If the first impulse to flare up and pass is the one to never let Carlisle further than arms reach, the second, at a slow, steady, seductive oil fire flash bright roar is the idea of eviscerating the cause.

Something, someone, it all sounds ludicrous.

Glancing over his own memories -- his and all the ones that pressed in around during the same time, which were simultaneously his. And nothing. Nothing still.

But he says it and means anyway. "I'll look."