Kiss And Take Your Leave - Part 2 (Spn/True Blood crossover)
Title: Kiss and Take Your Leave - Part 2
Author: lickerdysplit
Fandoms:(Supernatural/True Blood)
Rating: Still gen...this part.
Warnings: No spoilers. Pre-series for both.
Summary: Two people meet. There's sparkage. You'll know who they are.
Disclaimer: Heck, no. They don't belong to me.
She knows exactly what she's doing. The trick is not to move too much. Heat like this exhausts people and possibilities, and she intends to spend this particular day firmly in one place. Thank goodness she doesn't have to work, she thinks. Porches are made for days like this.
Days like this one stretch on forever in places like this. Cars swelter in driveways, dogs skulk under porches, crickets sound sleepier and people try not to do anything at all. Days like this are full of nothing, of petty fights, of tired conversation, of make-up sex, of unmowed lawns, no shoes, lemonade and idleness. Days such as this are plentiful where she lives. Excitement visits Bon Temps rarely these days.
On a day like this one, when everything is too heat-struck to move, she sits on the porch of her grandmother's house wearing as little as humanly possible, drinking something blissfully cold. The deck of the porch groans in the sun. She pulls her feet out of the light; it's almost painful on the skin at this time of day. The garden shimmers in the heat. She thinks, fleetingly, that she might go upstairs and take a bath. She doesn't move an inch.
Inside, her grandmother bustles reassuringly about the spotless kitchen, unstoppable even in this ridiculous heat - which seems to swell as she thinks on it. On the porch, she sinks into her seat further, all thought of going anywhere abandoned now. All she can do today is wait for the sun to just get on with getting gone. She drains the glass of probably-lemonade and sets it down vaguely to her left. Lets her head tilt back.
She falls asleep.
***
When she wakes, the sun has hurried over the horizon and her grandmother's soothing voice is barely audible from a different window. One side of a conversation, low, warm, inviting, all that is Gran. Pleasantly warm now, she wriggles her toes and decides not to get up yet. Perfect. Still light, heat bearable, lemonade...oh. If she wants more, she will have to get up. She makes the ultimate sacrifice: no lemonade.
And then. On the very edge of her hearing, a deep metallic purr arrives. She sits up without realising.
The purr gets louder, and she's rounded the corner of the house. It's a noise she knows. She's sure.
The purr cuts out. Her view of the street is clear now, and fifty feet away from her there is a car waiting. The car is black and somehow sharp, sharper than anything else in her line of vision, and abruptly, she stops looking at it. Because she's looking at him.
He climbs out of the car, more perfectly realised than even his sharper-than-sharp car, pristine in the evening heat. She can't stop looking at him. His hair is messy, his jeans are dirtied with something unsavoury - that much she can tell even at this distance. His hands hang loosely at his sides, fingers curled to make subtle 'O's; not quite the shape of a fist, but almost. His face is just as she remembers, better, even with the early evening sun highlighting his features. She makes a tiny sound of appreciation.
He looks at her. There it is, she thinks, that feeling of not simply being looked at, but looked into...she isn't able to explain it. She would guess, if she had to, that it's something he's learned rather than something he was born with, as she was. He looks at her, and she feels completely known. It's incredible.
He looks at her and walks in her direction. She sees now his slight bow-leggedness, the grime on his clothes. As he gets closer she can tell that whatever's on his jeans is best not asked about; his knuckles are scraped and she knows without knowing for certain that he is going to be trouble of some flavour, likely has caused some on his way here and will cause more on his way back; has been, is, will be bad news.
She couldn't care less.
He gets to about three feet away and stops. She's acutely aware of his height, and of her near-nakedness - forgotten until now. His jewel-green eyes are locked on to hers.
This time, there's no nervous chit-chat. She steps towards him and they fit together effortlessly. This kiss is as different from the last as day is from night. Where the first kiss was need and curiosity, and not a little defiance on her part, this one is smarter, more knowing, deeper, brighter...longer. It has meaning.
He takes his lips from hers but keeps his hands on her, one in the small of her back, one on the nape of her neck. How he knew where to put them, and where not to, she can't say.
"What's your name?" He purrs like his sharp car does, she's delighted to notice.
"Sookie," she breathes.
That blinding smile she saw once before shows itself again. He leans in and tells her, "Nice to meet you, Sookie." His accent is hard to place, he moves, she decides, a man in constant motion. Not like her. Same town her whole life. Same people. Same everything. Except this. Except him.
"What's yours?"
"Dean," he says, and this time she smiles so widely she believes her mouth may stay that way. This feels like a secret, his name, murmurred low for her, a blessing, a rare and beautiful thing. She knows he's passing through, again, has guessed that he's always somewhere else, that he's not really from anywhere and, yes, is trouble ten times over. She knows all of this.
She also knows she'll kiss him again, and for as long as she can, regardless of whether it's the clever thing to do. It's the right thing. He is, and does, right, She knows this above all else.
She lets their lips meet, and imagines she can feel their souls touching.
She knows exactly what she's doing.
tbc? Comments muchly appreciated :)