The counting habit as a vampire had only been a logical extension of what he does anyway. When Dean had asked him later if he was an accountant in his normal life, he'd almost laughed -- it was so close, and yet so far, from the truth. Maybe if he'd stayed in school beyond the eighth grade he might have been an accountant, but that seemed unlikely. The truth was, he'd probably always been intended for a life of crime. It was what he did best.
"I'm twenty one," he says, accepting the piece of pie with a thankful smile. He wouldn't necessarily have said that to someone else, but Ned doesn't seem like the type to take him any less seriously given his age. The way he'd phrased it had sounded far more like a compliment than a putdown. Maybe it was because Ned had his own business, knew how difficult that kind of thing was to get off the ground.
Of course, he doubts Ned's business doubles as a drug front, like his own, and he doubts that Ned has to turn over much of his profits to someone else for protection; maybe it takes longer to start up a business when you're doing it legitimately, when there's nobody backing you and there's no sense of impending doom if you don't succeed -- or at least, not the kind of impending doom that comes with a bullet in the head as opposed to a loss of profits or concern about the business closing. That's what he assumes a completely legal business is like, although he wouldn't know, not really.
"What kind of odd jobs did you used to do, if you don't mind me asking?" He's always curious about people, wanting to figure out where they belong, what possible use they might have in his life. The fact that Ned is a baker -- and an excellent one, he realizes, as he takes a small bite of the apple pie, wanting to savor it for as long as he can -- means he's already more interesting than about eighty percent of the people here, but finding out what other potential uses he might serve is a natural instinct. It's not as though he intends to use Ned, nor does he see his attitude as particularly strange; he assumes everyone thinks of other people in this way, as potential allies, as potentially useful.
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"I'm twenty one," he says, accepting the piece of pie with a thankful smile. He wouldn't necessarily have said that to someone else, but Ned doesn't seem like the type to take him any less seriously given his age. The way he'd phrased it had sounded far more like a compliment than a putdown. Maybe it was because Ned had his own business, knew how difficult that kind of thing was to get off the ground.
Of course, he doubts Ned's business doubles as a drug front, like his own, and he doubts that Ned has to turn over much of his profits to someone else for protection; maybe it takes longer to start up a business when you're doing it legitimately, when there's nobody backing you and there's no sense of impending doom if you don't succeed -- or at least, not the kind of impending doom that comes with a bullet in the head as opposed to a loss of profits or concern about the business closing. That's what he assumes a completely legal business is like, although he wouldn't know, not really.
"What kind of odd jobs did you used to do, if you don't mind me asking?" He's always curious about people, wanting to figure out where they belong, what possible use they might have in his life. The fact that Ned is a baker -- and an excellent one, he realizes, as he takes a small bite of the apple pie, wanting to savor it for as long as he can -- means he's already more interesting than about eighty percent of the people here, but finding out what other potential uses he might serve is a natural instinct. It's not as though he intends to use Ned, nor does he see his attitude as particularly strange; he assumes everyone thinks of other people in this way, as potential allies, as potentially useful.