Archive of Our Own

He knows that she prefers that he knock on the front door – as she has said many times, it may be his house but it is her home – but tonight Eric can sense a roil of emotion coming from her. There is happiness, yes, and satisfaction, and anticipation. But there is also a thin silver thread of sadness twisting through the bond that joins them, and he does not have time for the niceties of human convention when their connection is marred by such a discordant note.

It is bad enough that he is stuck in the car when it first begins to thrum; were it more strident, he would have simply abandoned the corvette at the side of the road and taken to the wind. As it is, he speeds through darkened streets, and he ignores the honking horns from the few other drivers on the road, and he leaps from the car, through the door and up the stairs to her bedroom… and stops short to lean against the doorjamb and simply take her in.

She is stunning, divine, exquisite. She is his.

Whatever melancholy briefly twisted through her is gone now as she studies her own reflection in the floor length mirror.

"Portia Bellefleur will have you thrown out if you show up wearing that," he says quietly.

Sookie starts and gives out a little squeaking noise as she turns to him, one hand fluttering at her breast like a stereotypical Southern damsel in distress. His Sookie, however, is definitely her own person. There is nothing stereotypical about his belle.

"You just scared the bejeebers out of me!" she scolds before her brow furrows and she glances down. The hand that had fluttered near the long, thin column of her throat now fusses at the waist of her dress, and she spins back to again look in the mirror, now with her head cocked and a more critical expression on her face. "And what's wrong with what I'm wearing? I swear, Eric, I must've tried on twenty different dresses in those stupid boutiques but I'm just not a designer dress wearing type of person and I've come to terms with that. I found this one and-"

"And your beauty and elegance will put the bride to shame," Eric says, stepping up to stand behind her. He reaches around her slim waist to capture her hand, takes the half-step forward that will let Sookie feel the length of his body against her, the strength that will always support her. He covers her hand with his own and presses their palms to her stomach; bends to nuzzle at her sunlit hair. "Perhaps we should just stay home and avoid embarrassing Ms. Bellefleur?"

Their bond is overwhelmed by a surge of lust that emboldens his own, and by the way that Sookie's eyes widen in the mirror he knows that she can feel it, too, through all their connections. And when her lips purse and she shifts her hips oh-so-subtly, his cock swells against her and for a moment Eric thinks she may just take him up on the suggestion. He can already imagine slowly divesting her of that tantalizing ice-blue gown, pressing her body against the cool glass of the mirror…

"We have to go," Sookie says. How quickly she can destroy such salacious fantasies in but four little words. "Besides, how is Pam going to find out all the good gossip tomorrow if you're not there to get all the juicy details firsthand?"

Eric shrugs. "The same way she always does. Torture it out of one of the humans."

"You know, I can't tell if you're joking or not." When Eric opens his mouth, she holds up her free hand. "And I don't want to know."

It is a delicate dance they perform. She has accepted the darkness in him, knows that there are things that he must sometimes do to ensure both their safety, things that she must confront and, if not embrace, at least acknowledge and understand. But she will only do so as long as he accepts the lightness within himself. Sometimes that Eric, the one that had not been hardened and made cynical by one thousand years of violence and cruelty, is difficult to find. But he will always let him out for her.

Her eyes dart toward the alarm clock before he can chide her for her reticence. "We're runnin' late," she says as she starts to pull away. "Have you seen my cream sweater, the one with the pale blue flowers on the collar? I want to bring it in case it turns cool later. You never can tell with these outdoor receptions."

Eric catches her hand again before she can flit off like the faerie she is. "First," he says, "I have a gift for you."

He releases her only when he's looked into her eyes and ensured that she is not going to protest. Then he draws the delicate gold chain from his pants pocket, holds it so that the pendant dangles down and catches the light. Its intricate loops and swirls draw the eye, and it is impossible to discern where one spiral ends and another begins. She is as entranced as he had hoped.

"I had it made for you," he tells her.

That makes her look up. He braces himself for a whirlwind of you can't keep buying me expensive gifts, Eric and I've told you to stop doing this, Eric, but her brow is not furrowed and her tongue is not sharp. "It's beautiful, Eric," she breathes out. His smile is sweet, simple, honest, for him alone.

If his heart were not a dormant rock in his chest, it would swell.

But he can smile, and for her he does, holding nothing back. What was soft and gentle becomes a beaming grin on her face, and she turns again toward the mirror, lifts her long hair. "Help me put it on?"

He bends first to brush his lips against the pulse point in her neck, to breathe in the warm, fresh, clean scent of her. Then his fingers are deft as he undoes the clasp, encircles her neck in delicate filigreed gold.

To his woman, it is simply a twist of gold, an abstract weave of light. To a human, it is a pretty bauble from a suitor. To a vampire, it is the symbol of Eric's power: the insignia that denotes his office, his stature, his age, his lineage, his strength. No vampire seeing that talisman around his woman's neck would dare touch her, nor debase her, nor risk incurring her disfavor. To do so would be to earn Eric's wrath.

"Oh, Eric, I love it," she says.

He touches her shoulders gently to urge her toward him; smiles when she beams at him, her fingers coming up to trace the delicate swirl of gold nestled in the hollow of her neck.

"Never take it off," he says.

She grins up at him. "It's a little fancy for the diner, don't ya think?"

Eric does his best to prevent his lip from curling when she mentions the grease-pit owned by the Dog-Faced Boy, but he thinks she may notice it anyway. When she doesn't immediately jump to a defense of the mutt's roadside ode to salmonella, he decides to push his luck. "You wouldn't have that problem at Fangtasia."

There's no tongue lashing, but she does roll her eyes.

Well, it was worth a shot. He is nothing if not persistent, as his winning of her affections proves. He's certain that eventually he'll be able to convince her to hang up her order pad and take up her place at his side at Fangtasia full time, where she can read the human clients for ill intent or take up the accounting or simply sit with her feet tucked beneath her and read the entire contents of the Shreveport library one book at a time. She can name her price, as long as she is away from Merlotte and his hillbilly patrons.

He ducks around her to snatch up the sweater that had drifted from the chair in her reading nook to the floor, holds it out so that she can drape it over her bare shoulders. "Ready to go?" he asks.

Sookie squares her shoulders. "Ready as I'll ever be," she says.

The reception is underway as he escorts Sookie across what she tells him is referred to as the South Lawn of the Bellefleur estate, a rather pitiable expanse of land when compared to his holdings in Geneva and Prague. A loose collection of musicians is already laboring through one of the Apponyi quartets, an abuse of his eardrums although his Sookie seems oblivious, and they have just started toward one of the oversized tents so that he can fetch Sookie a glass of champagne when they are nearly bowled over by the arrival of her brother.

Who slaps him on the shoulder.

Emphatically.

Any other human would lose the hand. But this is Jason Stackhouse. The only sibling of Sookie Stackhouse, the love of his eternal life. So Eric grits his teeth and makes allowances.

He finds that he makes many, many, many allowances where Jason Stackhouse is concerned. He really ought to make sure that Sookie is aware of this so that he is properly rewarded.

"Hey, Eric," Jason says distractedly.

Because Jason, for his part, does not notice that he has straightened to his full height, nor that his firmly pressed lips conceal fangs that had partially extended of their own accord. Jason, in fact, barely gives him a look before he turns excitedly to his sister.

"Jesus, Sook," he gushes, "have you seen what's set up over there?"

Eric flicks his gaze in the direction of Jason's gesticulating arm to find a bevy of vampires clustered around a linen-clothed table. He can make out the flutter of the gold tablecloth as an errant breeze catches it, recognizes most of the faces in the loose circle because it is his job to know them. Eric's eyes narrow as he sees that Christopher Selivan is not even making an attempt to hide his distended fangs.

"We just got here," Sookie answers, "and should you really be taking the Lord's name in vain like that right after a wedding, Jason?" She juts her chin toward the entrance to the tent, and Eric follows her gaze to a cadaverous man who looks as though he'd be more comfortable lying in the coffin at a funeral than officiating at a wedding ceremony. "Reverend Samuels is right over there."

"I see him," Jason says. "But Sook! Remember that time we went to Cousin Amelia's wedding over in Minden?"

Sookie shakes her head. "Not really."

"Uncle Charlie put his hand on Mama's behind when they were dancin' and Mama started hitting him on the head with her little purse with all the silver beads on it?"

"What? No!" Sookie says. "You're makin' this up!"

"No, I ain't. You were probably just too little," Jason insists. "Anyway, then Dad jumped on Uncle Charlie and they went flyin' across the dancefloor-"

"The stories of your family get-togethers are always so interesting, Sookie", Eric murmurs.

"… and they landed on top of one of those big chocolate fountains! It just about exploded right when Cousin Amelia was walkin' by." Jason sighs in frustration when Sookie merely looks at him blankly. "How can ya not remember that, Sook?"

Sookie lifts her shoulders. "I'm sure this is fascinating family history that you're sharing practically at the top of your lungs, Jason, but-"

"My point," Jason says, "is that they got something just like that chocolate fountain over there. Got a set of three, as a matter of fact."

"You had to recite an entire story that sounds like an episode of Redneck Weddings in order to tell me that?" Sookie hisses.

Jason nods before he takes what he probably thinks is a surreptitious look around him, then leans forward and lowers his voice. "Only the fountains ain't filled with chocolate, Sook. They're filled with blood." He straightens again, grins at his sister. "Ain't that a hoot?"

Sookie blinks.

Eric glanced again toward the table and its cluster of eager drinkers. In many vampire celebrations, it has often been common to chain a human to a table in order to provide warm refreshments for the guests. Bill was working too hard to prove his assimilation to the human press in order to risk anything like that, of course, even in a private room. You never knew who was going to be sneaking around, and cell phone cameras were ubiquitous these days. One video insta-posted to YouTube could ruin a vampire's whole existence.

Unless you were very fast and a master at glamouring hapless humans, that is.

Apropos of nothing, Eric happens to be both of those things.

"And get this," Jason continues. "There's a little sign on the table with fancy writing on it that says that the blood is 'Ethically Sourced.'"

His Sookie is naturally pale, but now she blanches beneath the moonlight. "Ethically sourced?" she repeats. When Jason only nods, she turns her gaze to Eric. "What in the hell, Eric? What does that mean?"

"Not sure you ought to be sayin' that word when Reverend Samuels is right-"

"Shut the fuck up, Jason."

Eric pictures a gleaming hospital setting where unconscious humans on thin cots are fed nutrients in one tube while another regularly siphons the blood from their veins. He pictures humans wandering from doctor's offices and clinics and pharmacies, fiddling with the Band-Aids on the crooks of elbows and wondering why they feel so woozy and disoriented. He pictures dead humans stacked like cordwood in abandoned factories as bulldozers wait to dig the mass graves.

Any of those things could be true.

All of those things have been true.

He will absolutely not say any of them aloud.

Instead, Eric raises a brow. "You know there are those who offer their blood willingly," he says.

"Sure," Sookie says. "Groupies and fangbangers."

"You sneer, but it is those 'groupies and fangbangers' that kept me alive these last few years," Eric says. He pauses, but his promise to Sookie to be as truthful as he possibly can when speaking to her compels him to include an addendum. "Mostly."

"Okay, but… Wait." Sookie holds up a hand, though he already awaits her pleasure. "Do you mean you mostly fed from fangbangers, or do you mean you're mostly alive?"

"Yes," Eric says.

"Am I the only one confused?" Jason asks.

"Yes," Eric says again. To Sookie, he says, "But I was referring to the 'vampire-friendly' organizations that have popped up in recent years. Bill and Jessica fed from them when we were silvered to prevent Marnie from forcing us into the sun."

Sookie's eyes darken. She had wept for him then, trapped in the tiny light-tight room he'd had constructed behind a hidden door in her cabinet, covered neck to toe in heavy silver chains. She'd wept, and then she'd put her head as close to his as she could on the pillow, and then when the sun went down she'd released him from the chains. And then, wondrously, miraculously, she let him feed from her. She gave of herself to restore his strength, and in doing so they became one.

"Perhaps," he continues, "Bill has enlisted their services again tonight."

Sookie doesn't look particularly convinced, but Jason nods enthusiastically. "Sure, that's gotta be it. It ain't like some vamp's gonna have people chained up in his basement, right? I mean, okay, you did, but that was back when you were… and Lafayette totally forgives you for… well, I mean-"

"Jason," Eric interrupts, "how did you see that sign?"

"The ethically sourced sign?" Jason asks.

Eric wonders what would happen were he to reach out and puncture Jason's skull. Would air hiss out instead of gray matter? Thankfully, Sookie steps in and saves him from taking such drastic action to satisfy his curiosity. She reaches out and smacks her brother on the ear, and not lightly.

Jason recoils, grimacing. "Ow!" he yelps. "Jesus, Sook, what'd you do that for?"

"What other sign would Eric mean? How many times have I told you? You gotta think before you open your mouth!"

"Well, I don't know!" Jason says. "Anyway, I told ya, it's right there on the table."

"I would suggest," Eric says dryly, "that you stay away from that section of the reception. Unless you want to test whether some of those guests may wish to sample some blood that is Stackhouse sourced."

Jason's generally happy mien fades as he follows Eric's raised brow toward the table. Now, Eric sees, Selivan has a tiny spot on blood on his gleaming white collar. Jason can't possibly see well enough to spot it, but he gulps nonetheless. "You mean it? They wouldn't, would they?"

"Jason, he's kidding," Sookie says.

Eric turns his gaze toward her, and Sookie falters. "You are kidding, right?"

Eric allows himself a small shrug. "What is that saying? Better safe than sorry."

"Isn't it customary for the bride and groom to stand in a line after the wedding so that guests can offer their congratulations?"

Sookie beams at him. "You really did do your research, didn't you?"

He opens his mouth to tell about the extensive information he has uncovered about human rites and rituals, but she has already moved on to answer him. Earlier, as she sipped her champagne and he reluctantly forced down a swallow of luke-warm Tru Blood, her eyes had drifted toward the bride and groom. Bill and Portia are slowly making their way around the garden, meeting and chatting with all of their guests before everyone is seated for dinner under the largest of the white tents.

"A lot of people aren't doing that anymore," she says. "Things are more informal now, less traditional."

"That's right," Bill says.

Bill has approached her from behind, of course; the better to hope that she will startle in surprise. His eyes glitter at the thought of then 'helping' her, then rise to meet Eric's as Sookie turns. Eric is not surprised when Sookie takes a subtle side-step toward him and reaches out to tuck her hand into his. A united front is always best.

"Eric," Bill greets.

"My liege," Eric responds, waving his free hand in a flourish. While Portia laughs at the absurdity, Bill purses his lips and flashes him a look that would have turned him into a pile of bloody skin and entrails had Bill even a fraction of Marnie's power.

"And Sookie," Bill croons. He reaches out as though to take her hands, stumbles a little to see that both are occupied and ends up straightening his tie instead. "How nice of you to come."

Sookie stands a little straighter. "Wouldn't have missed it for the world," she lies.

She is, Eric has found, quite an excellent liar. She is also well-versed at hiding her true emotions, especially where 'King' Bill is concerned. Her heart rate is only slightly elevated. Her palm in his is dry. Her eyes are clear. Only he would know that inside she is still boiling with emotions: anger, disappointment, annoyance. Not only for the things that Bill did to her, but for the way he manipulated Portia when things got difficult, taking the easy way out by glamouring her instead of dealing with the situation.

Sookie lies to avoid hurting others. Bill lies in order to help himself.

"I hope you were able to sample the hors d'oeuvres," Bill says. "The truffles were expressed overnight from Villefranche-du-Perigord. I'm told there is nothing else like them anywhere in the world."

"I'll be sure to try some later," Sookie answers flatly. She disentangles her fingers from Eric's hand to brush her hair out of her eyes before turning her attention to the woman at Bill's side. "Your dress is just beautiful, Portia," Sookie continues.

"Oh, thank you, Sookie." Portia smooths her hand across the silk, flashing the ostentatious rock that Bill gave her when they announced their engagement. It is a failing of the young, this desire to flaunt wealth by buying the biggest and gaudiest ring or car or home. If he makes it another couple of hundred years – a feat that Eric doubts more and more with each passing decade – he may acquire some taste. Then again, he spent 70 years with Lorena.

"Is it from Paris?"

Unlike the sickly grimace that Bill passes off as a smile, Portia's grin is genuine. "Oh, no! Not that those gowns aren't lovely, but I surely couldn't justify paying for a couture gown when I'm always urging people to buy local! No, there's a quaint little shop in Shreveport that does the most beautiful custom clothing, and the woman that runs it is able to pay some of her rent towards a down payment so she'll eventually own the shop. I try to go there whenever I need something special."

Sookie's eyes sparkle. "Is it-"

"Moonlight Couture?" Eric finishes.

"It is!" Portia says.

Bill's head whips up. "You didn't tell me you bought your gown there."

"I didn't think you'd care," Portia says. Her eyes narrow. "Why? Is it important?"

"No," Bill backpedals. "No, of course not. I just-"

"Eric owns it," Sookie interrupts.

Portia turns to Eric with renewed interest. "Well," she says, "what you're doing for Abigail is a wonderful thing. She told me she's only a year or so away from owning the business outright." Portia cocks her head toward her husband. "Bill! You never told me your friend was so altruistic."

And there's that pained smile again. "Oh, Eric is full of surprises," he drawls out.

Sookie shrugs. "Eric doesn't like to brag about the people he helps or the things he owns or-"

"Of course he does," Bill interrupts, eyes flashing as he turns to Eric. "If I had to hear about your luxury villa in the Seychelles one more time-"

"It is stunning," Eric murmurs.

"Boys," Sookie warns. The smile she gives Portia is as fake as Bill's. "I heard that you didn’t take Bill's last name at the ceremony," Sookie says.

"Of course not," Portia replies smoothly. "The Bellefleur name has a long and storied history in the great state of Louisiana. My clients expect a Bellefleur to stand before the judge and plead their cases." She presses a palm flat against Bill's arm. "No offense meant to the Compton name, darling."

"None taken, sweetheart."

"And of course there's the historical significance of the name change," Portia continues, "as a transfer of ownership from a woman's father to her husband. No one owns Portia Bellefleur."

"Actually," Eric puts in, "you belonged to Bill once he spoke for you, just as Sookie belongs to me. No other vampire may claim you once you've been—"

"Eric," Sookie interrupts.

Portia raises a sculpted brow. "Bill?"

Bill's arm moves smoothly around Portia's waist as he gazes down at her. "Eric's confused, darling," he says. "In the times before we came out of the coffin the taking of a human mate was extremely rare and in order to protect the women we loved, we had to 'claim' them as a possession. But times have changed, sweetheart. We're out in the open now, and we of course have turned out backs on the oppressive traditions of our past. Why," Bill says, looking up with a laugh that includes all of them, "we're not Neanderthals, dragging you back to our caves by your hair!"

"Of course not," Portia says, though Eric notes there's a still a hint of hesitation in her voice.

"Eric, your time with Marnie may have affected you more than we thought," Bill says. "Perhaps you should see a healer, get checked out?"

In some distant universe, he feels Sookie re-take his hand and squeeze. She must have noticed that he's been standing straighter and straighter during Bill's little performance, blood turning to ice in his veins. He appreciates the concern, but knows his own hand is wood in her grip. He's concentrating more on not ripping Bill's head from his body and tying his esophagus and trachea together in a neat little bow.

The blood spatter would certainly ruin Portia's dress, and he has no desire to destroy Abigail's handiwork.

"Eric's fine, Bill," he hears Sookie bite out.

"Of course, of course," Bill says. "We just can't be too careful, can we?"

Perhaps, Eric thinks, he could just disembowel him. Most of the blood would spill downwards onto Bill's own shoes, and there's the benefit that he would even heal afterward. That couldn't be too far out of line, could it?

One glance at Sookie wipes that pleasant little fantasy away. Regretfully, he turns to Portia instead. "And where is your lovely grandmother? I haven’t seen her today."

Portia blinks at the change of subject, but answers amiably enough. "Unfortunately, Grandmother has taken ill with a terrible headache. She's had to take to her bed to rest today."

"Oh no," Sookie says. "Well, that's just awful."

"I know," Portia replies. "Dr. Robideaux even made a special trip to the house this evening right before the ceremony, but not even his 'magic elixir', as Grandmother likes to call it, was enough to get her out of bed."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. When you see her, please tell her that I have a whole passel of dewberries at home and I'd be glad to drop off a pie."

"I will, Sookie. Thank you."

As Portia reaches out to take Bill's hand so they can move on to the next set of guests, he quickly moves aside. "Eric," Bill says, inclining his head toward an open patch of grass. "A word?"

He doesn't need the bond to know that Sookie is pleading with him to BE GOOD, so he tucks his hands into his pockets as he strolls casually with Bill a few feet away, all the better to ensure that he doesn't ring the little weasel's neck.

"Offering some lowly human seamstress a buy-in on your business?" Bill scoffs as soon as they are out of Portia's hearing distance. "How long has this been going on?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Eric answers smoothly, "but 'this' has been going on long before you came to Bon Temps. Oh, wait, I'm sorry. Before you were sent to Bon Temps by the Queen to attack and then enslave the woman I love."

"That's what this is all about, isn't it? You're still trying to impress Sookie!" Bill shakes his head. "You're selfish, Eric. You won't do a thing to help others out of the goodness of your fucking heart. It's all about making Sookie believe that you're a good vampire."

Eric inclines his head. It's true that he's incredibly selfish. It's true that most of the things he does, he does with an end goal in mind, an end goal that will benefit him, his business, his progeny, his woman. So he focuses on the one thing he can counter.

"I don't need to impress Sookie. I have Sookie. She is mine."

"Oh yes, and thank you very much for bringing that up with Portia," Bill rants. "Ownership, Eric? Really?"

Eric shrugs, making sure that his hands stay firmly in his pockets. "Are we done here? Because it looks like your new bride may be getting concerned that you're about to pop a blood vessel."

Bill shoots him a final glare, but by the time he turns back to Portia and Sookie he has plastered on the same simpering smile that he wears at press conferences and state dinners. "Sorry, ladies," he calls out before adding, sotto voice, "We will talk later."

"Always a pleasure, your highness," Eric drawls.

The food has been eaten, or in Eric's case, sipped unenthusiastically. Sookie had told him that he could sample the 'ethically sourced' blood fountain, but of course he would do no such thing while she sat at his side. There was also the little matter that he didn't entirely trust Bill's ethics. More than one case of Hep D has been linked to sharing an unknown food source.

Now some of the tables have been moved aside, more wooden planking added to stretch the dance floor out under the stars. A small band has been playing waltzes and foxtrots, with the young humans stumbling laughingly over the steps and the vampires whirling their partners across the floor effortlessly.

Sookie watches it all hungrily as the dancers float by in swirls of satin and velvet.

Eric dislikes dancing. He has never enjoyed it. His job isn't to enjoy it. His job is to sit silently and observe. It's to make the humans mad with wanting him, and make the vampires eager to obey him, either because they wish to please him or because they want to fuck him or because he scares the shit out of them.

But he knows that Sookie loves to dance. He finds her dancing in front of the stove while she cooks her evening meal before heading off to work for the hound. She swings the mop across the floor when she is cleaning, the skinny pole her silent partner. And on a few rare occasions she will take to the floor at Fangtasia, throw her head back, her golden hair shining in the strobe lights as she moves her body to the music.

Eric shifts subtly in his chair, his trousers suddenly too tight.

The song ends, and he watches Sookie look away from the dance floor, lift and replace her wine glass, changing its position an inch at a time, watching the condensation slide down the sides of the goblet.

There is an announcement that Eric ignores and then the music resumes. Another waltz.

He holds out his hand across the linen tablecloth. "May I have this dance?"

Sookie wrinkles her nose. Eric will tell her later tonight, when they are skin to skin in her bed, that he finds her nose-wrinkle endearing.

"I'm not very good at that kind of dancing," Sookie says.

Eric follows her gaze, watched the dancers swoop and twirl before turning back to her. "We've never danced together."

"Maybe not together," Sookie answers. "I danced for you that time at Fangtasia, remember?"

He remembers.

The bar had been closed. With the lighting effects turned off and the jangly ear-splitting music shut down and only the dim strips of the overheads, it looked like what it was: a dreary room with dark floors that still didn't hide the stains. His staff had gone home and Fangtasia was empty. Sookie had been sunbathing that day, he remembers. She smelled of sunlight and wildflowers, and she had fetched the little portable radio from his office and placed it on the bar, tuned it away from the all-news station that he listened to when he first rose each night and to an oldies station instead.

They had talked and she had teased him and then she began to move to the music. She swung back her head as her hips swayed, and she pouted her lips and then ruined the effect by giggling, and she pulled her hair forward and leered at him through the tangle of gold.

And then she had leapt to one of the dancing platforms and flung her lithe body around the pole.

And then… her legs became entangled and she let out a squeal. He was across the room in far less than a human heartbeat, caught her long before she could fall to the ground, and carried her to his chair over her protests until he reminded her that he could feel the pain of her twisted knee through their bond. He'd sat with her in his lap and stroked her hair as she squeezed her eyes shut and winced, and then he'd opened a vein and urged her forward and she took from him. The pleasure as her lips pulled at his blood and their bond opened and strengthened made him shudder, even as he tightened his grip and urged her to take all that she needed.

Her eyes were bright and the twisted knee healed, the pain gone when she raised her head from his arm. She kissed him then, and he could taste his blood in her mouth, and he groaned into her throat.

Oh yes, he remembers.

He meets her eyes across the table, sees the same memory spooling behind her eyes.

"Maybe dancing is not the best idea," she says.

"Probably not," he agrees quickly.

"We could go for a walk instead? There's a little path that winds around the house."

"A walk sounds agreeable," Eric says.

But it still takes him a moment before he's ready to get up from the table.

They are not the only ones that have decided to escape the loud music, the bugs swooping around the lights, the inebriated humans. They pass numerous couples wandering along the path or venturing out onto the lawns. Eric recognizes Tiffany, the TBBN meteorologist, leaning heavily on the arm of the owner of one of Shreveport's more popular restaurants; several prominent members of the AVL, including Christopher Selivan; a gaggle of local attorneys and bankers, and at least one judge.

"It looks like all of the Shreveport elite are here," Sookie whispers when they are alone again on the path.

Eric sniffs. "Does Shreveport have elite?"

"Well, excuse me, mister. Not all of us have villas on the Sea Shells, you know."

Eric laughs, snugs her tight against his side, drinks in the warmth and light of her. "Sookie, you are more beautiful and charming than any villa."

"I should hope so. I mean, when it comes right down to it, every place is just a bunch of sticks and nails. Doesn't matter how fancy it is if it isn't a home."

He is opening his mouth to spout something ridiculous and outrageous and embarrassing and true – that her presence gives him life and that she is his home – when Sookie nudges his side, juts her chin toward one of the towering oaks that spread through the yard at regimentally aligned intervals. "You see that?"

There is a bench, he sees, beneath the tree, a few yards from the path. And a vampire and human sitting on the bench. Well, the human is slumped, loose limbed, while the vampire looms over her. It's either romance or lunch. He doesn't care either way, but Sookie…

"Young love," he drawls. "Isn't it sweet?"

This time the nudge is a lot more serious. Sookie puts some elbow into it this time. "I hope he has permission to be feeding on her like that."

It is at times like this that Eric wishes he had the ability to sigh. He has learned to pick his battles where his Sookie is concerned, however, and this one is not worth digging in over. Especially when she is looking at him expectantly. Like maybe she trusts him to do the right thing.

Yes, a sigh would be fitting right now.

He walks toward the couple, Sookie trailing in his wake, until he is close enough to hear the rapidly stuttering heartbeat of the female. The vampire pays him no notice, a failing that could easily earn him a True Death in other circumstances. And still may, if it turns out that he is feeding on the woman against her will. He is still the Sheriff, after all.

When he clamps a hand down on the other vampire's shoulder, the vampire comes up snarling. A snap of the wrist and he is on the ground. A blink and the vampire recognizes him, doesn't attempt to stand but does get to his knees, head bowed, eyes downcast, long shaggy hair covering his face. "My apologies, Eric."

"Did you glamour her?"

The vampire dares to raise his eyes. Eric recognizes him now, too. He makes it a point to know the names and faces of everyone in his territory. His name is Orville. Baby vampire. Barely old enough to be away from his maker.

Orville blinks. "Huh?"

And about as sharp as a feather.

Eric bends to the woman, and the hand he places on her arm is gentle. His nostrils flare at the scent of her blood. His eyes flick to the pinprick holes in her throat. She smells like musk and damp earth and things that grow in the dark, things he would never want, and yet he is suddenly so hungry. "Ma'am," he says, "are you all right?"

The woman blinks up at him groggily. "Hmm?"

Eric pinches the bridge of his nose before beginning again, more slowly this time. "Are. You.-"

"Let me try," Sookie says as she steps up beside him, blithely turning her back on Orville, still kneeling in the dirt. Eric feels a flare of anger and worry at that, tamps it down when Sookie turns to him quizzically. Close proximity increases their bond, of course. A benefit when making love. A detriment when trying not to yell at the woman you love for putting herself in danger, even when the danger is only mild, even though you are there to protect her.

When he says nothing, Sookie just frowns before crouching next to the woman. "Did you give the vampire permission to feed on you?" she asks.

Eric tries to focus on the dazed look in the human's eyes and the fact that his next action relies completely on the answer to Sookie's question. He may have to end a vampire life tonight. But his gaze returns to her throat, to the trickle of blood there. A sight that would normally hardly register, but now he somehow feels like he's just cracked his first century, still sharp and eager at the first hint of blood.

The woman flails out an arm, and now Eric also scents the wine on her breath. "Go 'way," she says.

Sookie stands. "She's fine."

Eric raises a brow. "But Sookie, she's drunk. I was under the assumption that women could not give permission while inebriated. Surely you're not going to leave this poor, helpless woman-"

This time he dodges her elbow. "They live together. She loves him. Totally consensual."

Eric glances down at the young one, who is studying the barren earth around the bench as though it holds the secrets of the universe. "As you were," he says.

He leads Sookie onto the path and they resume their walk as Orville retakes his seat on the bench next to his woman.

"Have you noticed that there's a lot more human/vampire relationships these days?"

Eric shrugs. "Perhaps all the money the AVL is funneling into television commercials and lobbying groups is paying off."

"And billboards and photo shoots and magazine articles. I just hope the humans know what they're getting in to."

"Do you know what you're getting into, Sookie Stackhouse?"

She stops, turns to face him. Her face is flushed from the little wine she's had. "I know that I love you," she says simply.

"You are my breath, hjärtanskär."

"When you say things like that, I get all tingly. And not in a pervy sense, so get that smirk off your face." She laughs, then presses herself to him, the front of her body flush against his chest, all of her weight leaning against him, palms flat against his dead heart. He wraps his long arms around her waist and draws her in tight. "I mean it, Eric. I can feel your love for me. It's not just the bond, it's… " She struggles for the right words for a moment, then shakes her head. "It's sort of like what you said. When I'm with you, I breathe it in."

He cups her face, his cool hand stealing the warmth from her cheek. "And when I am with you, I know that…" Eric pauses, and Sookie immediately straightens and steps away. As every time, the loss of her touch is like losing a limb.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Weeping," he tells her. He cocks his head, then points to a darkened room on the first floor. "There."

"That's Caroline Bellefleur's room," Sookie tells him. She hesitates next to him on the path, and he watches the indecision play across her face in the moonlight, her innate desire to help warring with violating the privacy of a neighbour. Finally she asks, "Do you think we should check on her?"

"A one thousand year old vampire and a woman who reads minds creeping into an old lady's bedroom in the middle of the night," Eric says. "What could go wrong?"

"When you put it that way," Sookie says with a grin, "I'm in."

He matches her smile in the darkness. Sookie may say that she wants a simple life in the country, but her eagerness for an adventure always betrays her. He arches a brow. "The window?"

"It is partially open," Sookie points out reasonably. "She may as well have sent us an invitation."

"If she hadn't, I would be stuck outside while you have all the fun," Eric says.

Sookie pauses halfway across the plush grass heading toward the open window. "Geez, Eric. I sure hope the Bellefleur's know that they have to revoke all those open invitations. Remind me to tell Andy about it tomorrow, okay?" she asks.

"Hmm," Eric says, strolling casually in her wake. It is not quite an agreement, he knows, and if Sookie weren't distracted by studying the area around the open window she would notice it, too. But an open invitation is never a bad thing… for him, at least. He never knows when he might need access to a quick hostage, for example, especially when dealing with a vampire like Bill.

When he reaches her side, Sookie has her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. The windowsill isn't very high off the ground, and if Sookie was wearing her usual sneakers and jeans – or even better, those little short shorts that show off her strong legs and rounded calves – it wouldn't be a problem. However…

"A tea-length ball gown is apparently not meant for breaking and entering," Eric observes.

"We're not breakin'," Sookie whispers. "The window's open."

"A fair point."

"Just… stand there and block the view from anybody that might come by," Sookie says before hiking her voluminous skirts up around her waist. And Eric absolutely would be scanning the area for passersby in order to defend his lady's honour were it not that the view was just so… delectable. He justifies this by rationalizing that his hearing is so sharp that he would discern anyone venturing toward the house long before they would get close enough to see Sookie… and her new silk underthings. He licks his lips, his fangs dropping just slightly.

"Okay, Eric, come on," Sookie hisses.

They should be home. He should be lowering her onto the bed they share, slowly divesting her of her shimmering gown.

"Eric."

He should be nuzzling at her neck, breathing in the scent of her blood just below the surface of her skin, feeling the rapid pulse of her heartbeat beneath his lips. He should be licking and nipping his way across her beautiful breasts and stomach. He should be removing those new silken panties with his teeth.

"Eric!"

Eric blinks, his fangs receding with an audible pop. In the next of her heartbeats he is inside the room at her side, but it's too late. The Bellefleur woman has truly remarkable hearing for someone of her advanced age.

"Who's there?"

The voice of Caroline Bellefleur is nothing like you would expect from a woman her age. There is nothing querulous or frail about it. It is the voice of a woman who is used to being obeyed, and immediately.

And then, "I have a gun!"

Put his body between Sookie and the danger of a possible random shot, or leave his woman's side to disarm an old lady, possibly breaking a frail wrist in the process?

Well, he isn't a complete monster.

Eric steps immediately in front of Sookie. He hears her huff out a sigh behind him before calling out, "It's me, Mrs. Bellefleur. Sookie Stackhouse."

A light flicks on, and Caroline Bellefleur is illuminated by the feeble light of the bedside lamp. There is no gun, as Eric surmised – there was no scent of gun oil, nor even the faintest hint of steel. There is simply an old woman still clad in a pale lavender gown, the matching bolero-style jacket tossed on the chair next to the bed, curled half on her side on top of the covers. Her eyes are red but her expression is all business.

"Sookie Stackhouse," she snaps.

"Yes, ma'am." He feels Sookie's hands gripping his waist, looks down to see her peering around from behind him. She releases him to lift her hand in a tiny wave. "Hi."

Caroline's eyes flick dismissively from Sookie to land on Eric. "And you are?" she asks imperiously.

"Eric Northman, ma'am."

Her eyes narrow. "That vampire from Shreveport."

One-thousand-year-old Viking. Sherriff of Area 5. Progeny of Godric.

'That vampire from Shreveport.'

Eric straightens his shoulders. "Yes, ma'am."

"I heard you were sniffing around Sookie."

Sookie had stepped up beside him, and now she puts a hand on his arm. "We're a couple, Mrs. Bellefleur."

"A couple of what? That's the problem with young people these days. They don't understand the beauty of using precision in language." She waves a hand before laboriously easing herself onto a sitting position on the side of the bed. He feels Sookie's aborted movement to help her, a barely discernable forward motion quickly stopped. "And none of this explains what you're doing in my bedroom."

"We heard you cr-," Sookie pauses when Caroline's eyes flash. "We heard you," she says simply, "and came to make sure you were all right."

"And you thought the best way to do this was to climb through my bedroom window?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?" Sookie says with a shrug. She shakes her head, leaves his side to approach the old woman and perch on the end of the bed. She reaches out to lay her palm on the woman's hand. "Are you all right, Mrs. Bellefleur?"

"I just have a touch of a headache, young lady. Now I'd like you to leave before I have to call my grandson and have you arrested."

Sookie's eyes widen. "You don't have a headache at all. You're still worried because Bill and Portia are sort of--"

Caroline snatches her hand away, and the look on her face sickens Eric. "I've heard about you. I thought you were a good girl, Sookie, despite your peculiarities-"

"Mrs. Bellefleur," Eric says.

"… but now I see that I was sadly mistaken. What you can do, it's not from God. Now, get out of my mind and out of my house!"

"Mrs. Bellefleur, look at me." It only takes a glance for the angry woman to meet his eyes, and she is hooked. "Thank you," Eric says.

"Mrs. Bellefleur?" Sookie says.

Eric sprawls out on the bed next to the vacant-eyed woman. "Now what?"

"Wait," Sookie says, holding up a hand. "You glamoured her?"

"I glamoured her," Eric confirms.

Sookie throws up her hands. "Eric, you can't just go around glamouring everybody who says an unkind word to me. You'd be hypnotizin' half of Bon Temps!"

Eric truly would not have a problem with that. And if she will not let him protect her in Bon Temps, he knows the next best thing. "That would not be necessary if you would move to Shreveport to be with me. There, I can protect you and-"

"Oh, Lord, not this again! Are we really going to have this conversation now?"

"Should we have it the next time you have to work a double because the mongrel doesn't know how to write a simple schedule?"

"That has nothing to do with Sam! And honestly, Eric, this is the last thing we need to be talkin' about when you've just put a glamour on… Oh my gosh, she's drooling on her dress!" Sookie reaches hastily for the box of Kleenex on Caroline's bedside table and brushes at her lips. "Eric," she hisses, "you fix this right now!"

"I won't have her speaking to you that way."

"Eric, she's not a bad person. Not really. She's just scared of what she don't understand. And glamouring her into liking me would be no different than what Bill did to Portia when he glamoured her to be afraid of him. People got the right to make up their own minds," Sookie says. "Besides, she's only here at all for me to read her mind because she still thinks that Portia's committin' some horrible sin by sleeping with Bill."

"Sleeping with Bill Compton is a horrible sin."

"Hey!"

"You were manipulated. I forgive you."

"Oh gee, thanks," Sookie says.

"Anything for you, min älskling."

"She sure went down fast, huh? I always thought Caroline Bellefleur would be hard to glamour. She's so set in her ways and always knowing she's right, even when she ain't." She regards Caroline for a moment before her eyes brighten. "Hey. Maybe you could make it so that Mrs. Bellefleur doesn't feel like Portia's doing anything wrong by being with Bill."

"But I thought people had the right to make up their own minds?" Eric mocks lightly.

"But this isn't about not liking Bill or sayin' mean things about him. As soon as she's got the facts straight in her head, if she wants to curse Bill out for being a dumbass then she can let him have it. But Portia ought to be able to start out on her marriage without her grandmother thinking that she's going to go to Hell because--"

Eric holds up a hand. "You've convinced me."

"I have?" Sookie blinks. "That was easy."

In honestly, Eric could not give a flying fuck what Caroline Bellefleur believed. If she wanted to believe that Portia and Bill having a common ancestor 150 years in the past made them kissing cousins, he was happy to let her think it. In fact, if it made Bill's life more difficult he would gladly encourage the thought.

But… Sookie. Despite the way she was continuously treated by these people she called her friends, Sookie sincerely wanted the best for people. She craved peace and serenity for others, perhaps because she had had so little of it herself. It was part of the reason Eric strove to acquiesce to her wishes whenever possible; why he urged her to leave her fair-weather friends behind and come to live with him in Shreveport. It's why he would abandon his bar, the city, and even his progeny to take her anywhere in the world she desired, if only she asked it of him.

It's why it drove him crazy that she continued to insist on living in a rundown farmhouse and working at a honky-tonk for a fucking shifter.

"I'll explain that there is no shame in their common ancestry," Eric tells Sookie now. "If she continues to oppose the wedding…" He spreads his hands wide.

"That's perfect, Eric."

"Why don't you wait for me outside?"

Sookie narrows her eyes. "Why does that sound ominous?"

Eric puts on his best innocent face. Since he hasn't been innocent since he was 12 years old and has his first dalliance with a milkmaid, he thinks it's rather impressive.

Sookie, apparently, is not convinced. "Eric," she warns.

"I can merely concentrate better if you are not at my side," Eric says, "You are… distracting, Sookie."

"You're a one thousand year old vampire! I don't think you'll have any problem pulling off a simple mind suggestion on an old lady!"

Innocent face. Surely she must be swayed.

"Oh boy," Sookie says, rolling her eyes, but she pushes up off the bed and heads toward the window. "Fine. But no funny business."

Eric nods, then tries not to be distracted while she again hikes her skirt up in order to clamber over the windowsill. He fails miserably, but that only encourages him to ensure that he moves quickly on the old lady so that he can get Sookie home and start turning all these fantasies into reality. For now, he waits until he hears her feet hit the soft ground below the windowsill before he turns back to Caroline. Her eyes follow his unerringly, her mouth slightly ajar. He seeks out that spot inside her mind and finds it, an empty jar waiting to be filled.

"Sookie and I were never here," he begins. "But you had a dream."

"A dream," Caroline repeats.

"In your dream you realized that the common ancestor that Portia and Bill share in the distant past is insignificant."

Caroline's brow furrows. "I did?"

"Yes," Eric says. He pushes a little harder, fills that jar just a tiny bit more until Caroline's forehead smooths and she smiles vacantly.

"Yes," she agrees, "I did."

"You will now no longer object to Bill and Portia's marriage on that basis."

"No, of course not. There's no reason why they can't be married."

"Very good. Now, Caroline, this part is very important," Eric says, leaning forward. "Whenever you think of something rude or malicious or in any way unkind to say to or about Sookie Stackhouse, you will refrain from speaking those thoughts aloud. In fact, you will feel disappointed in yourself that you are even thinking such things, and endeavor to do better in the future. Are we clear on this?"

"I understand," Caroline says. "Sookie has a good heart."

Eric pushes again, fills the tiny jar to the brim.

A minute later, after giving Caroline instructions on when to awaken from her glamour, he appears outside the bedroom window to find Sookie leaning against another of the oak trees on the property a dozen feet away. She straightens when he rushes to her side, laughs when he sweeps her into his arms and kisses her.

"Portia will get the fair start to her marriage that you wished for," he says against her lips before setting her on her feet.

Yet apparently one kiss was not enough, for Sookie smiles before she pulls him down to kiss her again. "See?" she says when they finally part. "Doesn't it feel good to do something nice for somebody?"

"Yes, it does," he says.

He allows Sookie to take his hand and steer him back towards the wedding reception.

By the time they make their slow way back to the white tents, Caroline Bellefleur is already on the fenced terrace, smiling and talking animatedly with Bill while a shell-shocked Portia looks on.

Sookie beams up at him and elaborately dusts her hands together. "Looks like our work here is done," she says.

Eric can't help but perk up at that. "Really, Sookie? Because I can fly us home in a few minutes and have you naked in bed by-"

"Eric!" Sookie shushes him, glancing around to make sure no one overhead. Not that Eric would care. He would shout of the pleasures they share from the rooftops if she would let him. Then she grins mischievously. "What about your car?"

"I'll have someone pick it up tomorrow."

"Ginger?" Eric staggers back, gasping and clutching at his chest, and Sookie giggles. "All right, not Ginger. But I think we should drive home."

"Sookie-"

"It's all about the anticipation."

He knows all about anticipation. He has waited what felt like an eternity to be one with Sookie. Never in his long life has two years felt so long. Now, he doesn't ever want to wait. He wants her by his side, always.

She must feel his disappointment through their bond, because she reaches up to pat his cheek, giggles when he playfully nips at the pad of her thumb. "Just let me make a quick trip to the ladies room and then we can leave," she promises him.

Eric bows deeply. "I await your pleasure."

He follows her with eyes, enjoying the sway of her ass beneath the silk of her gown, and imaging exactly what he will do with her when he gets her home. He's aware of everyone nearby, of course, as Sookie picks her way through tangles of both humans and vampires chatting amiably and, in the case of the humans, often drunkenly in patches on the lawn as she makes her way toward the house. He senses amusement when she is stopped briefly by her brother, then a twinge of annoyance when Andy Bellefleur stumbles into her path.

Eric takes no particular notice of Christopher Selivan until he feels Sookie's quick flash of anxiety. He is at her side in a heartbeat, fangs drawn, Selivan's bicep in a vice grip. He'll rip the vampire's tongue from his throat, American Vampire League or no American Vampire League, if he said a word out of place to his Sookie.

"Is this vampire bothering you, Sookie?" he grits out.

"Eric, no!" Sookie says.

"Apologies, Eric. I meant no disrespect," Selivan grovels.

"Let him go, Eric. It's all right," Sookie tells him.

With a snarl, Eric reluctantly releases the other vampire, who vanishes out of sight as soon as he can. Eric turns to Sookie, ignoring the shocked faces of the few non-drunken humans who witnessed his abrupt arrival and his manhandling of the other vampire. The aftershocks of feeling Sookie's apprehension through the bond are still vibrating through his skin. He cares only for her, moves with her away from the press of human flesh. "What happened?" he demands.

And if her explanation is not satisfactory, there will be time to flay the skin from Selivan's bones tomorrow night.

"Eric, your…" Sookie waves her hand around her mouth, and Eric retracts his fangs with an audible pop.

"Now," he says, asking instead of snarling, "what happened?"

"Nothing!" Sookie insists. When Eric merely stares at her, she sighs. "I mean, sure, he called me 'sweetheart' and I thought he was goin' to grab my arm, but when I turned around he got one look at me and he just went pale. I mean, you guys are pale already but he went white as a sheet. And then he backed away like I was made of holy water or somethin'."

"You know that holy water has no effect on-"

"It's an expression, Eric."

"I see."

"Anyway, that was it. I'm fine, really." She reaches up to finger the necklace at her throat distractedly, then leans forward and lowers her voice. "But you know what? You rushin' over here to defend my honour and everything? That was pretty hot."

Eric feels his fangs start to descend again – and for a much better reason – and forces them back by one thousand year old will alone. "You do have a habit of finding trouble, Miss Stackhouse," he makes himself say lightly. "I've learned that I must always be on my toes where you are concerned."

"Hmm," Sookie says. "You know, my life was so boring before you came along."

"Do you ever wish for your life to go back to the way it was?" Eric asks.

"I used to," Sookie answers honestly. "All the time. When I was with Bill and I was always gettin' hurt, and not just physically, I'd tell myself that bein' with him made it all worth it, but that was just me lyin' to myself because I couldn't admit how fucked up everything was. And then Bill keepin' me full of his blood didn't help me get my mind straight. So whenever I thought, 'Gee, I wish things were simpler like they were before Bill came to Bon Temps,' I'd feel guilty for even thinking it."

"And now?" Eric asks.

He steels himself for her answer, because if she says that she wishes to be free he honestly doesn't know if he will be able to let her go. And then she will hate him. And he thinks he may wish to suffer the True Death than continue to exist in a world where Sookie hates and fears him.

She takes his hand, and smiles at him, and Eric suddenly feels buoyant, weightless.

"Now," she says, "I know what real love is. And I wouldn't go back for anything in the world." She pats his chest before adding pragmatically, "Now, I really have to go to the bathroom. Wait for me here? I'll be just a minute."

Eric captures her hand, raises it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. "I'll be here, hjärtanskär."

He again watches her go, and remembers centuries of mindless encounters with faceless humans, insignificant vampires. He, too, would never wish to go back. She is his everything, and he vows again to protect her from any danger that crosses her path.

He glances across to the terrace, where Caroline Bellefleur still has Bill cornered.

He will protect Sookie from everything, Eric thinks again, even from the cross tongues of crotchety old women.

He just hopes Sookie never finds out that he added that little addendum to Caroline's glamour or he's going to be in big trouble.