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"Yes, yes, I'll write the letter to go with it!" William Douglas backs through the door, laughing. "I'll do it myself, I can write, you know...oh." This is Milliways. Not the usual door. But fine, not a problem, Milliways is fine. Fine!

He has a bundle under his arm, which he sets on the bar as he asks for a bottle of wine and the means to write a letter.

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Barry is seated at the bar with a tall stack of pancakes and a stack of file folders holding reports.

The reports are done, after much delay, and Barry's focus is on the pancakes.

Seeing William, Barry offers a smile.

"Hey William, how's it going?"

"Barry! Hallo. I'm alright, how are you?"

Hey, a stack of pancakes. That looks good. "--Bar, some of those for me too? Thanks."

"Doing alright," he says with a smile then gives a nod to William's order. "The pancakes here are really great."

And it's all-you-can-eat, so double-bonus there.

"What're you up to?" he asks, glancing at the bundle on the counter.

"Aye, they use the good flour." Oh Christ, he sounds like his dad when he says that, doesn't he. He hurries along. "I didny mean to be coming here. But since I'm here--" Shrug. "I'm sending some things along home to Scotland, ought to write a note to go with them."

He quirks an eyebrow slightly to that first statement. "Yeah, I guess they do. Pretty sure it's real maple syrup, too."

Barry's experience so far is that Bar has pretty high-standards.

Forking up another heaping mouthful from his plate, he nods. "A note would probably be good, especially if you're sending it to someone."

"Is that what it is?" Maple syrup. Huh. He'll have to take some home with him, say it's an Italian thing. Good stuff. "Aye, exactly. Can't really get away with sending something to my wife and not putting in a letter. But there's just no much to write, is there."

"Your wife?" he asks and laughs. "Yeah, dude, you definitely want to include a letter with that."

Barry isn't married, or in a relationship, or even the greatest at relationships period, but even he knows that.

"Well, you probably miss her, right?" Barry would hope so, at least. "Say that. And maybe tell her about what you've been up to. It might seem weird but, when somebody can't see or talk to you all the time even the details you might think are boring can be good for them to read."

William makes a face. "I'm not much of a writer. But aye, that's what I was thinking of. Say something about Rome. And I need to tell her to get a hundred sheepskins to my man in Edinburgh, come to think of it. Nice to get that done before I come home."

Right! Well!

"So what have you been about?"

"Well you don't have to be Shakespeare or anything," he points out. "It's a letter, it means more if it sounds like you."

It doesn't occur to Barry that there might be a different problem than just finding the words to say.

He cleans his plate and is pouring syrup onto a new stack of pancakes that Bar provides while he answers William's question. "Not too much. It's been quiet in Central City so I've mostly just been catching up on paperwork." And training with the people at S.T.A.R. Labs.

One of these things is much more fun than the other.

"I've been hanging around here when I can. It's been... interesting lately."

"Oh, aye, Shakespeare! I've heard of him. Read his play and all." SEE EVERYONE he's a man of CULTURE. "--Why, what's been happening here?"

TOTALLY CULTURED.

"You ever hear of doppelgangers? Like, different versions of the same person, but from another world?"

"...changelings? I've heard of that. And I know sometimes people come in from different times in their own lives. Same world, though."

"Uh, sure?" he says, uncertain about the term, but it seems that William understands.

"Well, in the past week or so I've run into a few. People I knew, but they didn't know me because they were different versions of themselves. It's really weird to get halfway through a conversation with someone and realize they aren't who you think they are, and they have no idea who you are."

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'He's lying. He can't write at all.'

This is whispered to Bar with no subtlety whatsoever, as Jim glances up from where he's reading through a stack of papers.

'Hello.'

"Ah, go fuck yourself. And no you don't need to say anything clever about that." William waves cheerfully. Hi!

'It wasn't going to be clever, it was going to be crude.'

Hi, William!

'Who are you attempting to write to?'

William snorts. "People I don't want to talk with you about? --What are you reading there?"

'Building a time machine.'

Jim looks hurt. HURT.

'Why wouldn't you want to talk to me about people? I'm great at people.'

"...you mean, a clock? I'd have thought you were a bit past that." Clocks left and right here in Milliways, all keeping time to the minute.

Yeah, yeah, Jim's looking "hurt." And he's "great at people." William snorts again. "Writing to the king, and writing to my wife." So yes, pretty high up on the list of people he doesn't want to talk to Jim about. In fact, that pretty much is the list of people he doesn't want to talk to Jim about.

But he's not a very good liar.

'No, I mean a machine that'll let me travel in time.'

But this is distracted, because what, William? What?

'You never told me you were married. What the hell.'

"Don't remember you ever asking. How do you mean, travel in time?"

'How many permutations of travel in time are there?'

Jim chucks a raisin into his mouth, scowling.

'What's her name?'

"You travel in places. Like Rome. Time isny a place, it's...whatever it is. It's time. Not something you travel in."

No one told him to read any science fiction, so he hasn't.

"--Margaret. Margaret Douglas of Galloway, alright?"