lazy_but_loyal | OOM

Entry tags:

OOM - Fangtasia

[Continued from here.]

Fangtasia is closed for the night.

The red neon sign in the window is still on, the door still unlocked, but the place is empty except for Ginger in the kitchen and Pam in Eric's office.

Pam is changing out of her leather bustier and miniskirt into more comfortable clothes that she'd brought along. Hot pink cropped leggings and matching Uggs for starters.

She takes her time as she slips off her top, revealing a leopard-print bra. She thinks of nothing in particular, only that she hopes to hear from Eric before dawn.

[Dialog lifted from True Blood season 3, episode 9.]

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Pam tries not to panic even though they're well past the point of trying to stay calm.

So the Authority have found out. Or at least they suspect Eric. But they have no evidence of anything. Do they?

Ginger is on the verge of flailing. "What're we gonna do?"

"We are going to handle this," Pam replies evenly, zipping up her top. "If anybody asks you about anything at all, you know nothing. Got it?"

"I know nothin'," Ginger says with a firm nod. "Got it."

It's not going to be much of a stretch for her, Pam thinks.

Eric's tension wraps around her bones like a vice. He really is panicking. He really is in trouble. And this time, there may not be an easy way out of it.

He gets rid of the blodspatter quickly.
He's got practice.

Then he grabs a clean tank top and returns to the office as he pulls it on.
"I'll go first," he says.

"Ginger? If they ask you, you don't know anything, okay?"
Which is basically true anyway.

"Pam? I'll handle this. Okay?"

His words may sound convincingly self-assured, but there is still terror screaming in his blood. She'll know that. She can feel it.

But he will handle it.
He's not sure how. But he will.

He heads through the door and into the bar itself, tugging his tank top down. Looking back to make sure that both Pam and Ginger are behind him. Squaring his shoulders a little. It doesn't change the fact that he is looking hesitant, rather than self-assured.

V-Feds. A fucking SWAT team complete with masks and heavy guns.
And isn't that - ?

Yes, of course. Of course it is.

Edited 2014-12-13 14:09 (UTC)

Ginger looks up at Eric in earnest. "Don't worry, Eric, I don't know nothin' 'bout anythin'!" she assures him.

Pam, meanwhile, stays silent and only nods, checking him over to see if he'd missed any bloodspatters. He hasn't, he's clean.

Then, with overwhelming dread and uncertainty, she and Ginger follow Eric out into the main bar.

The SWAT team is a little much, isn't it? The armed and helmeted officers line the room, stone still and menacing.

And then, a figure stalks toward Eric out of the shadows. High heels, short leather coat. She removes her sunglasses, revealing a very pale, very angled, very severe face. And she gives Eric a very severe glare.

Pam scowls. She never liked Nan Flanagan. Great sense of style, but such a bitch.

"I'm sorry, Miss Flanagan. The bar is closed," Eric says, placing himself between Nan (and the SWAT team) and Pam.

And Ginger.

She looks just as pissed as she did in Dallas.

And in France.

To his own ears, his voice sounds almost thin.

Is there ever a time when Nan doesn't look pissed?

"Thank you, I already ate," she says. "TruBlood only, of course."

Pam can't help an eye-roll at this, even as Nan glances at her. No vampire can truly sustain one's self on that fake shit.

But it's Eric that Nan is here for. It's been too soon since she's last seen him.

"Can't stay out of trouble, can you?" she sneers at him. "The VRA is two states away from ratification. I should be kissing asses in Oregon, not cleaning up after you in fucking Louisiana."

Pam barely restrains another roll of her eyes, because it's not like she and Eric had any choice to end up in fucking Louisiana in the first place. The Vampire Rights Amendment, her ass.

"Oh, I promise you there is nothing amiss in my area," Eric lies, but it's not terribly convincing.
Not that it matters.

She'd never believe him anyway.

But this way, she'll turn her wrath on him alone.

"Shut up," Nan hisses impatiently. "You're making my head hurt."

She looks over at a couple of the V-Feds, standing at the ready to obey her every command.

"Officer -- silver him."

One of the uniformed men marches up behind Eric. Silver cuffs folded in his gloved hand, he presses it firmly to the exposed skin between Eric's neck and shoulder.

He groans and sinks to his knees. Not resisting in the least.
They're too many.

He dimly feels Pam. And hears Ginger scream.

Nan...actually smiles as Eric is subdued.

Pam inhales sharply and swallows, every ounce of her wanting to say something, to do something, but she can't.

Ginger's hysterical scream, however, says it all.

Nan aims a look at her.

"Shut her up," she snaps at Pam.

Then she turns to the other V-Feds, with a wordless nod toward Eric.

With the one man still holding the silver to him, two others grab him under the arms and haul him up onto a chair. They stand on either side of him, their rifles pointed down, but ready to use.

Nan stands in front of Eric.

"Not that I want to, but I can make it a lot easier on you if you agree to answer a few questions. The main one being, where's the Magister?"

Eric doesn't resist being moved about.

"I have no idea," he replies. "Not here."
Ignoring her clear enjoyment of this.
And ignoring Pam, because he has to.

Nan drags a chair over and sits down, facing him directly.

"Thing is," she says, "we have reports that he was in Shreveport just before he disappeared. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Pam watches silently from the bar, wishing that guard would take the silver off of him already.

Ginger is trying to keep from hyperventilating.

"Oh, he was here," Eric replies, visibly relaxing his jaw.
The silver fucking hurts.

"As you are well aware. But he isn't here now."

Nan gives him a flat expression.

"So you wouldn't mind if I had a little look around."

It's not a question.

"Of course not. I wouldn't dream of standing in the way of truth and justice," Eric says, acidly.

"Eric Northman, model vampire citizen," she snorts.

As she gets up, she addresses the V-Fed. "That's enough."

The man unceremoniously removes his hand from Eric's shoulder, and the silver rips at his melted flesh.

Pam winces at the sight. Ginger cringes and puts her hands to her mouth in horror (and also possibly to keep herself from screaming).

Nan walks over to the Staff Only door.

"You," she says to Ginger, who looks at her like a startled chicken, "why don't you give me a tour?"

Pam meets Ginger's terrified gaze. Remember, you know nothing, she tries to remind her through sheer will.

Ginger hastily makes her way over to Nan and they both disappear through the door.

And Eric and Pam are left in a room of silent, anonymous armed men.

He groans again, louder this time, as the silver tears at his skin and flesh, and as he gently touches the wound he cannot suppress a hiss.

Fucking cunt.

He shifts a little in his seat and the barrels that had been pointed at him in a general sort of way are suddenly trained on his head.

"Relax," he mutters. Not looking at Pam.

They won't find anything. But he can't keep them in the dark forever.

Or for long.

Pam desperately wants to go to Eric, but she'd only get guns pointed at her head as well. So she waits, arms folded tightly around her.

"Are you all right?" she asks quietly, and flatly enough, keeping her emotions in check.

"I'm fine," he replies.
Even if the healing is a little slow.

Hie casts a quick glance at her. "I'm fine, it'll be fine."

I'll protect you.
Thinking it so hard he hopes it carries through their bond somehow.

She knows that he will. Even if he doesn't say the words, she knows it's a given.

The wait is excruciating.

Finally, Nan returns, without Ginger, having confined her to Eric's office. From here on out, it's vampire business only.

"The downstairs is clean," Nan announces.

Pam exhales a silent sigh of relief. Those clean-up guys worked a miracle.

"Well, I told you there was nothing," Eric says, looking up at her.

Thank fuck,

He is ignoring the guns trained at him.

Nan arches an eyebrow.

'Clean' as in,

"It's been wiped."

There's a difference.

"Well, I'm a Virgo," Eric replies, face impassive.
"I like to be neat."

He spent time in Haight-Ashbury in the Seventies. He knows his sign.

Very funny.

"Your screeching fang-cushion of a barmaid, who's been glamoured so much she can't even remember her own last name, does know that no one ever goes down there with so much as a mop and a promise," Nan says, deeply skeptical and suspicious.

"Suddenly, it's as sterile as an operating room."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"It doesn't prove - anything," he says, slowly, not looking away.

No corpse. No case.

Or in this case, no goo and no witnesses, no case.

"If only we had a magister to decide that," she says.

Almost teasing. And pointedly so.

She huffs a laugh, cracking a rather wicked smile.

"Relax. It's not like you killed someone."

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