Title: Skinny Love
Author: tinkercannon / land of a thousand words
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some non-explicit sexual content, very light death imagery
Pairings: Eric/Sookie
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to True Blood or The SVM by Alan Ball and Charlaine Harris, respectively. Title credit goes to Bon Iver's Justin Vernon.
Summary: Sookie and Eric deal with the aftermath of Sookie's transformation and the unfortunate arrival of the ill-timed apocalypse. AU, one-shot.
"Come on skinny love, just last the year."
The rain washed away the summer heat in a flood of pent up fury. The cracks in the earth fill up and fill up until they overflow, and when lightening breaks the darkened sky it reflects in the deepening pools.
She sits on her crumbling cement stoop and watches the earth drink up with shameless desire. Much in the same vein of her own blood-thirsty behavior; she quickly learns that there is no point in acting dignified when nature practically shoves the force of life in your wilted, pale face. The poorly constructed awning stretching uselessly over her head only gives the luxury of echoing sound. Other than the admittedly nostalgic memory it evokes, it does nothing, and the rain curls whatever hair she has up and around the tops of her ears.
The decision to cut it all off was a practical one. It wasn't what he said it was - something about her emotions getting the best of her, even when her heart had stopped beating it still controlled her every move, things of that irritating and condescending nature. Who needs long, thick, golden hair in this heat? And despite his tone, she knows that he would think she was beautiful even if she had decided to have a head as smooth as a baby's bottom.
They had been sitting on the unmade mattress she kept up in her dilapidated attic. No matter how many times he asks her to come stay with him, she'll keep saying no. There are just some things a girl needs to be able to call her own.
He had taken her grandmother's rusty scissors and she had sat patiently and watched as the long golden strands that she'd had her whole life fell onto her flattened fingers. He kissed the top of her head when he'd finished, and it was almost nauseatingly romantic. She interlocked their fingers anyway, she wasn't about to start complaining.
When she'd first been turned, she felt like there was some unspoken assumption that she had to be tougher and colder than she'd ever been before - like she had to think less of the little things. Like a kiss to the top of the head. But quite soon after she realized how silly she was being, and that the things that she thought had changed didn't actually change all that much at all. It wasn't as if she would be able to lay out in the sun anymore anyway. The cancer-causing chemicals wafting in the breeze had seen to that long-since forgotten joy.
She felt him moments before he was standing a foot in front of her; coat drenched in rain. Her chin rested apathetically in her palm as she stared at his feet and listened to the comforting deep baritone of his stoic voice.
"Don't you think it would be wise, my lover, to vacate this residence for a few weeks, at least?" His fists remain forever clenched in his pockets, and the moisture in the air has given his hair the cutest little curl.
A familiar sigh passes through her lips as she stares up into his eyes. He was being no pushier than usual, but there was something in his tone that had changed from the last time she'd been lying in his arms and he had once again requested her presence in his exclusive little getaway. And who was he really kidding? It was a morbid, depressing hole in the ground.
When she stood up, beads of moisture dripped down her neck and chest, and the long skirt she was wearing brushed the top of the water as she stepped down to the wet ground. "Eric," she replied with equal softness, "I appreciate your invitation, you know I do, I just ... I can't leave here. Not after everything that's happened. I can't ... at least not yet."
The familiar look of impatience with her stubborn behavior crosses his face, and that rare sound of boot soles in rain puddles triggers her acute sense of hearing that she had never really gotten the chance to use.
His larger hand wraps around her little one as he towers over her, the smell of him invading every one of her senses in a way that she will never tire of. It took her longer then she expected to simply shut-up and accept what had been right in front of her for so long.
He opened his mouth to say something else, maybe employ a different plan of attack to get her to leave with him, but she'd missed him these past few weeks, and having this conversation again wasn't something she really wanted to be doing.
"Please, Eric, let's not... do this again. Not right now."
He sighs heavily and drops his forehead wearily against her own. He seems tired, and although he would never tell her this, maybe even a little bit afraid. It's in the small moments like this one that she's almost happy that she was forced to become a member of the undead. She would hate to have left him all alone - with not even Pam to keep him company.
She gently tugs his hand with her own as she turns to walk inside the "house," up the not-so sturdy stairs and into the attic where she can stare up at the sky and pretend that the moon is hovering over them just like it used to. With every creak-creak of the staircase comes the drip-drip of the rain through the holes in the ceiling. There are puddles and dust where pieces of furniture used to sit. Pages of old romance novels scattered amongst the remnants of what once could only be described as Sookie Stackhouse. That's all gone now.
A stump of a candle sits in its own wax on the floorboards next to her bed, the flame flickers in the windy, wet air after she uses one of her last 5 matches to light it. Special occasions and all that.
He shrugs his jacket off of his shoulders and she can't help but think of first meetings, blood sticking around her lips like too many candy apples at halloween, and that sickening "howdy-doody" naivety she used to carry around with her like it meant something.
Her legs are wrapped around his waist and her long damp skirt shoved up her thighs before she can even blink. He kisses her for a longer time than she can ever remember - his lips pressed maddeningly to her own. Blood and saliva making for a slippery session of whispered moans and messy multi-lingual sentences that she can only barely comprehend. She twirls his soft hair around her fingers and breathes in every second of this moment; afraid that it might be their last.
Hours later and their sweat cools under a scratchy white sheet that was soft once upon a time. The smoothness of his skin makes up for the textured bed linen and she relishes his fingers trailing goosebumps across her flesh.
His voice vibrates deeply in her ear and she feels it all the way to the pit of her stomach, "How long has it been since you've fed?"
Another question she hates answering. When did she become so avoid, avoid, avoid?
"I'm fine Eric, I get what I need every few days." Just enough to stay alive, to walk empty streets, bury the dead, stand in front of Merlotte's and act like the roof hasn't caved in and Sam isn't lying somewhere with that glassy-eyed look only seen upon the faces of those who are already long gone.
She has no reason to lie, and he knows it, so he just keeps placing kisses to her neck every few minutes and humming sweet songs that she replays in her head when he's not around.
"You don't need to worry," his humming stops and it's quiet except for the wind and the rain whistling through the walls, "I was never planning on leaving you alone."
She knows that they'll have to leave eventually, and she'd meant what she'd said. She wasn't going to leave him alone. She would stay here until she couldn't and then they would move on. Another dirty mattress, uncomfortable sheets, and small comforts that only last a day or two before they serve no better purpose than to be more painful memories.
His arms wrap themselves tighter around her middle and she closes her eyes.
No matter how many times he's apologized to her for the nature of her fate, she knows that he would rather be truly dead than to have it be any other way.