Bill Compton (dead_in_dixie) wrote in blood_red_sky, @ 2011-10-01 00:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | bill compton, jo harvelle |
Far From a Dream of Twelve Oaks [Open]
Bill stood on the rickety front porch of the Gable estate. It was unfamiliar territory for him. There was a chill in the air that bristled over his already frozen skin. The south had its cold spells, but not like this, and it made him wonder how any of his kind could stand to exist in a part of the country where the weather was as unforgiving as the company. He took in a deep breath, but the surroundings were swamped with strange smells. He missed the sordid humidity of Louisiana, the aroma of Cajun cooking wafting over the marsh, the stagnant heaviness of still waters. If he closed his eyes he could focus his senses. Across the yard a small animal rushed through the leaves. And though his lids were shut, he could feel the glare of the moon spreading out over the lawn. If he were home in Bon Temps, he might not wander so lackadaisically in the full moon. Though he, himself, had little quarrel with werewolves, he knew there was a family of werepanthers in Hotshot that didn't care for vampires. And though he had the age and strength to take down many of them on his own, it was always preferable to avoid a confrontation with other Supernaturals.
But you haven't done a very good job of that, have you, Bill? His conscience chided him. It was true. Here he was, alone in Pennsylvania, when he could have been sharing his bed with a blonde waitress in Louisiana. He wondered (not so briefly) where she was and what she was doing. Was she thinking of him? Was she missing him? Was she trying to forgive him on her own terms? Bill's mind was a wreck of questions, misgivings, and foul deeds that he knew not how to atone for. And though he begged to know otherwise, he felt in his heart (what little was left of it,) that Sookie was pushing him from her mind. He'd made his bed. He'd crossed too many lines with her. And now he was suffering the consequences. He deserved it.
And though he had no need to breathe, his lips parted in a softly exhaled sigh of regret.
He diverted his attention to the brick expanse of his newly acquired home. He imagined that it had been a glorious wonder in its initial construction. He thought it would be admirable in the sunlight, with the vines creeping up to the bedroom windows and the semi-dilapidated porch swing. He would fix that, as soon as he stopped by a twenty-four hour hardware store. (There were more of them now since the Great Revelation.) But if he could not find one, a Wal-Mart would suffice in a pinch. But he wanted to make the house look nice. He wanted to restore it to its previous glory. In case she returned to him. And she would appreciate its glory. Bill knew she would. He imagined that she would gaze up at the brick and instantly relate it to the lavish home in Atlanta where Scarlett stayed with Melanie and her Aunt Pittypat, sharing quips with the rebel Rhett Butler and pining for her beloved Ashley. Except their tale would not be so blase or naive. Sookie would look up in awe and wonder at what Bill had made for her. They would make their incessant apologies to each other, and in one swooping motion he would whisk her off to his bed and ravage her with all the passion and desire he had to offer. And if she could not sense that he was honest in his feelings to the very fiber of his being, then he would walk into the sun and return himself to the Earth.
He shattered his own hopes as he thought of their last encounter. Eric, that insufferable rogue, had taken everything from him in less than ten seconds. Taken it from him truthfully, yes, but with little regard to Bill's feelings. Had he deceived Sookie? Initially, it had been his intention. (Orders from the Queen, herself.) But once he caught her scent. Once he felt her presence. All deceit melted into honesty. He had never loved any the way he loved her.
Oh, Sookie...
A howl in the distance broke his concentration and Bill was reminded of the fact that he was neither here in hiding nor in banishment. He was here for work. And so he would work.
He shrugged his jacket over his shoulders and stepped down off the front of his porch. The walk to his car was short. There was no need to prolong the inevitable. It was time to visit the city and see what it was that made York so delectable to his vampire superiors. It was time to stop thinking about the past and start working towards fixing the future. And, maybe, if he was lucky, he'd find something familiar here in his northern exile.
He spent the first full hour of darkness driving around the main streets of the city, acquainting himself with the layout and the structure of the buildings. He paid careful attention to areas of easy accessibility and locations where commercial land bumped up against suburban real estate. York was by no means a heavily populated township, but it seemed to have its fair share of business after normal closing hours. He slowed at a red light, watching as a wild group of teenagers ran across the street, laughing and tripping in drunken silliness. He quirked a brow, curious, and reminded himself that he would have to find a place where he could feed in relative safety. (Safety of those around him, that is.) He needed to find a bar that was well stocked in synthetic blood.
At the next corner he caught the flickering lights of The Dark Side of the Moon. Bill pulled his vehicle into a small parking lot off to the side of the building and slowly made his way to the entrance. He paused at the door for a moment, memory stirring a vision of his first visit to Merlotte's Bar and Grill. His lips pursed together in a thin line, a pang of guilt stabbing at the remnants of his broken heart. He clenched his eyes shut, shoving the thought from the forefront of his mind, and recomposed his mentality. Then he pushed open the door and stepped inside.