A/N: I wish Pam and Sookie had had a better relationship on the show.

Part 3/5. Post series.

Word Count: 3389

iii.

"You have grown sentimental in your old age, Eric."

Some days he questions his sanity on the night he created his child. He says nothing, but that has never stopped Pam.

"Why must you torture yourself so?"

He knows she is concerned, worried about what he might do. Truth is, he is too. This is a wound that never quite scabbed over right; one that he still carries in his heart.

The last of the lights flicker out from the house across the field, a candle that's blown out by the wind. Pam shifts closer.

"You allow her too much of yourself."

Eric disagrees, thinking he should have allowed more all those years ago.

He rubs at his chest, as if to soothe the lingering hurt that emerges. It is difficult for his child to understand, he knows and doesn't begrudge her this. How can he, when it is him she has learned everything from?

Tonight, though, he desires the solitude of his thoughts and memories. If he is to do what he must, then he would have himself at peace.

"Eric."

Her tone is insistent now, and finally he tears his gaze away from the house to beckon her over. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and urges her lightly, "Go home, Pam. I'll meet you there." She expresses her displeasure in the cloud of dust that kicks up as she leaves. Eric holds back a sigh, refusing to indulge her juvenile antics. Tonight is for himself.

The air is static, and it seems as if everything is holding its breath.

There's movement at the door. The creak of rusty hinges, and the snap that follows as it shuts.

Eric stills.

"You can come out now." It's a whisper carried on the wind to his ears.

Of course. He should have shown.

He steps out from under the darkness of the canopy, into the gleam of moonlight. Waits with something powerful squeezing his chest as Sookie nears him.

"Well, howdy there, stranger." And her smile is easy, all warmth that pours from her lips. It crawls up his spine; seeps into his skin like water through a crevice – he can't believe how easily he falls into her again.

The vice around his torso releases and all he can manage in that moment is her name.

"Miss. Stackhouse."

The smile dims a little, sadness now tingeing the corners. "There's a name I haven't heard in a while."

"My apologies," he offers promptly. "Mrs. Harrison." It's a strange taste on his tongue, stranger still to hear it outside the recesses of his mind. She'll always be Sookie Stackhouse to him.

"Eric," she returns. Exasperation, fondness, amusement all curving around the letters of his name – a melody of sound he hasn't heard in far too long. "I can't believe I forgot how handsome you are," she laughs quietly.

His heart lightens like it always has. He tries not to preen at her words, but it pleases him more than he should allow that she still finds him so. "You're looking well."

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "C'mon, Eric. Birth three times takes a toll on a woman. Especially on your favourite parts." Gestures towards herself, an eyebrow quirked to tease.

He takes the bait, hook and all. "They still are." And ogles her unabashedly, delighting in her laugh even as she pretends to be outraged.

"You behave now, you hear?" But the grin tugging at her lips belies the tenor of her voice and something far more tender than affection blooms inside his chest to have her so at ease with him. Even now, after all this time.

It's such an easy thing to give her, these tiny pieces of his heart.

Her face is softer; her hips as well; and he thinks he can see the beginning creases around her eyes made by years of laughter.

All signs of a life blessed with love and the passing of time.

"What's twenty years to a thousand? An hour in time, nothing more," he muses before giving her a considering glance. "You have only grown more beautiful in the last hour, Sookie Stackhouse."

Maybe he's grown softer over the years, too, after all. He thinks perhaps that's not so bad where she is concerned.

Sookie tucks her hair behind her ear, eyes fleeing away from his in embarrassment. "Stop it." Her blush is still as pretty.

The silence lingers sweetly in the air, alongside the soft whistle of crickets through the long reeds of grass around them.

"Why did you wait so long?" she asks quietly after a moment.

A myriad of reasons fly into his mind:

Because it's what she wanted.

Because he didn't know not to.

Because he finds, even after two decades, he loves her as much as he ever has.

"You were happy." There's a touch of wistfulness to his voice that can't be helped.

"Most of the time, yeah."

He knows of her unhappiness, too. Remembers picking the flowers, writing platitudes in a card that hopefully didn't ring hollow. He didn't know her husband, but he knew of loss and death; of grief; and he had tried to pass comfort into a four-inch fold of paper to a young mother.

"Momma?"

Sookie's eyes peer around the screen door of her house, and that's where the resemblance ends.

"Go on, then. I'll be in, in a minute."

For a moment Eric worries goodbye comes far sooner than he expects. He was counting on a little more time with her.

The boy doesn't move though, regarding them suspiciously. Rather, regarding Eric suspiciously. Eric looks back, curious as well.

Sookie's son is all gangly limbs, the dregs of his childhood still clinging to his face. An awkward phase of life when he's not quite yet a man; just a boy stepping into the empty shoes of his father with a serious set to his lips and eyes as he stares down the stranger next to his mother. Eric admires his boldness.

Sookie grumbles about the stubbornness of teenagers and Eric has to suppress a smirk as he recalls all the times he had to suffer her stubbornness.

"Do you have some time? Stay awhile?" She smiles up at him and he finds himself smiling back.

He has all the time in the world for her tonight.

She ushers her son back into the house with a tone inherent to all mothers and Eric is swiftly taken back to the heat of a longhouse, the smell of damp earth filling his nostrils and a scolding in his ears. He can almost feel the rush of blood to his face.

The memory dissipates gradually, until he's once again occupying a small corner of northern Louisiana.

Her life has spilled into the open area around her home: a trio of bikes casually resting along the railing on the side; various forms of bats and balls strewn about the yard with just as many shoes lining the door; a pit not too far from him, pokers sticking out of the remains of a recent fire, and a tent pegged nearby.

And he thinks it's strange that, after a millennium of existence, the everyday experiences of her life should be so foreign to him.

When she returns, he's waiting on the porch swing, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. There's a small piece of paper clutched in her hands as she joins him, sitting close enough for his skin to be pleasantly prickled by her warmth.

"Your son," he says. Something peculiar stirs in his chest.

She indulges him, amusement crinkling her eyes. "Yes, my son."

Sookie – a mother. The idea still leaves him a little dizzy.

She holds out the scrap of paper and he sees it's a picture of three boys, each gazing back at him with her eyes. The older two take after their father, he guesses, with dark hair and their high cheekbones.

The smallest, though…the smallest is his mother in her entirety with his sharp face, wide grin, and a tousle of blond hair. Even from the photo he can see the unruly spark in the child's eye.

"They're beautiful, Sookie." He means it, too.

"They are." The pride in her words is evident; it shines through her eyes and open smile. "I think they're the best thing I've done."

He thinks about Pam and understands what she means.

"Thomas," she points to the oldest of the three and Eric recognizes him as the one who had appeared at the door. "Sometimes I worry he's had to grow too fast." The boy would barely have been an adolescent when he lost his father.

"He helps you?"

"Too much," Sookie tsks but Eric nods his approval. As it should be. It had been no different when he was alive.

He nudges her foot. "The others?"

She breaks out of the thoughtful silence she had been lost in and gives an apologetic smile for her lapse in manners. "Jonathan." She says it slowly. Carefully. The second of her sons.

He mimics her, keeping his voice low. "After your husband."

"The spitting image, too." One of her fingers fondly traces over the photo, and this time Eric allows her the lull in conversation. A surge of protectiveness washes over him, catching him off-guard in the quietness of the moment, and leaves behind a longing to shield her from further pain of loss. He recognizes the futility even as he feels it.

"Has the patience of an ox." She shoots a wry grin at him and he understands what she doesn't say: Another thing from his father.

She shifts her gaze to the last and her face brightens.

The camaraderie between the older two is clear, arms slung around each other's shoulders and close in age and height. Their little brother barely reaches their elbows, but not forgotten as one holds him firmly by the shoulder in front of them and the other ruffles his hair.

"My youngest," she chuckles, "he has a wild heart, that one. You couldn't keep him down with cement blocks tied to his feet."

"He takes after you," Eric notes.

"More than that. An adventurer. Fearless." There's nothing but love in her voice. "Three years back, he was five and convinced he could fly if he jumped off the roof. Oh, you should have seen me." She buries her head in her hands, laughing off her embarrassment. "I was such a mess – you'd think I'd never seen blood before."

Eric smiles. Indeed, that would have been a sight to see. "It's your child; you were scared." That, too, he draws from experience. Pam in a white cell, wearing blue, flashes across his mind.

"You know, I actually –" She shakes her head, flustered.

"What?"

"It's nothing."

But he's never allowed her to hide before. "Tell me anyway."

Her eyes glance away, out towards the woods. "I thought about calling you then. There was so much blood, and I…"

This admittance startles him. What he says next, though, doesn't. "I would have come." He takes her hand and twines their fingers together, pressing comfort into her palm. "If you had needed me, I would have come." In a heartbeat, he realizes. He would have stopped at nothing to make sure her son walked away unscathed. He knows that without a doubt.

Sookie squeezes his hand like she knows it too.

"Five stitches to the head and a broken arm later, it didn't seem so life-ending anymore."

"Now? Still fearless?"

"And proud of the scar, too," she says with exasperation. He can't help but laugh.

Mothers will be mothers in any era, and so will boys, it seems.

Pulling her hand away, she walks out into the grass, leaving him to follow.

The air has chilled. Goosebumps pimple her skin and Eric balls his fists to stop from reaching out to rub them away.

"You love him."

She looks up sharply. "I love all of them."

"No," Eric corrects. He should have picked his words more carefully. "You're scared for him."

He wonders what else her son has inherited from her.

She sighs. "Maybe a little," Sookie acquiesces, wrapping her arms around herself. "I try not to, but he's my last; my baby." She understands what he was trying to say, after all.

"You wonder if it'll be enough," he guesses. Trying to fill the void of a second parent with love enough for both. Would the child have more than a lasting impression of his father? "He has his brothers; and he has you. He'll want for nothing."

"Do you think so?" she asks honestly. Her eyes are curious. A crisp shade of blue he knows from experience he won't forget anytime soon.

"Yes," he answers without hesitation. Then thinks about what he knows of her own childhood and it's not hard to see from where her insecurities stem. Photo still in hand, he glances down at it, the frayed edges speaking of the countless number of times it's been handled. She peers at it from over his arm, standing closer now, before sliding her eyes to him. What she's looking for, he can't say.

He offers the photo back, and when she takes it gingerly from him, it leaves behind a pleasing tingle from where their fingers brush. "What's his name?" he asks to distract himself from the sensation.

"Eric."

He's about to repeat his question, but then catches the shy look on her face. The world shrinks to just the two of them, in an open field under an infinite sea of stars, and he's never felt so humbled in his long life.

Colour floods her cheeks as she tries to explain. "It's just – when he was born, he was early, you know? Too early and they thought – they weren't so sure he would make it. The odds were against him, they said. And – even then, he was such a fighter. He beat the odds, Eric – he wasn't supposed to, and I just – I looked at him and I knew," she rambles, and his heart softens even more.

There isn't anything for her to justify, not to him.

"It is an honour to share a name with a son of yours, Sookie," he says with nothing but truth. Then, a moment later. "Eric Stackhouse," tasting it on his lips. "It has a definite ring to it." He grins.

She side-eyes him with a bemused look. "You know they all have their daddy's name."

Eric decides to shift her attention back to the house. "Your oldest doesn't trust easily." He gestures with his chin towards the window closest to them, hearing the heartbeat hidden behind the curtains.

"Well, I've never had a gentleman caller before," she quips, bumping his shoulder with hers.

He raises an eyebrow and drops his voice. "Is that what I am?" And, yes, he's flirting. They both fall into the rhythm so effortlessly.

"Perhaps gentleman isn't the right term," she retorts when he gives a wolfish flash of teeth.

Bon Temps hasn't hosted a vampire since Bill. Her kids wouldn't know the experience of one. But a strange man visiting their mother under the cover of darkness can offer very few explanations, and none of them to their liking.

"That boy is too curious for his own good," Sookie sighs, and he senses this is a tried point of late. Not for the first time he wonders how much she has revealed to her children, if any of them are inclined to the preternatural.

"I could set him straight, if you'd like." His lips curl up to show some fang. "He worries for you," Eric says with seriousness a moment later, being all too well acquainted with the feeling himself. He wonders who else worries for her these days.

She shakes her head, folding her arms. "That's my job, not his." Then turns to look square at the window, and in a second's time it's just the two of them again. "Now, you didn't come all this way to play catch up, I'm sure." Her lips quirk up, and the gesture is so familiar something inside him aches at the sight.

"And if I did? It's gruff, the way it comes out, emotion bleeding through despite his best intentions.

Sookie tilts her head, eyes narrowing playfully at him. "What kind of trouble are you in?" she teases.

And he's glad, now more than ever, there is no longer a beating heart inside his chest that can break; that he doesn't have breath to escape his lungs at the unexpected pain from her words.

He thinks about Pam, waiting at the house; about the contingent of vampires he'll be leading the next night across state lines to deal with a monarch that has taken far too keen an interest in his area. He thinks about what it'll mean if he's successful, the security it'll bring to Louisiana and to Sookie's family. More than that, he thinks about what might happen should he fail. There are contingency plans, of course, to safeguard Sookie and her sons if the worst comes to pass. Favours and markers long owed he's called in, but he'd rather be intact to see them through. Even if it means facing her ire.

So, what kind of trouble is he in? The worst kind.

He coughs to give himself a moment. "No trouble."

She stares him down, unfazed. "Hmm, vamp secrets. Haven't missed those." The tone is light, but the arc of her eyebrows tell a different story. When he doesn't answer, she drops her hands, frowns, and steps closer. "How worried should I be?"

He looks past her head, at the house standing tall over her shoulder.

She's safe and happy – that's all he's ever wanted for her.

Though a part of him wishes it would have been with him.

"Eric?"

A light press of fingers on his chest brings him back. She's standing much closer now. The expression on her face makes him think, perhaps, he shouldn't have waited quite so long. Reaching out a hand, he smoothes back the hair at her temple, letting his fingers linger in the softness, watching as she pulls her lower lip between pearly white teeth.

Not wanting to startle her, he dips his head slowly, until his forehead comes to rest against hers, skin on skin. The contact is comforting, like the second or third pull of blood from a willing body after the exhilaration of the first has faded. Familiarity and contentment.

Eric eyes her lips, so close to his own. Feels the brush of hands up his torso as they slide over the broad expanse to his shoulders and up. Fingers scratch through his hair and he can't help the flutter of eyelids that close, the pleasure that warms his chest and neck. A rumble starts in his throat when the soft of her cheek rubs against the rough stubble on his jaw.

He nudges her nose a little. Just barely brushes her lips with his own.

She tugs on his hair. "Don't be such a tease, Eric." Her voice is light and playful, and he can easily hear the smile in her words.

He gives her she wants. Turns his head just a touch to first press a kiss on the corner of her mouth, then fully, properly, closing his lips around hers. He has one hand clasped on the curve of her chin, thumb lightly grazing back and forth over unblemished skin; the other journeys down the column of her throat, following the quickened pulse to the base where it beats erratic under the tips of his fingers. She opens beneath him and it's like he's being pulled under, no fight in him left.

The kiss is soft, slow, as he tries to infuse a lifetime's worth of love to her.

Eric's the first to break away. Any longer and he may invite himself into something far more permanent than her bed.

Sookie's eyes are clear, open. She sees him.

It's more than he deserves.

He takes a step back. Then another. His feet lift off the ground, until he's drifting away. "Goodnight, Miss. Stackhouse."

Her figure gets smaller, melting into the landscape.

It comes as a sigh on the wind: "Goodnight, Eric."

As a general rule, I don't read or write kid!fic. 'Thomas' is inspired from another fic: The End is Where We Start From by Shem (Pride & Prejudice), whose OC Thomas Davis is perhaps the most realistic and well-developed character I've come across in any fandom and single-handedly changed my opinion on the existence of good kid!fic. If I were to give Sookie any kids, it would be him. Check out the story on Ao3 if you're a P&P fan.

Thoughts always welcome.