A/N: A straaange little "Vargas" side-story. Hope you like, Zar. ^^;

Carne

My dear Edgar.

Leave me alone.

Herr Vargas.

Edgar con carne.

What the hell?

"Carne." Meat. From which "carnal" and its variants are derived. And they're all pretty tasty in their own ways, wouldn't you say?

And how would you know that?

So that's it, then.

What do you mean?

Oh, don't play innocent with me, Edgar. We know each other a bit too well for that by now, wouldn't you say?

Speak for yourself.

His hand cut frictionlessly though the dark blurriness of the air above his bed, coming to rest on a bit of plastic below his right eye. But could it really be called just plastic? It seemed to him like there must be something more to it— something more… definite.

You… are becoming far too philosophical for your own good, my friend. What happened to the Edgar we all know and love?

I don't feel like this tonight, Scriabin.

Blank-slate Edgar, full of realism and preconceptions! But looooves his God! Yes, he does! Honestly, you'd think after seeing for yourself the Almighty's absence in death, you'd become a touch less deluded.

I still strongly maintain that you were lying to me that day.

Of course. It's easy just to say that. But then how do you explain the horrific kill-beast that brought you to me in the first place?

… What does that mean?

Have you memory? Your loveably unstable studmuffin's demon got loose? Destroyed you? Destroyed that girl and the other unfortunate meatsack? Ring a bell?

Meatsack?

It's new. Thought I'd model it for you. Does it make me look fat?

Sorry. Allow me to rephrase that. Does it make me look skinny enough for your liking?

Don't start on him.

Ooh, so protective. Your machismo is so very alluring, Edgar.

Edgar huffed out a resigned breath and instinctively scratched at the adhesive on his cheeks. He would have loved to take off the damn things, but after his most recent bleeding incident, he wisely whose to sleep with them on. He hadn't wanted to risk staining the pillows, after all.

Are you sure he wouldn't like that?

Scriabin pressed on before he could reply, and he chose to let it pass.

That thing almost managed to wipe away everything that I— well. That part's not really important. You died, and came to see me in your whitewashed little mind. What did you think I meant, anyway?

I don't know. Pause. I couldn't have died. I'm here right now, aren't I?

You died.

I died.

But you're not dead now.

I'm alive.

Brilliant deduction!

Shh.

He stared up at the gray fog that made up the darkened ceiling in his fuzzy vision, wide awake by now. To his perception, white bars of light streaked in through the unclosed blinds, stretching and distorting into something they really weren't on the far wall. He thought he might have heard rain outside.

I told you before. There is no Heaven. No Hell. No God, no Satan, absolutely no anti-Christ! Nope. You just retired into your cozy little subconscious. With me.

Then it was just a dream.

Wrong. Well… I suppose that might not be entirely false.

Silence. Edgar was getting sleepy again, very slowly.

They say that death is like one big dream, after all. Not dying, mind you. Death. Infinite. A state of being. Why, think, Edgar! You could be dead at this very moment! The fabric of this existence could be gone! And you'd never even know…

Stop, Scriabin.

No more tired now.

Why? Am I scaring you?

No. You're not.

A dream would explain so much, though, wouldn't it?

People exist, Scriabin!

And when's the last time you carried on an actual relationship with one of these people? Your good friend JC doesn't count, as much as he Truly Cares for you.

Enough about Nny, already.

What? You, speechless? What's wrong?

You… You actually assumed I was talking about Nny.

I love you for that.

Cheeks throbbing gently, Edgar propped himself up enough to grope for the phone. He knew Nny would be awake. Exactly seven numbers and seven rings and seven heartbeats later, he heard the familiar subdued voice. He couldn't really blame him, given what had happened the last time he got a phone call.

"… hello?"

Need reassurance, do you? I thought you said you weren't scared.

"Nny."

"Edgar." He sounded almost surprised.

"Could you… come over?"

I am amazed at your sheer potential to lie, Edgar. Really.

"Oh," he really did sound surprised now. "Why not?"

"I'll see you soon, then?"

"Unlock your window."

"All right."

Click.

Scriabin.

Yes?

Fuck you.

If I could, Edgar. If I could.

~fin