A/N: Angst warning! This chapter is mostly about Eric struggling with his demons.

13 Dreams and Wounds From Long Ago

EPOV

I awaken after a restless nap to an unbearable itch, my hand clawing fruitlessly at the cast covering my fractured fibula. I yank the long-handled spoon off the tray by my head, but it won't travel far enough under the cast. I'm sweating and barely holding in my anger, ready to rip the damn thing away and take my chances with the healing. And to top it all off, the telephone keeps on ringing with one work emergency after another. Confined to my house, my only link to the outside world is to sit and talk with disgruntled clients. Whatever I did to deserve this, please God, don't let me ever do it again.

During a small break in the torture, I decide I will ask Tray or Alcide to take me to the office so I can see some other faces besides my own. I can already hear their protests that the doctor told me to stay in bed for at least two weeks, but I'll threaten to find them and dismember them when I'm healthy again if they don't rescue me. That should get their butts moving.

It is so damn hard to just sit here like a sick dog all day long.

Tamara, my housekeeper, arrived earlier this morning, bringing groceries as I requested. I usually eat out, so my refrigerator is never stocked with more than drinks, frozen pizza, waffles, and ice cream.

Once Tamara has cleaned my personal space, I hop back into the bedroom while she finishes up the laundry, vacuuming, and dusting the place. She is a quiet widow, very efficient in her work. She has worked for me for several years primarily because she never bothers me with useless chats. I don't want to hear about her daughter-in-law's fifth pregnancy or how well her grandson is doing at the Academy.

I've been avoiding my bedroom since being brought home by my new friend Sookie after the accident. And I am painfully aware of the reason why—it is this photo. I keep it on my bedside, day and night, reminder of his dear face.
Godric.
My world was once contained within his name.
Then it all ended, and I found myself outside looking in on my life, forced to find new reasons to go forward, to get up every morning. I've been living like this for the last three years.

Now I wonder if it may be time to set this picture aside. Perhaps...

"Mr. Northman, a package has been delivered for you." I hear through the closed bedroom door. "Do you want me to accept it, so you don't have to come out here?"

"Yes, please do."

After a time, Tamara returns to inform me, "It is a beautiful basket, overflowing with choice foods and a bottle of wine. I left it in the kitchen for you, sir." When I don't respond, she continues with a little less confidence, "I've completed my work for the day. Do you require anything else from me, sir?"

"No, Tamara, thank you. You may leave. But before you go, please open my bedroom door so I won't have to hobble over on the crutches again."

"Of course, Mr. Northman. And thank you, sir. Please have a good day."

Finally alone, I decide to indulge myself, making use of the lube I keep in the bedside table. Struggling out of my pants and briefs, I sink into the pillows my housekeeper has so nicely arranged for me. My eyes linger on his photo as my hand begins its familiar motion, a slow, repetitive stroke over my long length, still healthily springing to attention at just the thought of him. I focus on the day I snapped the photo. It was shortly before our breakup. And we were so obliviously happy. Or, at least I was happy, believing us to be totally in love with one another. I had just bought this house for us and was barely containing my excitement thinking about his reaction. I concealed the information of the purchase because I wanted it to be a surprise, but every day I had to restrain myself from shaking him awake and shouting the news.

I close my eyes and concentrate, imagining his face after I would have told him: at first complete shock, and then overwhelming joy, his feelings lighting up his handsome features like a Christmas tree. I envision his reaction at learning our house would be a special, shared haven for the two of us. The one place where we could be ourselves, and we could leave the outside world behind. Here we would be safe, free to make love on this very bed, in the bathroom, or bent over the couch. Stroking my fierce erection in tune with my long practiced fantasy, I'm momentarily interrupted by the fleeting image of a naked, heavy-breasted blonde, splayed out for my enjoyment on the same couch.

Now is not the time, I wearily admonish myself. I focus on his talented lips and tongue, strong hands caressing every inch of my body, his firm body behind me, pressing me into the mattress. I imagine it is his hand, instead of mine, and for a split second, I swear I can smell a whiff of his scent, the heavy mysterious perfume I still keep in the bathroom combined with his sweat. I loved to make him sweat, to have our scents merge through vigorous bending, twisting, and grinding of skin-on-skin. He almost never did when engaged in his usual activities, unless he was exertinga tremendous amount of effort. And yet when we were locked in our passion, we would sweat a lot, together. His effort was mine, and I claimed it jealously.

A sweet aroma suddenly hits me, and I cease my movements to look around for the source. Sookie? I swear I can smell her here. But that's impossible; she hasn't even been in my bedroom yet. And even if I do have a keen sense of smell, it is impossible to scent her presence from yesterday in another room.

I reapply myself to my task, adding another drop of lube to my palm, and hand returned to its position of comfort around my even harder cock, I indulge myself in an impossible fantasy of both Godric and Sookie in here, beneath me and bent over me. Oh, fuck!
Rock-hard muscles beneath silky skin, embodiment of his male strength engulfing me. Steel sword in its sweet velvety sheath taking hold of me, possessing me, making me his, making me whole. Whispered words of adoration for me, him reciting Rumi's rhymes in the ancient Farsi. Words that heal the scars of my soul, like a heavenly balm.
Small soft hands and larger strong ones, touching, stroking, caressing. Her sweet mouth kissing me while another takes firm hold of my aching flesh. Soft and feminine curves, demanding to be touched, caressed, worshiped. Tender, warm, and wet passage, caressing me with soft folds and gentle movements. The place to take refuge from the outside world, from myself.

I'm drifting in an imaginary sensory overload as I increase thetempo of my strokes.
My phone unexpectedly rings just as I'm about to shoot cum all over my stomach. I groan, and note the "Private Number" message on the face before I switch it off. It takes every ounce of restraint I possess to refrain from smashing it to pieces on the headboard for intruding on such an intimate, happy moment for me. I return to my fantasy with a fresh determination to see this out.

Blue irises, rays of life and joy, and serious, deep, black ones, exuding an unearthly flaming passion fill my vision.

I would give Sookie the same passion as I receive from her. I would touch her as no one has touched her before me. I would kiss her, engulf her mouth, and steal away her moans, swallowing her pleasure as my own. I would feel her thrashing and wriggling beneath me while I covered her all-consuming desire with my body and my soul. I would drink her in through every pore, feasting on the joy that only she can give. And I would return it to her, multiplied tenfold.

The stroking, the words, the imagery, the need for them both, together, all-too-soon overwhelms me, and I feel the sensations bloom deep inside me as I clench and then come in heavy spurts, filling Sookie with my hot, creamy semen. In my passion, I feel Godric filling me and between the two of them, I liquefy, I dissolve, I slow, until there is nothing left of the old me.

Panting and short of breath, I slowly come down from one of the most powerful orgasms I've experienced alone. When my breathing slows, I lie still in my sadly all-too-empty bed, contemplating my daydream.

I don't really know Sookie, but imagining my dead lover Godric agreeing to share me with a woman is inconceivable.

I still remember his disappointment when he found my old Hustlers collection. His disappointment soon morphed into anger, at me, and himself, with the knowledge that I could have had a 'normal' life, with a wife and children, and instead chose to be with a 'monster' like himself. It was knowledge that ate at him like an illness.

He always considered himself a failure for being gay, and for the many lives he took during battle. I tried to comfort him, but he refused to listen to me. Yet I could not have imagined a more compassionate soul than the one hidden behind his hard exterior.
I knew he would never accept himself due to his past. In his culture, his family could dismiss him fucking another man as just "something that men do." His preference was accepted as actions that could be explained away. That changed, though, when he fell for one of his classmates and tried to explain his feelings to his family. The revelation of his affair, deeper than just a physical one with another man, brought down their wrath upon him. Being exclusively gay is unacceptable in Arab culture. Scrambling for a solution, they tried to set up a quick arranged marriage. It didn't work, because Godric couldn't be intimate with a woman. I hurt for him when finally told me how desperate he was as he realized he would never be able to perform as a man with a woman. He considered himself a eunuch. It was devastating, as that was uncommon in his culture for a gay man. Sadly, most of them would live a dual life, carrying on their duty as husband while indulging in hidden relationships with other men.
Godric refused to impose a false life on the girl chosen for him. As Godric was the eldest son, one that refused to marry and carry on his line, his father disowned him, and had him beaten half-to-death. He lived on the streets for a while, hiding out from family and friends, and then joined the French Foreign Legion. For Godric, a sensitive person, it was a decision best described by the old phrase 'out of the frying pan, and into the fire.'
I will forever remember how his eyes filled with tears of shame for not living up to his family's expectations, and how he never got over the sense of himself as a lesser man because of it.

Sighing, I venture into the bathroom, managing this time to clean and shave without any help.

Hobbling into the kitchen for a quick bite to take the edge off, I inspect the basket, but there is no card, only an unsigned "Get Well Soon" message attached. I take a package of fresh cookies from it and return to the living room. There I switch back on the annoying cell phone, counting ten new messages, as I make ready to return to my work while crunching through the treats. My nose twitches in memory, the rich aroma of the baked goods reminding me of Sookie. Ah, it must have been this smell that I detected earlier in my bedroom.

Sometime later, the telephone's face lights up, indicating another call from the mysterious 'Private Number.' I hate it when that happens, because it's often someone with whom I don't wish to speak. But my routine and obligations demand I answer every call. "Yes?"

"Hello son." My brain freezes at the sound of a voice I have not heard in a long time.

"I have been told that you had a motorcycle accident. I hope your injury wasn't too serious. If you like, I can send you my personal physician."

"That won't be necessary. And don't call me that."

"What? 'My son', you are such a hypocrite. I know you missed me, Eric. Don't you long for your daddy to take care of you? I could come and tuck you in your bed, just like old times." His deep laugh fills me with dark memories of my childhood. Cold nights with a strong body pressed to mine, an overwhelming presence igniting unusual, forbidden pleasures in my scrawny pubescent body...

I shake with disgust at the memories, feeling once again the bile rise in my throat. "Shut. Up. Don't call me again, Appius. Ever. This is the last warning I'll give you."

He caused more than his fair share of damage in my life as a child, and as a teenager, but as an adult, I now have a choice. And sanity demands that I stay far away from him.

Unperturbed, he continues with, "I hope you enjoyed my gift, my son. I personally chose your favorite food and wine."

I feel the contents of my stomach turning into concrete, weighing heavily on me, a sign I'm soon to be sick. I end the call, but can't prevent my reaction, pitching the phone as far from me as possible, barely noticing in my agitation that it shatters into shards of hard plastic, metal parts, and batteries when it makes contact with the wall.

How I HATE that bastard.
I hate him for thinking once that he loved me, and far worse, that I loved him, too. Without him, my mom would be alive. In fact, Godric would be alive, a thought that torments me every day of my existence. And I wouldn't be such a fuck-up.

When I manage to calm down a bit, I get up, take the basket from the kitchen, and I throw it in the direction of the garbage bin outside. Slamming the door, I hobble back to bed to brood.

Evening comes after replaying countless scenarios of getting him out of my life, once-and-for-all. I wish I knew what Pam had over him. Unfortunately, she never shared it with me. He has connections, but nothing in comparison with hers. And she was a mean bitch when she wanted to be, even with her own brother. I miss her sharp personality and biting wit. She wasn't the motherly type, and yet she was perfect just as she was.

Such a shitty day! Unexpectedly, I find I am craving Sookie's calming presence, which somehow serves to grounds me. I haven't felt like that about another person for a long time.

Eventually, as the sun sinks lower in the sky, she comes to me. She is a vision, with her tight skirt and sheer blouse. She never seems more beautiful than under the soft drape of the evening sun; the streaming rays dance across her hair, kiss her golden skin, and are reflected in her shining blue eyes. Her soft and inviting curves ignite in me a strong impulse to grab her, throw her on the couch and have my way with her, erasing the memory of the rest of this day.

But she has to talk to me about Appius's gut-churning gift, and all my excitement vanishes.

She also asks about certain aspects of the house, but this doesn't surprise me. I know she is intelligent and observant. She doesn't disappoint regarding my home, and I deftly dodge the uncomfortable part of her questioning.

Feeling hospitable at finally have such delightful company, I once again offer to make coffee for us. I appreciate the fact that she can relax and enjoy a cup with me after 5 P.M., and we fall into an easy conversation.

Just as I am about to inquire if she has considered the job offer, she somehow manages to spill her cup of coffee on the furniture and us. I know I sometimes make women nervous, and rather than being irritated by her inattention, I'm feeling very solicitous. Poor girl, she looks like a Dalmatian with coffee all over her. About to cry, too. To see her cry would be too much, considering my own emotional state.
Acting impulsively, I offer to bring her something from my closet to wear so she can rinse out her pretty blouse.

Entering my bedroom where I so recently took her in my fantasy, I pick up the lingering scent of sex. Images of the three of us in bed, straining, groaning, grunting play in my mind, arousing me yet again. Yeah, attacking her now, after 'luring' her into my bedroom, plus coming from a guy with a broken leg, would be 'really smooth'.

Slightly aroused none-the-less, I hide in my closet, willing my erection to subside. As I rummage around, moving hangers, shifting sweaters and shoes to kill time and calm my boner, I chastise myself for not wearing some briefs today. Doing so would have saved me about ten minutes of this maddening pretence. But I prefer going commando; just like the freedom of movement. She's probably bored waiting for me, my suspicion confirmed when I hear her asking about family pictures. I hold my breath as I remember Godric's photo, sitting as always on the nightstand by my bed.

I should have never brought her in here. It is a mistake on so many levels.

Then she starts talking about her childhood, and family, and memories. And her sweet voice drones on, and on...

Each word is like a fist to my gut. I want to cover my ears. I cannot have this conversation, not after today, not after talking with Appius. My family is gone, a reality in which he played a heavy role. And I am shrinking under the unrelenting pressure of her gentle questioning.

She even asks if Godric was my father! I feel like I'm drowning on dry land. I remember another time, three years back, when the two of them had met, for the first and only time. Appius was grinning at Godric as if they shared a bond, patting my behind and acting as if the two of them shared a secret. Me!

She then asks if he is my brother, which triggers another memory of his words, when he would in jest and love call me his everything, "Father, brother, son..." Maybe he was my father in a way, as he loved me as no one had before him. At least until he decided we were just a big mistake, courtesy of Appius arriving back in my life. Appius, whose heavy-handed innuendo forced me to tell Godric all about my past, all about the years of abuse I had suffered at his hands.

What should I call him now? Friend? An "old friend' should suffice to satisfy this woman.

She then inquires if we stay in touch. I tremble; more than a little afraid I might burst into hysterical laughter. No, after coming clean to Godric about the years of abuse, he didn't want to "stay in touch" anymore. Somehow, I manage to swallow my reaction, shoving it aside. Thank God for closets.
And am I lying if don't tell her his ghostly apparition and my hands are very good bed partners? Does that qualify as keeping in touch?
So I simply tell her that he died, suddenly beyond desperate to end this discussion.

Of course, she is so fucking sweet, offering me her sympathy in such a compassionate tone. But I don't want anyone's pity. I know I am wretched. I so don't need another reminder of it.

I finally remember why I am in here, and fumble through the shirt section in search of a white, short-sleeved one for her.

After a brief reprieve, the probing continues. "So, did you two grow up in the same neighborhood, perhaps?" I am at a loss for words.

Can she not take a hint? Why does she keep bugging me about this subject? I turn to her, barely able to restrain myself from screaming, "SHUT UP!" Instead, I just shut her words off in the hope that she will drop the subject.
Too many times, I have had to dodge similar questions. Godric wasn't comfortable with us being 'out.' That frustrated me to no end. I was ready to fight for what we had together. He was not. The only thing that my mighty warrior was afraid of was other people's prejudices. Me? I don't take shit from anyone.

I emerge from the closet to see the knowledge of my relationship bloom in her face, and the unbearable disbelief that floods her features. There it is. I am 'OUT' once again. I know that look, and know that all too soon, it will be replaced by disgust...

The memories of other people's eventual disgust and dismissal come back with a roar, kicking and screaming, lashing out, shredding my sanity. Seeing red, I let go, flushing it all out of hiding, unable to cap off my waves of despair. The pull of that dark, haunted place I keep hidden away overwhelms me.

After my outburst, all my daring fades away. My knees give out on me, and I crumble onto the bed, hands covering my face to hide the tears washing my cheeks. She evens try to soothe me, but all I want is to be left alone, to let myself be consumed whole by the heart-wrenching pain.

When I return to reality, she is gone.

I am a jerk. Fuck, what all did I tell her? Now, it is all ruined between us. After I lose control, bite her head off, and cry like a girl, what else could she possibly do but despise my sorry ass. And why wouldn't she? Not even Godric could accept all of me. It was hard enough for me to just accept myself. I am a fool for imagining there could be anyone, out there, just for me. Just like my home, I am nothing but a cold, hard stone structure, empty inside.

~o~

Thursday, Alcide arrives with a new phone. Fortunately, I have my contacts saved in my laptop, too. I'm a little calmer today, and his visit serves to remind me of my responsibilities. I settle down into a steady routine of work, eat, and sleep. No distractions.

Days pass. She does not call. I don't, either. However, each and every night she visits my dreams, sometimes as an ingénue I seduce, other times as an irresistible, alluring succubus. Sometimes I don't remember the dreams, just awaken with sticky undies painted in my cum and a lingering ache in my chest.

The prospect of her walking out of my life, the first real friend I have made in a long time, is daunting. I look ahead, and see the very real possibility that all I will ever have is random, meaningless fucks. Yet, after my revelation and the memory of her shocked reaction, I cannot fathom what to say to her, how to recover the easy relationship we were building.

Thursday and Friday is filled with work. Saturday and Sunday – even more work. On Monday, with Alcide's assistance I go to the office for the first time in over a week. Although I am not a fan of deskwork, the change of scenery does me good.

Tuesday I decide to make the first move. After all, I was the one who blew it. I should apologize. I need to see her again. She never deserved the emotional outburst I unleashed on her. And if she is as good as I think, better than I deserve, maybe there is a chance she will forgive me. I think I crave her forgiveness as much as her presence.

Calling on her cell, I hit a dead end. Her mobile won't take a message. I call perhaps a dozen times during the day, my impatience growing exponentially with each failure. Fuck!

Back home I retrieve her business card, but it is too late for anyone to still be at her office. Her mobile is still not answering.

Sleep that night does not come easily; my rest is brief and not refreshing.

Wednesday morning, there is still no response on her line. What if something has happened to her? I anxiously recall that she left very upset, and had to drive her car home by herself. What if...? I start to feel a rising panic.

I retrieve her business card and quickly dial her company's landline. She must be there at this hour. Why didn't I do this yesterday?

After four long rings, a female voice answers. Not her. I introduce myself and inquire about her.

"Suzana doesn't work here anymore."

I am baffled, but manage to ask for details in what hopefully sounds like a professional tone.

"No, we don't have her personal number or any other personal details on her whereabouts. Bye."

Not working there? Did she quit? No, she would still be working, having given them her two week's notice. Something else? Fired, maybe? Better not go there; I feel a strong urge to rush to their offices and shake everyone until I get an answer.

After cooling off a bit, my mind actually starts to function again. What is the point of owning a security and private investigation company if I cannot locate one girl in my own city?

I pick up the phone again, and call my people. I still remember her car's license plate combination of letters, but not the numbers. Nevertheless, there cannot be that many yellow Pandas with an "SST" plate.

The information comes back in a couple of hours. Thanks to our friends in the traffic police division, I now have her address.

Another call and, thirty minutes later, Tray helps me get into his car. We stop briefly at a street flower vendor's to pick up a bouquet. I know how women respond when they see a guy bringing flowers to them. Moreover, these particular ones look like a woman's pussy. This might help convey the message that I am interested in her as more than just a friend, that I desire her in the way of men and women as well.

After twenty minutes, I finally stand up, with Tray's help, and take in the house of my new friend, my eye roving in appreciation over the remains of what was once a beautiful garden. It's a huge house that has clearly fallen into disrepair through criminal neglect, but there's her yellow car parked outside. I know this is where she lives, poor girl.

The front door stands open, and I hear raised voices, the anger apparent in the sounds that drift out to the street. The words are muffled at first, and I think of ringing the bell, not wishing to interrupt. Then I hear sounds that instantly make me change my mind.

Over what I take to be furniture tumbling, a scuffle between two people, and frantic screams, her voice awakens me from my indecision.! "No, no! Bill! Let me go!"

Forgetting all about my bad leg and dropping the crutches, I barge inside, only to stumble over the threshold, completely unprepared for the scene that awaits me.

Disclaimer: Charlanie Harris owns these guys, I just wrap them differently.

A/N

Thank you, my lovely betas, Scattered21 (Princess Tweak) and YoungBoho, for being so kind as to review this, despite their busy-bee schedule. Special thanks to Peppermintyrose for keeping these characters in line with the sad reality that occurs in some people's lives.

I have a bonus chapter in progress for the holidays, an Eric/Sookie lemon-scented fantasy. I plan to post it between Christmas, and New Year, as a separate outtake.

I wish you Happy Holidays. May Santa bring you gifts carefully chosen by those who love you.
And a strapping Viking. *wink*

Your comments are the best gifts for Eric and Sookie. For me too, of course.