concept is too stark. Beyond need. Need is gone.
(Except for blood. Except for her whispers.)


The silence stretched. He can almost hear the waiting. The way Carlisle's thoughts would be pleading for anything. Some response to come. Should he lie? Force himself to make some mockery of normality? (Isn't everything that already? A mockery? A lie?)

He passes one thing. Another.

Where are the others.
Why can't he hear them in the background.
For a moment, he'd rather them than the rabble.


"It's Christmas."
It's not anything it sounds.
Maybe not anything at all.
A grinding nothing.