Author: Kendra

Rating: Mostly T, if rating changes for the chapter, I will notify you

Pairing: Predominantly, Tara/Franklin, but others will be shown

Characters: the list grows for the chapter. This one is only Tara and Franklin

Reviews: Yes, please. I'll need feedback to tell me what I'm doing right/wrong since this is my first True blood fanfic

A/N: I haven't read the books so any spoilers are from the season 3 episodes, which will be the name of the chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own TB

Beautifully Broken

Some ridiculous Johnny Cash song was playing on a beat-up and worn jukebox machine, and he heard men from different corners of the room shout about menial news going on in the last week: a man was shot and killed by some heroic detective, someone was getting married, someone was gonna get laid tonight, and some hick thought he'd eventually strike it rich with the lotto. Why the hell anyone would work here, let alone the woman in the picture he had found in Bill Compton's home, he had no clue. One of the files he had came by in Compton's drawer-obliviously kept within reach and not difficult to find to say the least- had said that a Ms. Sookie Stackhouse was currently employed here, and if he could just ask a few questions he could get out of this hell hole they call Bon Temps. Sitting at a stool, he then recognized the black waitress leaning against the countertop, staring at some imaginable point that he could not fathom. His eyes gazed to the right lapel searching for a name tag, only to gaze at an unhooked button at the top of her work blouse. "Busy night…" he said, his eyes sweeping back over the bar, searching for a blonde woman, or at least the owner of the bar that would be "privy" to give him information. "….you the only waitress?" his gaze returned to her, catching her eyes for the first time. What he saw in them drowned out the background noise.

"Actually, I'm the bartender and I ain't workin' tonigh'"

"Well, what are you doing here?"

"Honestly?" she fixed him with those eyes, eyes that held sorrow and anger, and there was something else, but he couldn't classify it. He tried to say a yes, but he could only incline his head and arch his eyebrow.

"Tryin' not to kill myself."

He wondered then-more than ever- what type of town this was, where the bartender was spilling their heart and soul to a random stranger, when the unspoken code was the reversal. How was he supposed to respond? How does anyone respond when someone talks about suicide and you don't even know them. Normally, and what he should have done was cut her off the diatribe she'd probably start, ask for a Trublood O-neg, and get out of there since he couldn't meet his objective tonight; but instead, he felt drawn and compelled to stay. "And how's that goin' for you?"

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

He thought about that statement. Here would be the perfect opportunity to stop the conversation. If he stopped here, he could go back to Russell tell him of some of his findings for today and find some poor sucker to drain, not to mention, he wouldn't have to hear her talk about her feelings and ask for pity, nor would he have to pretend to give her any. But she didn't continue talking, and the silence that he thought he should hope for was making him feel anxious. "That makes one of us." And he looked at her, he was waiting for the reviled expression to enter her eyes, to see repulsion, but what he saw was only a minor shock, as if she had seen vampires here before. Had Bill Compton often visited this place? His curiosity peaked further.

"You got any Trubloods left?"

She left the countertop to walk to the fridge and he allowed his eyes to run along the length of her body before moving back to her face as she turned away from the fridge to hold out a Trublood, "We've only got B positive and the microwave's busted." She set it down on the countertop and he had the inclination to reach for it and accidentally touch her fingers before they left its base, but he resisted.

"You a friend of Bill Compton's?"

He looked at the tiny little label of the slogan on Trublood "Friends don't let friends drink friends" and thought about that question before replying, "No." He thought, If she knew Bill by name, he must have been here frequently or she had a rapport with one Sookie Stackhouse. "You?"

She shook her head to signify a no, swallowed out of perhaps an autonomic response or out of fear at how close she was to a foreign vampire. And then, instead of talking anymore about Bill or asking him questions, or even talking about her attempts at surviving, she walked away, pretending that she had customers who needed her at the other end of the bar. He felt angry. Why the hell did he care two cents about people here unless their names were Sookie or Bill? Why did she have to talk about her problems? Why did she leave?

Some idiot put another quarter in the fucked up machine and it was now playing Johnny Cash's "Hurt" and he felt a migraine coming on. He put the cold trublood to his lips, feeling as the coagulated blood slowly inched towards his lips and tongue. Vile. Too cold. Too wrong of a consistency. Too artificially synthetic. He let his eyes go back to the no-name bartender/waitress and urged himself to leave. Even as she grabbed a Vodka bottle and walked to the bar, he sat on the stool, wondering if she was just taking a break.

As she was gone, he was able to actually think and reflect on the day's events. Not only was he able to gain a few files that Bill had in his newly acquired home, but he also found, in a little trap door that led to a sublevel basement, a treasure: A corpse, barely two days old. He'd known who had Bill and where he was, and he knew that that was well before this body showed up, which led him to suspect that there was someone or something else living in that home. He smiled, this mission would be over soon, and the sooner the better, he felt himself being distract-

Craaaaash

A broken bottle was shattering into pieces against gravel that could only be in the back of the bar. In less than a second he was there and he heard it.

"You're the one who fucked a killer, bitch."

Without thinking, he punched the guy, sending his body close enough for his face to collide with a pick up truck's window, and he heard the tiny crick of one nasal bone breaking. He came behind him, holding the man's hands behind his body. His head turned towards one of the men, who, unlike his friend, was still conscious, "Apologize to the lady…" his eyes traveled back to the woman, only to see her shocked. Was she shocked at what he had done or shocked at her own actions?

"Now you gone fuck a vampire too."

He heard it. The man moaning as her fist hit his jaw with such a force that he felt himself tightening his grip on the man's wrists to keep him from falling to the ground. "I said," he breathed, his eyes boring into hers as that emotion he can't name returned, "apologize to the lady." What the asshole said next surprised him. Had he no fear?

"Fuck you."

And then that's when the onslaught began. She kept punching, and as she punched, he saw her crumble, and as she drew blood, he felt his fangs protrude. She never seemed more beautiful, crying and destroying a man that hardly could defend himself.

He then knew, Bon Temps was going to be a HUGE distraction.

To be continued...