A/N: Thank you for all of the interest in this story; it is much appreciated! Thank you as always to harrytwifan and remylebeauishot, my amazing betas. And a huge shoutout to MinaRivera for creating such a wonderful banner as a surprise to me! It's gorgeous, hun, thank you!

October 1918

With the utmost care, Carlisle pulled the sheet over the man, effectively pronouncing him dead. The latest victim of the Spanish flu had to be no older than thirty eight—such a waste of life and vitality. After a moment of silent reflection, Carlisle motioned for the nurse to take him to the morgue. The morgue probably held more bodies at this point than the beds in this hospital, Carlisle thought grimly. Now came the part that Carlisle dreaded the most—relaying the bad news to the surviving family in the waiting room.

Edward Masen had arrived in Carlisle's care only hours before. He was told that Masen had been brought in by his wife and teenaged son, coughing up blood and unable to walk on his own. The intake nurse had explained that his son was fully supporting the weight of his father, struggling to keep him on his feet. As soon as Carlisle entered the patient's room, he could smell death approaching. There was nothing that could be done; the man was too far gone. That was the trouble with this epidemic—sometimes the onset was slow enough that something could be done, but most of the time it hit like a tidal wave, claiming its victims within twenty four hours. The latter was the case for Edward Masen.

Carlisle wished there was something he could do to stop the spread of this disease, but there was nothing to be done. Carlisle Cullen was a vampire disguised as a human doctor, but he was not to be feared. He was a rarity among vampires—he abstained from drinking the blood of humans, preferring to retain his humanity and help humans in need. Instead of giving in to his basest desire, he instead subsisted on the blood of animals, and that kept him satisfied enough. After centuries of practice, he hardly recognized the call of human blood anymore, and of that he prided himself. He was always in complete control, and although he sometimes had to allow a patient to die so as not to reveal his superior senses to other humans, he rarely lost a patient.

Until now. This flu was infuriating to Carlisle. When he went home after his overnight shift, under the pretense of needing to sleep, he spent his days immersed in research. But this flu was unlike any in history, and Carlisle could find no way to stop it. It struck without rhyme or reason, taking life from the young and virile, while similar epidemics typically claimed the old and weak. It made no sense, and Carlisle had no choice but to watch the humans around him fall and succumb to the disease.

As the nurse wheeled Mr. Masen out of the room, Carlisle gathered his personal effects from the bedside table: his wedding ring, a pocket watch, a billfold, a monogrammed cigarette case and lighter set. The last bits of this man for his family to hold dear. Holding the items in his open palm, he stared at them for a moment before slipping them into a satchel. He knew that the moment Masen's wife laid eyes on the bag, she would know her husband was gone. How he dreaded having to be the one to dash a family's hopes of recovery.

With a heavy heart, Carlisle walked down the hallway to the waiting room. On the way, he passed by cots that held the deathly ill, the overcrowded hospital no longer having proper space for these poor souls. Parting the curtain separating the ill from the healthy, Carlisle stepped into the room. His eyes scanned the crowd of people waiting for word on their loved ones' prognoses. He hadn't been there for Masen's intake—how would he know which family to approach? The entry door pushed open in that moment as a new patient arrived, allowing the cool, late October air to gust through the room.

And then it hit him. The overwhelming scent of the most delicious blood he'd ever smelled. His sensitive nose immediately located the source. Sitting in one of the chairs, next to an auburn-haired woman who looked to be his mother, was a young man with penny-colored hair. Carlisle couldn't see his face, as he was staring down at the floor, his mother's arm wrapped around his slender shoulders. Carlisle's mouth flooded with venom at the scent of him; this was the first time in decades that Carlisle struggled to control the urge to drink from a human. Shaking his head to clear it, Carlisle tore his eyes from the boy and approached the intake desk.

"Good evening, Minerva. Can you tell me which is the family of Edward A. Masen?"

Minerva gave a curt nod without looking up from her paperwork, extending a finger in the direction of the boy who had stirred the monster lurking inside him. The woman had heard the mention of her husband's name, and she was looking at Carlisle, her teary eyes reflecting a mixture of hope and fear. Swallowing hard and tamping down the beast inside as only he could, Carlisle began to walk over to the pair. As he walked, the woman noticed the satchel in the doctor's hand, and all hope in her eyes was lost as she broke down, her hands covering her face as her shoulders shook violently.

The boy looked up from the floor then, his tired face drawn in concern for his mother. "Mama?" He placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to get her to look at him. "Mama?"

The boy sensed the presence of Carlisle as he stood before them, and he raised his eyes to meet the doctor's gaze. Carlisle struggled not to gasp at the sight of him. The boy was the most beautiful creature Carlisle had ever laid eyes on, and his vibrant green eyes seemed to pierce into his very soul. The scent of this boy's blood, combined with his innocent beauty, aroused something long dormant within Carlisle. There was a stirring in the vampire's trousers and an ache in his belly as their eyes remained locked together.

Embarrassed, Carlisle broke eye contact with the alluring boy and looked to his mother. "Mrs. Masen?" She looked up at him, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I am sorry to inform you that we were unable to save your husband. He has passed on."

The woman swallowed hard. "I know. Thank you for doing your best, Doctor..."

"Cullen. Carlisle Cullen."

"Doctor Cullen. Thank you." Masen's wife turned to her son. "Come on, Junior, take me home."

Carlisle glanced back at the boy as he stood and helped his mother to her feet. The muscles in his neck were taut, his jaw set tight, as he struggled to put on a brave face for his mother's sake. Carlisle couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for the boy who cared for his mother's feelings above his own.

As the young man ushered his mother toward the door, Carlisle realized that he was still holding the satchel with Edward Masen's belongings. With a few long strides, he caught up to the pair. He cleared his throat to get their attention; he didn't dare to touch the boy—he didn't think he would be able to control what might happen if he did.

"Ahem. Young man?"

The boy turned around and raised an eyebrow, but did not speak. Carlisle held out the satchel. "Your father's personal effects."

The teenager stared at the bag for a moment before reaching out to take it. His long, slender fingers brushed Carlisle's briefly as he took the bag, and Carlisle felt his skin burn under the accidental touch. The boy flinched at the feel of the doctor's cool skin, but said nothing, just gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before leading his mother out into the night. Carlisle stood rooted in place, watching their forms slowly disappear into the darkness.

A week passed, and Carlisle could not get that beautiful boy out of his mind. Carlisle had experienced this obsessive desire once before, in Columbus, Ohio, several years before. His compulsion for the young woman all those years ago had driven him from that city in an effort to relieve her of the burden of his existence. Carlisle feared that he may have to do the same again.

When the flu was over, Carlisle vowed to move on from Chicago and forget the boy. He should be allowed to live his life without being watched by a lonely vampire filled with a dangerous desire for his body and blood. But, Carlisle would indulge himself; he felt overwhelmingly compelled to see the boy again, at least once more, hopefully in a more happy state.

Carlisle remembered the home address of Mr. Masen from the cursory glance he had given to the identification in his billfold. One cloudy evening, on his way to the hospital for his shift, Carlisle took a detour down toward the Masen home. This was perfect; he had to be at the hospital at a specific time, which gave him a reason to leave. Otherwise, Carlisle thought he might fall under the boy's spell, and do something he would regret.

The street was deserted, save for a stray dog sniffing around for a scrap to eat. Carlisle watched as the scrawny mongrel, finding nothing to ease its hunger, limped off into one of the yards up ahead. He found himself pitying the dog; it was more than likely that it wasn't a true stray, but that its family had fallen victim to this sudden plague.

Finally, Carlisle was in front of the home that Edward Masen had once lived in. The lawn and bushes lining the front of the home were unkempt—perhaps Mrs. Masen didn't have the wherewithal to keep up with the gardening, or perhaps their gardener had also succumbed to disease. Regardless of the reason, the overgrowth was a perfect cover for Carlisle to hide amongst.

Carlisle could hear the faint sounds of footsteps, followed by the heavy thunk of wood clashing against wood. There was a rustle of clothing, and then, the sound of piano keys played in order from high to low, as though someone was running a hand across the keys. Carlisle followed the sounds to a window at the side of the house and peered inside.

There was his boy, sitting on the piano bench, silently contemplating the piano before him. Thankful for the window pane diminishing the potent scent of his blood, Carlisle's nether regions couldn't help but respond to the sight of the boy; so much more beautiful in person than in his memory. Wistfully, Carlisle wondered what it would be like to touch his warm, supple skin, to taste his sensual, pink lips. The boy snapped out of his reflections and cracked his knuckles, placing his long fingers above the keys of his choosing. And then, he began to play.

Wandering properties of death

Arresting moons within our eyes and smiles

We did rest

Amongst the granite tombs to catch our breath

The tone of his boy's voice, and the impact of his lyrics, had Carlisle in rapt attention. He couldn't tear his eyes away if his life depended on it. All he could do was stand stock-still and let the boy's music wash over him.

Worldly sounds of endless warring

Were for just a moment silent stars

Worldly boundaries of dying

Were for just a moment never ours

All was new

Just as the black horizons blue

Carlisle was hypnotized by the boy's melodious, enchanting voice. The sounds he pulled from the piano were a perfect complement to his lament over the loss of his father. His talent was undeniable, if not a touch rough around the edges.

Then along the bending path away

I smiled in knowing I'd be back one day

As the last notes rang out, the boy bent his head, his shoulders slumping. Carlisle could smell the tears that streaked down his cheeks. Suddenly, Carlisle felt intrusive, watching this boy in mourning. Ashamed at himself, Carlisle turned away from the house and slipped into the shadows. As he made his way to work, he vowed to leave the boy alone. In truth, he was only torturing himself, wanting something that could never be. He would give the flu epidemic a few more weeks, and then he would move on, as he had in Columbus.

It was November, and the flu had shown no signs of subsiding. There was so much death in the city of Chicago; it would not surprise him if the death toll now outnumbered the living. Carlisle had kept true to his word. He'd successfully avoided the Masen home, though it was a daily inner struggle. But he refused to allow himself the pleasure of the sight of that boy. It was a dangerous game he would be playing, and it was not worth the risk of exposure, or tarnishing his record of never tasting the blood of a human.

As Carlisle approached the front desk, he took note of the large stack of patient charts awaiting him. The stack never ceased to get taller with each passing evening. Sighing heavily, he picked up the pile and began to scan through the names. One name in particular gave him pause.

"Minerva? There must be some mistake. This man, Edward A. Masen, passed on a few weeks ago. Perhaps his paperwork was filed incorrectly?" he questioned her, holding out the sheet for her to see.

"No, Dr. Cullen, there is no mistake," she informed him after taking a cursory glance at the paper.

"This is for Edward A. Masen, Junior—his son."

A/N: Lyrics from "In a Graveyard" by Rufus Wainwright.