It's more than an hour past dawn when Sam wakes in the lazy sunlight with the urge to just run. He takes the form of a big dog, shaggy and strong, and slips out of his trailer. Runs through the forest, just runs. Barks because he can and because it feels wonderful. Pisses against all his favourite trees and chases the smell of a rabbit through the underbrush.

Maybe being born a shapeshifter is a curse in some ways but Sam wouldn't swap it for anything.

In the parking lot of Merlotte's bar Rick's useless car sits forlorn. Sam puts his front feet up on the window. He can't see so with a shake, he shifts again, becomes a wolf, tall enough to see Rick asleep in the back seat, his long form scrunched uncomfortably, a blanket a little too short pulled over himself.

Another shake, and Sam is a dog again. Scratches at the door for reasons that aren't clear to him beyond the doggish instinct to rouse a human being one is fond of.

Rick opens the back door to find a shaggy white dog sitting with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging.

"Hello, dog," he says, solemn. Reaches out a hand until Sam bounds over, puts his feet on Rick's legs and shoves his nose in Rick's face.

Rick laughs, a proper laugh, because he is pleased to have been visited by a dog in the warm morning sunshine. He roughs at Sam's neck, lets Sam lick his face. "Good dog. Got a name, dog? No collar," he says, as Sam lays his head on Rick's knees. "Look like you belong to someone, though. You're in better condition than I am. At least your fur's clean. I haven't had a proper wash in days."

Inspired, Sam leaps away, looks back. Leaps away again, looking back to make sure Rick knows he's supposed to be following.

"Okay, dog, I'll play," he says, pulling on his shoes, and Sam runs again.

It's less then ten minutes before Sam and Rick are at the edge of a clear, bright creek. Rick toes his shoes off, pulls his shirt over his head. Smiles broadly at Sam. "You're a fuckin' smart dog," he says. "Seriously. Or else I really stink."

For decency's sake Sam doesn't watch Rick finish stripping down but once he's dropped his pants on the top of the pile, Sam takes a running jump into the water, landing with a splash moments before Rick does.

They dive beneath the water together and break the surface together and Sam doggy paddles in the most literal sense while Rick does a lazy backstroke, his limbs fluid and languid and his face a lot more peaceful than it had been. Once Rick is clean, he lies on the bank to dry, with Sam curled up at his side.

"So what do you think, dog? It's not like there's anywhere else for me to go." Rick reaches an arm out to scratch Sam behind the ears. "Should I stay for a bit?"

Sam barks, and flips over, sticking his nose into Rick's neck.

"You're probably right," he says with a sigh, letting his eyes drift shut.

...

Before the lunch rush starts, Rick walks into Merlotte's and slips into the back and Sam doesn't even know it until he hears a tentative knock on the office door. "Come in," he calls, and when Rick steps blinkingly inside, Sam nods. "You look to be in a better mood."

"Had an interesting morning. You know a dog that lives around here? Big shaggy white thing? Doesn't have a collar." He looks hopeful and cheered.

(Sam wants to leap up. Tell Rick it was him who Rick swam with, the smart dog. Wants to throw his arms around Rick and make him smile and wishes they could go out there again, right now, run some more. Sam knows, though, that in a world where vampires are suddenly real, most people are not yet ready for the rest of it.)

"Haven't seen him," Sam says.

Rick offers his hand for Sam to shake, newly formal, and Sam fights the urge to give him a course in Southern etiquette but instead, he shakes.

"Alaric Saltzman," he says. "Ric."

Ah. There it is.

"Ric." Sam nods, shaking. "I'm still just Sam Merlotte."

"Do you need me today?" Alaric makes an odd, apologetic look. "It'd be good to have something to do."

Sam nods. "Tonight, sure. Today, not so much. Look, you got laundry…? I got a machine, not for nothin'."

"I really don't want to impose…"

"It ain't an imposition, Ric. Just use the fuckin' machine, for fuck's sake," Sam says, "And the dryer too. It's so humid out here nothing ever dries without it. See you at five." He hands Alaric the key to his trailer and the laundry room and Sam's own heart and Alaric takes it, nodding and feeling foolish. Sam calls him back a moment.

"I got a good ear, Ric," he says. "If you need one."

Alaric smiles brightly but fails to look any less miserable. "Nope," he insists. "I'm good."

"Yeah, you're just fine," Sam tells the door as it closes with a soft click.

...

On the third night, as Alaric slips out of the closed bar, Sam calls him back. "Have a drink with me," he says, figuring Alaric doesn't seem like the kind of man who turns down a drink too often. He nods, grabbing a seat at the bar while Sam pours beers and puts a bottle of bourbon on the bar between them, two tumblers.

"To the South," Sam says as their glasses click together. Rick throws eyebrows north but repeats the cheer.

Sam clears his throat. "You gonna tell me yet what's brung you out here?"

Alaric shakes his head. "You ready to kill yourself laughing?"

"Hasn't happened yet," Sam says, pouring bourbon. "Try me."

Alaric takes a tentative mouthful of bourbon, and then a second, less tentative, more fortifying. "I'm trying to leave vampire trouble in my rear view mirror," he admits at last.

Sam laughs but not enough to die from, and he pours Alaric another drink. "Well you came to the wrong fucking town for that." Even as he says it he pictures the scars low on Alaric's hip and wonders what kind of trouble; the kind that gets you held down and drunk from or the kind that has you serving yourself up on a platter.

"I didn't know it was like this down here. I came from Vir-Virginia, and they're still tryin' to stay under the radar there." Interesting; for a moment he'd considered lying about where he was from, too. "Think I'll try Maine next."

"What kind of trouble?"

"It's a long story."

"This is Louisiana," Sam says. "Long as it's a good one, we love a long story."

Alaric shakes his head. "Really. Went looking for a vampire – one I planned to kill – and got a whole lot more than I bargained for."

It's all he's going to get for just now so Sam pours more drinks and talks about life in Bon Temps now that the vampires are strutting around like Mary Magdalene on a Saturday night. They're both tipsy and yawning when Alaric stands reluctantly and takes a step away from the bar.

"I gotta go, Sam," Alaric admits. "Need to get some sleep. Five tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow's Monday and the bar's quiet. Not even I work Monday."

That takes the wind right out of Alaric's sails. "Guess I'll find something to do." He smiles a little and gives a sharp, manic nod, before stepping away.

"Ric. Wait."

Alaric turns and waits, cautious.

"I got a couch. Not for nothin'," he says. "It's not bad to sleep on. Done it myself more'n once."

"I don't wanna impose," Alaric answers, taking a reluctant step away.

"What the fuck happened to you, that you can't let someone show you the least bit of kindness?"

The words tumble from Sam's mouth before he has time to shape them, and they sound harsher then he means them to. For a moment, he feels afraid; Alaric might get angry, storm out, argue. Dump the station wagon and run, buy a bus ticket.

Instead, he slumps. Rubs at his temples.

"I don't even know where to start."

Sam nods. "Start by kipping the night on my goddamn couch. Chill out tomorrow, watch some fucking TV. Read a book, you look like a reader." Sam stands, crosses slowly to where Alaric stands. "You hit the road however many days ago and now you land here, take up a bartending job just like that. Slow. The fuck. Down."

Alaric studies his toes for a long moment and nods, at last. "Yeah. You might have a point." He meets Sam's eyes. "Thanks."

Sam resists drawing Alaric in for a hug, but feels a strange stirring. From the look on Alaric's face, it's not out of the question. Good enough for now.

The couch isn't quite long enough for Alaric's lanky frame but it's a lot more spacious than the back seat of a car so while Alaric collects a few things from his car, Sam collects a sheet and a light blanket, some pillows. Nothing much to look at but it's likely to be the best night's sleep Alaric has had in some small while, now.

Hilariously, Alaric knocks. Sam shakes his head with his lip curled to incredulous. "'s open," he calls, pulling a pillowcase over a pillow.

It takes Sam thirty seconds to give Alaric the grand tour. "I got errands to run in the mornin'," he says, "and I'll likely be gone when you get up. But you're welcome to anything in the fridge and you go ahead and take a hot shower."

Alaric nods.

Sam turns to his bedroom. "Sam?" Alaric calls back, unsteady again. "You don't know me from Adam, man."

"Adam? Naked guy with a fig leaf over his family allowance? Reckon I could tell you apart. You're kinda stubbly." Sam smiles in a way he hopes is friendly, but not suspect.

"You know what I mean. Why would you help me?"

Sam pauses and banishes the thought of putting his arms around Alaric; he'd feel like an asshole, now, so he shrugs. "I've always taken in strays," he says at last. "No hardship."

He nods again and pulls the bedroom door shut behind him.

...

In the morning Alaric is awake and stretched out on the couch in nothing but his boxers, enjoying the way the sunshine plays over his skin. He nods at Sam, smile bright. Lighter than he was yesterday, maybe.

Sam tries hard not to look at the way Alaric's muscles are emphasised when he stretches to yawn, Alaric's irritation when he scratches his chin. He needs a shave, maybe, but Sam likes the stubble.

All languid arms and legs, Alaric rises to his feet. "You sure you don't know a great big white dog around here? He'd be hard to miss." Alaric's accent is clean, educated. Sam likes it and he likes Alaric asking after the dog too so his heart stutters a little.

"No. Why?"

Alaric shrugs, taking the electric kettle to fill. "No real reason. We've gone down to the creek out there together the last couple of mornings. Nice dog."

"I'll be sure and keep an eye out," Sam promises. After a cup of coffee and a bite of toast Sam excuses himself to run his errands.

He gets no further than quarter mile up the road before he pulls over to think.

"Fuck it," he whispers under his breath. He strips off his clothes and tucks them under the front seat, buries his keys beneath a small cairn he'll easily recognise when it's time to come back and then with a shake, the big white shaggy dog exists again, running back to Alaric's side.

"There you are, dog," Alaric says on Sam's porch minutes later, roughing at his neck, letting Sam stick his nose into the crook of his neck. "Coming out to the creek? Knew you'd come back. Why doesn't Sam know you, eh?" Alaric ties his sneakers up while Sam prances, impatient. Sam runs ahead, doubles back frequently, chasing rabbits and the occasional lizard until they finally make it to the water.

Alaric strips to his boxers and they jump into the water together, splashing around. After a time Alaric crawls back up onto the bank, and is silent a long time. Sam curls up against his side, puts his head up on Alaric's thigh. His doggy mind can only really process favourite person, and seek to banish the lingering sadness on Alaric's face.

"I'm a total fuckup, dog," he says, scratching Sam's head. "You know that?"

Sam barks in protest but the problem with barking is it all sounds pretty much the same; protest, agreement, rabbit, vampire.

Alaric lets his eyes drift closed and dozes for long moments. At last, Sam licks his face, rousing him, running in doggie circles and then away.

Dressed and sitting in the car, Sam spends long moments thinking, because Alaric is clearly a man who needs to talk and can't. There's no one so gone you can't get through to them and Sam is patient but right now, goddamnit, he doesn't want to be patient; wants to cajole the story out of Alaric and if that doesn't work, he wants to kiss Alaric from head to toe until he's so relaxed and happy the story comes pouring from him.

Sam's erection is physically painful by the time he notices it. "Go away," he says firmly to his crotch, pointing like a schoolmarm. "I mean it."

Since this doesn't work Sam jerks off behind a tree, and then heads out to complete his errands.

...

By the time Sam arrives home it is early afternoon. He has a trunk full of food for his own use and better beer than Merlotte's sells and without a word, Alaric stands from where he was resting on a patio chair with a book to help him carry it all inside.

"Having some folk around for a few drinks and a barbecue," Sam says by way of explanation as Alaric eyes the meats, the fresh vegetables.

"Just tell me what to do," Alaric says, nodding. "I've been feeling a bit useless all day."

In silent companionship they prepare food, Alaric chopping garlic and fresh herbs impossibly fine to marinate the meats.

"You're not from Virginia," Sam says, and Alaric looks up with something like annoyance on his face; "maybe you came from there this week, but you weren't brung up there."

Alaric nods. "Born and raised in Boston. A long stint at Du- a long stint in Durham."

"College boy," Sam says, but without the judgment in his tone that many from Bon Temps would carry. "What kinda work you do?"

Alaric shifts uncomfortably, and doesn't answer.

"You like being mysterious, huh?" Sam rinses vegetables under the sink.

When Alaric starts to speak it comes out in a tumble; "I was an academic at Duke. Civil War History. 'swhere I met my wife, Isobel. But the last few years I've been a high school history teacher, in Virginia. I know," he says, "not a traditional career path. It wasn't exactly planned."

Sam dries capsicums and bright red tomatoes on a tea towel printed with a terrible gumbo recipe. "Your wife?"

"Dead," Alaric says, and his tone betrays little. "She left me to become a vampire."

Sam stops in his tracks but Alaric slices ginger into tiny threads.

"That's what you're runnin' from? Your wife…?"

"No. A couple of years ago, she killed herself. Guess it wasn't all she'd hoped for." Alaric laughs and there is no joy in it. He won't meet Sam's eyes. "I went looking for her killer, back when I thought she was dead-dead."

"You find 'im?"

"Yeah." The urge to poke and prod and demand answers is strong but Sam won't push because this is good progress for now and he doesn't want Alaric to start sleeping in his car again.

Sam tries for a change in subject. "Quite a ring you got there, Ric," he says, nodding at Alaric's right hand.

"I hate the fucking thing," Alaric answers, with a tone so vicious his lip twists in the telling of it.

Sam cracks open a couple of beers he takes from the fridge – a thank you and an apology in one – and he passes one into Alaric's waiting hand.

"Skeleton staff in the bar tonight, and everyone else is coming here."

"Can't wait to see what Tara's like without that sheen of professionalism." The comment makes Sam laugh out loud which, in turn, makes Alaric grin. It's a good grin.

People start to drift in about six o'clock, when the edge comes off the heat and the mosquitoes come out. Arlene with a nervous looking Terry Bellefleur and her two eldest, smiling children though the baby must be with a sitter. Lisa shakes hands with Alaric and says with a cheerful air, "Mommy's ol' boyfriend wuz a serial killer, but we wuzn't askairt." Coby nods his agreement.

Arlene leads them away with a series of muffled admonishments and Sam turns to explain to Alaric but Alaric looks unfazed, drinking deep from his bottle. Sam shakes it off and turns the sausages. Lamb and rosemary with a little apple. Beef and thyme. Lafayette's preferred butcher was a genius for sausages.

Sam barely has time to turn before Sookie Stackhouse leans to kiss him on the cheek. "Sam," she sings. "I have had the week to end all weeks." All dramatic declaration, as things always are with Sookie.

Sam says a little louder than necessity demands or courtesy allows, "you brought the bloodsuckers?" He fully expected she would but he has to make the observation anyway. The bloodsuckers in question stand a little straighter.

Alaric tenses, but doesn't look up.

"Don't be a beast," Sookie insists. "This whole polya- polio-" She takes a deep breath. "This thing with me and the boys is working out just splendid." The thought of Sookie sharing Adele Stackhouse's cottage with a pair of leeches makes Sam want to break something. "But I have had a week. Sorry I didn't make it into work."

"Yeah? Meet your replacement. Ric."

"Ric." Sookie takes his hand almost delicately, curtsies. Not worried at all about her job security. "Pleased to meet you, sure I am. So cute Sam throwin' a party to show off his new friend! These are my lovers, Bill and Eric." She doesn't see what Sam sees, the flicker of acknowledgment that passes between Alaric and Bill and Eric; a test and a challenge and a 'do not fuck with me and I won't fuck with you.' These days Sam hates them less but not much less and it irritates him beyond the telling of it that any invitation extended to Sookie is automatically presumed to include spooky, dark haired Bill and hulking blond giant Eric. For a moment alarm sends his eyes seeking Alaric's; is he craving the bites?

No. He's not. Alaric turns his back on the vampires and gives Sookie a terse nod as he pulls his hand away. "I'm not sure how long I'll be in town," he says. "Can't impose on Sam forever."

"Keep telling you it's not an imposition."

"I'm sure he's glad for the company." Sookie beams, and Alaric seems irritated. Nods and turns back to the meat.

Sam nudges Alaric's arm once they're alone again, Sookie flitting between Bill and Eric, both of whom are stealing small glances at Alaric; "you okay?"

"She reminds me of someone," Alaric answers. "A couple of someones, rolled into one. If I trip and call her Caroline or Elena, you know why. And she's…" Alaric shakes his head. "No, you know what? I don't wanna know. I'm in no position to judge."

Unbidden the image of the ghosted rings pops into Sam's mind and he glances at Alaric's hip, as if he could see through the faded maroon t-shirt. Alaric blushes slightly as if he can see into Sam's mind, and he runs a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture Sam's seen just about a thousand times now. Equally unconscious, his hand hovers momentarily over the scar as he takes another long sip of his beer.

"You were kept fer a time?"

Sam doesn't mean to ask so boldly.

Alaric winces. Whether he's familiar with the term or not it paints an ugly picture, but he stoops his head, turns toward the tree line and gives a half-nod, half-shake. "Something like that."

Sam watches Alaric as the night goes on; speaking in quiet, compassionate tones with Terry about his time in Iraq, inspecting Arlene's kids' treasures one by one, laughing with Lafayette (unfazed by Lafayette's frank overtures, even. When Lafayette puts his hand on Alaric's chest and purrs "mon cher, you are about the most fuckable thing I ever seen" Alaric laughs, and asks if it's a line that ever works. Nonplussed, Lafayette says "mostly I find I don't have to try too hard."), even holding his own with Tara. As Sookie tries to make small talk with Sam, Sam watches Alaric.

"I think it's nice, that you're gettin' a little experimental again, Sam Merlotte," Sookie declares, like she has a say; "I worried for a while you weren't never gonna move on from me. He seems very sweet, though a touch prejudiced."

"Prejudiced?"

"Well he don't like vampires, that's fer dang sure."

"Given that they eat people, that seems like self-preservation more'n prejudice, Sookie Stackhouse, and I'll thank you to mind your business. He's a friend and he's stayin' here and he's covering a few shifts at the bar until his car gets fixed."

"Still." Sookie cocks her head, her chin dimpling in the way Sam used to dream about, but doesn't any more; "I like him."

The gossips in Bon Temps whisper about Sookie and even when they don't, she hears their judgments in the things they think; and it makes Sam wonder what, exactly, Alaric is running from; someone after him? Local gossip? Something worse? It occurs to him that Sookie maybe knows more, and he has half a mind to ask, but he doesn't. It doesn't seem fair, when Sookie can read any human mind but can't read Sam's to ask her to violate Alaric's, when he plain wants some privacy.

Sookie gives Sam a look like she's daring him to ask.

Sam passes her a plate and she drifts away, towards her lovers, who are sipping on True Blood like it could convince anyone at all they're not drinking from Sookie. Sookie has more neck scarves and kerchiefs than every other woman in Bon Temps combined.

And then the night is drawing to a close, and people drift off, family units of every conceivable size and shape, and the bar is closed, too; and finally it's Sam and Alaric, collecting paper plates and filling a garbage bin with empty bottles. Alaric is collecting scraps of meat into a bowl.

"Bin it all. We ain't big on compost, here," Sam says, taking the bowl.

"It's for the dog," Alaric answers, a little sheepish. "He came back this morning after you left." Sam relinquishes the bowl with a dizzying rush of affection, and he nods.