Dead from the Beginning

By: Demon Tsunami

A/N: A take on how Sookie and Eric's first meeting SHOULD have gone, and the story from there. This was actually my first attempt at True Blood fan fiction, I just re-read it and decided to continue working on it, so here goes…

Chapter One: I Survived Fangtasia and All I Got Was this Lousy T-Shirt…

You know a guy with a throne is trouble. No guy, sitting on a throne, in a dark, seedy club, fingers stapled like an old world monarch, blue eyes burning in the shadows, is looking for that hand holding puppy love, or even a sordid romance under the stars. No, judging by the feral tilt to his lips, the aristocratic boredom shimmering about him, he's the rough, shove you into a dark corner and plunder type, complete with the standard fuck um and forget um routine. Trouble. With a capital T.

Gran always said trouble was a tricky companion; it keeps you on your toes, only to drop you on your ass. Fun as all get out, but in the end, unsatisfying. It leaves a girl hanging, crying into their stuffed animals, achy for that cheap thrill, too addicted to know it's truly over, but still together enough to know it's all gone to hell in a hand basket. I've seen enough minds to know the type, vampire or not, they might be gorgeous and exhilaratingly off limits, tempting as the devil in a Sunday hat, but those limits are there for a reason, Bill might not be my white knight, more like a dark knight with serious communication issues, but this guy, he's no knight at all, he's the dragon, all fire and brimstone, the type that would as soon kill me as kiss me. Good thing I'm not into that whole damsel in distress routine, my options simply aren't that promising if I was.

"So you've noticed him," Bill's got that rough, gravel on velvet voice, makes a girl perk up, pay attention. Still, I'm blinking dazedly as I turn, pink in the cheeks, like a school girl caught with her makeup compact in class, doing something she shouldn't. Only, I was just looking, a girl's got the right to have eyes, doesn't she?

"No," I deny, perhaps a bit defensively, "I mean, well, yes." My blonde hair shakes about my shoulders as I puzzle over the looming presence to our right. "Not like that," I insist at Bill's skeptical, disgruntled expression, "I mean, well, he's on a throne for Lord's sake!" I shake my head in pure, honky girl disbelief, in Bon Temps the closest we get to thrones is going to church on Sundays, and that's the Lord's throne, and he ain't exactly there sitting on it, at least, not visibly.

"That's Eric," Bill replies, there's a note of tension in his guttural voice; it sends his usually musical tone into a sulky, teenage growl.

"Mmmmhmmm," I press my lips to my straw and suck in a nice drink of a way overpriced gin and tonic. Noncommittal is best. Vampires have good hearing and short tempers, I won't flat out say that the broody megalomaniac in the corner is as pretentious as Arlene's red hair, but I sure as hell think it. Besides, it's hard to speak coherently when every five seconds you're picking up every pathetic pleather clad fanger's fantasies, from the standard romp and bite to things my Gran would take a belt to me for even repeating. I shudder as a brunette with a serious pain fetish brushes by, her mind swimming with recollections of her more fruitful evenings. My gin and tonic is starting to taste sour and I'm aching for a nice cup of tea with Gran and the feel of my own bed. First things first, though, and I remind myself sternly that this is for Jason, the poor boy doesn't deserve a cell, and he won't last long in one, that's for certain.

"So he's what, like a lord or something?" I cock my head at my tall, dark and handsome escort, Bill tries my temper something bad on occasion, but I think deep down, he's the type of man Gran always hoped I'd find, fangs or not. A southern gentleman, that mythical 'good man' I always hear about, and what's better, I don't have to hear his every thought, I can just stare into his blue eyes and pretend for one solid moment that I'm normal, and God that's nice. Relaxing even.

Bill snorts, and I don't appreciate his derisive look, until I realize it's not for me, but the subject of our conversation, "He's Eric Northman, Sheriff of Area Five," he reports with grudging respect, very grudging. His sour lip curl makes him look like a sulking boy, adorable, but sort of petulant.

"Sheriff?" Suddenly I'm getting flashbacks of Walker Texas Ranger and trying to make it fit with the sharp, dangerous looking man on that red velvet floor. Not happening. My blank look clues Bill in.

Please let himsee me, let him like me, please, please, please….

The desperate mental plea drowns out Bill's stiff warning as to the state of this Eric's character, that is to say, warning me off of his depravity in his husky southern twang, too bad I don't hear a word of it. Distracted, I turn, as if entranced, to watch a slender, bleach blonde in pointy black stilettos wavering at the precipice of the 'throne area', I will not call some showpiece of vampire theatrics a dais it's just too darn weird, even for me. She's chewing her lip like a stick of bubble gum, and her thoughts are like soap bubbles, pretty, but vapid.

Alls I want is one chance, Lord; Tess got him to say yes and if I don't I'll never, EVER live it down…

Desperation. It's scary how easy it is to see on her, especially since any self respecting girl shouldn't be broadcasting something like that in a bar like this, but it's etched too clearly on her tanned face, dripping from her Hot Topic discount clothes, the spiked collar, the too short plaid skirt, even the fishnets, they all scream her mental pleas, but it's her eyes that really get me. Like two flat, empty pools, lined in too much black shadow and eyeliner, hallow, like the bubbles of her thoughts. I can't help but feel sorry for her.

"Sookie," it's that way he says it, all smoky fire, like a prayer from the devil, "Are you listening?" I snap back to Bill, and his gruff, unsettled look, sometimes I listen too well, I almost snap, but a lifetime of telepathy has taught me to be accepting of the fact that people just plain don't get me. Or my disability. In here, for me, it's like twenty radio stations playing at once, I don't mean to get distracted, but there's only so much you can keep on the back burner. Honestly.

As always, when flustered, my knee-jerk honesty spills out, "That girl right there," I whisper, leaning in real close and slightly jerking my head at the blonde hovering at the crowd's edge, "she's thinking about going up there and…" my face scrunches, "begging for his…" another uncomfortable pause as I fumble for polite terms, "attention. Is that normal?" I ask the last part in pure disbelief. Oh Sookie, you so aren't in Bon Temps anymore.

"Yes," Bill discomfort matches mine, "Many women here, and men," he adds with a small frown, "seek Eric's company, he's quite sought after, for his looks, and power." Bill's expectant look rankles every inch of pure southern girl in me. I am not like them. The nonverbal insinuation is plain rude.

"Well," I sip my drink with narrow eyes as the petite blonde finally musters up enough bravado to step forward, drawing the eyes of Eric and half of the clubs patrons in the process, "Sounds like he's the man to question." Bill's look is nearly priceless, and reflects my own doubts.

Not that I'm exactly keen on it, but still, people with power know things, and I'm here for Jason, not Bill, so he can keep that skeptical look all he damn well likes. I am not interested in Eric. Heck, I'm not even sure at the moment if I'm interested in Bill, what with his whole 'Sookie is mine' thing, it screams possessive and not in a good way. For example, I know he thinks this is a date, and now he's getting all cave man on me at the idea of talking to another vampire just because he's somewhat attractive (I suppose) in that whole bad boy way. As if I want anything to do with a man who owns a bar named Fangtasia, and sits on a throne like some self proclaimed demi-god, can you say ego issues?

"Sookie," Bill's hand on mine is cool, showing he hasn't fed. I glance up, intrigued by the warning in his slightly pained tone, I'd been gathering my things without thought, figuring we'd ask this Eric a few questions and get the heck out of Vampire-Ville. His look seemed to imply I was missing something, or perhaps he didn't get my logic as to why I thought asking this Eric was a good idea. Just then, the girl I'd been half listening to since I first spotted her, chose that moment to, honest to God, bow before the vampire's throne like some reject actress from a B-rated horror movie, at this, my jaw drops of its own accord, Gran calls that sort of knee jerk aplomb, plain ol' dumb struck. I feel sick, but only because I can sense the now kneeling girl's own nervous nausea at what she is currently doing. It's matched by her tingling excitement.

"Rise," Oh Lordy, he speaks. Every inch entitled, every syllable derisive, commanding. My eyebrow arches of its own accord, who died and made him king? Oh, right….He did. Now I know how Dorothy felt, this is so not Kansas anymore. Blondie scrambles up like a kid waiting to sit on Santa's lap, eyes like Christmas, smile like a hundred watt bulb.

Eric tilts his head, a sarcastic smirk on his lips, it's the first time I get a proper look at him, and damn it, he's drop dead gorgeous, just like I thought, but dangerous, definitely dangerous. My lips pucker. Every instinct in me is saying 'Oh hell no Sookie, don't you dare.' The voice sounds suspiciously like Tara's. I think it's probably very smart advice. Too bad sometimes smart and brave contradict one another.

"C-c-can I please, um…" She bats her mascara laden eyelashes, "I'd like to offer myself…um…to you." His nostrils flare; his cold, cobalt blue eyes suddenly seem wickedly amused.

"Do you now?" My lips thin further, he's drawing it out, on purpose, and anyone with eyes can see he's got no intention of taking her seriously. That's just…well, it's just rude. My hands find my hips of their own indignant accord.

"Oh Lordy," I mutter beneath my breath in disgust.

Her head bobs like one of those plastic figurines people get for their dashboards, "Please, yes, please." Too many 'pleases', even for me. Bill is scowling now, obviously upset at what I'm being 'subjected' to.

As if I haven't seen worse, this is pretty bad, but getting beat to death and finding Dawn dead in her own bed definitely takes the cake on the weird shit I've been privy to of late, and I'm not exactly a stranger to things like humiliation and crazy fetishes, being a telepath and all I see a lot similar stuff in a person's head. Usually it's just not so public. In fact, this has sort of got the feel of a train wreck to it, where you know everything's gonna get real messy, horrible even, but you still can't look away, even with my head filling up with disgust, my eyes can't seem to go anyplace else.

"Come," he quirks his finger, indicating she join him up on his elevated throne. I snort. It's so ridiculous it's, well…ridiculous. No other word for it. His eyes are like winter, frozen, empty, as they flash to mine, so briefly I begin panicking that I imagined it, or perhaps the panic is because I know I didn't. Bill's possessive hand on my wrist confirms it. Is this little power display for me?

Ridiculous… I don't even know why I just thought that.

She steps into his grasp, dazed, blissful, her mind a torrent of self congratulation and giddy delight, I wince, because she doesn't even see his gaze. Dark, predatory, the look of a lion towards a gazelle, not a man to a woman. Food. She's just food to him. Suddenly I realize what Bill's been trying to subtly convey, to them, we're not much more that a walking, breathing, happy meal. I mean, I don't exactly eye down M&M's like that, but still, the analogy is there, and suddenly I feel the weight of my own ignorance, it's heavy, and thick. My eyes flash to Bill's, seeking comfort I suppose; this is so alien to everything I know, to everything I believe. His eyes are on the blonde, though, and while his mouth is pursed in disgust like mine, his eyes are…well, hungry and fearful all at once. Anticipation wars with self hatred. I shiver.

"Sit," Eric gestures to his lap regally, wicked derision playing on his lips and eyes, she doesn't notice, like a marionette with her strings cut she practically falls on him, like lightning his hand reaches out, stopping her from toppling off him, her mind is sort of cotton-like, and I get the feeling he's glamoured her. Not that she needed it, she was more than willing, and even half lucid she'd mentally purring like a kitten with a bowl of cream, enjoying his meanness, his utter lack of civility, this isn't a southern lady, that's for sure. He smirks, perhaps because he knows every last eye is on him, or maybe it's because he's petting her like most people do a small dog, smoothing away her crisp, bottle blonde hair, revealing her tan, slender jugular. Oh crap, he's going to do that, here? I can't help but glance at Bill in shock, the dark look he sends seems to say 'this is what happens here,' and I swallow, hard.

"Still think this is Disney Land?" he asks me rather snidely. I give him a look that Gran gives me when I'm mouthy and obstinate, don't you dare go there Bill Compton.

Not finding any reassurance in Bill's vaguely sickened, but mostly tense profile, my eyes wander back to the 'show', and boy do I wish they hadn't. It was like he was waiting for it, for me to look, as preposterous as it sounds, of all the people here, in their black leather and heavy makeup, some of them even vampires, the decision holds some sort of significance I can't decipher, that he would chose me as the one to toy with, to play this sick game that I don't know the rules to. At that instant, his pristine white fangs slip down, and those cold, winter morning eyes meet mine, a cold, icy smirk tilting those full lips, and I feel that chill, that dead cold shiver in my chest, right before our gazes break like spun sugar, and with a feral snarl that runs my blood hot and cold, his head dips like a whip, and his sharp, razor teeth pierce the poor girl's exposed neck.

I wasn't expecting so much blood, rusty rivulets running down gold skin, seeping through his sucking lips, suddenly I see way too much resemblance between the now squirming girl and myself, it haunts me, disturbs me on every level, tear away all that black, throw on a sun dress, and I'm looking at a near perfect reflection. Or so it seems, in that one, frantic, twisted second, and then her emotions hit me, like a semi truck on a freeway, nearly knocking me from my seat. Holy cow she likes it.

"Excuse me." It's my frantic plea as I dash the girl's room. Blood I can handle. Creepy vampires I can deal with. But a mental assault like that in a place where the undead residents could possibly (ew) smell the very unintentional effect my accidental eavesdropping has had on my wonky libido, I need to escape, NOW. Bill tries to protest, but like Jason says, I'm as stubborn as a mule when need be, I shake him off with a look that says he can shove his concerns up his nicely shaped petunia. My feet don't take me fast enough, and with jittery arms I slam open the restroom doors and practically flee into the stall.

"Oh lord, oh lord," that's my processing chant, muttered into my hands as I try and calm my breathing and other, not so pleasant reactions. My murmured half prayer is quickly followed by self criticism, "Sookie Stackhouse, you are in way over your head." I half groan. Someone needs to say it, and since Tara and Sam aren't here it might as well be me. Doesn't make me feel any less like a guppy in a shark tank, but heck, it does seem to snap me out of it, and with a sudden burst of self confidence I realize hiding in a bathroom won't fix anything, and secondly, I've got nothing to be ashamed of, that was her choice, her thoughts, not mine. I'm better than that. I don't have to explain myself to these people, let them judge, it's like Gran's in my head, coaching me to put my chin up and be the smart, confident girl she raised.

"Well, well," I recognize that soft drawl, the female sizing up, although the unexpected voice makes me jump slightly. The brunette vampire is reapplying another coat of ruby red to her lips, eyeing me curiously through the large bathroom mirror. I stare at Pam, the one with the mental vault, and suddenly all my fear, strangely, vanishes. Sure, she's a vampire, and yes, she doesn't seem exactly like the friendly sort, but my reaction is still to breathe a sigh of relief, for some reason, I feel like I can handle Pam. The action doesn't escape the vault, I'm sure.

"Hi," I go for perky, but since I'm still a bit shaken I end up somewhere around heavily medicated. Her mouth twists wryly.

"See anything you liked?" She's taunting me, I can tell. My shoulders square, and with determined motions I join her at the mirrors, fluffing my hair and eyeing my light makeup. She glances at me from her peripheral, amused I think.

"Not really," I admit, earning a raised eyebrow.

"I see what he means," she says cryptically, suddenly a magnetic smile lights up her features, transforming her from sullen and cynic to bright and vividly energetic. It's the same tactic Arlene uses when she needs a sitter for the night, all warm and sweet but undoubtedly nursing some hidden agenda. Suddenly I miss Bill. He's confusing, but he's the sort of confusing I've come to understand, if that makes any sense.

"Well, see you around." I make a beeline for the door.

"The boys are busy," she comments dryly as I go to leave, an indulgent smirk aimed at me through the reflected glass, "let's give them a minute." That sounds ominous.

"Busy?"

"Your boyfriend didn't like Eric's display, and well, Eric doesn't like being challenged," her words carry a vindictive sort of satisfaction. Seeing my expression she pats my arm, "Don't worry, they'll play nice, he didn't challenge him openly, even Compton's not that stupid." She smirks wistfully, as if she wishes it wasn't so.

"Challenge?" At my softly voiced question her eyes take on that sharp look, the one she had at the front door.

"You really are out of your element, aren't you?" she observes, and not very kindly either. "Your master should keep you better informed; poking that sweet button nose into vampire affairs isn't very smart, little girl." My hand starts to go for my 'button' nose defensively before I think better of it and scowl, letting my arm drop halfway.

"Yeah, well, I've got a reputation for being not very smart," I report matter-of-factly, earning an amused look, and as if to prove it, I add, "And Bill is so not my master."

"Oh?" now I have her full attention. Before, she appeared to be attentive, but that was all for show, now she's really looking at me, judging, evaluating. As Jason would say, well shit.

"Well, he did that whole 'mine' thing at his house," I edge out slowly, suddenly nervous, not exactly scared, just a bit wary, "but that was because he had guests, and they didn't exactly take no thank you for an answer."

"I bet not," she responds dryly, peering at me in earnest. She reaches out and brushes my hair from my shoulder, pushing it away from my neck and arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow at my unblemished skin. I don't take kindly to anyone touching me so familiar like, not without my say so, and defiantly shake my hair back over my neck. What is it about being dead that makes vampires think they're immune to social protocol? Or did most of them always have bad manners? Gran would be so appalled.

"I haven't been bit," I inform her, my voice suddenly devoid of all humor. She nods. Maybe its years of being a telepath that let me see it, when others might have merely brushed it off, but she cocks her head, eyes going blank, and I know she's suddenly not completely with me. Physically she hasn't budged a bit, but there's distance in her eyes, like static, and I have a nearly positive feeling she's somewhere entirely else mentally. She blinks, and the look is gone, making me curious, I suppose people feel the same when they see me space out, only the people that catch on to it with me are usually a lot more freaked out then I'd ever let on. Pot calling the kettle black and all that.

She smiles a slow, sweet as molasses smile, "They boys are finished, come on," she holds out her hand, a challenge in her stare as she does so, as if she expects me to decline, or as if she thinks I'll be scared to take it, little does she know I resent the implication that I'm being chicken. Or that I should be. I take it, despite the fact that Pam simply doesn't seem like the hand holding type, she tosses me a smirk before nearly dragging me from the room. I follow, curious, worried, suspicious, miffed, impatient, the emotions run through me quicker than ice tea on a hot summer day. We reach a back room, it looks a bit like an office, and Pam knocks, her knuckles rapping on the wood in an almost militant fashion.

"Enter," that same arrogant, dark as tar voice suggests, and the vampire holding my hand drops it without thought, pushing open the door with her long manicured nails, painted the color of blood, naturally. She sashays in, like a cat, and hovers by the exit, the strategic placement doesn't escape my notice, too many days around death will do that to a girl.

I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Bill, unharmed, sitting in front of a large desk with a bottle of True Blood in his hand, his left leg kicked up to rest on his knee. Casual almost, save for the tension around his eyes, I march right up to him, purposefully ignoring Eric, and try to suss out how bad this is, if it's bad at all. He doesn't give anything away; in fact, he looks at me with something akin to fear, I never thought I'd scare a vampire, never wanted to try, but somehow I very much doubt he's scared of me, more like for me. Great, just perfect.

"What's going on?" I don't know who looks more surprised at my demand, Bill or Pam, but Eric manages his indifference well, his hooded eyes boring into me from across two feet of wood and floor. I ignore him, it seems to be working so far, and if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Stupid megalomaniac vampire.

"Mr. Northman has requested," Bill begins, and the last word sounds especially bitter, "that we spend the night in Shreveport," at my not so pleased look, he hastens to add, "It is his right, as Sheriff, to request up to one night of our time, your questions have breached a sort of protocol." Huh, and here I thought them being immune to our social standards meant it was a two way street, color me naïve.

"I'm not leaving Gran to worry all night, and what am I supposed to say?" I demand in a huff, irked, this is his thing, he should've thought of this, even if I happened to be the one to drag him down here despite his warnings. Irrational I may be, but still. A night in this place? I'd rather sleep in a cemetery; at least the décor there is better, more authentic, heck, I even reckon it's safer there too.

"Do you always allow her to speak to you this way?" comes the mildly amused enquiry. That's it. No more Ms. Nice Girl. My glare finds Mr. Northman, owner of the throne of theatrical pretention, and I let him have it like I let Jason have it during those times when he's gone and opened his mouth and let out a whole slew of stupid. Which unfortunately for him, is too often.

"Nobody allows me anything, Mr. Northman," I begin, hands on the hips, further incensed by his now openly amused expression, I ignore Bill's now openly anxious one, "Look, as far as I'm concerned, I don't fall under vampire protocol, if I was asking questions and they were unwelcome, and you'd warned me, that's one thing, but saying I have to spend the night here," his farce of a pleasant smile falters a bit at my disgust, "is just plain rude. Bill maybe well educated on this whole thing, but I never signed any fidelity agreement to a Sheriff of Louisiana-"

"Sookie!" Bill cautions eyes wide at my daring.

"AND I wouldn't, if given the chance," I add, ignoring Bill, probably not the wisest idea, but anger makes me rash.

"Miss Stackhouse," his voice is like a cool spring breeze, light and filled with wonder, probably sarcastic wonder, knowing what little I do of him it's hard to tell, his blue eyes give nothing away, "Bill Compton has relayed to me that you are his," I shift uncomfortably, not exactly… "and as such, you fall under my jurisdiction."

"Well, Bill was mistaken," I retort, at his arched eyebrows I add quickly, "I'm my own Mr. Northman, slavery has been illegal for quite some time now." He lets out a barked laugh,

"She's charming," he directs this at Pam.

"Reminds me of someone," Pam replies cryptically, raising her eyebrows as a small smirk passes between maker and child. While they exchange their subtle commentary, Bill chooses that precise moment to ensnare my arm, a look of near terror on his pale as ivory southern features.

"Sookie," he begins in that way only Bill can say my name, like a half curse, half prayer, "you must tell them you are mine." I do believe the look I bestow upon him conveys my utter dislike of that particular idea, but just in case there's leeway for nonverbal insinuation, I spell it out for him too.

"Look, I appreciate what you did for me," as in, kept his three fang buddies from draining me the second I stepped foot into his home, "but I got to be honest, this vampire stuff is like speaking French to a China man, and excuse me Bill Compton if I maybe want to get a better feel for this situation before I go ahead start declaring I belong to anybody." I cross my arms, giving him the stink eye.

"You don't trust me?" He looks taken aback, sad even. I want to brush his black hair from his forehead and soothe him, because for that one moment he looks like a forlorn little boy who's had his candy taken away, but we're surrounded by questionable vampires, in a club that frankly gives me the heebie-jeebies, and so soothing his ego will have to wait. Besides, if I have trust issues it's because he's been less than forthcoming, last night was a wakeup call for me, and I won't be getting over those three 'guests' of his anytime soon.

"Right now," I say instead, "I don't exactly trust anyone, no offense." People are going dead in Bon Temps of all places, drainers tried to beat me to death, I just recently found out I can't hear vampire thoughts, and my brother is likely the only suspect in a double homicide, so forgive me if I'm a bit leery, it's a lot to process. A couple weeks ago my biggest worry was whether or not Gran and I would get the house painted before winter, now I'm going to vampire bars and investigating murders, it's a bit of an adjustment, and I personally think I'm handling it quite well, all things considered.

"Smart girl," Pam approves. Bill gives her a look that could cut steel.

"I'd like a moment with Miss Stackhouse," Eric announces, drawing all pairs of eyes to his smirking, half leaning form behind the desk. "Alone." His fingers are stapled behind his head, light blue eyes thoughtful, but sharp.

"Where Sookie goes, I go," Bill declares in a half growl, earning my reluctant gratitude. Playing Nancy Drew is one thing, being along with this Mr. Northman is quite another.

"Awe, how sweet," Pam mocks in a caustic twang, smirking in condescension at the two of us.

"Oh really?" There's a weight to this question, an edge to it in Eric's eyes and tone. Undeterred, Bill meets his sardonic, piercing stare with his own stubborn tenacity, his hand possessively holding mine. Right about now, that weight is comforting, solid, slightly cool, his fingers interlace with my smaller ones, his thumb brushing my knuckles. Eric's magnetic eyes trail to the connection, and the coldness I saw in him earlier floods his profile, making him harder, meaner. I get the feeling Mr. Broody doesn't like seeing signs of affection between Vampires and humans that doesn't involve opening up a vein, well, tough fritters.

"I owe her my life," the black haired vampire emphasizes in a deep growl. Blonde eyebrows slash upward; even I can smell the tension leaking through the suddenly cramped feeling office. In Bon Temps we call this a male pissing contest, I'm sure vampires have a more clever term, but it's still the effects of testosterone cutting off oxygen to the brain, stupid male dominance.

"And if she occupies the basement, you will join her?" Eric sounds amused, like he's privately enjoying an inward joke. Bill's face, a color usually akin to fresh parchment, drains further, going egg shell white, and he looks like a kid suddenly caught wrist deep in the cookie jar. Pam's laugh, sharp and at Bill's expense, fills the room.

"The Queen-" Compton begins gruffly.

"Has appointed me Sheriff," Eric concludes, looking smug, relaxed, as Bill grows more and more agitated, you can see it the most clearly in Bill's eyes, where the corners crinkle and freeze, and around his mouth, where his lips are about as thin as a sheet of paper. "You knew that you were expected to inform me of your arrival in my territory," Eric continues, blasé, kicking his feet up on his desk nonchalantly, "and yet you didn't. You were more than aware that you needed my permission before coming into my bar, and yet there you were, escorting your little blood bag, letting her get mouthy with Longshadow." Blood bag, lovely, I think I'm liking him more and more….not.

"I begged Bill to come," I interject, heated at the way this man speaks to Bill, like someone would talk to a disobedient dog, or a small child. His glare nearly immobilizes me, but I continue, reckless and determined. "I asked the questions."

The grip on my hand is suddenly painful, as Bill's features go from tense to nearly seizure-like. But it's the eyes boring into me from across the desk that cause me to swallow hard, there's something in his stare, something deeper and more animalistic than can be found in Bill's eyes, something raw and feral, waiting to get out, biding its time before it strikes.

"Miss Stackhouse," he says my name like he's tasting it, rolling it around for a moment on his tongue, "If there was anything you wanted to ask, you should have come to me directly." His eyes are inviting, but it's not just simple conversation that he's discussing, even I can sense that.

I snort my disbelief, earning another bone crushing hand squeeze, "I apologize, Mr. Northman-"

"Eric," he corrects matter-of-factly, eyes glittering as he watches me with unabashed interest. I'm all too uncomfortably reminded of the gothic girl this evening, wondering uneasily if my approaching him would have resulted in the same end result, at the idea, my nose scrunches in distaste. I am not a walking happy meal!

"Eric," I purposefully spit his name, Jason says 'vampires' the same way, I note distractedly, "I'm sorry for my intrusion, but I had no intention of making my questions public," He tilts his head, obviously intent on waiting me out, eyes roving the room as if to imply this is hardly public now. I sigh, plucking the two Polaroid's from my purse and shoving them in front of his now perfectly composed features.

"Maudette Pickens and my friend Dawn," my sundress is pulled tight as I lean over his large (ostentatious) desk to put them in his direct line of sight, "They were killed in Bon Temps."

"Is that really a town?" Pam comments incredulously from behind, I ignore her. She seems to really thrive off of pushing people's buttons.

"You think a vampire did this," it's not a question, more like a carefully worded threat. His voice is like silk wrapped steel, devoid of the pleasant southern twang of Bill's husky timber, it's too cold, just like his eyes.

"No," perhaps I like correcting him a little too much, arrogant prick. "Bill says a vampire wouldn't have left the blood in the bodies, these woman were strangled Mr. Northman, not drained."

"And as the only vampire suspect in Bon Temps, you of course, believe his word unconditionally," Eric taunts with a wry smirk. I huff. "And its Eric," he adds lightly, his lips tilting upward. I roll my eyes, and here I thought Sam tried my last nerve, he's got nothing on Eric Northman.

"I believe a vampire would've made it look like an accident, not just left them there for God and everyone to find," even Bill looks slightly shocked at this, as if I shouldn't know that much, as if they don't make it so freaking obvious. Wasn't I the one who mentioned that tornados jump? Come on, the hair color might be natural, but this is one Podunk hick who can add two and two together.

"Do you?" Eric's voice is eerily quiet, a cold tone, thoughtful, but not at all reassuring.

"Sookie has a rather vivid imagination," Bill begins, and I only stop myself from rolling my eyes because Pam does it for me.

"Not as stupid as she looks," the brunette vampire murmurs, ending Bill's ridiculous attempt at misdirection.

"Miss Stackhouse, you've amused me," why does he sound like I should be jumping up and down for joy because I got him to crack a smile? Vampires. I frown as I stop leaning, he's still not answering my questions. "And after a few millennia, that is no easy task. However, your escort isn't nearly as entertaining, and he is the one who knowingly broke our protocol. So you see, on top of being genuinely dull, he is in a great deal of trouble over you." My eyes meet Bill's, seeking solace, forgiveness.

"You, however, are free to go," he adds, waving at me like one swats off a nat.

"B-but," I sputter.

"Yes?" He drawls, arching an eyebrow.

"Sookie," Bill warns, his eyes burning murderously at Eric in unspoken accusation. I square my shoulders and make one of those split second decisions I'm known for when my friends are in deep water without a paddle and I'm capable of jumping in to the rescue. Tara says that analogy makes me the human life raft, and warns that one day someone's going to pull me down with them. It's a fair assessment.

"I think I will talk to Mr. Northman privately after all," so proud of my own daring, I miss the smug, triumphant looks Eric and Pam exchange at my back. You can take the girl from the small town, but you can't take the small town out of the girl and all that. I'm not nearly well versed enough in subterfuge and hidden agendas.

"Sookie!" Bill has abandoned silent panic, and gone to verbally being appalled; reaching out as if to shake me and possibly rouse some sense in my head, but it's too late, Pamela is only too happy to stand between the dark haired vampire and myself, her glittering brown eyes as sharp and predatory as a hawk's.

"Jealous looks good on you," she comments dryly, crossing her arms over her red dress suite and mocking him with a smirk. The hawk that's finally caught the mouse.

"Move," Bill snarls, standing, his bottle of True Blood long forgotten.

"Pam, are you going to let him talk to you like that?" Eric feigns being aghast, the sarcastic bastard. Pamela throws him a look over her shoulder.

"You play nice with your little appetizer, and I'll handle reminding our guest of his manners," she suggests with a single arched brow, "unless, of course, you'd like to trade." Her eyes rove my entire body suggestively, from the low cut of my sundress to the straps of my sandals; her catty playfulness earns her a smirk from Eric. Bill looks ready to dive through her, but his eyes keep flickering to Eric fearfully.

"I'll be okay," I reassure him.

"No, Sookie, you will not," Bill insists in that husky drawl, not at all happy, but somehow sexier for it. In fact, worry is now etched onto every faucet of his face, and it's a bit nice to know that's all for little old me. It helps me send him a nice big grin, complete with sparkling eyes.

"We're just going to talk," I insist back, "Right, Eric?" I shoot him a look, hands on my hips, a warning in my eyes.

"Of course, Miss Stackhouse," his lips twitched in a repressed smirk, he's anything but reassuring, serves me right for asking his input I suppose. In fact, he looks nearly gleeful, there's wicked delight positively glowing from those engaging blue eyes, he's enjoying both Bill's desperation, and my sudden discomfort more than any decent person should. Course, I'm not certain there's anything decent about him, he's yet to show it if there is.

"Sookie, listen to me, you must tell him your mine," it's a plea, and for a long moment I nearly agree because he looks so adorably forlorn, so human, so sweet, so very scared for my behalf that I nearly believe he would ask something like that just to protect me, no strings attached. Reality checks back in and I scowl, no means no. I've been the naïve little girl enough for one night, and being Bill's means I have to spend the night here, which is at the very bottom of my to-do list, I shake my head, mutely resolved. Whatever happens, I'm my own person, end of story.

When Pam grows bored and begins forcing a resentful Bill from the office, Eric chooses to add in that falsely innocent manner of his, "Oh Pam? Do be a dear and get the door behind you," he glances at Bill thoughtfully, "and try not to have too much fun." Pam's lower lip juts out.

"You're the boss," she snaps, but anyone can tell he's just ruined her good mood. Bill looks relieved. After the door closes, those crystal blue eyes fall on me, and suddenly I'm having slight difficulty remembering how to breathe properly, and figuring that I don't have a snowballs chance in hell of overpowering him if he does try anything, I decide to sit in the seat Bill was previously in, smoothing out my skirt as I do so and avoiding those too perceptive irises.

"I'll owe her a new pair of shoes," he comments to seemingly no one unparticular, staring at the ceiling in exasperation, "she's been dying," he smirks at the word 'dying', "to teach Compton his place for a while now." It reminds me of what Bill said, how puns were the highest form of humor at one point. He sighs, looking put out, his gaze sliding to me in evaluation.

"Does she hate him?" I venture.

"No more than I do," he responds, which is really no answer at all.

"You're really used to this," I comment. Speaking before thinking will really get me in trouble one day. I sincerely hope today is not that day. He cocks his head, waiting. "The whole ordering people around thing," I gesture to his office, the grandeur of it, I might not be a brand name girl, but this stuff is nice, expensive nice, and it shows, not at all like the cheesy club décor, which I still stand by my original comment, makes the bar look like a ride at Disney Land. "Does everybody have to do what you say?" His eyes crinkle in amusement.

"No," he confesses, "but most prefer it to the alternative."

"What's the alternative?" His eyebrows wing upward at that, a reflective and somewhat vindictive look flashing across his face briefly.

"It would depend on the disagreement." He decides after a moment.

"Do you ever answer a direct question?" I demand, fed up. He smirks, his feet dropping to the floor, and his tented fingers on the desk as he leans in, all done in one of those nearly too quick to see vampire movements, his form a blur before he's suddenly much closer, peering at me intently, letting me see how really gorgeous he is, and I suddenly realize something important about Eric, this man uses his beauty as a weapon. Too bad it's a pretty effective one, as weapons go.

"Only the ones I like, Miss Stackhouse," he purrs in a suggestive tone. My nose crinkles.

"What did you mean earlier, when you asked Bill if he'd go to the basement with me? What do you have in there?" I question rapid fire, down to business. He gives me a brief look of surprise before a slow, appreciative smile slides across his mouth.

"Perceptive little thing, aren't you?" He murmurs.

"Perceptive, yes, but there's nothing little about me Mr. Northman, and you didn't answer my question," I respond crisply. His lips twitch, sure signs he's repressing his urge to laugh at me, I suppose to a big vampire like him I am a bit little, but still.

"Bravado's sweet, but it's truly not necessary," he responds coolly, with a meaningful look he adds, "I can smell your fear."

"If I'm afraid," I tell him defensively, "It's only because I'm worried about Bill."

"Yes, about that…" He leans in slightly, eyes narrowing fractionally, "Why do I smell his blood in you, Miss Stackhouse?" I'm near certain my heart stutters, he can smell that? Crap and corruption.

"He had a bit of a run in with some nasty drainers outside Merlotte's," I shrug, "I ran them off, but they didn't exactly take kindly to that, so…" I bite my lip, "They sort of beat me to death. Well, nearly, I would have died if not for Bill." I sigh, "And seeing as we're talking about blood and death, and you were decent enough not to molest me the moment he left, I suppose you should call me Sookie," I offer with slight hesitation.

"Sookie," he repeats, "Interesting name." He says it in a way that suggests it's beyond interesting, more like weird. Humph.

"Eric Northman is a rather dull name for a vampire, I thought they were supposed to have mysterious names, but Bill and Eric," I add with a small frown, "Definitely not scary." Two can play at his little demeaning attitude.

"I suspect you would prefer Lestat?" He enquires in mock pleasantness. I shake my head.

"No, Eric suites you," I respond too sweetly, batting my eyes at him.

"Ms. Stackhouse, are you provoking me?" He says incredulously. I hold up my fingers and narrow the space between my forefinger and thumb to nearly infinitesimal.

"Maybe a smidge," I admit, using my hand for emphasis. For a moment he merely looks dumb struck, but then something entirely unexpected happens. Eric Northman throws back his head, revealing a thick, strong neck, and laughs, a deep, belly to throat laugh that has me cracking a smile despite myself.

"Sookie Stackhouse, you are either the dumbest human I've met, or the bravest," he half mutters, begrudgingly awed. I shrug, insults to me are just water on a duck's back, I've swam through them my whole life, and if I'd let them weigh me down, I wouldn't be sitting here right now. "What on Earth are you doing with an idiot like Bill Compton?" He cocks his head, smiling, suddenly friendly and amiable, I think I distrust his friendliness more than his cold sarcasm.

"Well, seeing as I'm dumb, maybe it's a mutual attraction of likenesses," I retort sourly. His lips are twitching again.

He tsks me through his teeth, his tone playful, "Opposites attract, Ms. Stackhouse, not likenesses." He gives me a heated look with one eyebrow arched, all blonde, dark, and devious, with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, golly miss molly, and I thought Bill was too sexy for words; this man is practically oozing sensual charm. My lips purse in disapproval as I realize I was just openly ogling him, damn, score one for the vampire I suppose. He laughs.

"You're delightfully expressive," he comments.

"And you're purposefully cryptic," is my sighed reply. "Are you planning to keep me here all night by talking in circles, or is there any chance I can get you to let Bill go?" Suddenly his friendly look vanishes, like someone wiped it from his face, and I tense.

"Mr. Compton is capable of taking care of himself," he points out sternly, like an adult lecturing a deviant child on what's what. I tilt my chin up a notch.

"Be that as it may, Mr. Northman, I'm not one to let my friends suffer on my behalf," I reply in a equally stern manner, "Bill's in trouble because of me, and you might not understand it, but I can't just go home and sleep knowing he's here having…well, God knows what, done to him because I thought going to a vampire bar and asking some intrusive questions was a good idea." I hold out my hands in a helpless gesture.

"How…noble," the voice is behind me, liquid poison in my ear. Shit. I hate vampire tricks. His large, and yes, they're very large, hands nearly envelope the entire expanse of my shoulders, and neck, holy cow how did I not notice how big he was? His touch, unlike Bill's cool one, is slightly warm, the effects of his very recent feeding I'm sure, no store bought blood for Eric Northman… Something about that finally pierces my head, in the form of a giant DUH sign. This isn't Bill Compton, mainstreaming vampire trying to blend in, this is a strange vampire, who obviously has no qualms about feeding directly from the tap so to speak, and as soon as that settles in, I realize his large, slightly warm hands have been gently kneading my shoulders, relaxing me, but also pushing my hair from my neck.

"You better not bite me," I hiss through my teeth, appalled as I struggle to turn and face my would-be attacker.

"Mmmmhmmm," he murmurs in a way that clearly shows he's ignoring me; his eyes are on my neck.

"I mean it!" I spin, giving him the glare of my life, fully outraged, my heart going a mile a minute at the thought that there's very little I can do to stop him. His cool eyes bore into me impassively, the pressure of his hands on me ensure that I can only turn my head, and not my body, one of his fingers slip experimentally under the strap of my dress, a smirk toys at his lips.

"You will remove your hands from me, now," I growl through clenched teeth. His eyebrows arch.

"Feisty," he chuckles, "I wager Bill allowed such things." His expression suggests he's not so generous.

"I might not have vampire strength," I begin in a slightly anxious tone, "but I sure as hell can scream, Mr. Northman, and if you don't take your hands off me this minute, I'll show you just how loud." Jason used to say I sound like a banshee with a megaphone.

"Be my guest," his smirk deepens, eyeing our surroundings with near boredom, "soundproof rooms, Miss Stackhouse; you didn't think I asked Pam to close the door out of politeness, did you?" He's clearly mocking me, and as he grins, his fangs spring free. I meet his eyes, because for some reason, it's near impossible not to, with his pale complexion, framed by that long pale blonde hair, those two blue orbs seem nearly luminescent.

"Stop talking," I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but he continues without pause, "You will stand up, Sookie," his blue eyes seem so blue, like sapphires, and I feel a little tingle at the base of my spine, "put your hands on that wall," he eyes the wall next to his desk with a smirk, "and beg me to fuck you." He waits ever so briefly as I try and form a coherent sentence out of my bubbling rage and disbelief; I've got more meanness in me than a poked bear by this point. "Now." He adds, impatient. Suddenly it dawns on me.

"That won't work," now it's my turn to be smug, I cross my arms and smile up at him coyly. He blinks, frowns, and then disappears. I blink, trying to find out how something as big as him just vanishes.

"On your hands and knees," he hisses, suddenly inches from my face, blue eyes pouring into mine aggressively, bleeding dominance, "Naked, now."

I can't help it, I bust out in choked laughter, he's so damn serious, so damn entitled. The mystery of how an arrogant prick like him gets laid revealed, and at that thought I'm laughing even harder, tears forming in my eyes, I can't imagine how he'd react if I'd said that aloud. Not to even mention the look he gets when he realizes I'm laughing at him, stunned is putting it lightly, and it seems even millennia old vampires can't pull off dumb struck well, no matter how many centuries they've had to practice. I'm in a right fit of giggles before he attempts to speak again.

"How-"

I cut him off, "Glamour doesn't work on me." His grip is on my forearms, bruising, and I wince at the brutal treatment.

"HOW?" He growls, and that deep timber vibrates right through my chest, speeding my heart. He's pissed. Well, what do you know, so am I.

"I think I asked you to take your hands off me, Mr. Northman," I reply in a too calm, icy tone, I feel positively feral, imagine what would be occurring right now if I wasn't immune to glamour, what he would have done to me, with me, the mere idea runs my blood cold. He lets out a soft exhale through his teeth, and I grit my own as his fingers dig agonizingly into my flesh, his fangs still distended, peeking cruelly from his lips.

"What are you?" Oh Lordy, not this again. I pull back my lips, bearing my teeth, not as impressive as fangs, but hey, I work with what I'm given.

"A waitress," I insist in a defensive hiss. He snorts, and I let out a choked sound as his grip tightens further, I think he's a few pounds of pressure away from snapping my arms like toothpicks, the feeling is more than painful, it's consuming, all I can think about.

"Why can't I glamour you?" He demands, deadly serious, no hint of mockery or amusement. I'm sorely tempted to tell him it's because he sucks at it, but the searing pain in my arms is a reminder of who's holding all the cards at this point. Honesty is the best principle, Gran used to say, I think Tara would suggest I kick him in the balls, but as usual, Gran's words of wisdom win out.

"I don't know," at his enraged, disbelieving snarl, I add in a high pitched squeal, "I really don't!" He glares down at me, as I mutely wonder if I'll ever have feeling in my arms again, and then he releases them, and a pins and needles burn takes place of the cool numbness that had begin to settle. I hiss through my teeth at the sensation, shit that hurts worse than sandpaper on sunburn.

"Do you usually force yourself on women like that?" I ask in a sullen, disapproving tone, he's spaced out, or so it appears, glaring blankly at a wall at my back. His eyes shift to me slowly, and I resist the urge to shudder.

"Are you always so irritatingly opinionated?" He enquires, deflecting the question.

"Do the words 'morals' or 'honor' mean anything to you?" I shoot back scathingly. I let out a yelp as I find myself suddenly slammed into a wall, two hundred plus pounds of furious vampire looming over me.

"After a century or so, one learns morals are what you make of them, Miss Stackhouse," he's dripping condescension, "Right, wrong, they are labels one applies to defend their own actions, their own desires," he half growls the last, peering at me with a unidentifiable heat, "There is no standard for common decency, no matter what your naivety allows you to believe, people do the right thing," he spits the last as if it's a foul curse, "only when it serves their purpose, nothing more, nothing less. As for honor," he glares down in lofty appraisal, "I'd very much like to know what a waitress," mocking disbelief at the title, "knows of such a thing."

"I know enough to see when a person, vampire or not," I hiss lowly, "is lacking both." For an instant, I half expect him to hit me, but then he blinks, and all that glaring, lethal rage dissipates, and he merely looks, well, tired.

"You will leave my establishment this night," he begins, backing off, walking to his desk in his usual, arrogant saunter, his back towards me, leaving me to guess at his expression, "and take your Mr. Compton with you." I sigh in relief, he's letting me go. He's even letting me take Bill. If he wasn't still in the room I'd be doing a victory dance, complete with fist pumping.

He turns, giving me a steady, evaluating look, "However, if you were wise, you would leave him here." He adds, in a weary tone that seems to suggest he knows that's the last thing I intend to do. My hands go to my hips.

"Why's that?" At my irked demand he merely smirks.

"You will return tomorrow," he continues, once again ignoring my question, "and I will see to it that your questions are tended to." His blue eyes flicker over me briefly, "For a small fee, of course."

My nose crinkles, "Of course," I repeat petulantly. He grins, and it's the very same smile I imagined the Cheshire Cat gave to Alice when he informed her that in Wonderland, everyone is mad.

"Until then, Miss Stackhouse." He nods, and I know I've been dismissed, but still…

"One question," I venture, hesitant. Eric's head swivels back towards me, mouth grim.

"One," he allows, begrudgingly, eyes slightly narrowed.

"How could you tell I had Bill's blood?" Is it tattooed on my forehead or something? He looks relieved, and slightly surprised, as if this wasn't the question he anticipated at all. I mentally kick myself for not asking a better one, like what sort of fee, or what exactly he would've done tonight if I wasn't immune to his glamour, but I've already made my choice. He smirks.

"How much do you know about the effects of ingesting vampire blood?" He counters, crossing his arms. I shrug, my eyes resting on an oddly shaped paper holder on his desk, it's covered in some ancient writing I'll never be able to decipher.

"It healed me," I offer matter-of-factly, and he nods like that's way common knowledge, even though Bill made it seem like a real big secret. "Bill said I would have enhanced senses, and um…" a blush burns across my cheeks, my lower lip clamps between my teeth, "increased libido."

"I'm certain Bill has his reasons for leaving out the rest of the blood's side effects," he gives me a devilish grin that implies he's enjoying the apprehension that is likely written all over my face. "But I would never dare," now I know he's teasing me, "to overstep my bonds and inform you myself, denying him the chance to redeem your good graces," his playing innocent again, but he's just not very good at it, "that wouldn't be very moral or honorable would it, Miss Stackhouse?" His last words carry a bite, no pun intended.

I stomp my foot, "You're just enjoying messing with me!" I accuse hotly.

"Perhaps you shouldn't make it so simple," he suggests, "Now if that's all, I have a fairly busy night ahead of me, for what's left of it." I'm being dismissed, again.

I strut through the door, internally grumbling about cryptic, antagonizing vampires with blue eyes and tight t-shirts, only pausing just before his office door closes completely to add in a wry, musing tone, "You know, to collect a fee, you'd have to actually answer a question." I let the door click shut, not bothering with his response. I've only just realized that Mr. Taciturn completely evaded my original question, as in, how he knew I had Bill's blood, by distracting me with insinuations that Bill has been withholding information; Eric should get a medal for misdirection. I scowl, no, never mind, he's already got a throne, no need to inflate that blonde head any more, it might just pop under the force of his own ego.

"Sookie, thank God," Bill's suddenly there, his hands on my cheeks, looking me over frantically, I swell with affection under his concern, or well, I did, until he starts moving my hair. I scowl.

"I wasn't bitten," sheesh, is everyone going to check? No one thinks to ask, they just start searching me like I'm a human map. It's like the vampire version of Where's Waldo. Bill pulls me into a hug, relief written on his face, and as he's squeezing the air out of me, unintentionally I assume, I have time to notice Pam's amused glance from over his shoulder, and the fact that she's got blood on her cheek. When she notices my stare, her amusement fades.

"Puppy love, I think I'm going to be nauseas," she comments with a shudder, frowning to herself.

"You've got blood on your cheek," I point out; she cleans it off with her tongue, earning a disgusted look from me.

"Aren't you sweet," she purrs, eyes mocking.

"No," I correct, ignoring the way Bill stiffens around me, "Not really." Her answering smile is infectious.

"I think I could like you, Sookie Stackhouse," she murmurs as she sashays past, her eyes leer at me briefly before she shoots me a pitying look. "Too bad," is all she says, her heels clacking as she retreats, probably going to check on Eric.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask Bill, confused. He clams up, pulling away and shrugging.

"Pam's under the impression that the only good type of human, is the dead type of human," is all he says, earning a startled look from me, before he begins escorting me out of Fangtasia, and back into the real world, I follow numbly, trying to process my night. I don't know why, it's probably Eric's doing, with his silly insinuations and goading, but I get the feeling Pam's remark meant something else, and that Bill, the only one I could even consider trusting in this crazy place, as paranoid as it sounds, is in fact, lying to me. God, I hope I'm wrong.

A/N: Smirks. Ha. I love Eric. Pam too. Read, review, or just click onward, who am I to tell you what to do?