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Eric's at a table, thoughtfully turning a credit card over in his hand. William Compton had stopped by. With his little human friend. His incredibly tasty little human friend.

His knowledgable, tasty, little human friend.

Having to bolt from the cops had taken hours out of his work night, so he was here now, presumably to work.
Only, he couldn't stop trying to puzzle out the sweet Miss Stackhouse.

He's not at all adversed to being bothered.

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He will certainly be adverse to being bothered by a tall, unamused priest who gives him a look as if he was an unspeakable dead thing the dog dragged in.

Which is, in a nutshell, Father Harman's opinion of Eric.

Eric notices he is being looked at.
And smiles.

It's not a particularly pleasant smile.

"Good evening, Father. "

X's nostrils flare very slightly, and she turns from her seat to look at the tall blond.

After a moment or two of silent study --

"Hello."

Eric looks at her when she greets him. And smiles.
It's his neutral smile. One you can read all sorts of things into.
Or not.

"Hello, yourself."

Taking a breath to smell her.

Father Harman does not smile.

"Evening, parasite," he says.

Eric's smile widens.
"I do miss being insulted by the clergy, "he says." It takes me back. "

"To a time when more priests were sane and knew evil when they saw it?" Father Harman guesses.

X is not always good at inferring. Go figure.

She smells like metal and blood, with a faint tang of ozone.

She also returns the favor by taking in Eric's scent. Super senses are great for that.

"I am X."

Beat.

"You are here a lot."

Comparatively. From the view on this side of the door.

"To a time where madness was seen as divine. And washing was a sin."
He pauses.
"At least they smelled that way. "

He in turn smells of blood. With a faint hint of dust. Like old books.
He doesn't have a heartbeat. And he doesn't breathe. Most of the time.

"Fetching name," he replies. "My name is Eric. And I probably am. The door is a little erratic on my side, but little time seems to pass here."

It's a strange scent. He likes the blood. But not the metal.

"Evenin' Eric." Bonnie says brightly, approaching with a pint of Watermelon Warhead. "Got one of those new-fangled credit cards?"

They were totally new-fangled in 1955.

"I am sure you learned about that intimately," Father Harman says, "when you did your usual thing, raping nuns and killing priests, as one does as a Viking. Or did you rape the priests and kill the nuns? You may have been stupid enough."

Beat.

"In any case, it's quite natural they cursed you."

X takes that silence in, but does not outwardly react.

To be fair, even her most obvious expressions tend to be very faint.

"It is useful. Here. Unless time moves faster when you are gone. On either side."

You can lose people, then. X does not enjoy that.

"Yes, I did miss this place for quite a long while," Eric says. "But everyone seems to be here still."

Even the ones he'd rather wish weren't.

He wonders what she is. The scent, the way her face is, not blank but - something.

Eric sighs. "And here we go again with the insults regarding my mental capacity. I cannot help but wonder if it's some sort of, or what's the word?"

He taps a finger to his chin.

"Sublimation? Perhaps you just have a really small penis. You should talk to someone about that. "

He stretches." Anyway, I hardly ever participated in the convent sackings. The riches were impressive, but they never put up a proper fight. "

"Bonnie," Eric replies. "Not so new where I am at, but yes. New to me."

X considers this, head tilting slightly.

Then --

"You were okay? When you came back. Here."

The count of those who come in after trauma is -- high.

It is often better to check.

"Oh yes," Eric says with a smile. "I am always fine."
Trauma is something that happens to other people. And quite often its cause is Eric.

"No, the door merely stopped showing up for a while. "

"Well I hope you got a good rate." Bonnie says, sitting opposite. "My Ernest got lent a bunch of money the other day and they tried to charge him a hundred percent interest. I had to phone 'em up and threaten' 'em with the choir."

"No, nuns usually don't," Father Harman says. "But I wouldn't expect you to understand that."

Pause.

"What would my presumed bodily shortage have to do with your own manifest mental one, though?"

"It was fairly standard, I think," Eric says. "I don't really need it. It's just a nice thing to have."

He nods at her beer.

"what's that? It smells off. "

"There was a reason? That you can think of."

She's curious.

"Many people think Milliways is here to help. When it does not show up, too."

X herself is dubious.

Maybe a little more than dubious.

"Australian beer. Not sure it's yer type." Bonnie winks at him. "Tastes okay to me, you about ter tell me the brewer cut his finger off in it?"

"The monks didn't either. Or so I've heard," Eric replies.

"And I simply think that you are trying to make up for a failing by deciding that an area in which you like to think that you excel is somehow beyond me. That makes the rest sting less. "

He looks thoughtful.

"I studied psychology, you know. You're very textbook."

"Well, I was pretty busy," Eric says. "Things changed a lot at home. I likely wouldn't have had the time to go here anyway."

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