Chapter 2

"And when you give me your house
when we're all brothers at last
there will be food in our mouths
there will be teeth in the grass"

—Iron and Wine

Although I anticipated the evening with a kind of wild excitement, I spent most of the day worrying. Why had I agreed to see Eric again? True, he had given my house back. He had also given me one of the most unique gifts I'd received in my life. But I wasn't sure that made him trustworthy.

All through my day shift at work, I reviewed the situation. There were several things I did know about him—I knew where he was from, who his maker was, what he did for a living. I knew about his ambivalent sense of morality and his deep code of honor. I knew he could be unpredictable, threatening, and manipulative, but also wise, quick-witted, and honest—sometimes ruthlessly so. I also knew that he wanted me. But I didn't know how he felt.

In all the times I'd seen him, I'd never heard him describe his emotions. Last night was a pretty big indicator that Eric regarded me with something more than lust or curiosity, but I wasn't sure what that was, or how deep it went. I flashed back to his reaction long ago when I had mentioned his love for Godric—was it true that Eric didn't understand the word? Or did he experience it as something different? Something more?

I remembered the advice Gran gave whenever I got ahead of myself thinking about a boy: no one is ever sure at the beginning—that's what dates are for. I felt a little calmer, and my shift ended without incident.

When I reached my house, I realized I didn't know when to expect Eric. "Tomorrow" is a long time, and I didn't know if he was working. It was a few minutes after sundown, and he wasn't waiting eagerly on my doorstep, so I figured I had a little time to prepare. I changed out of my uniform, and thought about how I wanted the evening to go. I decided: yesterday was his; tonight was mine.

I pulled a wicker hamper out of the hall closet and packed a bottle of wine and a TruBlood. After a long day working indoors, sitting outside under the stars sounded just right.

"Knock, knock," came a voice like sandpaper and honey just outside the screen door. My heart leapt in my chest.

"Come on in; I'll be right there."

I walked into the front room and locked eyes with him immediately. Eric was hard to miss, looming above the hooked rug—long, lean, and good-looking as ever. I was momentarily transfixed.

He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the basket: "It looks like you have plans."

"We have plans," I corrected. "Now, I let you traipse through here yesterday, showing me things like you owned the place—"

"—which, until yesterday, I did," he interjected.

"—which you did for a while," I conceded. "And I…appreciate what you did—I want you to know that. But tonight it's my turn."

"Sookie—" he began.

"No, I don't want to hear it, Eric. I'm sure you had something planned, and as glamorous and exciting as it might have been, you can save it for later. Tonight we're doing what I want. We're going on a picnic." He stared back at me, utterly amused.

"I'm sure you make a tasty sandwich, lover, but you know I can't eat egg salad."

"Don't worry—I've got you covered."

"Mmm, I like that sound of that," he growled warmly, edging forward toward my neck and inhaling. I looked up at him, intending to give him a prim retort, but melting a little when I met his gaze.

I recovered enough to respond, "You can save those insinuations as well."

"For later," Eric repeated, his eyes twinkling.

He followed me out of the house, strolling beside me down the path through the woods. The sound of crickets filled the air, and every now and then I caught the flash of a lightning bug. After about a mile, we came to the bank of the creek. Twilight was darkening into night, and the moon reflected off the surface of the water, cold and clear. Eric helped me set up the blanket, and we sat down together in companionable silence.

I opened the basket and pulled out the glasses. Eric seemed entertained that I had picked a dinner so visually similar to his own. As if we were sharing it.

"Allow me." He deftly uncorked the bottle with the wine opener I had packed and poured me a glass.

"Hmm," I baited, "I was kind of hoping you'd use your fangs." He chuckled darkly.

"So was I…"

My heart stuttered a little, and I felt my face flush. I let the moment pass, and opened his bottle of TruBlood. We exchanged glasses.

"To picnics," I saluted.

"To picnics," he echoed, clinking his glass against mine. He watched me drink first before he took a sip. A slight grimace ghosted over his face. I knew TruBlood wasn't his preference, but I was not ready to offer him something more substantial.

"How's that tasting, Eric?" I teased.

"Fantastico," he replied wryly. I smiled.

We talked on into the evening as the moon rose higher and higher. He was proving to be a congenial listener as I described my day, minus the Eric troubles. Eventually, though, my earlier concerns resurfaced. I was enjoying our time together, but I still had no idea what I meant to him. The conversation lapsed into silence. I wanted to continue, but I wasn't sure how to ask.

Eric sensed the mood change, and initiated his own tactic.

"If I remember correctly from yesterday," he began, "I think I owe you a foot rub."

I looked at him sharply. It was hardly surprising that Eric would respond to a lull in conversation with a physical action, especially an intimate one. But it occurred to me that up until this point, he had given me control over the evening. He had respected my decisions, and only now, when he felt my hesitation, did he offer a suggestion. Looking into his dark gleaming eyes, I decided to go with it.

"Sure. Knock yourself out."

I shifted on the blanket until I was at his side facing him, my legs slung over his. He removed my shoes and started on my feet. Soon afterward, though, his hands were drifting casually over the entire length of my legs, stroking, massaging, but never losing control, never squeezing too tight, never pushing things over into more intimate territory. It felt…amazing. My earlier worries began to recede as I relaxed into his touch. After a few minutes, I could feel his erection against my thigh, but he never called attention to it. It was merely a background indicator that this simple action had a deeper counterpoint, making the calm exchange more erotic. My blood warmed, my pulse quickened, my eyes brightened, but I stayed still as well, watching him watching me.

In that moment, I had a realization. If anything was going to happen between us, it wouldn't be because I was swept away by passion alone. Or because I was wildly affected by drinking his blood. I would make a decision. He would make a decision. And then all hell would break loose. I felt stronger, suddenly, recognizing the kind of partnership this suggested. I was in control as much as he was. He didn't want to coerce me—he wanted me to choose.

It felt good to revel in the moment, to absorb the still, quiet warmth without an explicit expectation. It reminded me of my early experiences of attraction, when arousal was new and gentle and calm, mostly because it was barely understood. There was only the warm sensation of sensual aliveness, and the endless stretch of time. That is, until the mood broke—usually because some unwelcome stray thought was funneling out of the other partner straight into my head. I thanked my stars again for Eric's gift of silence.

I scooted closer to him, melting a little against his strong frame. He unwound an arm from my legs to encircle my shoulders. In an instant, I remembered last night—how excited and charged I felt with his fingers stirring my hair. I was momentarily afraid that the current moment wouldn't live up to it, that somehow I would be less sensitive to his attention tonight. I was wrong.

Eric's fingers played delicately with my collarbone before moving higher, alternating between gently stroking my hair and the side of my face. A wave of warm, strong pleasure washed over me. After a while, I gave in and let my head fall gently against his shoulder. Turning slightly, he pressed an earnest kiss into my forehead—soft, protective, yearning, ambiguous.

After a few moments, Eric inhaled, and a hum rumbled out of his chest long and low. His words surprised me when they finally came.

"Do you know what synaesthesia is, lover?" he asked after a few moments.

"No," I murmured lazily. One of my hands drifted to his chest and rested there.

"Officially defined, it is 'a subjective sensation or image of a sense other than the one being stimulated.'"

"Mm, try again, cowboy." He chuckled against me, playfully mussing my hair a little.

"It's like...having two sensations at once that don't fit together. Or rather, that aren't objectively related. That aren't causal. One's in the real world, and the other is...internal." I looked at him blankly. "For example," he tried again, "if I described the experience of anger as orange, or said my favorite food tasted like sunshine."

"Like a metaphor?"

"Not exactly," he replied thoughtfully, still stroking my hair. "It's more than a description; it's sensual evocation. Instead of using the words to make a comparison, I would actually feel those sensations associated, in flashes. Spontaneously. Instantaneously. A connection that only I had, that only I would feel." I froze for a moment.

"Like, if I said that when I touch you, I sense elderflowers and leather and new fallen snow, even though I know they're not really there?" His hand paused for a moment, surprised.

"Yes. Exactly like that." He resumed stroking my hair, before his curiosity got the better of him. "Do you sense those things, Sookie? When you feel me?"

"Sometimes…I do."

"Mmm," Eric growled in response, gripping me a little tighter. A new thought seemed to occur to him. "So…you're a telepath who is also synaesthetic. That seems dangerous, somehow."

"Why's that?" I asked, pulling back slightly. "You mean, because of the people I can hear? How would I know where the other person stops and I begin?"

"I suppose. You must feel all kinds of things. At all moments."

"A lot of the time, I do. But," I continued simply, "my feelings are strongest." I unwrapped myself from his embrace and turned to face him, folding my legs under me. "What about you?"

"Yes. I've been synaesthetic for as long as I can remember. After Godric turned me, though, it was harder to tell. My senses were so heightened it took several years before I could parse out what was real from what was subjective. And unlike you, the strongest sensations I feel aren't always mine." He smiled down at me a little and raised his eyebrows playfully. "But they are often the weirdest."

"Oo, I like where this is going. Do tell, Mr. Northman."

"Well, for instance, whenever I hear your national anthem? I taste blood sausage. Which is actually quite amazing, since I haven't had one in a millennium." I laughed aloud.

"That's very American of you. Minus the blood part, of course."

"Of course—you Americans and your fear of entrails," he chided. "And for the last century, whenever I stand in cold water, I hear 'The Blue Danube' playing for some reason." I chuckled, enjoying this rare glimpse of inner Eric.

"And when I have sex," he murmured, his voice dropping considerably, flirtatious but not overpowering, "I smell the most interesting things."

"I'll bet you do," I tossed back. He snorted.

"Sure, but not exactly what I meant," he continued unapologetically. "I smell strange things—like tangerines or wet ink or smoldering incense. Things that are out of place, but fit the present experience." His eyes shimmered in the darkness. "It may sound odd, but I deeply treasure those moments, those feelings. Because… because…" His thought trailed off into nothing, a small smile playing on his lips. He looked a little lost.

"Because…those feelings remind you who you are," I finished for him, understanding.

"They do." We regarded each other in silence.

"So…" I started shyly. This was my moment to ask. "What do you…what do you sense now? With me?"

A guarded look came into his eyes. He turned away from me slightly, and stared into the distance. I had never seen him look so still, so ancient, so far away. I began to regret the question, although I was more curious than ever about the answer. Several long moments passed.

Eric finally turned to me, his eyes full and open, but still he hesitated. He reached across and took my hand in his, a gesture more old-fashioned than the touches we'd shared earlier, but somehow more intimate. Quieter. Personal.

"Right now I sense many things, Sookie. More than I can count. But, as you say, there is one that's strongest." He shrugged at me simply before uttering one word. "Home."