(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]

"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.