He's carried her with him in his veins, as he promised, but he's taken in a lot of lives over the years and sometimes it is hard to single her out from the multitude.

It helps that she was strong, so very strong, and that he took a great deal of her blood. It helps that he took his time with her, that they bonded as he dreamed with her for weeks.

He finds her one night in an armchair, reading and sipping from a goblet that looks like his. Hers will be wine, of course, but he likes the appearance anyway. "Agatha," he says warmly, "Good evening." He's more than delighted to see her.

"Is it a good evening?" She puts her book down and stands up. "I've been wondering what you get up to in the evenings recently." She gestures around to the walls, which are lined with bookcases. "I've lately been finding some very strange volumes in here. Pertaining to what are decidedly not your usual interests."

Well that is embarrassing. So he goes on the offensive. "And how have you been enjoying them?"

"How do you think?" Just slightly scathing. "I had no interest in such things when I was alive; I have even less use for them now."

She's earned the right to be sharp with him, given their circumstances, so he converses instead of arguing. "You know, I thought that as well," he says, "But it turns out that you never know until you try. It's been fun. What?" he protests, in response to the Look she gives him. "These pursuits are harmless. You should be happy."

"What do you care if I'm happy or not," she laughs. It's harsh and mirthless. "You killed me."

He looks her straight in the eyes. Just as he did the last time he saw her. The last thing your eyes will ever see- "I've rather come to regret that," he whispers, truthfully.

She frowns. "I didn't know you can feel regret."

"Neither did I. Call it personal growth." The phrase rolls off his tongue; he recently ate a therapist. (...And then several of her clients, to deepen his understanding of what exactly she had done to them. He learned that the effort these mortals had expended in trying to heal and better themselves was enormous; he's deeply grateful that he has more efficient means at his disposal.).

She's still looking at him a little suspiciously, as if she fears he may be mocking her. But he's not. When he wants to mock her, she'll know.

"Mm. Well. It's a bit odd that you've chosen to grow in this particular direction," she says briskly, "But each to his own."

He hadn't realized how eager he was to talk to her about this, but suddenly he sees that he is and that it's probably the entire reason he's dreaming of her tonight. "Do you want to know how it started?"

"Not particularly." She sits and nods to the other armchair. "But I'm certain you are going to tell me anyway." She folds her hands beneath her chin and beams at him, the Perfect Listener.

He settles down. He wishes he had a glass too, but he hasn't yet mastered the art of drinking in his mind when he's not drinking in body as well. Hmm. Perhaps that's another area he can grow in.

"I saw a video," he begins. Then frowns. Does she know video? He's not sure how much information she takes in, when he takes it from others compared to when he devours it from the internet under his own power. "It was an image. Of a woman – a beautiful woman, beautifully photographed, flawless – dressed as a nun. Now, she was not really a nun." His mouth is curving into a smile at the thought of it. "She was... made up." He gestures vaguely to his face. "Decidedly not like a nun."

Agatha nods. "She was made up like a harlot," she guesses. "You've never seen a nun made up like a harlot before?"

He stares at her. Is she joking? Or suggesting that…?

"Oh, don't look so shocked. Of course we do. It can get boring in the convent, at night."

"Are you serious?" he finally manages. Is she making fun of him? "Are you telling me that you-..."

"That I personally have painted my face in fun once or twice? Yes." Her smile is fond and faraway. "Mother Superior chastised us when she caught us, but nobody really minded. That was harmless." Then she sharpens up. "So. This painted nun. What did she do, that made such an impression on you?"

"Uhm." It's strangely awkward to say it. "She put-..." He looks away.

Agatha gets up, and walks around his chair until she is planted directly in front of his face again. She squats down so that their faces are close. Her eyebrows are raised higher than he has ever seen. "She put...?" she prompts.

"Rosary beads," he chokes out at last. Touches himself on the lip. "In her-, her mouth." He swallows hard; now he's thinking about it.

"She put rosary beads in her mouth," Agatha repeats coolly. "I see." She tilts her head. "And you liked that?"

"No," he insists, "I did not. It was horrifying. Repulsive. Completely unwatchable."

Her smile is knowing. "And yet you've watched it. Again and again and again, if I'm not mistaken."

She knows damn well she is not mistaken; he doesn't even need to admit it. He just sighs helplessly, and concedes with a shrug.

She smiles more gently as she reaches out. She puts her hand on his cheek – an intimacy he has never sought or received from her in the past. "Of course," she says. "It's anathema to you, and yet still you're drawn to it." She releases him, and quirks her lips. "I'm sure I can't imagine how that must feel."

She goes and takes her seat again, and he can't take his eyes off her.

The longing is too much. He has to destroy the moment, any way he can. "So apparently," he announces, "There's such a thing as a nun kink."

And he has it. He has it bad.

TBC.

Okay, there we go. They needed to have a private discussion before he introduces Agatha to a new friend. Now that they've had it, maybe I can write this. We shall see.