Sookie stood in the mirror, pulling at the hip of her dress, inspecting her appearance. She was in the restroom of a country club in Birmingham, Alabama, attending the technically-illegal wedding of a werecat and the vampire remnants of Elvis Presley.
There was no more reasonable way to phrase it.
She had arranged her thick blonde hair into a tidy, intricate affair, and a single stray, curly tendril rested ever so lightly on her shoulder. She misliked the rather tight fit of her evening ensemble, but upon a thorough scouring of her closet she had decided that the other options would not do. She recatalogued the contents of her little purse- keys, wallet, phone, tampons.
As Bubba's best man, Bill Compton was somewhere behind the scenes of this operation. They had driven to Birmingham together last night, and they had booked separate motel rooms for the daytime. He had brought along a coffin for that very purpose, which, to Sookie, implied a degree of morbidity even on the way to a wedding.
Taking a seat in the makeshift chapel, she wondered what the role of "best man" entailed in this situation. There were maybe forty attendees here—it made some sense, Sookie thought. Bubba was not known as a social butterfly, and she assumed that most of these unknown people were members of Winifred's "social circle".
"Miss Stackhouse," Alcide Herveaux slid into the seat beside her, his tone facetiously formal. She laughed and reached out to hug him.
"How have you been?" Sookie asked warmly. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen him, and upon a second's reflection she realized that she might not want to remember.
"I'm alright," he said, studying her. "The pack has settled down a bit after..." he gestured vaguely.
Ahh. The last time she had seen him would have been—
"How are you?" he interrupted her train of thought. "Sorry about Eric. What could have possessed him to take up with Frigid Freyda..." He looked sympathetic, and disbelieving.
Sookie would have laughed at this sobriquet, but the overall conversation was sobering. "I didn't know you knew her," Sookie volunteered.
"Word gets around," he replied. He rubbed her shoulder amiably. She saw Pam heading towards them from across the room, noting that her heels were roughly the length of Sookie's hand. And of course her presence here meant—
"He's around here somewhere," Alcide said quietly—an afterthought and a warning. The well-dressed blonde sat next to Sookie, smiling at her faintly, but offering no real greeting.
"This is going to be weird as hell," she said to no one in particular. And as though on cue, the wedding procession began.
Bubba, Bill, and a preacher Sookie didn't recognize approached the dais first. Bill's eyes found her, and he winked in greeting. They took their places surrounding the altar. Bubba's face was shining with such childlike excitement that Sookie half expected him to start jumping up and down.
A solitary bridesmaid and groomsman walked slowly down the aisle. A Were and a vamp, Sookie thought. A flower girl and ring bearer, both of whom were surely relatives of the bride, came next. The girl flung petals with abandon, and the boy stared around, discomfited by his little tuxedo and the burden of the rings.
"Vampire Elvis, werecat bride," Sookie thought, and bit her tongue to keep from giggling.
Bill winked at her again, yards away. The maid of honor, most definitely a Were, took her spot opposite Bill.
And then the blushing bride, and an older woman, presumably her mother. Winifred was perhaps a few years older than Sookie, and her black hair was swept into a bun on the top of her head. Much like the ring bearer, she seemed uncomfortable with the occasion, and as she reached the altar she surreptitiously adjusted her dress. There was something strange in her dark eyes, and Sookie remembered the word Bill had used to describe her—"odd".
And then Sookie saw her face as her eyes met Bubba's. It was a look of such deep, wide-eyed affection that Sookie bit her lip. Sentimental, weepy old me, she thought, feeling a tear threaten. The preacher had begun speaking, but she was too preoccupied with the bride and groom to pay attention. Bubba was beaming again.
She chided herself for doing so, but she extended her telepathy to see what, if anything, Winifred's mind would show her. There was the typical blurry mess of a Were's mind, but beyond that, she could feel a strong, reddish-orange haze—it reminded her of warmth, of yearning, and more so of love.
A minute passed, and Bubba was speaking and nodding, and she could hear Winifred's mother blubbing. Then Winifred spoke, and Sookie berated herself for paying virtually no attention to the ceremony itself, because Bubba and the missus were headed back down the aisle, and the music and applause echoed throughout the room. Alcide had mysteriously vanished, and Pam winked Sookie a goodbye, then ran off—where?
Bill approached her, taking her arm and leading her out to the reception hall.
"Good evening, sweetheart," he said quietly into her ear, above the rumble of conversation. He placed a quick, chaste kiss high upon her cheek.
"Hello to you too," Sookie replied, patting her watery eyes daintily. She grasped at his arm, pulling him closer. He obliged, and she indulged herself by breathing in his scent. "How did it go?"
"It was... an experience," he said, choosing his words carefully. "The girl's family is a nervous bunch. Frenzied."
Sookie laughed, imagining Bill surrounded by agitated Were women, plus Bubba.
Minutes passed. Though Bill was quiet, barely speaking to the assorted guests seated at their table, Sookie atoned for his silence with what could be confused for giddy chatter. One by one, the guests became distracted by various means, and there was a lull in the conversation.
"You're bleeding," Bill whispered in her ear, after a moment. Of course, he could smell her. Sookie caught a flash of fang and quivered ever so slightly. His eyes were dark, and the hunger on his face was unmistakable.
"Shush," Sookie said, brushing him off. A familiar feeling stirred in her stomach, and she blushed. Not helping, she admonished herself. She looked up to see Eric, yards away—clearly looking for someone. Freyda had turned her back to them, and Sookie wondered as to the nature of the obligation that brought her here. Sookie stared down and worried her bottom lip—she wasn't in a mood to face Eric, not at a wedding, not with Bill.
As though to distract her, Bill's foot began to slowly stroke her calf under the table. She bit her lip harder.
"I think I'm going to get a breath of fresh air," she said as airily as she could manage.
"I'll come with you," Bill replied immediately.
"No. That's alright," she said. Bill's expression flickered, for a fraction of a second, before equilibrating. She wanted nothing more than to beat the hastiest retreat possible—away from Eric, away from Freyda, away from the great distraction Bill was becoming. She walked away unsteadily.
She stood on the deck, which was encased in white arches and tangled in paper lanterns. It was a pretty night, and the air was cool enough to relax her somewhat. She saw a Maine Coon scurry across the dimly lit yard, and she wondered for an instant whether it was Winifred. Another hysterical giggle threatened. A few couples trickled through the doors to join her on the deck, and Sookie decided to wander the yard for a moment. She left the deck, walking around an adjacent tree, and walked nose-first into a man's chest.
Of course he had known she was outside, Sookie thought, on edge again.
"Eric." She bit out his name, not looking at his face.
"How are you?" he asked, without preamble. She heard him inhaling deeply, almost grasping for her scent.
Sookie shrugged, willing herself to remain calm. "I'm the same as I've been," she responded evenly. She would not look at his face.
"Sookie, I miss you. God..." Eric trailed off as though at a loss, and Sookie found herself wondering once more to whom Eric prayed. "I miss you."
"I don't think I have anything to say, Eric."
"And I didn't think you would go back to him so soon," he said after a moment. There was a glint in his eye—jealousy, it registered dimly in Sookie's mind. He reached for her hand.
"No," Sookie came alive, the words ripping from her throat. She jerked her hand away wildly. "You do not get to touch me," she said, bordering on hysteria. He could have arrested her movement easily, could have grabbed her hands anyway, but he refrained and looked at her sorrowfully. Distrust was alien to Sookie's features.
And she felt Bill behind her, suddenly. Of course, he was already here, she thought, both relieved and vaguely dismayed. She couldn't go anywhere without some vamp tracking her movement. He was approaching the pair from behind, and his gaze was like ice. He did not move to touch Sookie, but his posture invited violence. His fangs glinted dully.
"Sookie?" It was not a question, and so she did not answer.
"Bill." Eric responded in her stead. His face was strangely expressive in the weak light—he appeared wounded, but the dominant expression was one of open contempt.
A smile—a familiar, unhappy smile—sprang unbidden to Sookie's face.
"I am going back to the party," she said through gritted teeth. Twenty-eight years of telepathy fought to restore her self-control. Her grin was huge and tight—it hurt the muscles of her face, cracked the corners of her lips.
"I think that Sookie would like you to leave her be," Bill began, stepping in front of her as though she had not spoken. His voice was cold and dark—it made her shiver. "And I would, too."
"You're one to talk," Eric scoffed. His stance had shifted, too, somewhat. He was a spring stretched to its capacity.
Fangs out, fangs everywhere, Sookie thought, and she shivered as she realized that they were well on the way to a physical fight. "Stop them," an exhausted voice whispered to her. And another voice told her that she had no obligation to be here—in the woods at one in the morning, near a fight between two hungry, angry, possessive vampires.
"Eric," she heard herself say. His eyes snapped to her, and he relaxed his stance immeasurably as his attention focused on her rather than his opponent. "You left me. That's it." she said flatly. She looked down at her strappy heels.
"Sookie-" It was his turn to whisper her name, sounding pained, and again she did not respond.
"Sookie is mine," Bill interjected helpfully, with the same inflection he had used years ago. She shivered again. The clench in her stomach was entirely unwelcome at this juncture.
Eric was facing him again, and they assessed each other grimly. She could practically hear the growling.
"You are acting like a pair of wild dogs with a bone," Sookie snapped, interrupting. Eric whirled to face her, looking as though she had slapped him. Bill had the decency to feign contrition, but his fangs did not retract. She turned her back to them, walking towards the paper lanterns and muffled music. They could fight like cats and dogs, but she didn't have to watch.
She reached the table of refreshments and ladled herself a glass of punch with more vigor than was necessary—something to cool her hot tongue. She simmered. The crowd of happy, dancing bodies—mostly Weres- paid her no attention. A donor wandered by, glancing at her conspicuously. This sure was a "very human wedding", Sookie thought sardonically.
"I'm sorry," she heard Bill say, to her left. He entered her peripheral vision.
Most of her frustration was, irritatingly enough, with Eric, she realized. He had left her, and yet he had sought her out, approached her tonight in the garden. What was the point of that now, other than to depress her? She sighed, and they watched the people. "That's all right," she conceded begrudgingly.
"Will you dance with me?" Bill asked after a moment. A new song was beginning—it was somewhat melancholy, limpid, but not without a note of contentment. It reminded her of a knot tied in thick rope, she decided. She nodded, and he took her hand and led her away.
"Nobody's perfect, nobody's perfect," the woman vocalized, "...but you're perfect for me." He pulled her hand again, turning her to face him. His arms encircled her, and she rested her hand on his arm. The posture brought them very close, and Sookie felt a blush rising in her cheeks for some reason. She was suddenly conscious of the prominence of her breasts.
Bubba appeared behind Bill's back, with Winifred in tow. Sookie pulled away to greet him, but he was entirely preoccupied. He had produced a microphone, and he shouted something to Bill over the dull roar of celebration.
"He says he's going to sing," Bill said. "A love song, I'm assuming?"
"And Winifred still doesn't realize..." Sookie said, trying not to snigger.
The crowd was quieting, whispering in anticipation of the musical stylings of Undead Elvis—a love ballad to his Were bride. The unwelcome image of his last performance, at Fangtasia, occurred to Sookie. His audience watched in rapt attention as he opened his mouth to sing.
"You ain't nothing but a hound dog, crying all the time-"
Sookie slapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing. To the amazement and confusion of most, Bubba had not chosen a romantic song by any stretch of the imagination—and yet his selection was even more fitting. She turned back to Bill and allowed herself, for a few moments, to bask in his familiar smile.