(no subject)

[feel_human]

The days at Merlotte's are getting as close to normal as possible: she hates herself for thinking it but Dawn never was as efficient a server as she could have been, and between her and Arlene the pace has only slackened a little.  Sam helps when he can, and she can't quite hide a smile to see him stooping over some patrons, sticking his fingers in the pint glasses to bus them while taking orders and listening to gossip; when he turns away and gives her a look that says dear Lord please help me she laughs out loud, then blushes fiercely at a thought that isn't hers

-- lord bless him in those tight jeans --

and twists back to her station, flustered, ponytail bouncing at the nape of her neck.

So, together, they've made the best of it.  Terry Bellefleur comes in every day, and Sookie likes to spend her breaks outside with him, watching as he mends his bootlaces with a piece of tape or works on a delicate fishing fly.  His big hands are surprisingly gentle, and it turns out he's got a shy smile that flashes like inspiration across his face when something simple and happy crosses his mind.  He doesn't talk much, but she doesn't mind the quiet.

"What do you think about vampires, Terry?"  She asks that the morning after her trip to the neverending party, in early to help with unloading and the lunch set-up, with the promise of having tonight off if she oversees the early part of the day for Sam, who has to take care of Dawn's bungalow.

He's uncrating tomatoes, handling the soft fruit with a gentleness at odds with his big hands.  At her question he startles and drops one, and his face crumples with a sharp shake of his head, a collapse of his shoulders.  "Aw, shit," he says, looking so upset that she puts a hand on his arm and tells him it's fine, then dips down to clean the mess up.  "Sorry, Sookie," he tells her, taking a rag from his back pocket and squatting to help, taking a deep, shaking breath.  "You just kinda surprised me, and I -- I ain't so good with surprises."

The floor mopped, she sits back on her heels and looks at him, head tilting.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to surprise you, but I'm curious.  Do you think they oughta have rights?  Should we be scared of 'em?"

He lifts his eyebrows, staring at the floor, and shakes his head.  "I can't make those kind of distinctions anymore.  Too many things scare me these days: birds, motorcycles, news programs.  Can't think too much about them questions, they make me black out."

"But it don't seem right, people bein' so prejudiced against 'em."  She's wheedling a little but it falls flat for Terry, who shakes his head with finality. 

"They're just one more thing that can kill ya.  Anyway, I...got plenty of dead people on my mind already without adding any more to the mix.  Nope."  He stands and lifts the crate, stomping off toward the kitchen, leaving her with a dirty towel and more confusion than ever.

***

That night she offers half-heartedly to stay, but Sam insists she go home and she doesn't argue, heading out to the parking lot with just a token few words of disapproval that vanish when the collie that hangs around comes trotting along with her, tail waving gently in friendship.  It comes with her to the car and she bends to rub its ears, grinning.  "Keepin' an eye on me?" she asks, cheerful, and laughs when the dog barks once and noses her hand affectionately before pelting off into the woods.

At home, she wraps herself in a knitted afghan -- something Gran had made years ago and which she'd adopted as her own -- and sits on the porch, watching fireflies flicker like stars flitting to earth.  The familiar sounds of Gran moving about the kitchen float through the screen door -- pots clanging, the hiss of the gas lighting, the radio speaking gently and Gran commenting back -- and soothe her.  Since arriving (is that even the right word?) back in the parking lot at the market, she's been tense and on edge; a night's sleep did nothing to calm her down, offering as it had only impossibly vivid dreams where she was sometimes with John and sometimes with Bill before catapulting her into a wakefulness of hammering pulse and cold sweat.  Every time she closes her eyes she wonders if she'll open them on a dim room full of guests she's never seen before; each time she walks through a door she's halfway certain she won't end up in the right room.  Even making sure of that unlikely tie clip, sitting so innocently on her vanity, wasn't enough to settle her mind.

The night is balmy, the air thick and sweet-smelling, full of the scent of wildflowers and growing things; damp earth, sun-baked grass, a breeze slipping out from underneath the trees at the edge of her yard.  She wishes John were here to sit next to her, a comfortable shoulder to lean against; she wishes she could introduce him to Gran and smiles in satisfaction at how much he would be liked.  The thoughts are sweet but ache in her chest; she takes a deep breath that turns into a sharp gasp when Bill appears in front of her as if he'd sprung from the ground.

Dropped tomatoes, she thinks, with a tinge of hysteria, and chokes down the giggle that threatens to escape.  "I told you to stop doing that," is what she says, and he has the grace to look a little ashamed of himself.

'I'm sorry," he says, and continues to stand, looking a little awkward, as if he's forgotten why he came here, and she takes the opportunity to study him, the old-fashioned cut of his hair, the sturdy set of his shoulders, how blue his eyes are in his pale face.  She can't help comparing him with John: the difference between his easy confidence and Bill's serious demeanor; even the way they move is so different.  Bill is all deliberate, coiled grace where John is unconsciously efficient, athletic; John's hazel eyes laugh and smile and soften the way Bill's never do, though his pin her with intent blue light. 

Perhaps in response to her scrutiny, he tries a reassuring smile.  It fits oddly on his face like he can't muster the certainty required to make it passable.  "It was not my intention to alarm you."

"I ain't alarmed."  She tips her head and narrows her eyes just slightly; he looks back at her as if waiting to hear what else she has to say.  "What are you doin' here, Bill?  I told you I don't think we should see each other anymore."

"We are still friends, are we not?" 

There's some kind of vulnerability in his face, hard to see under the shadows that fall over him, but she can feel herself softening, rallies her mind again and shrugs, trying for nonchalance.  "I guess."

A muscle moves in his jaw, but all he does is take a few steps closer, placing the palm of one hand against the porch rail and stepping one foot up onto the bottom stair.  "I was concerned."

"Why?"

"You..."  Bill chooses his words as carefully as Gran does, seeking out the ones that pack meaning into few letters.  It isn't efficient so much as it is calculating, and she wonders why, what he might say if he took all the filters down.  "Disappeared, yesterday.  I wasn't sure at first, because it was still daylight and I was asleep when...whatever it was...occured.  But then I felt you come back.  I wanted to see you last night, but I wasn't sure I'd be welcome at Merlotte's."

"Sam ain't got nothing against you."  She says it as easily as possible when her heart is pounding so hard she's sure he must hear it, must see it ticking at the skin of her throat.  Against her better judgment, she's strangely pleased by his concern, by the fact that he noticed that she was gone and was thinking about her.  "But I wouldn't exactly have had time to talk."

"Sookie."  The way he says her name brushes rough as sandpaper against her ears; she shivers.  "Don't try to distract me, it will never work."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you."  She takes refuge in cattiness, an insolent lift to her chin, eyes flashing.  "Except that whatever may or may not have happened to me yesterday is none of your business, Bill Compton, so I'd thank you to stay out of it."

Something dark flashes in his eyes: she can't tell if it's pain or anger.  "You don't mean that."

"Oh, I do," she assures him.  "You don't run my life.  Now, I thank you for your concern, but I'm tellin' you right now that your assistance or advice or whatever you came over here to offer is not required, or wanted, either."  She's breathing hard, his eyes bore straight into hers, and she wonders briefly how long she can keep this up.  Even now, she's pulled towards him by something that isn't quite attraction, something shadowy and impossible to define but no less irresistable.  If she didn't know better, she's say he was glamouring her: as it is, it's unsettling enough that she stands, tucking the afghan more closely around her shoulders.  "Good night."

"Sookie, wait."  Now he's looking up at her instead of the other way around, blue eyes pleading.  "I know you don't wish to -- but I cannot protect you if I don't know where you are or how to find you."

She hesitates, takes a step down so they are eye to eye.  His face is lined and he certainly looks sincere, his eyes level and searching.  "Look," she says, finally, glancing away and then back again, "I appreciate it.  And I'll tell you this: wherever I was, yesterday -- and I'm not tellin' you where it was, for my own reasons -- but I was perfectly safe there."  She pulls in a deep breath; it shudders in her lungs.  "Now."

He draws a little closer; she holds her ground and after a long heartbeat he falls away again, disappointed.  "I am...glad to hear it," he tells the steps, face shadowed so that his expression is impossible to read, though his voice remains as smooth as ever.  When he steps back down it's like an admission of failure, and when he glances back up at her, he's unsmiling and solemn.  "Good night, then, Ms. Stackhouse."

His return to her last name digs a little, but she holds her head high and keeps her shoulders straight.  "Good night."

She doesn't manage to catch when he leaves.