Super-Blood crossover threads
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[ AU ] California dreaming
She's never been on a plane before, and she knows most people take it kind of in stride these days, but it's new and exciting to her.
And, when she gets off, she'll get to see Sam again, face to face, instead of just hearing his voice over the phone. It's been weeks. She's more than ready, even if her excitement is tangling up with nervousness in her stomach. Less butterflies, more like those caves full of snakes all hibernating together in a big sleepy pile of yarn.
With all that in mind – and because Gran raised her to be a lady – she selects her clothing for the flight carefully, finally choosing a light floral sundress and a cropped cardigan to wear when it gets cold on the plane. She brushes her hair into a sleek side ponytail that won't get mussed by a backrest, and checks her neatly packed luggage one last time to make sure she has everything before Jason rolls up in his truck and carries it out for her.
The plane itself doesn't help much with her nerves, but she finds she loves everything about the sensation of flight: the push against her chest as the plane speeds along the runway, the weightlessness of the climb, the way the land spreads out beneath her like a quilt spread carefully over a bed. She drinks ginger ales brought by smiling flight attendants and tries to read her book, but she keeps coming back to the window, looking out at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds.
By the time they set down, though, she's more than ready to be up and moving around again, and she takes some time to stretch, to stop into a restroom and freshen her makeup, brush her teeth and hair, before she comes wandering toward the arrivals area, flower-bright and pretty among a sea of yoga pants and blue jeans and tired faces. Her head is up, her eyes scanning the crowd – she's looking for a certain tall young man who shouldn't be hard at all to spot.
And, when she gets off, she'll get to see Sam again, face to face, instead of just hearing his voice over the phone. It's been weeks. She's more than ready, even if her excitement is tangling up with nervousness in her stomach. Less butterflies, more like those caves full of snakes all hibernating together in a big sleepy pile of yarn.
With all that in mind – and because Gran raised her to be a lady – she selects her clothing for the flight carefully, finally choosing a light floral sundress and a cropped cardigan to wear when it gets cold on the plane. She brushes her hair into a sleek side ponytail that won't get mussed by a backrest, and checks her neatly packed luggage one last time to make sure she has everything before Jason rolls up in his truck and carries it out for her.
The plane itself doesn't help much with her nerves, but she finds she loves everything about the sensation of flight: the push against her chest as the plane speeds along the runway, the weightlessness of the climb, the way the land spreads out beneath her like a quilt spread carefully over a bed. She drinks ginger ales brought by smiling flight attendants and tries to read her book, but she keeps coming back to the window, looking out at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds.
By the time they set down, though, she's more than ready to be up and moving around again, and she takes some time to stretch, to stop into a restroom and freshen her makeup, brush her teeth and hair, before she comes wandering toward the arrivals area, flower-bright and pretty among a sea of yoga pants and blue jeans and tired faces. Her head is up, her eyes scanning the crowd – she's looking for a certain tall young man who shouldn't be hard at all to spot.
[AU] down to the Gulf
Recuperating is a long, wearisome process, but she steadily refuses Bill's offers of his blood. "With everythin' that's been happenin', I just need to feel human for a while," she tells him, and he accepts it, if reluctantly.
Sam and Dean keep her swaddled in blankets, ply her with ice cream and soup and oatmeal and eggs, food soft enough not to hurt her bruised throat, and sternly keep her from doing pretty much anything at all but resting, eating, and healing. It feels like ages before her throat has healed well enough for her to eat solid food, but after that point, she gets better faster and faster. After a couple of weeks, she's nearly back to her old self, and the bruises have mostly faded away. She celebrates by baking Dean the long-promised apple pie and by telling Sam Merlotte that she's taking another week off.
There's no chance her little Honda could make it all the way down to the Gulf, even after Dean fixes what René had broken. Jason surprises her by offering his truck – she doesn't take him up on it, but she's touched – but a rental's a lot easier to manage when she's not the only one paying for it.
She leaves the house in Dean's care, warns him that Tara will be stopping by to make sure the place is still in one piece and asks him not to stake the neighbors, then slips into the passenger seat, her bag in the back with Sam's backpack. And then they're gone, gone, cruising southwards away from Bon Temps and vampires and everything that's happened. It's perfect, and that's even before they get to the Gulf.
She's not prepared for the crystalline water, the massive arcing expanse of sky, the soft white sand. It's the most beautiful place she's ever seen.
Sam and Dean keep her swaddled in blankets, ply her with ice cream and soup and oatmeal and eggs, food soft enough not to hurt her bruised throat, and sternly keep her from doing pretty much anything at all but resting, eating, and healing. It feels like ages before her throat has healed well enough for her to eat solid food, but after that point, she gets better faster and faster. After a couple of weeks, she's nearly back to her old self, and the bruises have mostly faded away. She celebrates by baking Dean the long-promised apple pie and by telling Sam Merlotte that she's taking another week off.
There's no chance her little Honda could make it all the way down to the Gulf, even after Dean fixes what René had broken. Jason surprises her by offering his truck – she doesn't take him up on it, but she's touched – but a rental's a lot easier to manage when she's not the only one paying for it.
She leaves the house in Dean's care, warns him that Tara will be stopping by to make sure the place is still in one piece and asks him not to stake the neighbors, then slips into the passenger seat, her bag in the back with Sam's backpack. And then they're gone, gone, cruising southwards away from Bon Temps and vampires and everything that's happened. It's perfect, and that's even before they get to the Gulf.
She's not prepared for the crystalline water, the massive arcing expanse of sky, the soft white sand. It's the most beautiful place she's ever seen.
[AU] I Don't Wanna Know
It's an awkward morning, but she tries to force past it. It helps that she knows Sam so well, and that he's clearly relieved that she finally knows his secret. They talk for a long while over coffee as the sun rises, and he lets her ask him every question she can think of. The only one that gets him a little riled is if what he is is kind of like a werewolf, which is apparently a kind of faux pas when it comes to shifters. By the time Dean's up and Sam Winchester and his dad have pulled up, she feels a lot better about the whole thing – although she warns him, pertly, that he'll pay for all the times he licked her face or let her rub his belly.
And now that she knows his secret, she feels a little safer heading back to the bar with him – although not until she's excused herself to do the ironing. She has no idea what the conversation between Sam Merlotte and the three Winchesters might be like, which is probably just as well, but by the time she and Sam travel back to the bar in her little yellow Honda, each of the Winchesters has clean jeans, socks, and underwear and a freshly ironed shirt to wear.
They aren't setting up long before Arlene comes bustling over, Rene in tow, and starts directing them on how to hang the pretty paper lanterns, but she and Sam just exchange amused smiles and follow Arlene's orders. And the outdoor space does look real pretty when they're done, with the lanterns hanging in scalloped loops and music playing and the crawfish boil well under way by the time the first guests arrive.
And now that she knows his secret, she feels a little safer heading back to the bar with him – although not until she's excused herself to do the ironing. She has no idea what the conversation between Sam Merlotte and the three Winchesters might be like, which is probably just as well, but by the time she and Sam travel back to the bar in her little yellow Honda, each of the Winchesters has clean jeans, socks, and underwear and a freshly ironed shirt to wear.
They aren't setting up long before Arlene comes bustling over, Rene in tow, and starts directing them on how to hang the pretty paper lanterns, but she and Sam just exchange amused smiles and follow Arlene's orders. And the outdoor space does look real pretty when they're done, with the lanterns hanging in scalloped loops and music playing and the crawfish boil well under way by the time the first guests arrive.
Entry tags:
[AU] the fourth man in the fire
Dawn breaks peacefully over the Stackhouse home, and the sun rises on a far calmer day for all inside. Sookie lies curled in Sam's arms, dreaming. She'd set up the coffee the night before and left a note for whoever's first up to start the pot, so when Dean makes his yawning way downstairs, he can bring a cup back up with him to the guest room.
He isn't sharing a bed with a pretty girl this morning; instead, he takes the opportunity to lay out his kit and dismantle and clean everything that needs cleaning.
Which means he's the only one awake when the front door creeps open and a figure slips inside, before making its way into the dining room.
A few moments later, there's the sound of several items clattering down and a muffled swear following after.
He isn't sharing a bed with a pretty girl this morning; instead, he takes the opportunity to lay out his kit and dismantle and clean everything that needs cleaning.
Which means he's the only one awake when the front door creeps open and a figure slips inside, before making its way into the dining room.
A few moments later, there's the sound of several items clattering down and a muffled swear following after.
saturday night and the moon is out
Tucked away off the road in Bon Temps, there's a road house. Warm light spills from its windows, and the sound of a jukebox playing drifts out into the muggy Louisiana night. The regular assortment of trucks and Hail-Mary-please-keep-this-lemon-goin'-just-a-little-longer cars sit in the dirt parking lot; what amounts to about half the town's small population... or, at least, of those of the 'drinking age and above' persuasion.
Inside, it's a bar of the type scattered all across the American South: homey, no-nonsense. Booths and tables. A man in a plaid flannel shirt wiping the bar; a crossdresser in the kitchen singing Gospel hymns and rolling his hips in time with the words just to scandalize the prep cook. A handful of waitresses, bustling about.
Sookie makes her way briskly through it all, a tray balanced on her palm and her eyes kept stubbornly front, as voices swarm around her. Aloud, and... less so.
...I cannot wait to get the hell out of this podunk town...
Inside, it's a bar of the type scattered all across the American South: homey, no-nonsense. Booths and tables. A man in a plaid flannel shirt wiping the bar; a crossdresser in the kitchen singing Gospel hymns and rolling his hips in time with the words just to scandalize the prep cook. A handful of waitresses, bustling about.
Sookie makes her way briskly through it all, a tray balanced on her palm and her eyes kept stubbornly front, as voices swarm around her. Aloud, and... less so.
...I’m just going to have one beer tonight Jesus one beer that’s all...
...better not gripe about me eating fries not after what I did for him last night...
...I cannot wait to get the hell out of this podunk town...
"Well, make sure you do, and before it’s too late," she responds, thoughtless, to the young man. "Because every year you wait? You just get more and more stuck here. Believe me, I know."
He stares at her. So do his parents.
So does the other table. And she realizes, too little too late, that he hadn't said that out loud, not at all. She laughs, uncomfortable. "I’ll get y'all some ketchup," she says, brightly, and flees, ponytail swinging against the nape of her neck as she goes.
Stupid, Sookie, she chides herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He stares at her. So do his parents.
So does the other table. And she realizes, too little too late, that he hadn't said that out loud, not at all. She laughs, uncomfortable. "I’ll get y'all some ketchup," she says, brightly, and flees, ponytail swinging against the nape of her neck as she goes.
Stupid, Sookie, she chides herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
(no subject)
No, she'd screamed, and she'd keep screaming it, but it wouldn't change anything. Still, her voice is raw and cracking, and her chest feels like it's on fire. She's got no idea how long she stands by her car in a daze, keys dangling loosely from useless fingers, but it's long enough that people are leaving the bar and the lot is filling with headlights as she tries to come to terms with what just happened.
John's gone. He's really, truly, one hundred percent gone. She can't call him, can't find him, can't talk to him or reach for him. Gran's gone and John's gone and Bill's gone, all of them taken from her by sheer, stupid, mindless, heartless fate.
She knew he'd always have to leave. She knew that -- but she'd let herself be fooled anyway. It had been so sweet to be with him, so impossibly sweet to be in love and to have him there, loving her right back, that she'd been sure it would be worth the heartbreak. She still thinks it is -- was -- but not like this, not dragged away without even a chance to say goodbye. No more soft little confessions of love, no more laughter together and silliness. His support, his strength and confidence, snatched away without even a moment's hesitation, and she feels flattened, like a knife that's been dulled.
Eventually, she remembers that the bar is still open, that the vampires are outside, somewhere, in the night. A full moon is shining down on the parking lot, flooding it with an echo of the pale light that took John away, and all the little details of cars and gravel and branches stand out like they've been spotlit. She can't stay out here, no matter how impossible it seems to go back to work.
(How can she be expected to work when her heart's been pulled right out of her chest?)
The keys are still in her hand -- like a person in a dream, she puts them in her pocket. Numbness is seeping in again, the same sort of saving neutrality that had overwhelmed her in the days after Gran's passing, but this time she pushes at it, fights it. She doesn't want to give into it, because without John to pull her back out again, she doesn't know how she'd find her way back to the world. It hurts, though, like there's a knife stabbing into her with each step. Her legs feel as heavy as lead. He must be back by now, he must have found Doctor McKay or another scientist. At least Carson will be able to look after him, will ice his elbow and bind his wrist, but who'll be there later, in the night, when what happened here replays in his dreams? She should still be there with him -- he needs her as much as she needs him, and she does need him, needs him like she needs sleep and food and a roof over her head.
The first time she left him, she'd been breathing and surviving, but not really living. How much worse will it be now?
Inside, the bar is in chaos. Everyone's talking, but there are some who have their heads together, and they looks suspiciously at her as she comes back inside. Arlene's by the pool table, trying to coax Terry from his spot on the floor. The poor guy looks shattered, and Sookie watches, sympathetic, her heart aching, as Arlene tells him there was nothing he could have done, that there wasn't anything anyone could do.
"I'm supposed to," he says, in a choked whisper, and Sookie has to turn away, because John would say the exact same thing. John's gone, though, and she's still here, still with the shards of the night left to deal with and hope she doesn't cut herself. The anger in the room is quiet but the tension is thick, and that scares her as much as anything. This is the sort of thing that turns into a lynch mob, and the men who are blaming the vampires now won't think to separate Bill from Malcolm and the rest. They won't know or care that he went with them to save everyone in the bar -- they'll kill him just the same, if nobody stops them.
And they mean to. She overhears Roy telling his buddies that he knows where the house that Malcolm bought is, and though she tries to dissuade them, they brush her off, something almost gleefully hateful in their eyes. What's she gonna do? She tries to think, but it's like her mind's caught in mud, and she can't even strike back at them when they start mocking her for sleeping with Bill, and all her words bounce off them like so many ping-pong balls, lacking all her usual barbs, but theirs sink into the wound left by John's leaving. Contaminated.
It's like she has some kind of disease. No matter that it isn't true, no matter that Bill is only a friend and the man she loves, the man who's been sharing her bed and her life and all her joys and sorrows, is gone forever.
"Nobody cares what you think," Roy sneers at her. "Anyone who'd screw over a member of the US military for a fuckin' fanger deserves to burn right along with them. You're a goddam anti...patriot, is what you are."
She leaves them, then, turning to the bar to catch Sam's eye. He's filling in for Tara, his mouth set and his eyes hard, but they soften into confusion when he looks at her. "Sookie....?"
"We gotta do somethin'," she tells him. "These rednecks are gettin' riled up. They're talkin' about going after the vampires."
He presses his mouth into a line, but his eyes are sympathetic. "Don't know what we could do," he says, and Arlene, back from trying to calm Terry, snorts, shakes her head.
"I hope they kill 'em all."
Sookie stares at her, aghast, but Sam leans against the bar, forehead furrowing as he looks at her. "You seem awful worried. I thought you were goin' home and takin' Colonel Sheppard with you. What happened to him?"
She turns to look at him, her mouth opening, but though Arlene and Sam both watch her, no words come. They can't -- they're stuck behind a thickness in her throat, smothered by the sudden flash of pain that shoots through her.
"He left," she says, short, and turns to get back to work.
The rest of that night is awful. As soon as she gets the chance, she ducks into the back room and dials Bill's number, presses the phone to her ear and prays he'll answer, letting out a noise of frustration when his voicemail picks up instead. "Bill, you have to leave, now," she says, and hangs up only to stare at the dim screen that says he isn't calling her back.
Not Bill, too. She can't lose Gran and John and Bill, too, it's too much, but he doesn't call and doesn't call, and when she goes to his house, he isn't there, not anywhere that she can find.
She stays there all night, sleeping on Bill's couch once exhaustion overcomes her broken heart and her worried mind. She can't face going home, can't face the bed they slept in together, the sheets that will smell like him, the borrowed guitar sitting in the living room. John's ghost haunts her house as surely as Gran's does, now, and she can't stand the thought of being alone there, not yet, so she doesn't even stop by the empty place, sleeps in fits in Bill's living room until she wakes up to the sound of sirens.
Sirens.
Adrenaline pushes her up and out into the brilliant sunshine, and she runs to the car to follow the noise, finally pulling up at a house about four miles from Merlotte's, where the air is rank with thick black smoke and she coughs at the smell of sulfur and burnt flesh. In a panic, she runs towards the house, where Mike is pulling out scorched coffins, but Andy Bellefleur stops her, tells her they found four bodies -- or what's left of them. "<i>Four?</i>" she says, feeling faint, and runs past him to see, not caring that he tries to stop her, but what she finds at the top of the driveway almost makes her retch. The coffin is full of bubbling, bloody, melted flesh. There's nothing left that's even remotely recognizable. She stares at it, and the world tips sickeningly around her, and then she's off and running back to the car, gravel scattering beneath her sneakers and her tires as she drives for home like she thinks John will be there, like she thinks Bill or Gran will be there.
The kitchen is light and bright and empty, and she falls into a chair, taking out her phone to dial Bill's number...but it goes straight to voicemail, and she closes it again with a sensation of absolute hopelessness. That's when she looks around, really feels how quiet the house is, how empty. She's gotten used to John being here -- but John's gone. He's gone, and, trying to stop tears from pricking at her eyes, she looks back at the door she'd left open, only to see the mud she'd tracked in.
Well, great. She gets up to fill a bucket and gets down on her hands and knees to scrub the floor clean, but the mud keeps flashing red in her eyes, and the water looks like it's filling with blood: she pauses, only to be assaulted by such a strong memory of Gran lying there that she thinks she could reach out one shaking hand and touch her cold one, only for it to flash away again into the muddy smear left from her attempts to clean. "<i>Shit!</i>" she swears, throwing the brush -- it bounces off the cupboard and clatters across the floor, but though she wants to just lie down there on the tile and give up, she doesn't.
Who else will clean it up? And when the floor is clean, she notices that the counters are looking a little dingy, that the fridge should be cleared out. Cleaning is good, it gives her control, takes her mind off the fact that John is gone and she won't know what happened to Bill until sunset.
(Summer days are so long.)
So, she spends the day cleaning. She scrubs and waxes the floor, washes the drapes, disinfects the bathrooms. John's aftershave and razor are sitting on the sink -- she puts them in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and shuts them away. The only rooms she doesn't touch are the attic room and her own. His things are still upstairs, but she can't bear to look at them, so she cleans instead. She's head and shoulders inside the oven, a mask over her nose and mouth, when she feels a hand on her shoulder pulling her out. For a half a wild heartbeat, she thinks John!, but it isn't John, it's Tara, and the disappointment is more than she can take. She's not even sure how she ends up yelling at Tara, but there it is, her voice rough and raw. "Do you have any idea what I've been through today? A friend would ask!"
"Don't tell me how to be your friend," Tara tells her, affronted. "I'm the only one you got, goddamn it!"
"Lord's name in vain," she whispers to the floor, but Tara's having none of it, and her voice raises as she swears at Sookie, snapping her last vestige of self control. "Get out of my house!" she screams. "I've gotten very good at losing people lately, and you are only making it easier for me!"
"Bitch, I don't even wanna be here! If you are hell-bent on bein' alone in this world, I ain't gonna stop you!" Tara leaves with a slam of the door, leaving Sookie alone and shaking with reaction, a sponge clutched and crushed in one trembling hand. Losing people. Being alone in the world. She wasn't alone with John, he was always, always there for her, but John's gone. Maybe it's better this way, to drive people off before they can leave. Maybe he was right about avoiding hurt before it comes. She'll never know, because she fell in love with him without ever looking back, and then she lost him and her whole life is shattering into fragile shards around her because nothing in this world makes sense anymore. Gran murdered, Bill murdered, Jason blaming her, John gone...
Her jaw tightens so hard she's afraid for a moment that something there is going to snap, but it doesn't, so she turns back to the stove, tries to slam it closed, but it takes a few tries before the door finally sticks and she can run her hands up over her hair, like that could stop her headache, like that could make her forget.
By the time darkness falls, the house is pristine. Outside, the muggy day has dissolved into thunder and lightning and rain, and she can't help but think of lying in bed with John, listening to the rain fall on the tin roof. If he were here, they'd curl up together on the loveseat out on the porch, would watch the lightning flash and laugh at the way the thunder rumbles. She misses him so much it's like she can't even breathe, and the cooler air doesn't help.
All she wants is to see him again, to see his face, touch his hand, press herself up close to his chest. Her heart is limping in her chest, fluttering like a wounded bird, broken, she suspects, beyond repair. She'd imagined that they had some kind of life together, that they had some kind of future, but that bright hope has been trampled on today, and she doesn't even know where to begin putting herself back together.
It rains for ages. She sits on the porch, watching the drops pour down, before heading inside. There are fresh flowers on the kitchen table: she takes a few of them out, finds a candle and lights it, setting it by the front window. It's a signal, of a sort: for John, for Bill. Keep the porchlight burning, says Gran's voice in her head, but will anyone come to the light she leaves for them?
Once the first downpour is over, she takes her few flowers and walks out into the darkness, mud and grass cool against her bare feet. Bill's plot in the cemetery isn't far, and she finds it easily enough, kneels there to clear the stone and lay her flowers down. Tears mix with raindrops on her face. It's well past sunset -- if Bill were all right, he'd have come by now. He's gone, too, just like John, just like Gran, so she lets herself weep, for him and for herself, for the life and love she'd wished and hoped for so much, but tears don't stop the smothering misery inside or calm the ache there. How could they? Her heart is gone, lost to another universe. She'd loved John with her whole soul, and now he's gone, and he's taken the things she needs to work with him.
She's feeling as dull as ever when she stands to go home, but adrenaline surges through her system when something bursts through the ground and grabs at her foot: she trips, falls screaming and kicking as the thing wriggles up from a grave to pull at her. She screams again, fights to get away, but the thing grabs at her with dirt on its hands, and rasps out her name in a familiar voice, making her stop, stunned.
"Bill?"
"Please," he says, and she scrambles to sit up, watching him with wide eyes: he looks terrible, he looks sick, and she swallows, hard.
"What --"
"There's no time," he tells her, voice rough. "Sookie, please. I need to -- I must feed, or I will surely perish. Please. If you ever felt anything for me, I -- I need your help."
John would never forgive her. John would see it as the ultimate betrayal, proof that she hadn't learned anything. John would tell her no, and get between her and Bill.
But John is gone, and he isn't coming back, and if she doesn't do this, she'll lose Bill, too. She can't let that happen. She hesitates, then offers out her wrist, slowly, unsure -- but when Bill moves, it's fast as a snake and the pain is quick, making her gasp before it melts away into something very like pleasure. It hurts, but it feels good, too, like all of the horrible things that have been pent up in her are flowing out of the wounds and into him.
Afterward, they sit in the living room while she binds her wrist as Bill looks on, apologetic. "My blood could heal that for you," he offers, but she shakes her head.
"No. Thanks, but I don't think I mind havin' a few hurts on the outside, for a change."
He watches her in the dim light of that flickering candle: she hadn't bothered to turn on lights. "You're hurting."
She sits back, curls her legs up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes on the candleflame. The porchlight is burning, but who will come back? "John's gone," she says, finally, and he says nothing at all for a long while.
She's not sure why it all comes out, eventually, but it does, like letting him have her blood also means he's become her confidante, but over the course of the night she spills all of her hurts and fears and pain to him: the way losing John makes her feel like she's lost a lung or an arm, the emptiness of the house without him and Gran, how much she loved him, how angry she is at everyone for no good reason, except Jason, because he hit her and because of Uncle Bartlett and because he's too damn dumb for his own good. Bill tenses, momentarily, but he says nothing, so she just continues, spilling out everything that's been weighing on her heart and mind. His cold hand strokes her hair, his shoulder is under her head, but he does nothing except listen as the words come tumbling out. "I don't know what to do without him," she says, and then she's crying into his shirt and he's got an arm around her. It's not like sitting with John, she doesn't feel whole, but at least she feels safe, for now, though eventually she has to leave him and go upstairs to the quiet bedroom, while he promises to stay until dawn.
Her room. She's been sharing it with John since the day of the funeral, and the marks he'd left behind are subtle, but there: a t-shirt in her laundry basket, an indentation in the pillow. She sits on the mattress after slipping on a tee of her own to sleep in, runs her fingers lightly over his pillow before sliding under the sheets and pulling the pillow into her arms, closing her eyes and breathing deep. It smells like him, and for a long moment, she can almost believe he's still here, if not for the tears that keep coming and the sobs that pull at her throat and chest. She curls into the pillow as if it were his chest, imagining his arms around her, holds it tight, breathes it in, the scent comforting and aching at the same time.
It's not him. It will never be him, she'll never hold him like this again or wake up to him or laugh with him or tell him how much she loves him or hear his silent voice in her head when he responds. I love you, she thinks, with all her might, as if that thought might slip through the cracks in the universe and reach him, and she's still thinking in when weariness and exhaustion takes over and she falls into fitful sleep as dawn creeps over the edges of the trees.
He is not absent from a single one of her dreams.
(no subject)
It's Sam who asks her to go to the DGD meeting.
Well. He doesn't ask her, ask her. It isn't a date by any stretch of the imagination, just a way for her to get to the meeting. Gran's getting a ride with the DGD carpool, and Sookie hadn't been looking forward to being pressed into service, but Sam had, thankfully, stepped forward.
"Guess Colonel Sheppard ain't gonna make it back in time for the meetin' tonight," he'd said, casually, at work, and she'd looked up at him with wary surprise. Sam's stayed mostly off the topic of John ever since he'd left on Monday, and it's odd to hear him bring it up.
"Looks that way," she agrees, wondering where this is going.
He flashes her a smile, that cute little smile of his that makes his eyes look all expectant and happy and full of blue warmth. "In that case, you're gonna need another escort. How 'bout me?"
She blinks at him for a second, a surprised, embarrassed smile pulling at her mouth before she even really registers that it's there. "Go together?"
"Yeah," he says, leaning on the bar. "I hear people do that, sometimes. Go places together. Maybe even talk, a little bit."
People are glancing their way, and Sookie can feel their curiosity, but Sam's easy-going invitation is sweet and his teasing is gentle, so she agrees. Besides, she does need a ride, and Sam is good company. John's amused when she calls him to tell him, his voice on speakerphone so she can talk to him while she gets ready. She picks out a pretty little floral dress, and rolls her hair up in rollers to give it a little curl, spritzes on her perfume. He can't talk for long, so she hangs up after the usual exchange of all the things they want to say that have to be boiled down to three words -- I love you. I miss you -- and sits for a while in front of her mirror, concentrating on her makeup while Tina purrs on her bed.
At least John hasn't been sent back. She imagines that's got to be frustrating for him, but really he sounds pleased to be working with Major Carter and a version of Doctor McKay, though she has to laugh at the way he complains about this version of the scientist.
Apparently Doctor McKay doesn't change all that much, in his various incarnations.
She's even starting to think that he might be able to come back soon, at least to check in. After all, they don't need him there the whole time, do they? Shouldn't they come out here and run some tests on that spot in the parking lot, see if they can find anything? Still, it's probably just as well that he isn't here tonight. She'd so much rather be going with him, but considering the way things lie between Bill and John, it's probably for the best.
Not that she's all that sure of what's between her and Bill, at the moment.
Sam's right on time, looking dapper in a nice striped shirt that brings out the blue of his eyes, and he smiles when he sees her. "You look great," he tells her, and she smiles, flattered, feeling really good for the first time since John left. Maybe things will turn out all right after all. She'll be able to talk to John again tonight, and Gran's big evening will go great, and she'll have a nice time with Sam.
Things are looking up.
Her mood stays uplifted through the drive: Sam plays low music on the Bronco's radio, but mostly they talk, and it's so nice that Sookie finds herself relaxing into smiles, even laughter. Sam's good company, especially when he's in a good mood like he is tonight, and sometimes she forgets that he's really sort of fun to spend time with. It's hard to remember, sometimes, when he's her boss and they have frustration- and exhaustion-fueled spats at work, but most of the time, they really do get along great, and he's such a good friend.
She really ought to remember that.
Still, even with Sam, and even with Gran there to hug and congratulate, Sookie finds tension building slowly up her spine. Sam glances over at her as they sit down near a strangely reticent Tara, and she gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, but he just breathes out a ghost of a laugh. "It's okay to relax, you know," he tells her, and she smiles again, a little confused this time.
"I thought I was."
"I don't think you know how," he says, and her smile turns more confused, with her eyebrows drawing together, but he doesn't clarify, just settles a little more comfortably next to her. People pack in, making the church uncomfortably hot: she's sweltering in her light dress and Sam must be just about dead in his jeans, but he doesn't give any sign of discomfort. It seems like most of the town is here, dressed in their Sunday best, with Gran fluttering between folks, greeting them and handing them programs. Just about everyone is here to listen to Bill speak. She wonders if that's a good sign or a bad one, if people are really curious or if they're just looking for ammunition. Roy and his buddies, down in the middle of the rows, are whispering and giggling to each other, and she turns around to glare at them, but then Gran steps up to the podium and addresses them all. Her voice is clear, if a little quavery, and she introduces Bill with the same sort of graciousness Sookie's always seen from her.
If she can be anything like Gran one day, she'll count herself lucky. Gran glances her way, and Sookie gives her a smile, encouraging, until her attention is drawn back to the podium. Everyone's is, really, because Bill's come out, and for once, all the people in the town are allowed to stare just as much as they like.
He looks well, wearing a tailored, classically handsome suit, his dark hair neat and his eyes very blue in his pale face. He smiles, charms everyone by returning Old Glory to its rightful place on the flagpole. Sookie can hear Sam shift next to her, but all her focus is on Bill, who had been her friend, who she misses, really, if she lets herself think about it. She wonders how he's been this last week, if he's still angry with her or not.
It really is a good thing John isn't here for this, she thinks.
Bill's talk isn't long, but it's detailed and interesting. More than that, it's personal: he brings each and every one of them into his memories from the war. She can't help but soften towards him when he tells them about the hardships of being a soldier back then, and she flinches when he tells about the boy crying in the field, wounded and frantic with pain. It makes her think of John, the terrible things he's seen and had to do, the wounds he's taken and inflicted, the murky visions she's seen from his dreams when he wakes her in the middle of the night tossing and turning. She wonders if Bill still gets nightmares.
And his talk is effective. Everyone is silent, rapt. Terry Bellefleur is sobbing a few rows away. Jason's nearby, looking dazed and entranced, which is as surprising as anything. Even she finds herself pitying Bill, sympathizing with him. The last thing any of them expected was for him to be confronted with a photo of the family he'd lost so long ago, and she doesn't think that the shock and pain on his face are an act. It's too real, too close, too unexpected, and her heart goes out to him. What must it have been like, being forced to leave his wife and children behind, knowing he'd stay forever young and strong while they grew old, got sick, died?
Did he ever see them again after he changed?
That's the end of the talk, because though Bill tries to hide it, he's rattled and emotional, and there are no more questions for him. Still, after he leaves the stage to scattered applause, people sit for a moment, trying to absorb everything they've heard and seen, and Sam has to tap Sookie on the shoulder before she lifts from her reverie.
"What?' she says, and smiles at him to cover her confusion. "Did you say somethin', Sam?"
He jerks his head towards the crowd of people. "I said, how about a cup of coffee before I take you home? Your Gran's gonna be busy with this bunch for a long while yet."
"Well..." She glances at her watch. A few more hours until John usually calls her -- what harm could it do? "All right," she agrees, peaceably, and she's glad she said yes, because Sam's illuminating smile is worth it. She can't figure out why Tara seems so annoyed, though. "Let me just tell Gran, okay?"
"Sure," he says, and walks with her over to where Gran and Bill are standing. Gran looks triumphant, her cheeks pink with pleasure, and she laughs as Sookie hugs her tight. Her arms go around her granddaughter, and they sway for a moment, thrilled with the evening's success. Even Bill right there can't damped Sookie's spirits, though his smiles seem a little forced. She congratulates him, though, because he deserves it: with any luck, a few more people at least will consider him a little more likable, if not actually a friend.
"Gran, we're gonna go get a cup of coffee," she says. "Are you gonna be okay gettin' home?"
She feels a little guilty leaving all of this when Gran's worked so hard on it, but it's a big group of people and that's never been something she's enjoyed being around if it isn't for work. Gran, though, just smiles and nods and pats her cheek affectionately. "You go on, then," she says, beaming. "I have a ride with the other ladies of the club. Oh, we'll be here for a while, patting ourselves on the back! I'll see you at home, honey."
"See you at home," Sookie echoes, and gives Gran a kiss on the cheek and another squeeze of congratulations before Sam offers his arm and they thread their way through the crowd and out into the brilliant summer night.
Well. He doesn't ask her, ask her. It isn't a date by any stretch of the imagination, just a way for her to get to the meeting. Gran's getting a ride with the DGD carpool, and Sookie hadn't been looking forward to being pressed into service, but Sam had, thankfully, stepped forward.
"Guess Colonel Sheppard ain't gonna make it back in time for the meetin' tonight," he'd said, casually, at work, and she'd looked up at him with wary surprise. Sam's stayed mostly off the topic of John ever since he'd left on Monday, and it's odd to hear him bring it up.
"Looks that way," she agrees, wondering where this is going.
He flashes her a smile, that cute little smile of his that makes his eyes look all expectant and happy and full of blue warmth. "In that case, you're gonna need another escort. How 'bout me?"
She blinks at him for a second, a surprised, embarrassed smile pulling at her mouth before she even really registers that it's there. "Go together?"
"Yeah," he says, leaning on the bar. "I hear people do that, sometimes. Go places together. Maybe even talk, a little bit."
People are glancing their way, and Sookie can feel their curiosity, but Sam's easy-going invitation is sweet and his teasing is gentle, so she agrees. Besides, she does need a ride, and Sam is good company. John's amused when she calls him to tell him, his voice on speakerphone so she can talk to him while she gets ready. She picks out a pretty little floral dress, and rolls her hair up in rollers to give it a little curl, spritzes on her perfume. He can't talk for long, so she hangs up after the usual exchange of all the things they want to say that have to be boiled down to three words -- I love you. I miss you -- and sits for a while in front of her mirror, concentrating on her makeup while Tina purrs on her bed.
At least John hasn't been sent back. She imagines that's got to be frustrating for him, but really he sounds pleased to be working with Major Carter and a version of Doctor McKay, though she has to laugh at the way he complains about this version of the scientist.
Apparently Doctor McKay doesn't change all that much, in his various incarnations.
She's even starting to think that he might be able to come back soon, at least to check in. After all, they don't need him there the whole time, do they? Shouldn't they come out here and run some tests on that spot in the parking lot, see if they can find anything? Still, it's probably just as well that he isn't here tonight. She'd so much rather be going with him, but considering the way things lie between Bill and John, it's probably for the best.
Not that she's all that sure of what's between her and Bill, at the moment.
Sam's right on time, looking dapper in a nice striped shirt that brings out the blue of his eyes, and he smiles when he sees her. "You look great," he tells her, and she smiles, flattered, feeling really good for the first time since John left. Maybe things will turn out all right after all. She'll be able to talk to John again tonight, and Gran's big evening will go great, and she'll have a nice time with Sam.
Things are looking up.
Her mood stays uplifted through the drive: Sam plays low music on the Bronco's radio, but mostly they talk, and it's so nice that Sookie finds herself relaxing into smiles, even laughter. Sam's good company, especially when he's in a good mood like he is tonight, and sometimes she forgets that he's really sort of fun to spend time with. It's hard to remember, sometimes, when he's her boss and they have frustration- and exhaustion-fueled spats at work, but most of the time, they really do get along great, and he's such a good friend.
She really ought to remember that.
Still, even with Sam, and even with Gran there to hug and congratulate, Sookie finds tension building slowly up her spine. Sam glances over at her as they sit down near a strangely reticent Tara, and she gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, but he just breathes out a ghost of a laugh. "It's okay to relax, you know," he tells her, and she smiles again, a little confused this time.
"I thought I was."
"I don't think you know how," he says, and her smile turns more confused, with her eyebrows drawing together, but he doesn't clarify, just settles a little more comfortably next to her. People pack in, making the church uncomfortably hot: she's sweltering in her light dress and Sam must be just about dead in his jeans, but he doesn't give any sign of discomfort. It seems like most of the town is here, dressed in their Sunday best, with Gran fluttering between folks, greeting them and handing them programs. Just about everyone is here to listen to Bill speak. She wonders if that's a good sign or a bad one, if people are really curious or if they're just looking for ammunition. Roy and his buddies, down in the middle of the rows, are whispering and giggling to each other, and she turns around to glare at them, but then Gran steps up to the podium and addresses them all. Her voice is clear, if a little quavery, and she introduces Bill with the same sort of graciousness Sookie's always seen from her.
If she can be anything like Gran one day, she'll count herself lucky. Gran glances her way, and Sookie gives her a smile, encouraging, until her attention is drawn back to the podium. Everyone's is, really, because Bill's come out, and for once, all the people in the town are allowed to stare just as much as they like.
He looks well, wearing a tailored, classically handsome suit, his dark hair neat and his eyes very blue in his pale face. He smiles, charms everyone by returning Old Glory to its rightful place on the flagpole. Sookie can hear Sam shift next to her, but all her focus is on Bill, who had been her friend, who she misses, really, if she lets herself think about it. She wonders how he's been this last week, if he's still angry with her or not.
It really is a good thing John isn't here for this, she thinks.
Bill's talk isn't long, but it's detailed and interesting. More than that, it's personal: he brings each and every one of them into his memories from the war. She can't help but soften towards him when he tells them about the hardships of being a soldier back then, and she flinches when he tells about the boy crying in the field, wounded and frantic with pain. It makes her think of John, the terrible things he's seen and had to do, the wounds he's taken and inflicted, the murky visions she's seen from his dreams when he wakes her in the middle of the night tossing and turning. She wonders if Bill still gets nightmares.
And his talk is effective. Everyone is silent, rapt. Terry Bellefleur is sobbing a few rows away. Jason's nearby, looking dazed and entranced, which is as surprising as anything. Even she finds herself pitying Bill, sympathizing with him. The last thing any of them expected was for him to be confronted with a photo of the family he'd lost so long ago, and she doesn't think that the shock and pain on his face are an act. It's too real, too close, too unexpected, and her heart goes out to him. What must it have been like, being forced to leave his wife and children behind, knowing he'd stay forever young and strong while they grew old, got sick, died?
Did he ever see them again after he changed?
That's the end of the talk, because though Bill tries to hide it, he's rattled and emotional, and there are no more questions for him. Still, after he leaves the stage to scattered applause, people sit for a moment, trying to absorb everything they've heard and seen, and Sam has to tap Sookie on the shoulder before she lifts from her reverie.
"What?' she says, and smiles at him to cover her confusion. "Did you say somethin', Sam?"
He jerks his head towards the crowd of people. "I said, how about a cup of coffee before I take you home? Your Gran's gonna be busy with this bunch for a long while yet."
"Well..." She glances at her watch. A few more hours until John usually calls her -- what harm could it do? "All right," she agrees, peaceably, and she's glad she said yes, because Sam's illuminating smile is worth it. She can't figure out why Tara seems so annoyed, though. "Let me just tell Gran, okay?"
"Sure," he says, and walks with her over to where Gran and Bill are standing. Gran looks triumphant, her cheeks pink with pleasure, and she laughs as Sookie hugs her tight. Her arms go around her granddaughter, and they sway for a moment, thrilled with the evening's success. Even Bill right there can't damped Sookie's spirits, though his smiles seem a little forced. She congratulates him, though, because he deserves it: with any luck, a few more people at least will consider him a little more likable, if not actually a friend.
"Gran, we're gonna go get a cup of coffee," she says. "Are you gonna be okay gettin' home?"
She feels a little guilty leaving all of this when Gran's worked so hard on it, but it's a big group of people and that's never been something she's enjoyed being around if it isn't for work. Gran, though, just smiles and nods and pats her cheek affectionately. "You go on, then," she says, beaming. "I have a ride with the other ladies of the club. Oh, we'll be here for a while, patting ourselves on the back! I'll see you at home, honey."
"See you at home," Sookie echoes, and gives Gran a kiss on the cheek and another squeeze of congratulations before Sam offers his arm and they thread their way through the crowd and out into the brilliant summer night.
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"I was just tellin' your friend here that shirt looks awfully familiar."
"Really?" Sookie's eyes are wide and innocent, and her voice is sweet as sugar plums, expression like peaches and cream. "Could be you've seen it on your floor a coupla times."
Dawn's eyes glitter, but all she does is tip her head to the side, smiling back, like she's trying not to laugh. "Oh, that's right! No wonder I didn't recognize it right away. I guess I'd have to see it there again to make sure."
"Really?" Sookie's eyes are wide and innocent, and her voice is sweet as sugar plums, expression like peaches and cream. "Could be you've seen it on your floor a coupla times."
Dawn's eyes glitter, but all she does is tip her head to the side, smiling back, like she's trying not to laugh. "Oh, that's right! No wonder I didn't recognize it right away. I guess I'd have to see it there again to make sure."
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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.
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.
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It's as if her daily routine is stamped in rubber. Try as she might to hold onto that strange starlit other place and the time she spent with John there, the form of her life slips back to normal -- or what passes as normal, these days -- in almost no time at all.
Partly her schedule is to blame: Merlotte's is threatening to overrun her with responsibilites and there just isn't time to moon over lost possibilities when she's trying to balance Bill's displeasure, her tables and half of Dawn's, Andy Bellefleur's suspicions, and the alarming statement he makes about Tara and Jason sneaking around with a secret romance of their own. In her confusion, she can't cover the way she ought to, and she catches the smugly triumphant thoughts that Andy crows to himself and loses her temper. Again.
Sam's been watching her, those ocean-colored eyes of his tracking her movements as they get more and more erratic despite all her attempts to keep only her thoughts inside her own head, and she's concerned he's going to pull her aside again when he out of the blue asks her to the DGD meeting instead, a move so unexpected and unprecedented she is actually speechless for a full ten seconds after the words come out of his mouth.
It starts out innocently enough as she stands on one side of the bar and he stacks glasses on the other, sneaking looks up at her from underneath his eyebrows. Arlene's off somewhere spreading the news that Sookie won't be going out with Bill again and she's just about regretting telling her anything when Sam comes over from where he's been checking the taps. "You, uh," he starts, and licks his lip thoughtfully as she glances up at him, curious. "You hear from that, um, guy of yours, again?"
Her eyebrows climb so far she thinks they must be disappearing into her hairline, but she keeps filling the ketchup bottles in front of her, concentrating on not spilling any. "It's only been a coupla days, Sam," is what she says, as easily as possible, trying not to think about how impossible it might be to ever get back to that place, how she can't just pick up a phone and call him, how much she wants to talk to him. It aches. "And he's not exactly mine."
"Oh. That's, uh, too bad." He fidgets a little, wiping the counter, and though the words and his voice are sympathetic she could swear he looks pleased, his mouth moving into a handsome little smile that she normally finds cute as a button but which rubs her the wrong way just now. "I hope you aren't too flipped out to miss the Descendants of the Glorious Dead tonight."
"Nope." She flicks a look at him through her eyelashes, wonders just why he's looking so shifty all of a sudden. "I gotta go, Gran's spent all week on it."
"Good, cause I was gonna ask if you wanted to go with me." When she looks up at him, bottle suspended and eyes widening, she sees the shy little smile tucking into the corner of his mouth, the way he looks at her with undisguised hope. Where did this come from? Why is he all of a sudden putting his heart on his sleeve and giving her that disarming smile, that expectant look? Incredibly, he continues. "Thought maybe we could go grab a cup of coffee or something after."
"Sam Merlotte," she says, finally, at a complete loss. "Are you askin' me out?"
"Yeah," he says, and wets his lip again as if he's nervous. "That's pretty much how I do it. Sometimes they even say yes."
All around them the bar has grown utterly still: her face heats as she glances around, feeling cornered and unpleasantly surprised before leaning towards him, something tightening in her jaw. "Everyone's lookin' at us."
'"I know," he says, a breathless little laugh in his voice. He leans closer, but where she'd just been trying to keep her voice low, he seems to be giving into some long-restrained momentum, meeting her eyes levelly with his own shining bright and patient. He's always so patient, Sam, and she swallows, trying to smooth out the frown that threatens to wrinkle her forehead. "You better say yes."
This isn't fair, it isn't what she wanted at all; she feels blindsided and backed against a wall and no matter how much she likes Sam -- and she does, he's cute and solid as a rock and he's never been anything but good to her -- he's Sam and not John, and she feels bad for drawing that distinction but can't help herself. Part of it is a flare of annoyance at his timing -- why the heck would he wait so long, just long enough to make it impossible, to make some kind of move? She can't pretend she's never thought about Sam in that way before, but before is the applicable word there and things have changed so irrevocably it's hard to remember that even just a few weeks ago she would have been flattered by this exact scenario. Still, it's hardly Sam's fault that he's not tall and dry-witted with irrepressible brown hair and clear hazel eyes; neither is it his fault she found herself in a party somewhere impossible and leaned over to introduce herself to her neighbor because he looked so tired and blue; it's not his fault she'd gotten caught up in John's smile, lost her head and gone tipping straight into infatuation somewhere over iced tea or in that moon-drenched garden. It's not his fault she can't drum up the enthusiasm he deserves.
But maybe it's better like this: instead of always wondering if the next turn in the corridor is going to take her back to that strange place and -- maybe, only maybe -- to John, maybe it's better to just accept the impossibility of it, to concentrate on and enjoy the man standing in front of her instead of the one who only exists in her memory and in some far-off, unreachable place. That would be the sensible thing to do: it's only been a few days but it might as well be weeks if she has no idea when she might be able to find her way back, and Sam is -- Sam is -- well, he isn't John, she doesn't get that electric spark when their eyes meet and she doesn't feel the need to touch him because she might spin right off the planet if she doesn't, but he's kind, and he's generous, and he cares about her.
No matter what she feels or thinks, though, there's only one thing to do with him waiting so expectantly and the whole room staring her down, so she tries a smile and shrugs as if this is anything but unusual for her. "Shoot. Why not?"
Just saying the words feels like a betrayal to John; they stick like peanut butter in her mouth and sink in her stomach, and she has to glance away again, no longer able to look at how lit up and satisfied Sam is without wanting to tell him she's changed her mind.
"Good," he says, and breathes out like a weight's been lifted, then shoots a glare around the bar. "Eyes back on your food, people."
That's when she goes to take Andy's order, and in her fluster can't quite keep her walls up, is surprised when he tells her about Jason and Tara and has to flee with his half-full sweet tea like she's about to fall apart, pulled at from all directions, a kite that's been cut loose and is now being tossed and tangled in a violent wind.
The truth is that she never will be able to go with John to a DGD meeting, she'll never sit him in a booth and tell him to wait until she's off work, she'll never be able to introduce him to Gran or show him off to Tara. She can't even prove he exists at all, except by the tie clip that was tangled in her curls and which could have belonged to anybody. If she's ostracized for dating a vampire, what new humiliation will she endure if she insists on her connection to a man no one's ever met or will ever see? Don't people already think she's crazy enough? She's half-convinced Tara and Sam think she's making him up, out of what desperate fantasy she's not sure, but it stings. She can't answer their questions with anything but evasive half-truths, and after all: a man who accepts her and thinks her disability isn't anything to be afraid of? Even to her it sounds ludicrous.
One thing at a time: she can't worry about impossible parties and gardens and Air Force pilots with absurd hair and charming smiles when Andy's words burn in her ears; she asks Sam where Tara is and heads off almost before he's finished telling her.
Tara's in the ladies' room, and Sookie, her mind whirling, filled with longing and embarrassment and some indirect anger that she can't control, gets up in her face with almost no warning, only to be startled when Tara confronts her about her date with Sam: she had no idea Arlene could work so fast though in retrospect she shouldn't be so surprised. "Why shouldn't I?" she says, temper rising, feeling like she has to justify her agreeing to go out with Sam but not knowing if she's really talking to Tara or to herself. "He's perfectly nice, he's got a good job...and he's not a vampire, and...why do I have to justify this to you?"
Tara's taken aback, and she ought to know that means something, but she's too frustrated to care.
"I'm entitled to know what my girl's up to, ain't I? And I thought you were seein' someone else anyhow."
She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek at that, and shakes her head, shaking off everything that comes surging up and allowing herself to only concentrate on Tara's defensiveness. "Yeah, about that." The door closes behind her like a sentence ending.
It turns out Tara's just trying to give Jason an alibi, and that sparks a fury Sookie hadn't even realized she was capable of. Jason doesn't need an alibi, Jason didn't kill anybody, and she's so sick and tired of being attacked and her brother being accused that her temper flares before she can control it and she tries to find her way into Tara's mind without bothering to consider if she's welcome there, only to be shunted aside by a determined humming. "What are you doin'?" It bursts out of her in an angry flash, and Tara, hackles raised, flashes right back.
"Not every little detail of everyone's personal life is your business, okay?"
When she pushes by and slams the door open, Sookie doesn't stop her. It's a full minute before she's controlled her defenses enough to go back out.
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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.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
It's well after noon when she wakes up, curled on her little white bed in a wrinkled dress and feeling as if she's moving through syrup. Her hair is tangled and her eyes are red and bleary from exhaustion and the few tears that managed to squeeze their way out; she sits up and brushes ineffectually at her skirt, runs her fingers through her hair but is stopped by something cool and with the slight slippery give of thin metal, stuck in her curls. It takes a little doing to untangle it, but when she does she turns it over and over, uncertain of anything except that she's seen this before, it was pinning John's tie to his shirt when she first saw him at that party. It's proof positive that the encounter was real, and the thought is so relieving and so full of disappointment that she doesn't know whether to smile or cry: in the end she puts the pin gently on her vanity and heads to the bathroom to take a shower and clear her head.
When she comes downstairs tying her hair into braids, the windows are full of golden late afternoon light: it pools on the stairs and the old carpets in honey-colored swathes. Gran's starting dinner, and the clang of pots and pans punctuates the music from their old radio, crackling lightly with static.
She looks up, pan in hand, as Sookie walks in, and her face falls. "Why, I thought you were off tonight, Sookie. I was going to make chicken-fried steak: that's your favorite."
"Not tonight. I'm goin' in to help out, considering how short we are and all." Sookie sits at the table, tying off one plait. Her mind is still full of that strange other place; even a long hot shower didn't wash away the memory of John's hands on her skin, his arms wrapped around her so tight it was hard to breathe.
"Sookie?"
She starts; blushes and then wishes she hadn't. Gran sits at the table, the pan forgotten. Behind her the old wall clock ticks low and familiar and comforting. "Is everything all right?"
"Fine," she says, smiling, and reaches out to take Gran's hand in hers, smoothing over her soft, wrinkled skin. "Gran, I...met somebody. I don't know how to explain it, but I feel all lit up and happy, and I want to cry all at the same time."
"Someone other than Mr. Compton?"
"Oh, Bill." She can't help rolling her eyes. "Yes. But I don't know if I'm ever going to see him again."
"Well." One of the many things Sookie loves about Gran is how she takes her time, picks words with care: an old-fashioned grace that's so far out of trend the world will probably never see it again (except from the vampires, who, when they have manners, seem to gravitate towards Victorianism, no matter what Bill might say). "Why do you say that, honey?"
It's impossible to explain, and no explanations mean Gran can't give her the kind of sympathetic ear she needs right now, so she just forces a smile and tugs a braid into place. "It's just a feeling. Gran, I have to go. I called Sam and he's expecting me." At the door, she hesitates, hand on the frame, looking back.
"I'll be back kinda late."
"I won't wait up," says Gran, and they both smile, knowing that she's going to anyway.
___
The evening crowd at Merlotte's is subdued, quieter even than the usual mid-week regulars, but Sookie's struck by a deep sense of unease and mistrust as she moves about, tray in hand, motions coming automatically, the efficiency of muscle memory sending her from back room to prep counter to kitchen to dining room, where she arrives without knowing how she got there. It's almost strange to see the same familiar faces, to watch Sam wiping glasses behind the bar, hear Lafayette's singing echoing gently in the hall by the kitchen. Arlene is cranky and Sookie wants to hug her for it; Hoyt Fortenberry sits by the bar looking too big to be allowed. His thoughts about Dawn are so sad and sweet that Sookie has to stop and give him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek: out of the cacophony she can hear, only Hoyt seems to miss Dawn just because she was pretty and was nice to him. The flurry of thoughts and laughter and talk and the continually cranking of country songs from their light-up jukebox are just as distracting as she could hope: it's hard to concentrate on the dull pang of disappointment that's taken up residence at her solar plexus when there's so much else to try and ignore.
During a lull in the evening she leans one hip against the bar, absently loading her tray with ketchup bottles, and tries to picture John coming through the door. He'd sit there, she thinks: a booth near a window, but he'd take the opposite seat, the one with the good view of the room and the gentle glimmer of glasses at the bar. She can just about see him there, leaning with one elbow on the table, smiling that crooked smile that lights up his whole face. She loses herself in a brief daydream: she'd take a beer and a frosted glass over just like he was any other customer, go about her rounds pretending like she doesn't notice he's there, seeing how long she can keep her eyes from moving over to him. She'd win a little every time she gave in.
Tara, behind the bar, is giving her a furrowed look, the rag in her hand tossing and flipping as she cleans a glass. "Look at you," she says, sauntering over as Sookie takes a deep breath, waking from her little reverie.
"What?" She's painfully aware of the smile that's found it's way to her mouth without her notice, but tries to direct it down towards the tray.
Tara sucks at her teeth, cocks her head over her shoulder. "Lafayette!"
His bandanna-covered head appears in the hatch. "What, bitch?"
"Don't Sookie look different to you?"
"Tara," Sookie protests, laughing. "Leave me alone."
"Well, hey now, hey now, Miss Sook." That's Lafayette, leering her with such blanket laciviousness it's anything but offensive. "You do look all kind of bright and shiny. I know that look. Whatsa matter? You get a new fella?"
She leans both arms on the bar, lets her eyes sparkle at him. "You always think it's always about a man, don't you, Lafayette?"
"Oh, honey chile." He tips back, tosses his bandanna as if it were hair. She likes Lafayette and his flamboyance: at least someone around here says whatever he likes and acts however he wants. "It always is about a man."
"Preach it," says Arlene, on her way past with a pitcher of Bud. Further along the bar, Sam's been wiping the same glass for the last minute and a half. His smile looks strained.
"Ain't the vampire, is it?"
She rounds on him, the smile fading. She's on edge and moody: Lafayette's teasing is gentle enough to laugh at but defensiveness raises her hackles. Sam's just protective, but it grates on her now, for no reason she can solidly identify. "Not that it's any of your business, Sam, but no. It's not 'the vampire,' and I wish y'all would stop calling him that. Bill's just trying to get along with everybody."
"So there is someone," Tara presses, and she shakes her head, feeling pink and flustered; she wants to fight and wants to laugh it off all at the same time. "Come on, now, Sookie. We're all friends, here." No one wheedles like Tara: maybe it's because she's so often nothing but sandpaper and biting sarcasm, and Sookie's never been able to resist her long.
"I may have met someone, yes," she admits with a feeling of annoyed helplessness, finally, tossing her head in the hopes of keeping some remainder of dignity. Lafayette waves a hand at her and smiles; she flashes him a quick one in return.
Sam's eyebrows are climbing higher and higher, but he manages a grin when he says: "Well, ain't you gonna introduce him?"
She picks up her tray and directs her comment and flat look at him from over her shoulder. "Not tonight."
___
They're busy for the rest of the night and there's no more time for daydreams or for snide remarks: she loses her temper at Andy Bellefleur and has to go to the back room to take a breather, feeling as though she's about to fly into a million pieces, and takes the tie clip out of her pocket to remind herself of reality. She's so distracted that she never hears Sam coming, jumps at the touch of his hand on her shoulder, and shoves the clip into her apron, feeling oddly guilty.
"I want to apologize." Sam's got his best kicked-puppy look on his face, the one he has when he's been too harsh with the waitresses, and she gives him a quick nod and a flicker of eyebrow. "For before. If you -- you know, if you met someone you really like, that's great for you. We shouldn't tease you."
"Thank you, Sam," she says, pulling her shoulders back, leaning on the counter behind her. "But don't worry about it. Probably nothin's gonna come of it anyhow." She can feel the old plastic smile start to stretch across her face; it's tense and painful. His eyes go hurt seeing it, and he reaches out a hand to touch her chin.
"Aw, cher. Don't think like that --" He trails off as she jerks away from his touch, presses his lips together, shoves that hand back in his pocket.
"Do you mind?" She tips her chin up, takes a deep breath. "I have tables waitin' on their food."
He steps aside, silent, lets her brush by without another word, and says nothing but orders to her for the rest of the night.
That's all right by her, and when she gets home, she's glad to see that Gran's asleep in bed with a book open on her chest and her bedside lamp glowing gentle and golden: talking is the last thing she wants right now.
Still, it's a long time before she gets to sleep, and when she finally does, her dreams -- so vivid and saturated with every emotion and color imaginable -- give her no rest at all.
When she comes downstairs tying her hair into braids, the windows are full of golden late afternoon light: it pools on the stairs and the old carpets in honey-colored swathes. Gran's starting dinner, and the clang of pots and pans punctuates the music from their old radio, crackling lightly with static.
She looks up, pan in hand, as Sookie walks in, and her face falls. "Why, I thought you were off tonight, Sookie. I was going to make chicken-fried steak: that's your favorite."
"Not tonight. I'm goin' in to help out, considering how short we are and all." Sookie sits at the table, tying off one plait. Her mind is still full of that strange other place; even a long hot shower didn't wash away the memory of John's hands on her skin, his arms wrapped around her so tight it was hard to breathe.
"Sookie?"
She starts; blushes and then wishes she hadn't. Gran sits at the table, the pan forgotten. Behind her the old wall clock ticks low and familiar and comforting. "Is everything all right?"
"Fine," she says, smiling, and reaches out to take Gran's hand in hers, smoothing over her soft, wrinkled skin. "Gran, I...met somebody. I don't know how to explain it, but I feel all lit up and happy, and I want to cry all at the same time."
"Someone other than Mr. Compton?"
"Oh, Bill." She can't help rolling her eyes. "Yes. But I don't know if I'm ever going to see him again."
"Well." One of the many things Sookie loves about Gran is how she takes her time, picks words with care: an old-fashioned grace that's so far out of trend the world will probably never see it again (except from the vampires, who, when they have manners, seem to gravitate towards Victorianism, no matter what Bill might say). "Why do you say that, honey?"
It's impossible to explain, and no explanations mean Gran can't give her the kind of sympathetic ear she needs right now, so she just forces a smile and tugs a braid into place. "It's just a feeling. Gran, I have to go. I called Sam and he's expecting me." At the door, she hesitates, hand on the frame, looking back.
"I'll be back kinda late."
"I won't wait up," says Gran, and they both smile, knowing that she's going to anyway.
___
The evening crowd at Merlotte's is subdued, quieter even than the usual mid-week regulars, but Sookie's struck by a deep sense of unease and mistrust as she moves about, tray in hand, motions coming automatically, the efficiency of muscle memory sending her from back room to prep counter to kitchen to dining room, where she arrives without knowing how she got there. It's almost strange to see the same familiar faces, to watch Sam wiping glasses behind the bar, hear Lafayette's singing echoing gently in the hall by the kitchen. Arlene is cranky and Sookie wants to hug her for it; Hoyt Fortenberry sits by the bar looking too big to be allowed. His thoughts about Dawn are so sad and sweet that Sookie has to stop and give him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek: out of the cacophony she can hear, only Hoyt seems to miss Dawn just because she was pretty and was nice to him. The flurry of thoughts and laughter and talk and the continually cranking of country songs from their light-up jukebox are just as distracting as she could hope: it's hard to concentrate on the dull pang of disappointment that's taken up residence at her solar plexus when there's so much else to try and ignore.
During a lull in the evening she leans one hip against the bar, absently loading her tray with ketchup bottles, and tries to picture John coming through the door. He'd sit there, she thinks: a booth near a window, but he'd take the opposite seat, the one with the good view of the room and the gentle glimmer of glasses at the bar. She can just about see him there, leaning with one elbow on the table, smiling that crooked smile that lights up his whole face. She loses herself in a brief daydream: she'd take a beer and a frosted glass over just like he was any other customer, go about her rounds pretending like she doesn't notice he's there, seeing how long she can keep her eyes from moving over to him. She'd win a little every time she gave in.
Tara, behind the bar, is giving her a furrowed look, the rag in her hand tossing and flipping as she cleans a glass. "Look at you," she says, sauntering over as Sookie takes a deep breath, waking from her little reverie.
"What?" She's painfully aware of the smile that's found it's way to her mouth without her notice, but tries to direct it down towards the tray.
Tara sucks at her teeth, cocks her head over her shoulder. "Lafayette!"
His bandanna-covered head appears in the hatch. "What, bitch?"
"Don't Sookie look different to you?"
"Tara," Sookie protests, laughing. "Leave me alone."
"Well, hey now, hey now, Miss Sook." That's Lafayette, leering her with such blanket laciviousness it's anything but offensive. "You do look all kind of bright and shiny. I know that look. Whatsa matter? You get a new fella?"
She leans both arms on the bar, lets her eyes sparkle at him. "You always think it's always about a man, don't you, Lafayette?"
"Oh, honey chile." He tips back, tosses his bandanna as if it were hair. She likes Lafayette and his flamboyance: at least someone around here says whatever he likes and acts however he wants. "It always is about a man."
"Preach it," says Arlene, on her way past with a pitcher of Bud. Further along the bar, Sam's been wiping the same glass for the last minute and a half. His smile looks strained.
"Ain't the vampire, is it?"
She rounds on him, the smile fading. She's on edge and moody: Lafayette's teasing is gentle enough to laugh at but defensiveness raises her hackles. Sam's just protective, but it grates on her now, for no reason she can solidly identify. "Not that it's any of your business, Sam, but no. It's not 'the vampire,' and I wish y'all would stop calling him that. Bill's just trying to get along with everybody."
"So there is someone," Tara presses, and she shakes her head, feeling pink and flustered; she wants to fight and wants to laugh it off all at the same time. "Come on, now, Sookie. We're all friends, here." No one wheedles like Tara: maybe it's because she's so often nothing but sandpaper and biting sarcasm, and Sookie's never been able to resist her long.
"I may have met someone, yes," she admits with a feeling of annoyed helplessness, finally, tossing her head in the hopes of keeping some remainder of dignity. Lafayette waves a hand at her and smiles; she flashes him a quick one in return.
Sam's eyebrows are climbing higher and higher, but he manages a grin when he says: "Well, ain't you gonna introduce him?"
She picks up her tray and directs her comment and flat look at him from over her shoulder. "Not tonight."
___
They're busy for the rest of the night and there's no more time for daydreams or for snide remarks: she loses her temper at Andy Bellefleur and has to go to the back room to take a breather, feeling as though she's about to fly into a million pieces, and takes the tie clip out of her pocket to remind herself of reality. She's so distracted that she never hears Sam coming, jumps at the touch of his hand on her shoulder, and shoves the clip into her apron, feeling oddly guilty.
"I want to apologize." Sam's got his best kicked-puppy look on his face, the one he has when he's been too harsh with the waitresses, and she gives him a quick nod and a flicker of eyebrow. "For before. If you -- you know, if you met someone you really like, that's great for you. We shouldn't tease you."
"Thank you, Sam," she says, pulling her shoulders back, leaning on the counter behind her. "But don't worry about it. Probably nothin's gonna come of it anyhow." She can feel the old plastic smile start to stretch across her face; it's tense and painful. His eyes go hurt seeing it, and he reaches out a hand to touch her chin.
"Aw, cher. Don't think like that --" He trails off as she jerks away from his touch, presses his lips together, shoves that hand back in his pocket.
"Do you mind?" She tips her chin up, takes a deep breath. "I have tables waitin' on their food."
He steps aside, silent, lets her brush by without another word, and says nothing but orders to her for the rest of the night.
That's all right by her, and when she gets home, she's glad to see that Gran's asleep in bed with a book open on her chest and her bedside lamp glowing gentle and golden: talking is the last thing she wants right now.
Still, it's a long time before she gets to sleep, and when she finally does, her dreams -- so vivid and saturated with every emotion and color imaginable -- give her no rest at all.
Entry tags:
Entrance post
( When is it all going to be over? )
The first thing she notices is that the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees: goosebumps prickle across her arms and belly as the cool air meets the thin sheen of sweat on her skin brought on by the Louisiana heat and humidity that has so strangely vanished; the second that the air is still with the sort of insulated quiet that comes from being inside a large building. The peepers have ceased their chirping, the hum of insects has cut off as if on cue.
Lowering the shotgun, she gives a curious, cursory glance to the computer which hums nearby, then turns her attention, every sense painfully focused, to the wooden door leading out. Her footfalls are as quiet as she can make them, but the room into which the door opens is nothing more than a lobby, holding nothing more than an elegantly fashioned desk, similar to the one she'd seen at the hotel in Dallas. Out of the corner of her eye she can see elevators, numbers lit and flickering, while to the other side she notes more doors, hears some faint background noise. The door swings shut behind her and she has an instant of consternation before her instincts take over, thankfully shutting out panic. All the adrenaline from the last few weeks and the knowledge that the wolves are coming for her floods her system - she's strung tight, her body singing like a taut wire and trembling with reaction.
What is this?
A glimmer from the desk catches her eye; leaning over it, she looks at the screen set into the wood with lifted eyebrows. Almost delicately, she sets the palm of her free hand on the cool glass, and jumps back in surprise when it begins to glow at her touch, forming words.
WELCOME TO OUTPOST 12, SOOKIE STACKHOUSE.
The first thing she notices is that the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees: goosebumps prickle across her arms and belly as the cool air meets the thin sheen of sweat on her skin brought on by the Louisiana heat and humidity that has so strangely vanished; the second that the air is still with the sort of insulated quiet that comes from being inside a large building. The peepers have ceased their chirping, the hum of insects has cut off as if on cue.
Lowering the shotgun, she gives a curious, cursory glance to the computer which hums nearby, then turns her attention, every sense painfully focused, to the wooden door leading out. Her footfalls are as quiet as she can make them, but the room into which the door opens is nothing more than a lobby, holding nothing more than an elegantly fashioned desk, similar to the one she'd seen at the hotel in Dallas. Out of the corner of her eye she can see elevators, numbers lit and flickering, while to the other side she notes more doors, hears some faint background noise. The door swings shut behind her and she has an instant of consternation before her instincts take over, thankfully shutting out panic. All the adrenaline from the last few weeks and the knowledge that the wolves are coming for her floods her system - she's strung tight, her body singing like a taut wire and trembling with reaction.
What is this?
A glimmer from the desk catches her eye; leaning over it, she looks at the screen set into the wood with lifted eyebrows. Almost delicately, she sets the palm of her free hand on the cool glass, and jumps back in surprise when it begins to glow at her touch, forming words.
WELCOME TO OUTPOST 12, SOOKIE STACKHOUSE.
Entry tags:
Everything is Broken
Normal couples do not do this, Bill Compton.
She wakes up feeling numbed and exhausted, and the sight of a dead werewolf in her living room does nothing more than to make her sigh, inwardly. More death and destruction: it's all around and how is she ever going to escape it? Does she even want to, if it means she can stay with Bill?
Nothing surprises her, not really, all that day, until she gets the call from Hadley. Hadley, who told Sophie-Anne about Sookie, Hadley who ran away, Hadley who has a little boy named Hunter.
Hunter, who is like Sookie herself.
Someone like me. It hasn't happened since she met Barry the Bellboy, and she doesn't know how to feel. Excitement, concern and some deep sense of wrongness chase each other around and through her, and she can't help wondering...does Bill know? Is Hunter somewhere in the file of his?
So she asks. And what she finds out is nothing she'd ever expected to hear.
____
"I'm a fairy?" She blinks. "How fucking lame."
She wakes up feeling numbed and exhausted, and the sight of a dead werewolf in her living room does nothing more than to make her sigh, inwardly. More death and destruction: it's all around and how is she ever going to escape it? Does she even want to, if it means she can stay with Bill?
Nothing surprises her, not really, all that day, until she gets the call from Hadley. Hadley, who told Sophie-Anne about Sookie, Hadley who ran away, Hadley who has a little boy named Hunter.
Hunter, who is like Sookie herself.
Someone like me. It hasn't happened since she met Barry the Bellboy, and she doesn't know how to feel. Excitement, concern and some deep sense of wrongness chase each other around and through her, and she can't help wondering...does Bill know? Is Hunter somewhere in the file of his?
So she asks. And what she finds out is nothing she'd ever expected to hear.
____
"I'm a fairy?" She blinks. "How fucking lame."
Entry tags:
Night on the Sun
The shotgun is old but feels good and heavy in her hands. Somewhere downstairs, the blank photo album sits like a mockery of her failed relationship, empty pages she in her foolishness had thought would be filled of memories for her and Bill. Now she wonders that she ever wanted those memories at all. How could she have been so blind as to not care how heavily the bad outweighed the good?
But then the wolves come, and she doesn't have time to think about anything else anymore.
She can hear Bill and Jessica downstairs, the crash and crumble of furniture breaking, but all her attention is on the bitch in front of her: Debbie's blue eyes are alight with malicious delight, saying the things Sookie's only thought in her worst nightmares. You fuck vampires and werewolves because your own kind rejects you, she says, snarling and laughing all at once. They know you're a freak.
It's enough to bring her guard down, enough that she can swipe away the shotgun before Sookie can shoot, and even as they grapple, clawing and scratching, she knows that if she loses, it'll be because Debbie knew just exactly how to hurt her.
She tries to keep everything she knows in mind; tries for the upper hand and barely notices the bruises, the cracked ribs, the scratches and scrapes but it's only by the grace of God that she gets her hands on the pair of silver scissors that have been knocked to the floor.
Even now she can't bring herself to kill Debbie, watches as the white wolf turns tail and heads for the trees, but it's all such a blur and the next time she surfaces, Bill's there and she's in his arms. "I love you," she says, and pulls herself into him.
"I'm sorry," he repeats. She swallows it.
But then the wolves come, and she doesn't have time to think about anything else anymore.
She can hear Bill and Jessica downstairs, the crash and crumble of furniture breaking, but all her attention is on the bitch in front of her: Debbie's blue eyes are alight with malicious delight, saying the things Sookie's only thought in her worst nightmares. You fuck vampires and werewolves because your own kind rejects you, she says, snarling and laughing all at once. They know you're a freak.
It's enough to bring her guard down, enough that she can swipe away the shotgun before Sookie can shoot, and even as they grapple, clawing and scratching, she knows that if she loses, it'll be because Debbie knew just exactly how to hurt her.
She tries to keep everything she knows in mind; tries for the upper hand and barely notices the bruises, the cracked ribs, the scratches and scrapes but it's only by the grace of God that she gets her hands on the pair of silver scissors that have been knocked to the floor.
Even now she can't bring herself to kill Debbie, watches as the white wolf turns tail and heads for the trees, but it's all such a blur and the next time she surfaces, Bill's there and she's in his arms. "I love you," she says, and pulls herself into him.
"I'm sorry," he repeats. She swallows it.
Entry tags:
From the day we met, it's been one long, bloody fight, and I keep waiting for it to be over.
Be safe.
That's the last thing Bill says to her before he leaves, the last thing she hears before her own grief and shock and pain take over. She feels too much: this is not the unending emptiness of losing Gran or the numb but no less poisonous anger at the death of her parents -- when Bill walks away, she feels his going as if she were being ripped apart.
The rest of the day passes in a haze. She's grateful for Alcide, who provides a strong and quiet steadiness, a hand at her back and a wall between her and Tara's fears and passions, or Jason's well-meaning but hurtful protectiveness. He settles her on the couch at home and tucks a blanket around her shoulders, sits at her feet without a single word. He's big and rangy on her little couch, awkward trying to keep his thick boots from messing up the carpet, and she doesn't think he seems like a wolf so much as a big, well-meaning dog, the kind that might accidentally break a chair by trying to jump into it. Part of her wishes she could put her hand into his hair, tuck herself into the curve of arm and chest and go to sleep, but she can't do that to Alcide, who's been hurt just as badly as she. He deserves someone who likes him for who he is after meeting him normally, and not because in a crisis he's a steady place to stand.
Had she really fooled herself into thinking she could have a life with Bill? Had she thought it could be different? Where on earth is the blood and pain and revenge going to end, who else will it take before it's all over?
"If you need to go back to Jackson," she says, making sure she meets his eyes, "I understand." She tries a little smile, feels around its edges until it's nearly comfortable on her face. "I'll be fine."
He gives her a look over his shoulder, lifts his eyebrows. "Sookie, I know you're tougher'n a one-eared alley cat, but I ain't leaving you alone right now."
Telling herself it's not a test, that she really would be fine to be left alone with her thoughts, she still can't help the gratitude and relief that rush through her at the sound of his matter-of-fact voice, but when he reaches out and brushes her hair from her face, she makes sure she doesn't lean into the touch. "Someday it won't hurt so bad," he says, his voice as gentle as he can make it.
She's not sure she believes him. Especially when Jason goes storming out, swearing to kill Bill if he can, leaving her with nothing but a slammed door and an empty house.
So when does it end?
____
The next day, she isn't any kind of surprised to hear Alcide say he needs to go, and is even less surprised when he asks her to come with him, but she stands by what she knows is true: Russell and his pack of weres aren't going to stop at anything to get to her. They will find her, there will be a fight, and she doesn't want Alcide getting caught in the crossfire any more than he has already.
It's sad to see him go and he lingers a little on the porch step, looking at her like he's looking for a reason to stay: she could give him one but she doesn't take that last step needed, say the word that would make sure he stayed and make sure she had someone with her tonight.
If I knew what was best for me, I would've fallen in love with someone like you, she'd said, and meant it. It still hurts, watching him go, but it's only the hurt of a vanished potential, instead of something cherished irretrievably broken. Maybe she could have loved Alcide and he could have loved her, but it seems like just another chance she's missed.
Because of Bill, who had better have been worth it.
That's the last thing Bill says to her before he leaves, the last thing she hears before her own grief and shock and pain take over. She feels too much: this is not the unending emptiness of losing Gran or the numb but no less poisonous anger at the death of her parents -- when Bill walks away, she feels his going as if she were being ripped apart.
The rest of the day passes in a haze. She's grateful for Alcide, who provides a strong and quiet steadiness, a hand at her back and a wall between her and Tara's fears and passions, or Jason's well-meaning but hurtful protectiveness. He settles her on the couch at home and tucks a blanket around her shoulders, sits at her feet without a single word. He's big and rangy on her little couch, awkward trying to keep his thick boots from messing up the carpet, and she doesn't think he seems like a wolf so much as a big, well-meaning dog, the kind that might accidentally break a chair by trying to jump into it. Part of her wishes she could put her hand into his hair, tuck herself into the curve of arm and chest and go to sleep, but she can't do that to Alcide, who's been hurt just as badly as she. He deserves someone who likes him for who he is after meeting him normally, and not because in a crisis he's a steady place to stand.
Had she really fooled herself into thinking she could have a life with Bill? Had she thought it could be different? Where on earth is the blood and pain and revenge going to end, who else will it take before it's all over?
"If you need to go back to Jackson," she says, making sure she meets his eyes, "I understand." She tries a little smile, feels around its edges until it's nearly comfortable on her face. "I'll be fine."
He gives her a look over his shoulder, lifts his eyebrows. "Sookie, I know you're tougher'n a one-eared alley cat, but I ain't leaving you alone right now."
Telling herself it's not a test, that she really would be fine to be left alone with her thoughts, she still can't help the gratitude and relief that rush through her at the sound of his matter-of-fact voice, but when he reaches out and brushes her hair from her face, she makes sure she doesn't lean into the touch. "Someday it won't hurt so bad," he says, his voice as gentle as he can make it.
She's not sure she believes him. Especially when Jason goes storming out, swearing to kill Bill if he can, leaving her with nothing but a slammed door and an empty house.
So when does it end?
____
The next day, she isn't any kind of surprised to hear Alcide say he needs to go, and is even less surprised when he asks her to come with him, but she stands by what she knows is true: Russell and his pack of weres aren't going to stop at anything to get to her. They will find her, there will be a fight, and she doesn't want Alcide getting caught in the crossfire any more than he has already.
It's sad to see him go and he lingers a little on the porch step, looking at her like he's looking for a reason to stay: she could give him one but she doesn't take that last step needed, say the word that would make sure he stayed and make sure she had someone with her tonight.
If I knew what was best for me, I would've fallen in love with someone like you, she'd said, and meant it. It still hurts, watching him go, but it's only the hurt of a vanished potential, instead of something cherished irretrievably broken. Maybe she could have loved Alcide and he could have loved her, but it seems like just another chance she's missed.
Because of Bill, who had better have been worth it.