Eddie nodded, and slowed. "That's fine. I can't blame you." They approached a tall, sprawling Victorian home with a tall iron fence encased by ivy, and he pulled into the open gate that was left open when he was away from home. Pulling up to the detached garage, Eddie parked outside and let the silence fill the car for a moment. "This is where I live." He said, with a rather lackluster wave when he opened the door. Remembering his past was difficult. It brought back painful memories that were difficult to forget again. The siding was a dark brick, with ivy snaking up the sides from large, blooming flowerbeds. The windows were slightly arched, and the porch wrapped around the side of the house. A flagstone walkway snaked up the springy grass and to the stairs that led onto the porch, which showcased a couple rocking chairs, some leafy plants, and a swing that hung from the eaves. A wide door stood dark in the shade of falling evening.

"It's a big place, like I said, but at one point I lived here with three other people." Eddie smiled a bit when he remembered them. They'd been young. They hadn't wanted to listen to him. They'd died a few decades after. He shook his head, leading the way up onto the porch and fishing a key from his pocket. "I don't know your style, Dylan, but I hope you don't mind mine." Turning the key, the lock clicked, and he pushed the large, dark wooden door open.

((Here you can describe what you like, just don't go too overboard, okay?))

He followed the other man silently, deep in thought. Dylan only truly came back to himself when the elegant door opened to reveal the house's interior. Polished wood gleamed everywhere. Elegant banisters drew the eye up the stairs, twisting and turning as they did. The house's architecture was amazing enough, but the furnishings its owner had provided only served to enhance the structure.

"I like it alright," admitted Dylan at last. His eyes moved to a nearby bench. It was the perfect place to take off your shoes, so as not to damage the floors. The journalist did so without a second thought, then moved deeper into the house curiously. There was so much to see. "It's a nice place. You go to a lot of auctions, right?" He didn't doubt that most of the furnishings were antiques, which led to the conclusion that by that definition, Edward was an antique as well. An odd thought to be sure.

Eddie entered after Dylan, not bothering to take off his own shoes. Elbowing the door closed, he hung the keys on a hook nearby that also held a couple small jackets and a dark red hat. Stepping into the living room, accessible via an archway to the right, he moved into a warmly lit room of wood paneling and a large stone fireplace. In front of it sat several large couches that, while appearing old and certainly elegant, were very comfortable and soft. There was a thick throw rug of brown and green under the couches and the coffee table. Heavy curtains hung on the arched windows and a small sitting area was to the right, jutting out onto the porch to form a small alcove. As Dylan spoke, Eddie glanced backward and returned to the foyer. "Auctions? No..." He stepped onto the bottom stair. "Most of everything here is authentic. The plumbing and lines leading to various electronics and the kitchen, the heating and cooling that was installed with modernization. When the house was built in 1889, everything here was kept the way it was supposed to be, with the exception of new stuffing and mattresses as they wore out through the years."

He went up the stairs halfway. "If you want to take a look, be my guest. When you want to choose a room you can, just pick one where the doors are open. My room's door is usually closed for these particular... situations." Turning, Eddie finished the climb, desperate to get out of these clothes and into simpler, easier ones.

Edward probably didn't realize what kind of reaction he'd just caused. Dylan wore a wide grin, and had already set off to start his exploration of the house. In fact, he was gone the moment the other man had mentioned having a look around. The place was so grand, especially to someone used to living in cramped little apartments. The journalist had never actually resided in a house before. That was one experience he'd never had, and always been curious about.

His thoughts veered away from such things, instead turning about to note the copper fittings the Messenger had mentioned. There were also books, old ones, filling elegant bookcases. No wait, he was in one of those old library rooms almost always featured in old movies. It kind of did look like something right off a set. Shaking his head slightly at the thought, the copper haired man moved on to the next room, and then the next. All the while he marveled over the furniture, the richness and the craftsmanship which pervaded every inch of the house.

Eventually, Dylan found his way to the second floor and started popping open doors. He didn't know which room he wanted, couldn't really decide. One door remained locked, no matter how many times he twisted the knob. Now why was that? Every other room had been open. Half-heard words floated to his mind, but by then the damage had already been done. Dylan had moved to hide his hands behind his back, then shoved them into his pockets instead. The only reason he stuck around was to apologize. .

Eddie had locked the door to his room when he came upstairs. He normally didn't do so, but had a feeling Dylan had disregarded most of what he said before coming up. Gladly in his room, Eddie began gathering a change of clothes and escaping the suit that all Messengers wore. His room was calming, layered with dark brown patterned wallpaper and carpeted with a deep green tone. His bed was in a corner, a canopy of black overhanging a dark green bedspread, and a large window covered by the same black fabric. A couple chairs sat around near a desk between tall bookshelves. A large dresser sat beside two doors, one leading to a closet and another leading to an en suite.

Slipping into lightweight clothes, a pair of pale jeans and a white shirt, Eddie gasped when the doorknob to his room began twisting and turning. "Dylan!" He called. "Locked, you know!" He gathered up his clothes and absently tossed them into a hamper near the bathroom door, walking quickly to the door and unlocking it.

"Do you mind?" He asked when he opened it. "If you didn't listen, I was saying that most of the doors up here are open most of the time, and if one's locked, I'd say it's in my best interest not to force it." He slipped out, closing the door behind him. "You find a room yet? There are three others you can pick. When you're done up here, come on downstairs. It's a bit past suppertime, but it'll be a good distraction. I'll be able to answer anything you might be wondering about, along with it." Eddie passed Dylan, studying him for a moment before turning to meet the stairs.

"In your best interest? Guess there's lots of stuff hiding in those locked rooms you don't want me to see." Curiosity picked, the journalist leaned his head to the side to try and see past Eddie and into the other man's room. At the mention of rooms again, Dylan smirked slightly and moved to the door beside that of Edward's room. "I think I'll stay in this one." He opened it to peek inside, and nodded in satisfaction. It was as big as his apartment, just the room! Pretty much any of them would have done, but this one offered so many possibilities.

There was no telling what interesting little tidbits he might pick up from his room neighbor. Dylan's smile didn't fade as he sauntered down the stairs behind Edward. "You cook then?" Did the dead-but-not-dead man need food? "Is eating something you have to do?" If so, Dylan could probably try to make something, even though he wasn't the most accomplished of cooks.

Eddie glanced backward as he stepped off the staircase and went into the kitchen. "Messengers are more alive than you'd think." He said. The kitchen was very large, the floor tiles fluctuating in color from dark gray or black to gold-tones. A black-granite countertop stood in the middle of the kitchen that housed a deep sink and a few stools. A bar to the left, in a small alcove that matched that of the area in the living room, a door leading to a large pantry, and a large stove with a copper hood. An archway to the far right led to the dining room. The lighting was calm and warm here, glinting off the copper pots and pans. "It's in my foremost idea to actually eat, otherwise I'll become lethargic and slow. All Messengers will, but it won't kill us. That's why when I was brought out of my body I had to have a rigging made that imitates human nature." He went around the center island and studied the ceramic cooktop of the stove.

"You allergic to anything?" Eddie asked Dylan as he turned. "Wouldn't want you to die of an allergic reaction. That'd probably be the opposite of what I'm supposed to be doing." He laughed a bit, finding humor in death, which others seemed to avoid desperately.

Dylan rolled his eyes. "I think you mean, not in your best interest." The placed was really beautiful, and quite wasted on the copper haired man. He didn't really pay much attention to the decor in kitchens, as long as everything worked.

A spark of mischief lit up Dylan's green eyes. "Uh, planning on slipping something into my food? Wanna get rid of me that bad do you?" Honestly, he was really starting to enjoy all the snarky comments he kept throwing about. It was quite fun just waiting to see how the other man would react. "I'm not allergic to anything, except boredom." Something which had pretty much been banished from his life the moment he'd first seen Edward.

Eddie smiled, but didn't immediately reply as he opened an oak wood cabinet and pulled down a recipe booklet, flipping through handwritten cards, some of which were very yellow with age. "Believe me, Dylan, if I wanted to kill you, I'd do it much more extravagantly than a simple poisoning." As he spoke, he went around to the pantry and slid open what appeared to be a pocket door, revealing a scythe with a thin blade and black metal handle. "This is my favorite baby." He said, running a finger affectionately over the blade and along the handle. "I enjoy using it, but it means I have to walk everywhere because I'd dare not transition to the living world carrying this thing."

Chuckling, he pushed the door back and opened the pantry. "Hope you're not a vegetarian, either. And if you get bored enough, go look around the house. I'm sure you'll find most of these books to be one of a kind and each dealing with specific beliefs from all over the world." Eddie had always been a literary enthusiast. While he often caught himself while speaking with strangers, so he didn't try to often. Instead, he retreated into his books and entertained himself with making pottery or painting in his free time, of which there was much. "If you like to write, there's a typewriter in the office off the living room." He added. "I don't go for technology. It seems to... explode... around me." He laughed a bit when he recalled the computer he'd accidentally forced into an utter meltdown, and went into the pantry to gather specific spices.

He laughed. Dylan couldn't stop the jolly sound from leaving him. "An elegant death would be much better then an ..." He stopped, realizing that his next words might very well cause some kind of distress for Edward. If anyone had died by ugly means, the tall man certainly had. Instead, he glanced at the weapon with curiosity. It was certainly elegant, but it also made a shiver of apprehension run down his spine.

Instead of letting his mind linger on such thoughts, the copper haired journalist shook his head with a half-smile. "I'm not a vegetarian either. So go ahead, surprise me. I'll taste pretty much anything once." Now Dylan made a face, hearing about the waste of a perfectly good computer. He was probably going to have to quite his day job, without a computer it would be terribly difficult to send in any of his articles. "Well then, there goes any chance of getting my work done."

Eddie returned with a small towel full of small bottles and a few glass containers. "I'm not saying it's impossible for me to be around electronics. But if I interact with them it'd be a bad day." He set everything down on the center island and wandered to the refrigerator fitted with copper and wood. "Here." He pulled something off a clip and tossed it across the island to Dylan. "Whatever you want or need, write it down on there. Regardless of its rarity or difficulty, you'll have it tomorrow morning." He set a wrapped rack of lamb on a cutting board and pulled a shallow pan from a hook on the wall near the stove. "When it's written down I'll put it on the front door before bed, and by tomorrow you'll have whatever you've written down. It's an easy way to get groceries, replacements, weapons, or anything that might make this... unlife, I guess you'd call it, a little easier for Messengers. And you'll have your computer. I just don't have one because I'd find no use for it."

He fell silent for a moment, setting the pan on the stove and turning it on. "Anyway, Dylan, it'll be about an hour before dinner, so do whatever you want. Just don't go poking about in my room, okay? Personal space and all that." He pulled a serrated knife from a block and carefully started cutting the lamb, focusing on the task.

Now that was rather ironic to Dylan's mind. Tecchnology was keeping Edward alive, and yet he couldn't deal with it when it was exterior to him. Reflexively, the journalist caught the clipboard and pulled a pen from his pocket to scribble down a few hasty words. There was really nothing much he wanted, save for fruits and some breakfast sausages. Of course, it would be nice to have his things... Biting his lower lip lightly, the copper haired man jotted that down too. It would save a lot of trouble if all his stuff could be delivered.

Dylan made a face when the other man expressly forbade him to go poking about in his room. He was tempted to do so anyway, but didn't want to get on Edward's nerves to that extent. Not quite yet anyway. "Alright, I'll remember that." With that he was off and wandering about the house again. The paintings all about were eerie in a way, and definitely haunting. He couldn't help but wonder who had painted them.

He ran his hand over the walls, stopping as his fingers brushed against a cold doorknob he'd not noticed before. Twisting it carefully, the journalist stepped down the staircase and found himself faced with a sight he'd not expected. It was such a large and luxurious room; there were paintings and pieces of pottery everywhere. Paints lined shelves and clay was probably hidden in those large tubs, sealed tightly as they were. This all had to be Edwards, which meant the man had painted some of those haunting pieces Dylan had noticed and wondered over with awe.

When each piece met the herb-scented olive oil Eddie was pleased to hear a low hiss and sizzle. It brought up a bright, clean scent from the lamb that was to be left alone for fifteen minutes on each side at a very low heat. To keep it at the forefront of his mind, Eddie took a pocket watch from his jeans pocket and set it as a timer, winding the chain around his wrist to keep it at his hand. Then he ripped the front page off the clipboard and returned it to its hook on the fridge, folding the paper without reading it and placing it in a small sleeve on the front of the entrance door. He had never seen the papers collected nor the items requested actually delivered, but when he would wake the next day he would find his requests where they belonged throughout the house. It was the easiest way to acquire his paints, canvases, brushes, and clays for his hobbies.

Wandering through the living room and into a small sun room at the back, which looked out onto a heavily shaded but very large back yard, and turned to a door to the left. It was open, which was rare, as it led to the basement. Following the stairs down, he faltered when he found Dylan. "Hey..." Eddie stepped into the room and around the human. "Didn't... think you'd come down here. I..." He jammed his hands in his pockets. "I guess you found my hobby room." He stepped over to one of the unfinished projects he'd been working on, that of a London-esque town during a full harvest moon, which had been in his mind since Halloween the year before. It was half done, and on the top half of the canvas one could see the very light pencil sketchings of the church he hadn't started on yet. "You, ah... like art, Dylan?" Eddie felt terribly unnerved. Normally he didn't let anyone see his work, and definitely not the basement that he'd made into a full-scale workshop. It was too flashy for him.

The journalist wore an amused smile as he watched the Messenger pause uncertainly every now and then. Well, this reaction was certainly an unexpected one. Dylan was almost tempted to make the moment drag on longer, but that would have been rather mean, not to mention cruel. Instead, he perused the paintings once more, walking by each carefully placed unfinished piece and ending his walk near his thin companion.

"Seems like I did." A smile quirked up the man's lips. "I can certainly appreciate it in all it's forms." Dylan tilted his head to the side to peer at the faint lines of what would become a church, drawn with a light hand upon the canvas. "This one's going to look amazing when you're done." A hint of envy slipped into Dylan's mind. He'd always admired painters, had wanted to be one himself, but he'd never had the patience to imitate then and pick up a brush to paint the world in his mind.

Eddie ran a hand through his pale hair. He'd never been complimented on his work---though it lined some hallways in specifically made frames, Eddie never admitted to having actually painted any of them. When asked, he commented that they were rare finds in antique shops. Dylan's words of appreciation brought a faint pinkish tint to his face and he looked down. "Erh... I'm glad you like it, Dylan." He said haltingly. "It's... open, I suppose, if you want to come down and try your hand at painting." He had no idea how to handle the approval of others. Eddie turned, and looked up to the ceiling, which had been soundproofed to keep the noise of the pottery wheel---which wasn't loud, though helped keep upstairs entirely silent---specifically in the basement. But inside he wanted to hear another positive comment, a mention of its color, its style... But he didn't want to ask.

He looked down to his watch. "Eh, I... have to go check the stove." Eddie said quickly. "Don't go touching anything that's already made and you can do whatever else you like." Hurrying back to the stairs, he took them two at a time and escaped that rather unsettling situation. There was still five minutes to go before he flipped the meat, but it was a good idea to get everything else ready.

It was so strange to see the taller man so discomfited by nothing more then a few words. Dylan still couldn't get over that, after having witnessed Eddie's temper first hand. "You'd have to show me, I haven't really lifted a paintbrush much. My tool of the trade is the pen." He smiled a little when he finally clued in on the fact that his host was blushing. Well that was definitely unexpected. "The painting's kind of got this haunting quality to it..." Dylan trailed off as the other man walked away with a hurried excuse.

Shrugging, he moved to the paintings and looked them over again. He did want to try his hand at painting, but he was too afraid to ruin any canvas he touched with muddy colors and whatever mess he might create. Better to simple sit down and admire someone else's enthralling work.

He brushed off the feeling of scrutiny when he reached the top of the stairs, breathing out slowly. It was difficult to be praised in any way, though Eddie liked to hear it. But his modesty was immediately tested at the first positive word he heard, and as he went on with his cooking, putting small golden potatoes in a pot of water to boil, Eddie shook away the heat radiating from his own face in favor of that rising from the pan and pot. As he separated garlic and rosemary, Eddie made a mental note to accept positive criticism more gracefully next time.

He laughed lightly as he flipped the lamb in the pan. It was hard to avoid criticism anyway. Especially when one's hobbies revolved around music, art, and cooking. The blood-like substance that coursed through his veins housed the artificial heart of a fighter and an artist, and when one had forever to practice, they began to master their favored pastimes. He went around the center island and sat on one of the stools, pulling a loose paper from the clipboard to him and unpocketing a pencil to sketch. Dylan was still downstairs, it seemed, and it left him alone for a while.

Delicious smells made the man's nose twitch. It snapped Dylan's thoughts away from the paintings and pottery, making him instead think of the grumblings of his stomach. He yawned slightly, and lifted a hand to ruffle his short hair. A grunt echoed in the room as he stood. Dylan walked up the stairs with heavy steps. Announcing his arrival seemed like a good idea for some reason. The journalist wouldn't have been able to say why... Even though he did wonder about that.

The scent of food made him creep quietly into the kitchen. Dylan licked his lips as he caught glimpses of what Eddie had made. Silently, the writer tip toed around the counter. He glanced at the food, then moved to peer over the other man's shoulder curiously.

The watch twined around his wrist clicked, and he looked at it. Fifteen minutes had passed again, and as he sat up straight, the feeling of someone behind him sent him forward and over his drawing. Gasping, Eddie looked around and found Dylan. "Uh... You startled me." He huffed, standing and going around to the oven again. "Don't go slinking around like that, Dylan... I'm not used to others around." He giggled nervously, taking the pan off its burner and setting it on a rack above the counter at its side. Then he fished the potatoes out of their water and into a strainer, and finally, into a bowl beside it. Turning to the island, he set it down beside the pre-measured herbs and spices.

"Mind getting a can of cream from the pantry?" He asked, nodding to the door behind him. "To the left. Ah, and I hope you included your clothes when you wrote down your requests. Mine probably wouldn't fit you if you had to borrow some." He laughed a bit at the thought. His clothes had to be specially made to fit his frame.

Eddie's reaction sent Dylan into a bought of laughter which had him leaning against the counter for support. What a wonderful reaction! A playful glint slipped into his green eyes as he followed the other man's movements. This, living there, was going to be so very interesting, more then he'd anticipated at first. "Well get used to it. I'm staying here for a while." And he was probably going to enjoy every second, trying to figure out his puzzling housemate.

He nodded when asked to get the can, and walked away to rummage inside the space filled with jars and cans of non-perishable food. At the mention of clothing, he made a face. "Oh .. I knew I'd forgotten something!" Usually, such a thing wouldn't have happened. Then again, the circumstances were rather unique for the journalist.

Eddie grimaced at the thought of being tailed daily throughout the house. Being surprised, startled, shocked. But he'd gotten used to it before. No doubt he'd be able to handle it just fine when he shared this house with three others. But they had all been other Messengers. Dylan was a living being. Using a knife, he peeled the skin off the potatoes a strip at a time and deposited them back into the bowl. "Well, best go add that to the list before it's taken up!" He said as Dylan returned with the can. "The list isn't taken until the house is asleep, so you have time to add."

Using a short knife, he cut the potatoes and two holes in the can, using a masher to start reducing everything to a fluffy bed. A bit at a time he added each cap of spice in and watched Dylan from the corner of his eye. This one was unpredictable. It was easy to startle Eddie---that came from over a century of chasing demons of varying strength and handling poltergeists as a 'paranormal investigator'. Maybe he would have to start deciding on ways to return the favor.

"I still won't have anything to wear tonight. Guess I'll just have to sleep in the nude." He left with a laugh, moving to the front of the house with quick steps and a smirk. Dylan eased the door open and snatched the piece of paper he'd written upon earlier. He added a few words, nodded in satisfaction after re-reading the lest, then slipped it back into place.

Now time to go back and see what else he could do to try and unsettled Eddie. Dylan hadn't had so much fun in a long time, he'd been too busy with work. He tried to make his footsteps light as he darted across the floor, and tried to slip behind Eddie. He made sure the other man wasn't holding a knife before he reached out to tug at Eddie's hair playfully. Dylan could have poked the other man's shoulder of course, but that was too predictable.

When he ran off, Eddie took to the cabinet near the stove and pulled two plates down, setting them beside the bowl and bringing the still-hot pan to the sink, balancing it as he distributed three pieces of lamb apiece and ran the pan under hot water. He returned to the bowl and pulled two forks and knives from a drawer nearby, setting them on the plates before a tugging sensation made him gasp and twist his head around toward the source.

"Dylan!" He snapped, piling a couple spoons of the potato mixture onto the plates. "I swear, you're just like my sister.... I mean... my brother." He cleared his throat at the quick exchange. The young human's initial kid-like demeanor was a bit endearing, but could use a little revision. "Here." He pushed one of the two plates toward Dylan. "And there's a variety of juices and sodas in the fridge, along with an always-stocked bar, depending on what you'd prefer." Nodding, Eddie scooped up the slight mess and put it in the sink to be washed later, making sure the stove was off before taking himself to the dining room.

After grabbing two beers from the bar, Dylan followed Edward into the dining room. Wordlessly, the copper haired man placed one of the glass bottles beside Edward's plate, then settled down into the chair closest to the tall man. "You know, I don't really like being compared to your sibling, or is it siblings?" Dylan snapped up a his fork and stabbed a piece of meat viciously. He just felt like seeming angry, even though he really wasn't. It was more like a restlessness he didn't understand.

Taking a bite, he felt that feeling disappear. The food filled him to the brim with delight. It was more then simply delicious. Dylan couldn't even begin to describe how good it tasted, and with what warmth it filled his heart. That was unusual, him not being able to find words. He swallowed loudly, and glanced at Edward uncertainly.

Eddie rested his head on one hand as Dylan snapped, then fell silent, with a faint smile. He couldn't help but feel the so-called anger was put on, and taking it seriously was difficult to do. "That would be siblings, with an S." He replied easily. "I had six, all younger than I was. Most of the time I stood in as the parent figure, and because of that, they'd usually keep me guessing on what they might do from one hour to the next." He paused to take a bite of potato, and thought back to his siblings. Four girls, two boys. The second oldest had been six years younger than Eddie, and over time he'd become a third parent to them.

He fiddled with the top of the beer bottle, popping the top with his thumb. "You remind me of Mary." He said after a moment, recalling who was who. "Strange and... unique. She was the youngest, and always followed me around when I had to go on a run here or there..." He paused to take a drink, and chuckled. "Strange, I don't normally think about them anymore." Recalling his siblings was nice, but it often left a cold hole in his chest as if someone had scooped out his heart.