“Yeah, I know,” he echoes dryly. In his state of semi-living, he’s not convinced he can go home at all, and even dreads the possibility of that being offered to them because he knows that he can’t just keep people from returning to their lives. He’s well aware that there’s a pause—that Teddy would clearly discuss it with him if he were to open that door, but he’s learned that he just can’t dwell on these things or he ends up in a spiral of nerves and anxiety thinking about the what-ifs and maybes, and it is very hard to get out. Toss those eight centuries into the mix and it’s not really something he’s prepared to talk about again just yet. Maybe next time.

He’s quick to grin, though, and carries on easily, breaking out of Teddy’s personal space once he’s made his point about his new teeth and any future biting of others—unlikely, but always a possibility, he supposes. Eddie Munson has never known personal space, not when he decides he likes someone enough to befriend them, or dislikes someone enough to torment them. In this case, it’s the former.

He remembers something about epilepsy, enough that he just…doesn’t need to ask what they’re talking about, and it feels odd to have that information at all, but he rolls with it easily, no questions asked.

“Oh yeah? And to think it’s illegal back home,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “Not that it ever stopped me, but uh…Come with me next time,” he insists, doesn’t ask, as if they really have been friends for years. “We’ll make it a whole thing. I’ll hook you up with a free weed sample, make enough money for a little ink, you let me hear your tunes, I let you hear mine—no competition, just typical freak behavior.”

He allows Teddy to lead him through the grand tour, answering with the occasional quip, and he really is impressed. He replicated his uncle’s little trailer rather effectively, but that was one bedroom and little else—he can’t imagine replicating something like this. The noise he utters when he spies the mystery room at last—the guitars! The amps! The mics! Even a Nintendo, something he could never afford in a million years—well, it’s high pitched and a little embarrassing.

“You just opened the gates to heaven,” he utters with true awe and reverence. “Holy shit. All we had was a garage.”