((OOC: Sorry, this is a bit long because they're both speaking. Most other posts should be shorter.))

It was not a building. Buildings were upright and sensible and they didn't shudder when the wind blew through them. ('Hell, not as if the wind should go through them at all.') Luke called it a shack, with a door—not affixed, not attached, but simply hanging—and walls with all the strength of wet paper.

"I really like the hole in the front room," he deadpanned, dropping a third suitcase to the floor, "Definitely feels like home."

"It adds something, doesn't it," Nick answered curiously, chin in hand and head cocked in thought.

He offered a dry, "Like 'screw you.'"

"I don't see why they haven't fixed her up myself," his father groped past the frame, searching for a switch, "But at least there's no fee, according to the brochure—"

Luke leaned against the porch railing, its wood protesting loudly under his shoes, "Yeah. Because just seeing the place couldn't piss you off enough. Guess it's better than nothing, though."

“—ah, there it is. A little light is always better for a room,” he took in the couch, sagging deeply in places, and the desk—chipped on the left corner, although the wood might have been quality once. Luke commented aimlessly that it smelled like retirement homes, lingering in the doorway, “Hmm. Never mind, light does nothing for it. I can see your point, but it was this or the car. You can go back—”

“No,” he replied, examining a stained glass window done in earthy browns and fresh, bright green—the goddess, he thought simply. Maybe the old owner was religious or something, “I said I'd rather stay here.”

“We have to move somewhere,” Nick tugged at a chain hung from the desktop, and was pleasantly surprised to find a pen at the end, “And property values are low here now, but with promise of change if that, hmm, company does take it over. Their mayor is desperate to sell houses regardless of the beauty of the place. It's a pity, really.”

“I got that,” Luke trailed off, collapsing into the cushions with a suspicious glance, “But they're, er . . . not really worth all the work. It's . . . ”

“Perhaps you'll find a job,” he wrote his name in the book with looped whorls of cursive, “And I say take it. I've been trying to get rid of you for years, eh?”

The answer came slowly, “I guess. The pay won't be great or anything.”

“Nonetheless, I've heard this place has a penchant for attracting young women,” he grinned toothily, striding across the lounge, “ They do say paradise comes with a bargain.”

“Yeah,” Luke propped a leg on his knee while his muscles groaned, still buzzing numbly, “Believe it when I see it. Young for you isn't the same for me. . .” They fell to heavy silence, and he felt it settle easily on his shoulders—an ancient, unnerving weight hung over the island, that shadowed it from the docks to the square. As though something about it was alienated from the rest of the world; as though it were abandoned by time. 'Weird place,' and he suppressed the urge to look backwards, shutting his eyes tightly before pitching forward again. 'What am I doing. That old woman made me superstitious. Tch . . . at least the dog likes it.'

“Hey,” he perked up, and Nick answered with a bored turn of the head, “Who's going to get Jack?”

“Yes, yes,” and he stepped lightly over the threshold, “I suppose I will. I left a document in the glove compartment . . . ”

It echoed through the room, airy while he sank back into the couch stuffing, “Sure you're not too old. Wouldn't want you to—”

And he left with a mocking, “Shut up, kid.”