"Red flowers, red flowers." He looks slowly until he finally sees the red flowers. Fitting, for a vampire. His attention span wanders as much as his drunk swaying, and Mortimer's words come and go in pieces as Aidan seems to calm down. The alcohol dulling everything, numbing the old outlaw. He does hear the part about the lawn man and her and how they were having an affair. Well, Aidan assumes it's an affair since it sounded all like gossip and scandal. "Never know, she might like some gopher to tear up her lawn first, then call Mr. Lawn." He smiles.

It wasn't until he was poked in the shoulder to keep moving, and moving in the right direction. Aidan backhands Mort's cane in a rather aggressive manner, saying "Stop herdin' me! I ain't your cattle! I know where I'm going! Red flowers!" he even points at them with his middle finger instead of his index. Aidan leads the way with a sort of snarl, finishing off his bottle. As if in some small form to feel like the dominate one in leading the way. He ignores all the faces from the windows, the men on their porches, lights turning off and then on. He had found who he needed and the rest was tunnel vision. He walks onto the porch (although he kicks a step on accident and almost trips). He stands at the doorway, turning around to stare at his blood brother as he continued to talk and correct everything Aidan had to say. "Well shit, son. I ain't judging. Human or not! Remember that little muskrat I had, um," he closes his eyes and snaps his fingers, trying to remember, "Cecilia! Cecilia." He goes to playfully slap Mort on the back shoulder. "Why don't we go and pay her a visit sometime, your little friend with the baseball bat." His eyes seem to light up at the thought of a kill. "She sounds like a bitch anyways."

That last sentence was more a mumble to himself.

He doesn't even wait to be invited in. Why should he? He opens up the door and welcomes himself inside. He doesn't even take off his boots. He sees there is an upstairs, but he remains on the first floor and migrates to what looks like the living room. He touches everything; the walls, the lamps, the tables (one of which he places his empty bottle), the furniture. He walks behind a couch, placing both his hands on its spine and looks around the room some more, silent as death itself. Then he gives a lazy smile and stares at Mortimer with no clear emotion on his face. "Really?" His voice deeper, his Southern accent a little more clear. "I remember when Mortimer Draven lived in a great mansion. And now he's the Grandpa of Dupont Circle, getting hand-me-downs by these," curling the first two fingers of each hand and then resting them back on the couch, "peons." He shakes his head and chuckles. He jumps over the back of the couch, planting himself firmly in the middle. "It seems financially you've changed, but I still see the same old Mortimer. It's like I never left!"


"Admit it, you missed me." This time, his voice is eerily soft.