Bill lays Sookie down by the fireside, in her white dress, on a pillow and a blanket of velvet red. He kisses her, reaching behind to open up her dress. Cat Power kills all boners but those of the undead, it is a fact. She pulls him down to her, and he kisses her softly in the firelight. He's never looked so human, or so strong. He kisses her neck, takes her thumb in his mouth; she rakes a hand down his back. That's what does it; he's embarrassed, as ever, by his body's responses to desire. His fangs pop out and he hangs his head upon her breast. She asks what's wrong, and he shows her. She considers him; his shame, and his beauty. He looks for the fear, but it melts away, from her face. There's nobody watching, now. She's not afraid, anymore: just curious. She guides his head down, kissing him softly. There's just the two of them, pressing desperately, skin against skin. Trying desperately to be whole:
Tara comes home to Momma Thornton, passed out on the couch. "I knew you'd come," she says. You're all I've got. She holds out a hand, and Tara lies down beside her on the tiny couch, their arms around each other, and they sleep.
They're both naked as he kisses her neck. It's getting harder. He tries to resist, tries to be there with her, to continue his education. She looks up. There is literally nothing stopping her and nothing stopping her. They are all alone. Whatever might happen, it's already happened. Hated? Done. Murder attempts? She doesn't even know how many. Family dead? Check. Self-worth? In hand. Gran is dead. Bill is dead. She loves them both. He is the silence. There's nothing to fear, at all, anymore. The world is big.
The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, that shit is as true as gold. Put some love in your food and the folks will taste it. You can smell the love and sweetness coming off her, the orphan girl, making her first grownup decisions. This feels like home. It tastes like sadness and it tastes like absence; it tastes like love. It tastes like life. And by the time he's done, all that's left of the orphan girl will be hers and his, smell and taste. This body is her territory, to mark as she chooses; she chooses him. She claims her skin, her body, by offering it to someone else, out of love. She says when and she says who. I don't know how else we heal.
"Do it. I want you to." She arches back, offering her neck. If we do this, we did this.
He hesitates, and then sinks deep, blood flowing out around his mouth; she pulls and grasps at him, moaning and gasping, neither in pain nor pleasure. For a moment they are less alone.