A scary MILF approaches him, looking like the sum total of all single mother barflies, and gets toothy with him. "I do feel a little... At sea," he admits, his usual cordial and charming self, and her bangles clashing: "I can help you pick something out, if you'd like. You're looking for your daughter?" Yes. He tries it on, the shape in his mouth, the way we walk in the daytime world: "My daughter. Jessica." She calls it a pretty name and shows him a super-short denim skirt, impressively bedazzled. He pronounces it "very nice," but is thrown by the distinct lack of laces or crinoline. He needs to get his ass to the Blair Waldorf store, those are the only things he's going to like.
"We are conservative, aren't we?" she laughs, which is funny because the thing was totally slutty anyway, but he demurs: "Just old-fashioned." She laughs uproariously and of course Bill has no idea what's going on. Her eyes travel his body: "You don't look old enough to be old-fashioned, not by a long shot." His eyes glitter briefly with that particularly Bill humor: "You'd be surprised." She says he's funny and touches his arm: he's also cold. Her reaction is beautiful, I can't really describe it in words but it's like she turns transparent: "Whuuh. Well...? You're not..." he gauges her look, wondering if she's going to blow a racist whistle on him: "I am vampire. [DRINK!] Yes."
She looks around furtively and you immediately know things are going to get so trashy and weird that he's not going to know what to do. And when Bill Compton doesn't know what to do, he really does not know what to do. (This is a man who sat across a booth from Denise and Mac Rattray openly touching his cock for like an hour and somehow never noticed they were total V addicts. He's not worldly, he's old-worldly. Thinking about the myriad vulnerabilities of Bill Compton gives me the heebies for some reason.) Her breath is coming fast enough to give you a headache. "Tell you what. Why don't you come with me to the dressing room and I could model this for you?" He tries to put her off, but she won't be: he is a fetish object. It's going to take more than a polite refusal, because eventually she is going to start screaming, out of pique if nothing else, and then he'll have to glamour a cop and it'll be this whole thing. We need a superhero...
Eric Northman! Why, hello, with your new haircut and your cute little track suit and the Viking horn around your neck. "Good evening, old sport," he says behind Bill, who almost does a handstand. "Eric?" Never quite so happy to see him. "It's the new me," Eric says, grinning and sexy suddenly: "You like?" Bill nods, more than just relieved: "I do, very much." It's not gay exactly, but try explaining their whole deal to F21 lady, when they don't even have words for it yet. Bill's not even really conscious of the thing that happens around Eric; not even Lafayette can handle the ambiguity Eric's packing, and he was born for it. She laughs, embarrassed, and waves them away with a bunch of hoo! and heh! Bill's totally confused, of course, and Eric eats it right up, of course. And then it gets serious, because Eric needs to talk.