(no subject)

[feel_human]

She doesn't say a single word as they drive along the dim, winding parish road, staring out the window at the telephone poles as they flash by, her hands in her lap, holding onto her phone and purse with grim determination, and though she can feel Sam looking over at her now and again, he doesn't say anything, either, just pushes the Bronco along with a thrum of the engine that eats up the few miles between the bar and home.

She'd left the lights on, a precaution that, it turns out, would probably not make any difference, and her steps are steady enough as she walks along the crunching gravel of the driveway, but when she shoulders open the screen to unlock the door, the keys shake in her hands and she can't seem to fit the right one in the lock until she can feel Sam come up behind her, following her in by unspoken agreement, and she makes an effort, finally fits the key and turns the lock, opening the door with its familiar creak.

Inside the entranceway, she finds herself at a loss, one hand still clutching her phone, the other holding the keys, and she turns to Sam with wide eyes, trying to rally herself.  "Do you want some iced tea or lemonade or somethin'?" she asks, falling back on the most basic manners, trying and failing to keep the green-eyed girl from dying over and over again in her head.  Her voice comes out stilted, and she turns towards the kitchen, uncertain.

"Or I've got some beers in the fridge...would you go ahead and just lock that for me?  I should really, really go change..."

She's rambling and she can't seem to stop herself, walking towards the kitchen as if in a dream, feeling like a wheeling kite with its string cut and a gust of wind shunting it irrevocably out to sea.

Comments

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

She watches him with sympathy as the smile fades from his mouth and his eyes get that unhappy, kicked look she'd seen earlier on the dance floor, after she rejected his offer of a truce. "If you want to call her," she offers, studying the face he has half turned away from her, "you should go ahead." She tries a smile, finds it shows tiny and uncertain, but there.

"One of us really ought to, anyway, and...it should probably be you."

How did her friendship with Tara get so messed up? One second you're closer than sisters, but then wham! You aren't even talking to each other. Is it because of the date to the DGD she went on with Sam? Or does it have something to do with Bill? Whatever it is, Tara's been more than usually angry, lately, and if she's talking to anybody about it, it's sure not Sookie.

He takes out his phone and glances at it, and her eyes go to her own, sitting silently on the table. Just a little while ago, she'd been showing off the pictures of John to Amy, cherishing each little compliment and reminder of her time at that in-between place with him: not that the pictures do him or the evening justice. They can't capture the quiet intimacy of soft words spoken with their heads sharing the space on a pillow, or the way he'd stumbled over his words in the starlight, or the way his attention shines on her like a spotlight.

She wishes he were here.

They both stand looking at the kettle, as if waiting for the moment when the water will start to boil, and she has to laugh after a second, hearing the old saying -- a watched pot -- come unbidden to her mind, and she deliberately turns her back on it, leaning against the counter, mirroring Sam's posture.

He looks so unhappy that she wants to go and put a hand on his arm, offer whatever sympathy she can, but she doesn't know if it would be welcome. Shock is slipping away, leaving a tired, muffled feeling, and she runs through the things she needs to do in order to keep her mind from stalling: get the shotgun from its spot in the shed, load it, put these clothes in the wash (she feels like she can feel the killer's touch all over her body), make up the couch.

After tea.

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

Does he want to call her? Does he want the inevitable anger and tears and rejection that he'll get when he does? Does the wounded pride still recovering from Sookie's reaction to his revelation have the strength to expose itself to that?

Probably not, but Sookie's right. Somebody ought to, if for no other reason than just to check that she got home all right, driving home drunk in that fit of anger. Oh, Tara. She'd warned him, she had, but it seems like he's just too damn stupid to take her advice, to take her at face value that sleeping together would mean just that and nothing more.

His brows draw together gloomily as he watches the kettle. Tara don't make it easy to try and make this work. But then again, he was the one who drove her away tonight.

He studies the phone again.

"She ain't gonna want to hear from me," he says, unhappily, but he nods. "But yeah, someone oughta call her. Give me a minute."

He pushes himself up off the counter, his nose twitching at a smell that's out of place as he passes Sookie by, stepping off to one side but not out of the room because he don't want to leave her alone right now. He retreats into the corner, thumbs his way through the address book and picks out Tara's number. He hesitates a moment before he takes a deep break and presses the button.

There's no answer, just Tara's voicemail. There's a stunned second as he thinks of what to say, and he considers hanging up until he looks back at Sookie and remembers her words and knows that he really ought to at least leave a message.

"Hey Tara," he says, softly, "it's me. Look, I, uh, I figured we should probably talk. Just ... call me, okay?"

He stares at the phone for a few moments after he's hung up, then he wanders over to the counter again and leans his hands on it with a sigh, staring at that water again.

"She ain't answering."

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

She busies herself while Sam dials, turning away to give him a little privacy, seeking out the honey bear and a couple of spoons, but the rattle of silverware can't cover his voice or the hesitant words he leaves on Tara's voicemail, and she can't help the silent breath she lets out or the slight shake of her head: Tara is a mess, always has been, but lately she seems to have been getting worse, and Sookie's got no idea if it has something to do with the exorcism her mother got (isn't that what Tara had said was responsible for Lettie Mae making hocakes before?) or if it's something else entirely.

When Sam walks back over, eyebrows furrowing and that frustrated look back on his face, she gives him a little smile, hoping it's encouraging enough.

(It's easier concentrating on this than on what just happened: Tara she understands, Sam she knows, but she can't make sense of the attack, not yet, maybe not ever.)

"She'll come around," she says, and tries to sound like she really believes that (though the truth is, Tara listens to no one but Tara and occasionally Lafayette, and it's a toss-up as to whether she comes around or stops speaking to all of them entirely). She puts a light hand on his shoulder, the light cotton of his shirt warm against her palm, but that reminds her of how she'd clung to him in the doorway, scrambling to get as close as possible, closer than that, and she pulls her hand away after a heartbeat, turning back to the water, which is just beginning to steam gently in the old copper kettle. "She's probably just too busy cussin' someone out to hear her phone," she adds, trying for light, though there's no doubt he knows she's concerned too. "You know her."

She goes to the fridge to get a little space, wishing this could feel normal the way it almost does, and stares at the contents for a second before recognizing them and grabbing a lemon from the door. When she ducks her head to find a knife in the silverware drawer, she gets a whiff of John's aftershave from her shirt, and it makes her want to cry that she can simultaneously be reminded of him and of the killer by these clothes she's wearing.

It's so unfair.

Lemon, knife and cutting board go on the counter and she pauses before slicing, to steady her hand and remind herself that this is all right, that she's all right, that no one will hurt her with Sam around, that she has to get back to that other place so John doesn't worry.

Every little thought is one more thing tying her back to reality, and she knows one thing: she is not going to be killed, no matter what she has to do.

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

What Sookie says could be right; she's right, he knows Tara, and he knows that Sookie knows her much better than he does, because the way he understands it, they kinda grew up together, best friends from an early age. He's just some damn fool who don't know when to give up on something, who's been reminded that he's lonely and that he hates being lonely. It's like he told her; he is a social animal, and he doesn't want to give that up again.

He sighs, shifting when Sookie sets her hand on his arm, and nods. This close to her, there's that smell again, like cologne or something, musky and completely unlike her own delicate scent, that mix of perfume and shampoo and the undefinable smell that makes up Sookie herself.

"Yeah. I hope you're right," he says, managing to muster half a smile for her, but it's unhappy and uncertain. Sure, Tara could just be too busy yelling at someone to answer her phone. Or she could be so mad he turned her away that she's decided not to speak to him. Or, worse, she could have driven her car into a ditch or a tree in the dark in her drunken rage.

He sure has made a hell of a mess of things, and he doesn't even want to talk about it, but he doesn't know what else to talk about. Anything but what they're so studiously talking about, what just happened that drove her, clutching wildly at him, into his arms in the doorway of the bar. And, for his own sake, anything but his own messed-up love life and how badly he's probably just screwed it up even more.

He looks ruefully at his phone and sticks it back into his pocket. He lets out a slow breath that hisses a little through his teeth, and looks over at Sookie standing over the cutting board. There's something she'd said earlier niggling at the back of his mind, and it takes a moment's concentration to pin it down. When he does, he straightens up off the counter, one hand resting on the hip of his jeans.

"Hey. Earlier, you said you wanted to come find me when you got back. What did you mean? I didn't see you go anywhere."

And he had been kinda keeping an eye on her, wondering the whole night if it was a good time to go see her, if he should try apologizing again or just leave her to stew in her anger.

Now that he thinks about it, be can probably make a guess where she'd been, but he wants to hear it from her.

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

"I hope so, too," she says, soft, pausing for a second in her slicing of the lemon. Poor Tara. She's had a rough life and in response she's turned just as rough: she's angry and unhappy and pushes people away when she really wants them to be closer.

That's someone else Sookie really ought to apologize to. Whatever's going on with Tara, it's obvious she could use her best friend (no matter how hard she tries to push her away), but she's been so caught up with trying to clear Jason, and everything with Bill, and her own treacherous mind continually returning again and again to that strange other place instead of concentrating on her problems here and now that she just hasn't paid Tara much attention since the tearful apology they'd given each other the night Bill left.

And it's not like that stuck all that well.

Behind her, Sam shifts and she can hear the water begin to bubble in the kettle: the crisp sweet scent of lemon rises from the cutting board. This is all so familiar, a little slice of home, and it's soothing, smoothing over her shock and the fear that had run so rampant through her whole body.

She's never been scared like that before, ever. Not even when Malcolm and his cronies showed up at the bar, not when Longshadow attacked her. She'd never felt all-encompassing fear for her life like she did tonight...and until the killer is found, she'll always be waiting to feel it again.

Well, not if she has anything to say about it.

But before she can start thinking to hard about any of that, Sam shifts, again, and she half-turns at the questioning note in his voice, knife poised over a piece of lemon when he asks where she'd been.

"Oh," she says, a little at a loss. Sam is the only one who knows about that other place, the only one who knows the truth about John, and she ought to be happy that she has one person she can talk to about all of it, but she finds herself feeling awkward, turning back to the cutting board. "I was back at that other place. The party we were at yesterday."

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

The slightly sheepish, almost apologetic way she answers the question, obviously trying not to make too big a deal of it, probably tells him all he needs to know.

He wonders, for a moment, if he should leave it at that and look desperately for another topic, pretend he didn't just hear that, that he doesn't think that musky smell came from her mysterious pilot, the man she spent the whole time she was at that strange party with him longing for, gazing at the door like she expected every person who walked through to be that guy. John, the military officer, the pilot, the guy who's kind and a little goofy and makes her feel like herself. The guy who is all the things he's always wanted to be to her.

The guy she'd been so worried about.

Surely he can muster the decency to ask her about him, because like he'd told himself yesterday, before everything went so wrong and she wound up so angry at him, he just wants to see her happy. And if this pilot makes her happy, he doesn't want anything to have happened to him.

She's lost enough people already.

Beside him, the water in the kettle is bubbling ever more frantically, and watching it gives him an excuse to look somewhere other than her without it looking too obvious.

"So, was your guy there?" he asks, knowing he can't make it sound as casual as he wishes he could, wishing he didn't always have his heart on his damn sleeve when she's around. But that's like wishing he didn't love her, and for all the trouble it's caused him, he can't just wish it away. "What was his name again?" (He remembers, of course he does, but he doesn't want her to know just how much that conversation's stuck in his head ever since they had it.)

He's glad when the kettle's boiled and gives him an excuse to take it off the burner, pour the water into the mugs, and stare down at the steeping tea like it's the most fascinating thing here.

Anything but see the look on Sookie's face.

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

She can't help it: even though Sam's words come out a little stilted, even though they sound overly casual, she can't help it -- thinking about John, the way her heart had pounded when she'd stepped back into that other place and seen him there, the way it had felt to watch him recognize her: she has to smile, can't help it. The thought of him makes her light up just like she did when she looked around and saw his rumpled brown hair and broad shoulders.

Just seeing him made her so happy. "John," she says, trying to ignore the way Sam asks for his name, like it's so unimportant; finishes slicing the lemon and brings the cutting board across the kitchen to set down next to the mugs. "It's John. And as a matter of fact, he was."

Not only there, but in one piece (if a little burned), and happy to see her, and...she looks up at the kitchen wall as if she were able to see through it, like somehow she could see him there. He'd given her such a beautiful night, and she doesn't know if Amy's right or not, but she knows one thing for sure: she's never felt about anyone the ways she feels about him. He calls himself lucky, but as far as she's concerned, she's the lucky one, finding him, with all his uncertainties and his goofy jokes and the way the lightest touch makes her feel like her veins are filling with quicksilver.

What on earth made him think she was worth taking a chance on? But she doesn't want to question it, just wants to exist in happy acceptance that, after all the times he's pulled away, he hasn't ever left, that he lets her pull him right back.

It is absolutely absurd to miss him this much already.

One lemon circle goes in her mug, along with a squeeze of honey, and she picks it up to go back to the table, sitting with a sigh -- it feels good to be off her feet after the adrenaline rush of earlier -- cradling the mug in her hands and closing her eyes to the scent of chamomile and lemon, the soft golden curl of honey, feeling the steam rise gently against the skin of her face.

One hand goes to her phone, thumb smoothing over the metal and glass there, when she opens her eyes again, and she gives Sam a half-moon curve of a wistful smile. "I even got a picture this time. Just to have kind of a reminder that it's all real, you know? That place seems like it's halfway between reality and a dream, sometimes."

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

He stays behind at the counter for a while, not sure he can face her and the smile he's sure from her voice is creeping across her lips, that same look of happiness she'd had there yesterday when she'd told him about John, when she'd tried to describe the things that made her feel that way about him and just left Sam wondering why, why this John guy and not him, what did he do wrong? That smell on her clothes, it's another man's scent, a man she's told him she's been with, and now that he thinks about it, her hair's a little messier than it ought to be, her makeup a little smudged like it gets sometimes at the end of a long night at work.

Dammit, he wants to be happy for her, but he can't, he just can't. His head tells him to be relieved that her man John's alive, like Sam assured her he would be, that they found their way back together like he said they would, that she's found something in all this mess that can make her so genuinely happy. But his heart, his heart's aching and asking him all the questions he's asked himself ever since she told him about John: why, why, why?

It isn't made any easier by knowing, somewhere, that he's got no right to be thinking this about her at all, that he knows she doesn't feel the way about him that he does about her, that this thing with Tara was meant to help him find his way past all this. He'd wanted to make it work with Tara, wanted to love her, to stop having his mind all filled up with Sookie all the time. And tonight he and Tara had pushed each other away, and she'd gone off drunk and hurt and angry and he should be worrying about her, not sitting here jealous of her best friend.

Idly, he picks up the honey that Sookie had left on the counter, squeezing some into his mug, adding a little of the lemon she'd cut, until finally he can't avoid facing her any longer.

"Well, hey," he says, sticking on a smile he hopes looks real enough to fool her, making sure his voice is bright and cheerful, the one he uses with the patrons when it's been a long night at the bar and he can't afford to let anyone see the man behind the bar being snappish. "That's, uh, that's great news. I'm glad he's okay."

Sam slides his mug onto the table and slips into the chair, breathing in deep to fill his sensitive nose with lemon and honey and chamomile so he doesn't have to smell that hint of musk and mint on her.

Now he does muster the courage to look at her, and sure enough, he sees her smile, small but wistful, like the memory is something precious to treasure, her thumb running over the screen of her phone like a caress.

"Well, if none of us get to meet him, I guess a picture will have to do. I know what you mean, though," he says, his smile a little stronger for a moment. "I still ain't entirely sure it really happened."

Except for the crushing reality of her entanglement with a man he's never met, it all seems so distant. But that one thing is enough to make it all relentlessly real.

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

"You never know," she says, smiling artlessly over her mug at him, eyes warming. "Maybe next time you get back there, you'll meet him. Though as far as I know, you're the only other person from Bon Temps who's been there, so a picture'll still have to do for everyone else."

It hurts to see that smile stretching over his face but not making it to his eyes -- they look as kicked and hurt now as they did earlier tonight after she'd rejected his offer of a truce and sent him off with stinging words, and it twists at her heart but she can't hide how she feels about John, wouldn't want to even if she could, even knowing that it hurts Sam to see her that way.

Well, maybe she's never tried to love Sam, maybe her whole life would have been easier if she'd just fallen for him, instead, but she didn't, she fell for John, and as much as it aches to know her happiness hurts anybody else, she won't apologize for it. There was nothing she could have done, couldn't have stopped herself falling for that tall, messy-haired pilot any more than she could stop herself from breathing or falling asleep or waking up in the morning. It feels like the way things ought to be, it feels right.

She just wishes Sam would stop looking at her the way he does, that he would go ahead and let her fall off whatever pedestal he's put her on, that she didn't know how he feels about her. More than anything, she wishes he didn't have that overly jovial tone to his voice: she knows it all too well, recognizes that smile as one she puts on when her walls are crumbling and thin and she just wants to get through the rest of the night.

"I was so relieved," she admits, after taking a sip. Putting the mug down, she looks into the tea as if it might have some kind of answers for her, but of course it doesn't -- that's just an old wive's tale, right, and she's pretty sure seeing the future in tea doesn't work with bags of Sleepy Time anyhow. "Every time I come back here I have to convince myself it was real. It helped havin' you there, yesterday."

Glancing up, she gives him a shy little smile, more just a flicker of a curve at her lips than a real smile, unsure if she ought to be telling him any of this.

He probably doesn't want to hear it. "But I've been five times now, so if it ain't real, it's sure doing a pretty bang-up job of pretendin' it is."

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

"That place is one of the weirdest things I've ever seen," he says, shaking his head, wishing he could get some real levity in his tone; he still hates the tension that's sprung up between them just about every time they talk recently. He'd hoped that yesterday might be the end of the fights, that clearing the air between them about Bill Compton and John and having the time alone to get a few things sorted out might make them able to stick together the way they need to.

Last night had put an end to that hope, but maybe the shared experience can still do some good, still help them keep that trust between each other when so much has gone mad around them. They've lost so much, the two of them, got not a lot left except each other. And now, here they are, sitting in her kitchen talking over tea because she asked him for his help, needs his protection.

Is it petty of him to be pleased that at least there's something he can be for her that this pilot of hers can't? Of course it is; he closes his eyes and breathes the sweet scent of chamomile in again.

"I bet you were relieved," he says, and the edges of his smile get a little more firm, his eyes softening with affection for her. He can find a smile for the fact that she's happy, that she doesn't have one more person to grieve or the endless uncertainty that he'd seen yesterday at that strange party. "I remember how worried you were about him."

She cares about him, she does; that much is obvious, has been ever since the first time she started mentioning him at work weeks ago, that day she'd shown up with a dreamy smile she couldn't seem to keep off her face.

At least he's not a vampire.

Sam wraps his hands around the mug, leaning forward so his forearms rest on the table. She looks like she so desperately wants him to approve, and her hopeful tone when she'd said she thought he'd like John made him think the same. Can't he put it all aside, lock away his feelings for her like he's done so many times before, to offer her some friendship and protection for the night?

Maybe.

"Well, go on, then," he says, nodding towards the phone she'd been running her fingers so delicately over before, "show me."

He can certainly try, at least.

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

She lifts a hand to him, palm up, as she takes another sip of tea, and her eyebrows lift. "I know, right? It has got to be one of the strangest things out there, a party that never stops and pulls people from all different worlds and universes."

She wonders if there's a Sookie in John's version of the world, if there's a Sam, if there's a Merlotte's and a Bon Temps. There's a Barksdale, at least, so that's something; but no vampires. And if there is a Sookie, does she have the same disability? Or is she blissfully free of the curse of telepathy, did she go to college, does she wait tables for a living?

Well, trying to surmise will only frustrate her, really, and she has more than enough frustrations on her plate right now, not least of which is this strained politeness that's been the hallmark of being with Sam anytime they aren't outright fighting, and she hates it, hates that they aren't as close now as they once were, hates that it feels somehow all her fault, for falling in love with the wrong man -- or the right one, depending on who's looking at it. He's one of the most important people in her life, someone she can trust absolutely, someone who's always been there for her -- but if she were to say so, would he feel happy? Or would he be frustrated still that, much as she loves him, highly as she thinks of him, he still isn't the one she wants to be with?

It's not fair, any of it: she just wants to be friends again and forget any of this ever happened, forget what she knows about how he feels and just continue on in ignorance like she had for so long before...but of course she can't.

Still, she wants his approval, wants to be able to share her life with him, the things that make her happy, the things that are on her mind, and though she'd been joking with John before, she really does want to show him off, to prove to the world that he exists and that he's wonderful, that he cares about her, so when Sam nods at the phone and asks to see the pictures she'd taken, she blossoms into pleased smiles and scoots her chair close enough to his to show him, pressing the button and bringing up the photo Amy had left it on: one of the two of them together, and she loves that picture, but it doesn't really show John as much as it shows both of them, so she flicks back to one she'd taken of just him, grinning that half-sheepish, half-amused grin she finds so appealing.

"There," she says, unable to keep the hint of pride out of her voice, finding she can't not smile at the little snapshot anymore than she can't not smile at the man himself. Just seeing his features: the rumpled hair, the crinkling at the corners of his eyes, the way his smile flashes like a spotlight -- it brings everything right back to her, all the quiet words and confidences shared, the way they'd spilled secrets to each other, the way his hand fits, so gently, against the curve of her cheek. "That's him."

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, it's pretty much the strangest thing I've ever seen," he says, pleased that a laugh makes it into his voice at the thought that he, a shapeshifter, has the right to call anything strange.

But it is, and it's stolen Sookie's heart away, and he almost hates the place for it.

She knows how he feels. He's stopped trying to make a secret out of it, laid his heart on his sleeve, out there where she can see it and judge it and, yes, reject it the way she has, choose another guy instead of him, turn away from his kiss, from his touch. It aches deep inside, hollow in the pit of his stomach, to see the pure joy that flashes over her face at just the thought of the guy.

How can he compete with something like that? But how can he give up when his attempt to move on's been such a disaster, when her smile still lights up the room, when he sees her almost every day and she never gets any less wonderful, even when they're fighting? How can he just be happy to be her friend? How can he sit by and be happy while she tells him all about the man who she's only seen a handful of times, who can never be a part of her life, but who has somehow managed to be everything he wants to be to her?

He doesn't know, but he has to try, he has to, so he sets down his mug and leans sideways, reaching out one hand to touch the screen of the phone. His dark head bends close to her fair one as they both peer at the same little photograph, and he tries to breathe through his mouth to save himself the indignity of smelling John on her.

The first photo only flashes up for a moment, but it's enough to make his stomach lurch with a feeling that's indefinably complicated; she looks so happy, her smile radiant, with John's arms around her shoulders, John's head pressed to hers, her slender frame held close and tight by the man he's never met. But he barely has a chance to see what John looks like in the photo before she's flipped through the pictures to another one, one she points out to him proudly, one that's just of the man from the first photo.

He's handsome, in a scruffy, rumpled sort of way, a shadow of stubble on his chin and his hair sticking up at a strange angle. Sam can't see much detail, but it's enough to know that her guy looks kind of dashing, and for the first time he finds a little question nagging at the back of his mind, the same one he'd asked when Tara told him how futile his advances were once she'd learned Sookie couldn't hear Compton's thoughts: how could you hope to compete with that?

He takes a deep breath, making sure his voice is steady; it comes out impressed without him even trying.

"Wow. He's a good-looking guy."

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

"He is," she agrees, unable not to, still a little disbelieving of it all. Nobody here would ever believe that crazy Sookie Stackhouse would ever manage to catch a man like John, no matter how often he says he's the lucky one.

She bites at her lip with a pleased little smile: even with Sam's emotions all tangled up and confused next to her, she appreciates the comment: after all, John is a good-looking guy, he's downright handsome (if a little rumpled, and personally she thinks that makes him more attractive altogether), and not for the first time she wonders just what it is in her that he thinks makes her worth his time and affection. John calls her beautiful, even with that gap between her teeth that she's never quite come to terms with, even though she's petite instead of tall and elegant. She doesn't know what he sees in her, is only glad that there must be something.

But she's torn. She so badly wants to brag on her man, to call him hers and tell Sam everything, but she can feel an ache deep past the edge of Sam's thoughts that doesn't show anywhere near his voice or tone, and she thinks it's unfair of her to want to tell him any of this. Just because she doesn't love him the way he wants her to doesn't mean she doesn't care, doesn't mean she wants to hurt him in anyway, so she puts the phone down for a second, glances over at him before pulling her mug of tea back to herself, considering it.

"You don't have to do this, Sam," she says, finally, not wanting to meet his eyes and see the disappointment there like she's seen so often since that failed date, that failed kiss outside the little café. "I know you...you probably don't want to hear any of it. But it's sweet of you. I don't really have anyone else to talk to, anymore, and you...well, your opinion means a lot."

Oh, she's always been so confused by Sam, never really knowing just what it is that he wants from her. Does he want to be her friend? Is that why he asks about John, why he'd tried to shore her up when she'd been so worried about never seeing him again and what that might mean?

And she hates that any of this has to come up now, when they most need to stick together, when she depends on him because he's the only one who is always there for her. She doesn't want to hurt him any more, but it seems like it's impossible not to, unless something shifted entirely and her happiness started being his, too...but it won't. She can't help it: she could no more switch off this feeling for John than she could cut off her own hand.

She just wants to be friends again, like they used to be, without this guilt and uncertainty. Why is that so hard?

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

He loves being this close to her, even if he knows it doesn't mean anything, even if it's so he can look at photos of a man who's won his way into her heart and her bed. His head drops and his blue gaze turns away from the phone towards the hand that rests on the table, near his mug. It's just something to look at as she says, hesitantly, that she appreciates what he's trying to do and that he doesn't have to talk to her about this, but that she values his opinion.

Just last night, she'd shouted at him, she'd told him how hurt she was that he hadn't shared his secrets with her, and just earlier tonight, she'd rebuffed his attempts to reach out to her, to ask for a truce. But now she's telling him how important he is, how much his opinion matters. (And it's still not enough.) But the question he has to answer is this: can he really refuse to be her friend, can he really turn his back on her when he's the only person she has, even if it aches to do it, even if what she needs is to tell him about what makes another man so wonderful?

Of course he can't. He can't not love her, but no more can he not be her friend. He's managed it all these years, hasn't he? The only differences are that now she knows and now she's fallen out of his reach.

"Look, Sook, I ..." He looks across at her, shifts the hand on the phone to reach for hers, unsure if she'll be willing to take it. She's not looking at him, and he's not sure if that's a good thing or not. At least it saves him having to look in those big eyes of hers and see what must be an aching conflict in them that reflects his own.

"I know we haven't ... I haven't been all that much help to you lately." And that's both their fault, hers for pushing him away, his for pushing her away, but the blame doesn't matter. The fact is, she's needed friends, all the friends she can get.

"It must have been hard, the last few weeks, with nobody who knew about that place."

And he's fallen short not only of being her love, but also of being her friend in so many ways. He's been petty and jealous and let that get in the way of being there for her when she needed someone to talk to and lean on about the murders, about her Gran, about falling for a guy she can't ever know if she's going to see again.

And if she still wants to lean on him about that, the least he can do is let her.

"Now I do, if you wanna talk to me, tell me about him, then I guess bein' here for you's the least I can do."

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

They've spent so much time being mad at each other lately that it's almost strange to be talking in low voices, each trying to apologize for past actions and harsh words. She'd been so mean to him last night, even earlier this past evening on the dance floor, still so stung and hurt and surprised that the only thing she knew to do was lash out, but here he is, being kind just like he so often is when it really matters, saying he hasn't been much help, as if she weren't the one pushing him away.

She bites at her lip and shakes her head, slightly: what on earth did she do to make Sam so loyal? She's fallen for someone else, never returned his affections (although that kiss outside the café, that hadn't started badly, he'd asked if she was all right, told her he didn't want to push her into anything she didn't want to do, and she'd told him she did want that, to trust her. How would that all have ended if she hadn't found her way back to John? But that way lies too many questions she doesn't want to answer). She's lectured him just as often as he's lectured her, lost her temper with him and pushed him as far as she could for no other reason than her own selfishness.

There's absolutely no reason for him to sit here and offer his friendship and support when she's been so undeserving of it: but maybe that's what makes Sam such a good friend, maybe that's why she can depend on him, and when he reaches out his hand, she puts hers in it and turns a smile on him that's only a little shaky.

Maybe she doesn't need his approval -- she needs nobody's approval of her feelings for John except John's himself -- but it's nice to have.

"I'm just glad you're here," she tells him, taking comfort in the feel of his palm warm against hers. "Whatever we talk about. I'm sick of fightin' all the time, and I -- well, I haven't exactly been a good friend to you, either, lately, all caught up in my own stuff. I didn't even know about you and Tara until...just last night."

That still makes her a little awkward: she was never supposed to see their private moment and she feels a little guilty that she did, by accident. "I'm sorry. And that other place -- John bein' there -- it's been such a relief to have a break from all the craziness here."

It's not really the full appeal -- she can't put into words the way she's drawn towards John the way a moth is drawn to a porchlight, the way a compass needle is drawn to a magnet -- but maybe it's enough for him to understand a little. "I don't have to watch my back there like I do here. It's exhaustin', bein' scared like this all the time. There, it's -- I can relax a little bit. Try and be happy."

In a way, it helps that John is so far removed from her life here: it means she's no constantly reminded of Bon Temps and everything she's lost here, everything that she still has to deal with. If Sam met him, he'd understand. Who wouldn't, meeting John?

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

He doesn't know what he wants. He never has, where Sookie's concerned, beyond knowing that he loves her and he wants her to love him, wants to have her heart and affection and be the one who can hold her close and be there to support her when she needs it. He'd had that one taste, that kiss after the Descendants of the Glorious Dead meeting, before they'd fought, yet again, his jealousy getting in the way.

And now he's pretty much fucked up everything. She's not the only one in this conversation who just wants someone to talk to, just wants some support; she says she didn't know about him and Tara and she's sorry about that, but it ain't her fault, and it ain't her fault that everything's so screwed up with Tara. He'd tried so hard, he'd wanted it to work, wanted to find whatever comfort with her he could, but then tonight he'd lashed out at her in his frustration and anger, and he doesn't want to have to think about that any more than he wants to think about what nearly happened to Sookie tonight or about that photo of her held tight in a pilot's arms.

"I'm sick of fightin', too," he says, looking down at her slender hand in his. "I don't ..." He shakes his head, not even knowing just what it is that he's trying to say. "It doesn't matter. You've had a hell of a lot on your plate. And I want ... I wanna be here."

He doesn't even know how to ask her for her friendship, to listen to what he has to say, to all the confusion and unhappiness that's been his lot the last few weeks. And he doesn't even know if he wants to. It's just easier to push it all aside, ain't it? Always has been.

"I bet it's relaxin'," he says, an echo of words he spoke to her once about Bill Compton, and he finds a thought flashing across his mind that Tara'd told him he stood no chance once Sookie'd met someone whose mind she couldn't read. How does John the pilot manage to live up to that? Surely he can't be relaxing to be with in that way, and yet, there it is. She's fallen for someone who ain't Bill Compton in the end.

"Must be nice," he says, softly and uneasily, still not sure how welcome it is when he talks about John, trying not to let the ache show in his voice, "to be able to get away from all the pressure and everythin' that's goin' on here and just be with him."

Is she happy? She says she tries to be when she's there. She'd seemed it, when she'd come back from that place that night with a hickey hidden under a little scarf around her neck, dancing across the floor and laughing and smiling.

He can't begrudge her that happiness, can he? He had at the time.

"You seemed ... happy. In the photo, and when you got back that last time."

The words come hesitant and uncertain and he doesn't even know what he wants to say to her, so he lets them fade, picking up his mug in his free hand so he has some sort of cover for not knowing how that thought ends.

All this is so tentative, but it's something, isn't it?

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

"You are here," she tells him, squeezing his hand slightly, giving him a slight, encouraging smile before shaking her head and lifting her eyebrows, letting out a breath. "And I'm not the only one who's gotten kinda swamped. I guess we've both been pretty screwed up lately, huh?"

That's the understatement of the year, but she doesn't quite know how to tell him she'll listen if he wants to talk to her about everything that's been going on with him, with Tara, with everything she hasn't been able to pay attention to, too wound up in her own worries.

He says, haltingly, that being in that other place must be relaxing, and she nods, mouth twisting slightly. "It is," she agrees, relieved beyond words that he's not getting angry with her, that he isn't yelling at her about John like he did about Bill. "You were there, you know how it feels...right, like everything's okay."

Her phone is still showing that photo of John, and she looks down at it, wishing she could have taken better pictures, wishing this was more than just a faint representation of him, wishing she could see him, hear his voice, feel his arms warm and comforting around her. Sam said she looked happy in that other photo; Amy said they looked like two people in love. All she knows is that when she was sitting there, wrapped up in his arms, the world felt a little more peaceful.

But maybe it's a good thing she can't see him right now, because she'd probably blurt out her feelings, and she just doesn't think she could stand to see him pull away if she did, no matter what she'd told Amy.

Better to have a little time to come to terms with it herself, first.

"And I am happy there, mostly," she admits, still unsure how much she should say, if she should be taking Sam's words at face value and feel free to talk to him, or if she should let the matter drop.

But she finds she can't, even if she should. "He does...make me happy, when I get to see him. So happy. He likes me for bein' just exactly what I am, and I feel almost normal, bein' with him." She shakes her head, unable to find words for the way John makes her feel, how he says she's beautiful and she almost believes him, the way she feels special, treasured, like something precious he'd never expected to find.

But I..." She hesitates, uncertain of just what it is she wants to say, what it might mean if she says it out loud. "I can't help wishin' he could be here, too. But he can't."

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, you can say that again," he says, hearing the old, familiar suggestion of wry humor in his voice, one that you have to listen hard to identify. They've both managed to make a pretty good mess of things, haven't they? It ain't exactly her fault or exactly his or exactly Tara's or exactly anyone's that everything's gone so nuts lately, except this killer, the man who's gone after his staff, his friends, who's brought fear to their sleepy little town.

There's only a hint of wistfulness in his smile when he moves, dropping her hand to put his arm around her, hand warm on her arm and give her a little hug that he hopes says what he can't quite seem to make words say, that no matter what's happened between them, no matter if she's chosen someone else, she's still one of the most important people in his life and he'd still do anything for her.

But he drops his arm just as quickly, self-conscious, remembering that no matter how desperately he'd wanted to make things up with her, just a couple of hours ago they'd been furious with each other and he'd snapped at her that he didn't trust her, he trusted the instincts that told him she wouldn't accept him.

He's so glad she's come around.

"I remember," he says, voice soft, remembering how in that place, that impossible place, all his troubles had seemed to fade, leaving nothing but him and Sookie, even making it easier for the two of them to just sit and talk without other things getting in the way.

Easier. Not easy.

"How come he can't be here?" he says, tentative, because for all his resolution, it does still ache to hear her talk about John, about how he likes her for who she is -- can't she see that he does, too, that he adores her and wouldn't change a thing about her? -- and makes her feel normal.

He doesn't understand that place, what it was or how they got there, or how a pilot who'd just been deployed can wind up back there with a waitress from his bar, but he knows that he wants to see her happy, wants that more than almost anything.

She should be able to be with the guy who makes her happy.

Yeah, even if that guy ain't him.

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

He moves and puts an arm around her shoulder to squeeze slightly, and she, after a second, relaxes against him (he smells like flannel and some kind of cologne she can't quite identify and not like puppy dander like she sort of expected he might) but he drops that arm just as quickly and she's glad he does, because Sam's mind isn't easy to read but she can catch a sore, aching feeling and a few scattered thoughts

could be me I could be

that she shuts down as soon as she hears them, not wanting to know.

Fortunately, his questions distracts her, and she shrugs, slightly, wrapping her hands around her mug and trying to pretend like she hasn't asked herself the same question.

"It's not like he doesn't have responsibilities he's got to get back to," she says, first, because that's the first, best, and more important reason: John's not just an officer, he's an officer with a command and he's in the middle of a war. He couldn't just come back with her and ignore everything he has to do back where he's from, and she wouldn't want him to. He's needed there more than he's needed here. "He's got a command, and they need him there. And..."

She glances up, squinting slightly, eyes locked onto the air in the room and seeing nothing as she thinks.

"Who knows what would happen if he even tried? I've got no idea how that place works or how it decides who goes where. Even if we walked back through that door together, who's to say it wouldn't either just put him back in his world and me in mine, or bring me to his instead of bringing him here?"

Shaking her head, she comes back to herself and lifts her mug for a sip, frowning slightly. "Maybe someday we'll figure it out, but not yet. Besides, can you imagine the kind of surprise I'd have gotten, showin' back up at Arlene's party with an officer nobody'd ever met in tow?"

That thought kind of makes her grin, a little -- the mental image of Arlene's face alone is just plain funny.

[not-your-dog.livejournal.com]

He's about to say something awkward and entirely insufficient about how much he wishes things could be different, that'd only be partly about John and that she'd probably be able to tell wasn't entirely altruistic when she smiles a little bit and asks if he can imagine what would have happened if she'd shown up with an officer from that strange party on her arm.

"Well," he says, a genuine grin showing for what feels like the first time in forever, even if the guy in question is the same guy who wrapped his arms around her in that photograph, the guy with the mop of messy hair and the big smile who made her look so happy. "You know how people in this town like to talk. I reckon that would've kept Maxine Fortenberry goin' for at least a week."

This is better, laughing and joking over tea across her table, like there was nothing wrong, even though there's worry at the edge of everything he thinks and says, there's tension in the corners of her eyes and she still looks pale and shaken. They'd said, yesterday, when they were in that place, how much they hated fighting, they've said it again tonight, but they've had such a hard time living up to that.

Can't he put his own desires aside long enough to let things stay like this? Maybe it would've been easier if he'd never told her how he felt. That way he could've gone on pretending and she could've kept on not noticing and things could have stayed like they were.

Except he's fooling himself if he really thinks that. Once Bill Compton and John ... he never did get his last name, did he, came on the scene, everything changed. And it's no use trying to pretend it hasn't.

He only hopes they can salvage their friendship, that what they've built over the years she's worked for him is stronger than this killer, than Vampire Bill and Pilot John. Surely the fact that they're sitting here, laughing over tea, says that it is, right?

He doesn't even know what to say, doesn't know if there's anything to say that wouldn't sound ridiculously contrived and false. He does want her to be happy, he does, it just hurts that she doesn't think she can be happy with him.

And what does that say about Tara and him?

"Well, I know I ain't him, but you've got me," he says, eventually, because that's one thing he knows for sure. Even if she's fallen for John, even if she doesn't want to be any more than his friend, he ain't going anywhere.

Not while she's in danger and hurting.

[feel-human.livejournal.com]

She has to laugh, can't help it, at the image of Maxine Fortenberry's jaw dropping at the sight of crazy Sookie Stackhouse with a tall handsome pilot in tow, and shakes her head, feeling her hair toss against her shoulders. "It'd be worth it just to see her face," she agrees, unable to stop the giggle at the thought. "And maybe it'd give poor Hoyt a break from all her naggin' for a bit."

Yeah, right.

This is better, this is nice, sitting with him and talking like they used to -- although she's never felt quite comfortable saying whatever she wanted to Sam -- he is after all her boss, as well as her friend -- but this is nice, and she takes a deep, calming breath, feeling the edge of panic growing further away, aided by his warm presence and the sweet tea and the memory of John's encouraging smile. So when he says she's got him, she looks at him from over her shoulder with a small, strange little smile, meeting his eyes and glancing from one to the other.

"I know I do," she tells him, lifting her chin slightly, that same searching look on her face. It doesn't take a telepath to know he's absolutely sincere, that he means every word, and she thinks that even if she can't love Sam the way he wants her to, she's still glad he's here with her now.

She can't keep watching him for long and she turns back to her tea with her smile turning inward, thoughtful, and she studies the surface of the liquid for a moment before looking back up, halfway apologetic.

"I think I -- would really like to go get changed. And I'll grab some blankets and a pillow for you while I'm upstairs." She considers, trying to remember John's advice, and as she stands up, leaving the tea behind she tips her head to the pantry door.

"Jason's shotgun is in back, that way, and there are some shells in one of the drawers. Think you could grab it for me?"

With any luck they won't need it; they'll be able to sleep peacefully tonight and tomorrow...well, tomorrow's another day, and she's already starting to wonder if maybe there's a clue she'd missed in her panic earlier.

It's worth looking into.