Disclaimer: Set in Charlaine Harris's wonderful world. All credit to her for imagining it and the characters I play with.
Author's Note: Thank you for nominating Turbulence for the TB/SVM fanfic awards - I'm chuffed to bits & very grateful to my lovely readers. Just the boost I needed this week after surgery!
This was a little long for a one-shot so I split it up. It should work as a standalone without reading Turbulence.
(A quick reminder of where we are in the main story: after three years in Oklahoma, Eric is free and Freyda is dead. Sookie and Sam's marriage is on the rocks, partly due to the effects of the fairy wish, effects which Sookie left the country to remove. This is set during her absence.)
It's different in tone to Turbulence, as if the characters stepped out of that world for a moment to reflect. Which is exactly what Eric and Rory are doing, stepping out of their lives to see, really see, each other.
Trust
January
It's a terrible thing to be alone – yes it is – it is –
but don't lower your mask until you have another mask prepared beneath – as terrible as you like – but a mask.
Katherine Mansfield.
Eric landed silently on the empty road.
He had flown over the lake and then used the directions he'd been given to identify this spot from the sky. This particular road, a narrow branch of the network that veined these woods, was a seldom used dead-end that curled back towards the lake.
He was told to proceed on foot from this point, where the black-top ended.
A rough driveway, not much more than a dirt track, led off into the trees. It looked neglected, thick tufts of grass and weeds sprouting between its fading tire tracks. The mailbox beside it was rusty.
Eric frowned. He wasn't sure he was in the right place. He gave the mailbox a cursory glance, checking for a house number or a name, but it had neither. Then he gave it a longer look. Under the discoloured paint, it was a sturdy structure of cast-iron, decorated with delicately worked vines and flowers.
Eric smiled and strode confidently down the track.
The first bend gave him a glimpse of a dilapidated house through the trees. The dwelling was dark and looked abandoned, its windows broken and rotten holes in the clapboards, but Eric didn't hesitate.
At the next bend, an ornate but rusty pair of iron gates stood open, hanging crookedly on either side of the track. Eric shivered as he passed between them. His smile returned as his surroundings melted and reformed.
The illusion was gone.
The track was suddenly clear of weeds, well-kept and freshly gravelled. A sturdy rambling house nestled in the trees ahead. Its walls were stone and it had a pristine slate roof. All of the windows were intact and several glowed with a warm yellow light. Eric blurred to the front steps.
The fae-demon hybrid who called herself Rory Kingfisher opened the door as he reached it. Barefoot and wearing simple blue dress, she was dressed lightly for the cold night.
Smiling at him, she invited Eric inside.
Eric followed her into the house, examining his surroundings curiously. In the lobby a jumbled pile of shoes gathered under the stairs, and coats and scarves threatened to tumble from the overfull coat rack. He caught a glimpse of a library stuffed with overflowing bookcases and from the interesting smells of cooking and herbs a stone-tiled passageway led back to the kitchen. Through another door, he saw a formal dining room complete with a glittering chandelier and bold red and black wallpaper.
It was … eclectic, a jumble of styles and colours. If he was brutally honest, as was his habit, he would say it was clean, but chaotic and cluttered. He found the lack of order didn't surprise him; it fitted with what he knew of the impetuous redhead from their short acquaintance.
Rory had been the one to suggest they meet to talk and to deepen their knowledge of each other. Something that was in his interests given he'd thanked her and she could hold that debt over him as long as she wanted. Even without that incentive, he might have agreed out of pure curiosity. He was intrigued by the healer who'd helped him so freely, above and beyond what was strictly necessary.
It wasn't just about what he owed her, though.
There was something about her that called to him.
She led him to a large comfortable sitting room at the back of the house, decorated in cheerful shades of yellow. She walked straight through it, past the well-stuffed chairs and an oak coffee table scattered with piles of papers, newspapers and books. He glanced at the titles. Mostly medical. He assumed she was brushing up on the advances humans had made in her field.
Rory stopped in front of a closed pair of glass-panelled doors. With her hands resting on the handles, she grinned mischievously over her shoulder at him.
"This room would be best I think. It's warded for privacy." She waited for him to get closer and then threw the doors open with a flourish.
It was dark beyond the doorway, but Eric could see well in the dark and what he saw was a glass roof, stone paths and a profusion of greenery. He quirked an eyebrow. "A hothouse. Is my blood too cold for y–?"
He broke off, inhaling the wonderful fragrance sharply. His eyes fluttered closed briefly in pleasure.
Rory smiled gleefully at his reaction. "Welcome to my indoor garden, Eric."
She disappeared through the doors into the darkness, threading her way between the plants that crowded the spacious glasshouse, heading towards a paved area where a pair of couches and a low table waited.
Eric didn't follow her directly. He meandered through the plants, identifying the flowers filling the air with their scent. Evening primrose, Angel's trumpet and jasmine, all old favourites that had scented his nights over the centuries. He stopped by the honeysuckle to inhale greedily, disturbing the moths feeding on it. Wondering how they got in, he glanced up to find a skylight open to the night sky.
He made his way over to his hostess, stopping again near the couches, next to a waist-high bush covered in tiny pale flowers. It had a delicate, light fragrance. He inhaled, trying to place it, and frowned at it. "I don't know this one."
Rory had lit three large beeswax candles and was sitting on one of the couches watching him with amusement. "No, you wouldn't. It's fae. Very rare. A gift from an old friend."
"Ah." He took the other couch and sat in the centre of it, legs spread and arms draped across the back; a relaxed posture that oozed power and dominance. Rory curled her legs under her like a cat relaxing: inoffensive, unthreatening, and yet poised to pounce in an instant.
"A hobby?" Eric asked, gesturing to their surroundings.
She nodded. "I am something of a collector. The specimens here are either useful to my work or simply exotic and beautiful. This is perfect for them. And me. All fae have an affinity with nature and this is where I recharge. It's my sanctuary."
He cocked his head. "You are a creature of the day. Yet you have many night flowering plants."
"True. But I keep odd hours. And I have one thing in common with you creatures of the night." He raised an eyebrow. She smiled. "Your kind relies heavily on scent. I think a flower without scent is like a meal without flavour, don't you agree?"
His mouth twitched at her witty reply and its allusion to her own absence of scent and her reluctance to be bitten. "So knowing this about my kind, you chose this room full of scents released in the hours of darkness to enthral me."
She shook her head and smiled. "To show we share the same pleasures. That we aren't so far–"
They both looked up at a sharp noise, too highly pitched for human ears. Rory grinned widely and lifted herself up onto her knees, raising one arm and making a quiet clicking noise in her throat that earned her a quizzical look from her companion.
A dark shape, fast and flickering in the dim light, swooped down and landed awkwardly against her outstretch arm, wrapping around her wrist like a piece of dark leather. She gently cradled it to her chest and lowered herself back down to the couch. She spoke a few words in a liquid lilting tongue that Eric knew to be some dialect of fae before switching to whispered English. "There, little one. There are plenty of moths for you tonight."
Eric leaned forward, fascinated as he watched her stroke the creature. She shot Eric a glance, and seeing his interest slowly held out her arm towards him. Just as slowly, he stretched out to meet it with a single finger that dwarfed the delicate animal. He caressed it lightly, finding its fur soft and velvety.
After a minute, the bat shifted a little and bared its sharp teeth.
Eric grinned. "I know that look. He is hungry."
Rory grinned too, baring her own teeth like a feral cat. "One hunter knows another." She said something quick and light in the fae tongue, and threw up her arm to launch the bat back into the air. "Eat well this night, my friend."
She gestured at the goblet in front of Eric as she reached to pick up her glass. "A toast. To trust."
"To trust." They both drank, the red wine staining her lips darkly and the fresh blood clinging to his teeth. He licked his lips clean before he spoke.
It was a pleasant conversation, both parties finding common ground. They talked of the world, the human world. Progress: how much had changed since she was last in this realm. Technology: how useful it was, how frustratingly limited. They joked a little, gossiped a little about the players in their world, the supernatural one that humans barely saw. They touched soberly on recent events, the politics of their own kinds that swirled around their lives.
That was all they discussed before they parted amicably.
Nothing personal. Not that first night.