[Alucard debates just sitting down on the floor next to Trevor's head. That doesn't feel right for the moment, so instead he just starts to float, his hand finally settling on Trevor's cheek. His fingers move and stroke it softly, but he does precious little more.

What a thing it is, being this tender and dealing with a smelly possum.]

Surely some of the records survive.

[Says the man who lost his family's library.]

We could have something created just by us, if you'd like. [If only to avoid that last little part that hits far too close to home.]