Title: tell me if you hear me falling
Requested by: theroyal_e
–
“I’d hate to leave you all the way in Toronto by yourself, you know. New York is one thing, but Louisiana is, well, amongst other things, far less accessible should… something… happen.”
Fiona sighs. “Nothing’s gonna happen, mom. I thought you trusted me?”
“Of course I do!” There’s a hitched breath over the line. “I just think it would be nice to spend some time together, without all the pressures of school and such.”
It’s a non-decision, mostly, made when she tells Holly J about the idea and her friend breaks out her finest grin. “Maybe you’ll meet someone!”
–
What’s odd is that she does.
–
She’s not sure how, exactly, her father got an assignment in the armpit of the south, but Bon Temps is actually kind of nice. There’s not a lot in town that she can’t walk to, and a bar and grill just outside the city limits where everyone seems to go. Fiona watches people, mostly. The overly-friendly waitress with her swinging ponytail, the cooks, the rough-looking man behind the bar. The patrons are exactly what Fiona imagines when she thinks about The South, and she’s not sure if that says more about the town or about her.
One night, she’s late — on her own despite the promised ‘family time’ — but still feels the need to head out to Merlotte’s. Routine is something she can hold on to, counting her steps in the muddy ground, bemoaning the fashion sense (or lack there of) to stop thinking about things like home and champagne and Holly J.
She wishes she noticed something else first, but all she sees is that red hair, curled into careful perfection.
“How many tonight, miss?” Red hair set off by a delicate white bow.
Fiona clears her throat. “Just one. Just me.”
“I’ve seen you here before, you know, by yourself. There are far better places to be.” The girl rolls her eyes, picks up a menu and leads Fiona towards a booth. It’s one of the nicer spots in the establishment, not too close to the drunks at the bar, but close enough to ensure quick service.
Fiona shrugs, takes her seat and the menu. “I like it here. It’s different.”
The girl snorts. “Then you sure aren’t from around here.” She places her hand palm down on the wooden table, leaning there for a minute. “My name’s Jessica. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”
–
Fiona orders coffee, adding far too much sugar and cream to be appropriate. She sips it slowly, watching.
“I’m sure there’s better coffee else where, y’know. If that’s all you’re gonna drink.” Fiona pretends she hasn’t been watching Jessica for the duration of this cup, blinks to attention.
“Not a fan, then?” she offers, the words sticking to her tongue.
“I’m not exactly a coffee drinker.” Something about the tone in her voice causes Fiona to focus, sharply. Jessica’s lips are pushed flat, something akin to anger on her face.
“You get off soon?” Fiona asks, and then clings to the mug in her hand, ready to hear what a stupid proposition that managed to be.
Jessica narrows her eyes, almost smiles. “Another hour.” She pauses. “I’d say meet me outside, but you’ll still be here, won’t you?”
Fiona feels the corners of her mouth lift, takes another sip of lukewarm coffee.
–
Jessica steps out of Merlotte’s, and looking back at her, for a moment, surrounded by the light from indoors, she looks holy. Out of a dream. “I’m near positive you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, little girl.”
Fiona’s brow crinkles. “I’m hardly any younger than you are.”
Jessica takes her hand, and her skin is cool, smooth. “Just trust me,” she says, and smiles.
Fiona licks her lips, squeezing her fingers in almost a reflex motion. “Okay,” she says, and means it.
–
The only thing reminding her that this is real is the way the tree feels against her back, rough and solid. Her shirt rides up a little, and cool hands are there immediately, strong.
Fiona arches a little against the dual pinpricks at her neck, the image of fangs parting Jessica’s red, red lips emblazoned in her mind. “I want to,” she whispers, tangling her fingers in Jessica’s hair. Soft, and red, and pure. There’s a hum at her neck, and then pressure, then release.
Fiona’s clinging, her whole body tightening up, her eyelids fluttering. She thinks Holly J but manages “Jessica,” her voice begging into the darkness.
