One day, several months after the worst of the fighting has passed and people've mostly stopped trying to kill them on sight, Pam announces that they're going on a road trip.
"If anyone deserves a fucking break it's us."
They leave the next night. Tara does most of the driving. She decides not to worry too much about where exactly Pam found a bright pink mustang convertible (after she's finished rolling her eyes at the color, Pam assures her that no-one's gonna come looking) and enjoy the thrill she gets every time she accelerates faster than she ever would have dared as a human. It's stupid, but it makes her feel free.
…
N'Orleans is exactly as she remembers it, and not at all. Everything's more vivid as a vampire, like a fuzzy photo made suddenly sharp. Tara hates it, like little pieces of who she was are being ripped away, rotting like Pam's face in the woods. Her bad mood also puts a dent in Pam, who acts bitchier and bitchier until Tara finally snaps. The fight is god-awful.
"Why the fuck are you even still here Pam? You got your goddamn maker back, go play vampire princess or whatever the Hell it is you do when you're not bein' a cold, unfeeling whore."
Pam flinches, so slight that probably no one else 'cept Eric would notice. Then, her voice edged with flint:
"I have no fuckin' idea."
Pam takes the car, is gone hours. Tara gets to be pretty sure she won't come back and starts packing her stuff, wiping her eyes furiously then cursing when she gets blood on the clothes. Only good thing she had going and she fucked it up again. Pam returns just before dawn, coiled up and ready for round two. All the fight goes out of her when she sees the state of the hotel suite, and Tara finds herself wrapped up in what feels like the fiercest hug she's ever gotten. Pam pulls away first, all awkward and soft, picks up a stained shirt and wipes Tara's face clean. Then she grabs Tara's chin, forces eye contact.
"Don't ever call me a whore again. I ain't gonna leave you."
…
Only a matter of time before a car that fancy gets boosted, so when they leave a shitty roadside motel in Oklahoma one evening to find it gone, Tara's not exactly surprised.
"Back before the automobile got big, we used to do this thing called walking," Pam snarks, and Tara flips her off before taking her hand. They follow the road at a steady, human speed, allowing Tara to study her maker in detail. Travel suits Pam, who in Tara's opinion is even hotter in sweatpants and hiking boots than leather catsuits and jimmy choos. She's calmer too, not as quick to anger.
"You're nicer when you're not dressed up like a porn star."
Pam's distant expression is suddenly, painfully fragile. She squeezes Tara's fingers more tightly.
"I'm nicer when I'm with you."
…
In Colorado, she teaches Pam how to smoke.
"I don't understand it, it's a stupid, human..."
Tara inhales, allowing the smoke to rest on her tongue for a few seconds, lips forming a slight pout as she breathes out. She glances at Pam, whose gaze is fixed on her mouth, eyes hooded. Bitch ain't complaining no more. When she speaks, Pam's smoky drawl is more pronounced than normal.
"I just might be beginnin' to see the appeal."
…
They skip California entirely.
"I don't need to get any more fucking sentimental," shudders Pam as they lie facing each other on a lumpy mattress. The sun is rising behind the taped up window of the Nevada motel.
"Hell no, somethin' might crack your cold hard bitch act," agrees Tara playfully, twirling a long blond curl between her fingers as Pam traces idle circles on her bare back.
"Screw you," Pam yawns.
"Y'already did," responds Tara drowsily. The last thing she's aware of before surrendering to sleep is Pam's lips on her forehead.
…
They fight when they want and they fuck when they want and they feed when they want, no one to tell them how to live or what to be. Lying side by side under the stars, Pam tells her about Victorian London, about how for all the smog and the corsets and the dark, stuffy rooms, it was the people who made it hard to breathe. Tara remembers her mother, self-righteous and drunk off her face all at once, a town full of bible bashing hillbillies and friends she always seemed to disappoint, no matter how hard she tried.
"The more things change, the more they fucking stay the same," she repeats bitterly. Pam snorts in agreement before rolling over and initiating a string of long, slow kisses. For now, Tara thinks happily, their shared ghosts can go fuck themselves.