FORMERLY LAW AND ORDER: SHREVEPORT
Long Winded Author's Note/Rant:
What's this story about?
While poor Eric is trying to deal with his blah blah vampire emergency blah's in the way he knows best, there's a dramatic shift in the human leadership. Instead of turning a blind eye to vampire transgressions that don't affect (nonfangbanging) humans, the new pinstripe and stiletto clad head of the Supernatural Crimes Unit of the DA's office wants to crack down on all vamp crime. Not good for PR.
Oh no, not another OC/Eric story!
I usually hate OC's. I generally refuse to read them. I will make an original character OOC before I make an OC. But Eric could use some fresh blood, and my OC is not the heroine of a bodice ripper. She is here to add an unexplored dimension to the show and the books to make the post-Reveal world more authentic. Like honestly, does no one hear the screams for help from Eric's basement?
Is this pro/anti (insert character here)?
I'm a book reader and a True Blood watcher. I have no qualms with Sookie Stackhouse. I like the actress. I think book Sookie (at least in the early books) is hilarious and likable. But after having seen Season 4, episode 11, WTF! She has become a Mary Sue. The love triangle has become contrived. She doesn't have the oomph to attract either Bill or Eric. I cannot believe that she is tearing apart Pam and Eric, despite their 100 years together of fucking, killing, and laughing. I can't believe that both King Bill and Sheriff Northman are willing to die, and risk an entire race for a "gash in a sundress." Pleeeaaaase. This is True Blood, not Truly Blond.
Set before Season 4. Some minor plot details have been modified.
Enjoy.
"Northman," Eric Northman answered into the receiver. Thankfully he had remembered to change his ring tone after that embarrassing confrontation with Russell Edgington. He very well could not have Let's Have Fun chirping from his T-Mobile Sidekick in front of cowering Fangtasia patrons, one of whom was creeping up to his foot at this very moment.
"You've been keeping up with the news?" came a familiar icy voice.
Eric stiffened, but not enough for anyone to notice. He didn't become sheriff of the largest area in Louisiana by trembling in fear and kissing babies. Kissing ass—that was a different matter. As long as the ass was attached to vampires more powerful and important than he.
"Ms. Flanagan. How may I be of service?" he replied coolly but not too coolly. She was in charge of the vampire Gestapo after all. The very undead police that had raided Fangtasia, kept him imprisoned at his own bar, and sent him off on a suicide mission to kill Edgington, and worst of all, stood guard while the Magister tortured Pam—his annoying, shoes obsessed, lazy but loyal, only child. By Thor, he hated that bitch Nan.
"The Authority orders you to take care of Dana Marsh," Nan said in a clipped tone. Always to the point, whether on or off camera. "This order never existed."
The Viking's expression didn't change. "I'll put Ruben on it." Then Eric remembered that his assassin was dead. Damn. At least the loss wasn't completely in vain; it had given Pam the opportunity to prove that Eric had trained her well. Still, hitmen, especially good ones, were hard to find these days. It wasn't as if he could put up a Craig's List ad.
"No, Eric." Nan's voice could have drained even more color from a lesser vampire's face. But Eric Northman was not a lesser vampire. "No bloodshed, nothing that leaves evidence. Persuade her to drop the Phystler case, or settle it quietly."
That wasn't much, considering that vampires, and now shifters, had been out in the open for 4 years and 5 months, respectively.
"You know where to find her?" Nan pressed. "If you leave now you should be able to catch her at her office."
"Yes."
Without another word, Nan hung up.
Eric fumed for approximately half a minute. No one ordered him around. Unless it was in bed. Even that happened very rarely. This reminded him of Pam when she was a baby vamp…
The sheriff stood from his throne, stretched until he had a satisfactory number of eyes glued on him, and strolled out the door. Before flying off, he grinned as he caught the look in Pam's eye. She hated being left alone to enthrall the vermin. Her words, not his. She had always been the eloquent one.
##
I glared at the clock and popped the top button on my suit vest. As much as I hated to admit it, it was a little snug, especially when I was sitting down. I had bought it a size down so it wouldn't bulk up my frame when I wore the matching jacket over it. At barely 5'1, (5'4 in the highest heels that I thought were appropriate for my line of work) too many layers could make me look as wide as I was tall.
I loved this suit. The jacket had peaked lapels, the vest had a scooped shawl collar neckline, and the pencil skirt buttoned halfway up the back. It was a very dark, almost metallic, shade of charcoal. I had stalked all 3 pieces on the Express online catalog for 5 weeks before it finally went on sale. My pinstriped blouse with a ruffled bib front—I had paid full price for, but you can't have everything. If I was going to lose a trial, it would not be because Juror #5 or #8 thought I was dressed too frumpy. It was astonishing how jurors could fixate over a woman lawyer's jewelry or clothes while they were supposed to be paying attention to the—ahem— evidence, while a person's freedom was at stake.
I plopped a file back on my desk with a little more force than necessary and rubbed my eyes. (More accurately, I delicately massaged my eyelids because I didn't want to make a mess of my drug store brand mascara.) I was accustomed to working late, but not this late.
"Don't complain," I muttered to myself. "You're the youngest person to ever head a division in this office." Not just any division. The brand new Supernatural Crimes unit. I answered to the District Attorney himself. Unfortunately, this meant I had to do much of my work at night if any of my cases had vampires involved. Why couldn't real life vampires walk around in the day like those Twilight vampires? I'd take sparkly lovestricken bloodsuckers over the ones that I had to deal with. I glanced at one of the files on my desk and shuddered. That Phystler defendant was a nasty one. On the other hand, poor Eddie Founei. Drained by a band of redneck V addicts as if he were a giant Slurpee.
"Good evening," came a smooth voice. It was like velvet wrapped in block of ice.
I yelped. The giant man filling the doorway to my office had not been there a split second ago. I grasped around for the panic button, knocked over a half eaten tray of microwaveable junk that I wouldn't feed to my paper shredder, righted said half eaten tray of junk, then paused when I got a second look. Wah wah wee wah, I thought. I had watched Borat for the 5th time last night, while gulping down Chinese takeout. Very nice, how much. Probably a lot. If my days as a rookie prosecutor trying vice cases were any indication, the 'los always charged more than the ho's. Unfair.
"May I help you?" I managed. I sat up straighter and wondered how the hell this intruder got in here after hours. Judging by the stares I often felt on my ass, and sometimes my breasts, the all male night guards were very heterosexual (or extremely closeted), and my unexpected visitor was most definitely male. Very male. I couldn't imagine that he had flirted his way in. Also, you needed to swipe your ID card just to get in the office. I didn't recognize him as a defense attorney, not that one would be visiting me this late. Lawyers didn't dress… like that. However, my instinct wasn't screaming RAPIST! or SERIAL KILLER! Not that looks weren't deceiving.
In a few long strides, the mystery man eased himself into the only empty chair in my office. The 2 other chairs were covered with papers, coffee stained mugs, and to my horror, a pair of stinky, dirty pantyhose with a giant run up the side. The white diamond on the crotch of the hose was ceiling up, in full view.
"You are Miss Marsh. Dana Marsh for the People of the state of Louisiana," he murmured, without that cute drawl that was the norm in these parts. So he wasn't a native either. I didn't bother to inform him that "Ms." was the politically correct term these days, although I was very much a Miss. He looked me up and down, so I looked back.
As we sized each other up, and there was a lot of him, maybe 6'3, all hard muscle, I wondered how any man could appear undoubtedly heterosexual in a low cut black shirt and a black leather jacket with a collar that flared up and out at the neck. If he had been a woman, his breasts would have been spilling out of that top. Wasn't there a term for that? Manvage? Chevage? Heavage. His dark jeans were tight. So I wasn't the only person in this room who liked to wear a size down, although I'd bet he wore his shoes a size up. Unless his feet really were that big. I caught a whiff of his cologne, which had to have an illegal dose of pheromones. Perhaps that was why I had yet to push the panic button. Perhaps that was how he avoided getting constantly beaten up by drunken homophobes in the deep South.
"You look taller on TV," he finally remarked. His expression remained cold and unreadable.
"I never saw you on TV," I replied. "And you are?"
"Eric Northman."
The name sounded oddly familiar.
"If you're involved in any of my cases, as a witness or a defendant, there are strict rules about when and how I may talk to you," I started carefully.
He smiled sweetly, like he was one of those people who caught bugs in their house and set them free outside. Then he leaned closer and folded his arms on my desk. "Do I look like a criminal?"
Sure, he could pass for Head Thug of a GQ motorcycle gang. Or maybe the token Aryan member of the Triads. They were known for being very well dressed, at least in the Jackie Chan movies I loved to watch.
"Is there a purpose for your visit, Mr. Northman?" I swallowed. Herpes, gonorrhea, chlamydia, I recited to myself. Don't hump his leg. Don't stand up to peer at his crotch. Don't stare at his heavage. It had been a long time since certain needs of mine had been satisfied, and an even longer time since a man like him looked at me the way he was.
"You're not going to remember that I came by tonight." His voice was so beautiful, so seductive, and I wanted to do nothing more than obey. Preferably on my knees.
"I'm not?" But I really wanted to remember him. I wanted to burn those chiseled features—Northern European maybe?- in my brain so I would have a happy image to think of when I was cold and alone in bed. Or in the shower. Or falling asleep on the couch after one of those stupid rom coms I secretly liked to watch. But if he insisted, I wanted to please him.
"No," he continued in that soothing, lovely voice of his. "And you're going to drop the Phystler case."
I nodded slowly, even though my brain was not quite registering. Sort of like the way it had been on a crazy Halloween party night in my sophomore year of college. Or on the third day of the bar exam, when I was high on 5 shots of espresso and 3 Red Bulls. I picked up one of the files on my desk and opened my hand, letting it fall to the floor. "I did it," I said proudly. I hoped he'd reward me.
Eric's glacial blue eyes flickered with impatience. "You're going to drop the charges," he said slowly and clearly. "You're going to drop the charges against Donovan Phystler because there isn't enough evidence. Do it by tomorrow."
Without breaking his gaze, I didn't want to, I knelt down and picked up the file I had dropped on the floor and hugged it protectively. I was very familiar with its contents. It held detailed police reports, witness statements, and graphic photos that I planned to have blown up for the jury. Pictures of 28 year old Desiree (aka Honey)- drug addict, stripper, former beauty queen. Heavy, carefully applied makeup flaking off of that Botoxed, lasered, sculpted, lifted face. Diamond studs in her ears, Tiffany's bracelet on her wrist, Cartier necklace around her neck, old and new bite marks all over her body, courtesy of Donovan Phystler. Allegedly. Left to rot in her own bed.
"Ummphh," I managed. What I wanted to do was push that damn panic button and tell him, "No, Mr. Northman, if that's really your name, I have enough evidence to get a conviction for first degree murder in 5 minutes, and please stick around for the guards to arrest you for attempting to tamper with a pending criminal case and influencing an officer of the court." Instead, I took a step back, still clutching the file.
Eric's eyes were like deep pools of molten sapphires, or whatever. They were striking and I was terrified of disappointing him. "Not enough evidence," he repeated softly. Without breaking his stare, he somehow zipped right in front of me. Whoosh, just like that. He gripped my face in his hands and my knees bucked. My body was screaming for release.
I couldn't refuse him. I didn't want to refuse him. But I had to. I took an oath to do justice, to stand up for those victims that were too afraid to stand up for themselves, the innocent, blah blah blah. I bit down and tasted brackish liquid in my mouth. Eric's eyes widened ever so slightly, he raised a finger to my lips, traced along the inside, then brought his finger to his tongue. He licked off my blood slowly, as if sampling it. Yuck. Or maybe not yuck. This man, or whatever he was, could slaughter a newborn puppy and still look sexy doing it. I noticed for the first time he had sharp fangs.
"Hmmm. Very interesting."
Suddenly, my senses rushed back to me. "What the fuck," I cried. I shoved him back and ended up stumbling back in the process. I realized that my sweat had soaked through my blouse, even though it was a cool night. Oh no. I'd have to get everything dry cleaned again. If I made it through the night.
I started jamming at the panic button at the approximate speed of 5 jabs per second. I kept my eyes lowered.
"Goddamnit, goddamnit," I muttered. Where were the cops? Cops were supposed to like prosecutors. They were supposed to rush to our aid. Had I done something to piss one of them off? Was this some kind of joke? More likely, the button was malfunctioning. I grabbed my phone and started to dial 911 but Eric gripped my wrist faster than I could blink. Maybe I shouldn't have taken the Lord's name in vain.
"Relaaax," drawled the vampire. "No need to be alarmed by my charms."
"Charms my ass," I muttered. I had always tossed aside vampire hypnosis as a crazy conspiracy theory. I stared at the floor.
He brought a gentle hand to my chin and raised my face to meet his. I hastily shut my eyes but they flew open in shock when he swatted my ass! In a flash, he drew back and met my eyes before I could avert them again. Goddamnit. I mean, Lord save me.
"I was never here," he purred. "This never happened."
Well, that was ok. This was all too weird for me anyway. "Will I see you again?" I asked breathily. I didn't care that I sounded like a 15 year old girl with asthma.
"Come to Fangtasia this Friday, the bar with a bite. Bring all your friends." He licked at the inside of my lower lip, then he was gone.
#
"Murder 2." I kept my voice level despite my growing impatience. I had other hearings to attend, more cases to plead out. "Life in prison. I won't ask for the stake. Final offer." It was a more than generous offer, one that most of my colleagues would not have made.
"Involuntary manslaughter," replied Johan Glassport, who was rapidly becoming one of my least favorite defense attorneys. From the little I heard of him, I wouldn't put it past him to knife a hooker so he wouldn't have to pay. "Early release for good behavior."
"Your client is facing Murder 1 and the stake." As if he needed any reminding. "I have DNA evidence."
"Saliva on a fresh bite mark doesn't prove premeditation and intent. Vampires get carried away sometimes, especially with eager young things like your… 'victim'." She was asking for it, Glassport's smirk implied.
"Six hundred year old vampires don't get carried away," I said quietly. "They get bored of their pets." Before I could launch a monologue about the stomach capacity of a vampire, a vampire's lessened need for blood after reaching a certain age, the rate at which a human body can be drained, and the subculture of vampires treating "fangbangers" like subhumans, the judge hastily cleared his throat. He didn't want me to summarize the entire hearing for him again.
"If I may interject." Judge Cannon had a boyish enthusiasm for his work and at times an inappropriate sense of humor. He looked like a cuddly grandfather in a black robe. "If I'm understanding this right, the People," he nodded at me, "are alleging that the victim was the defendant's lady friend until the defendant felt that she had exhausted her usefulness, then he exhausted her." He chuckled at his own pun and I smiled to humor him. "And Mr. Glassport," my opposing counsel got a nod, "is saying that drinking blood is what vampires do, these accidents happen, and it's not cold blooded murder, especially if the victim is hussying around with vampires."
This case was actually much more complicated than that, but I kept my mouth shut and nodded. I didn't want to piss off the only judge in Shreveport who was kind enough to hold this trial at night so the defendant and my vampire witnesses could attend. Otherwise we'd have to hold the entire trial in New Orleans (the vampire capital of the east coast) to be heard before a vampire judge who had gotten his law license in the 19th century. Ughhhh.
"And it seems like we're not going to reach a plea agreement today."
More assent.
"Anything further either side?
"No, Your Honor," I said.
Glassport replied in kind.
"Based on the evidence presented, the court finds sufficient cause to order the defendant to stand trial on the charge of murder in the first degree. The court is now in recess." Cannon rubbed his hands together in glee and looked over at the empty chair next to Glassport. "I sure hope your client will be kind enough to join us for then. He sounds like a real character."
"Allegedly," the defense attorney added. We all laughed.
The defendant had waived his presence to be at this preliminary hearing, by making a giant scene and refusing to let the bailiffs escort him into the courtroom. I presumed he was still sulking in his silver cell in the level below us.
The murder 1 charge was going to stick. We were going to trial. Feeling thrilled about this minor victory, I started collecting my things.
"Earth to Ethan," I sang to the vampire who had been sitting next to me throughout the entire hearing. After his part was done, he had gone into his zone out phase, just sitting there and not moving until he was needed. He did that sometimes. He was the primary detective in this case. As a human, he had come from a long line of law enforcement officers. He was turned in the 50's and now he would never have to retire.
"We'll talk back at your office," he said. He jerked his head at the Channel 4 news person packing up a giant camcorder. I was starting to get used to having most of my hearings and trials televised. Apparently the American public was fascinated by anything that involved vampires.
Ethan stood unusually close to me as we walked down the hall and up the elevator. This was one of the perks of being a prosecutor rather than a defense attorney. Your office is never far from the courtrooms, where you're spending most of your time anyway. I swiped my card at the little box and pushed the door open. We made our way around the maze of cubicles, I popped my head into someone else's office to say hi, and we finally reached my office at the far end. My second home.
Once I got settled behind my desk, Ethan remained standing. "What?" I asked. He was making me worried.
"You should start wearing silver," he said finally. "Lots of it."
"You're giving me fashion advice now?"
He didn't even crack a smile. "Donovan Phystler is a very powerful vampire. And there are more like him."
"I've done gang cases before," I told him with a lopsided smile. "I'm still here. And I've also put rapists and child molesters and murderers in jail but none of them got to me. Even after they got out of jail." I paused and I realized I sounded like I was reassuring a little kid. Ethan was probably about 90 between his human and vampire years. "I guess the child molesters wouldn't be too interested in me anyway." Typical office humor when you're dealing with these sorts of things on a daily basis.
Normally, Ethan would have guffawed but instead he just stared at me.
I sighed heavily. "I'm supposed to meet with the vampire king soon." He had specifically requested my presence.
"Well he's harmless."
"And I was going to go to that vampire bar on Friday to get a feel for fangbanger culture." It was common, even expected, for prosecutors to personally visit crime scenes, gang hangouts if applicable, and other sorts of related scenes relevant to investigate their cases.
I didn't like the look on Ethan's face. He actually looked a little unnerved. For me? For him?
"Don't go alone." Then he turned and left with that vampire speed.
I had actually planned on asking him to go with me as my investigating officer, but decided against it. What was it about this bar that scared this tough undead cop?
#
It wasn't often that Eric Northman got yelled at. It was even less often he got called a whiny little bitch. When both of these things happened at once, with Sookie Stackhouse sitting right there, that just made everything so much more amusing. Pam had a strange sense of humor. Normally, needling her maker was a privilege reserved for herself. But this was just too funny. When Eric caught her eye, she smirked.
"She can't be glamoured completely," he was telling the speakerphone. "I could make her do small things, but there was absolutely no way she was going to let Phystler go. If there's something she really cares about, she fights the glamour."
"When that case goes to trial, it's going to be bigger than Casey Anthony and OJ Simpson combined. The vampire rights movement will be set back by 2 centuries-." Nan kept raving on the other end of the phone.
"Then why can't we just stake Phystler," Eric suggested. "No defendant, no trial." It had been Pam's idea. Sort of. Her idea had been to just kill everyone off.
"His maker is 2000 years old and the king of Virginia." Not a good vampire to piss off. Although Pam could kick his ass if she wanted to.
"Kill off Marsh then?"
"Her office would just assign someone else to the case. Plus her death would get blamed on us, even if we didn't do it."
"Is there a reason you called me, other than to yell at me and call me an incompetent moron?"
"Marsh is going to be handling most of the vampire cases from now on. Keep her close, find a way to control her. Or I'll have your fangs."
With that, Nan Bitchagan hung up.
Eric sighed and stared at Sookie with grim determination. Pam knew that look well, he would practice it in the mirror in case he needed to throw a pity party with people who couldn't be glamoured or ordered into compliance. He almost pulled it off. Almost.
"You see, Sookie?" he said softly. "I hate to beg, but I need your help. My life, and probably Pam's, depends on my being able to get Nan off my back." Knowing a cue when she heard one, Pam lowered her eyes and gripped Eric's shoulder.
Sookie crossed her arms, inadvertently pushing her twins together under her scoop neck shirt. Lavender was quite fetching on her, Pam thought. Eric liked her in red, however.
"This is crossing a line, Eric," Sookie huffed. "That Marsh woman has done nothing to you."
"I just want you to read her thoughts. See if you can gather anything of use to me." Eric was practically pleading now. He was good. Pam could have done better though. He should have just let her do it.
Chow appeared at the door of Eric's office. "She's here," he announced.
Sookie paled under her lovely tan. "Not in your basement?" she squeaked. "You're not going to torture her into submission?"
Eric's expression was deadpan. No pun intended. "I could torture her till she breaks. She wouldn't be able to resist my glamour anymore. I could do that within an hour. No one would know she was ever missing." He turned on the soulful pity party again. "I know you don't owe me anything, but I'd pay you well. A hundred an hour."
Everyone in the room knew that Sookie needed the money. Everyone in the room also knew that she didn't want to be indirectly responsible for Dana Marsh ending up chained in Eric's basement, or for the true deaths of her two favorite vampires. That didn't mean she was happy about it.
Pam smiled. Sookie was so cute when she was all riled up and mad. Pam hoped Eric would keep pissing Sookie off.
#
Eric and Sookie occupied one of the booths near the entrance. Pam stood by her station at the door, where she could see and hear everything. Dana Marsh had shown up with a gaggle of three girlfriends and they were all huddled in a corner, clutching drinks and gawking like tourists.
Pam couldn't tell human ages anymore, but she could tell that Dana and her escorts were maybe a few years older than Sookie. They were all in black, trying but failing miserably to blend in. For starters, they were showing too little skin.
For example, Dana was in a tight tank top with a lace trim, and a skirt that had been discreetly folded at the waist a couple of times to make the skirt shorter. She wore a narrow silk scarf around her neck that draped down her front and unfortunately obscured her cleavage.
Pam smiled and her fangs ran out a little. She adored cute, petite little things such as dolls, Chihuahuas, and Dana Marsh. Especially the curvy ones with firm abs. She also loved that shy face, the girlish bangs, and the doe like brown eyes.
"Yum," Pam whispered. The only thing missing from her sexually repressed bookworm fantasy was a pair of glasses. The sweet, demure looking ones were always the feistiest. Just like Sookie.
Eric had been eyeing one of the bolder women in Dana's group. With a slight tilt of his head and a boost of glamour, he got her to drag Dana to Eric's booth. Dana looked horrified and Sookie grinned to hide her annoyance. Pam covered her own mouth to hide her amusement.
"What are you doing?" Dana hissed at her companion. "You're supposed to keep me safe from the vampires."
Pam snickered. Clearly Dana had no idea how good vampire hearing was.
"Thank you," Eric told Dana's bodyguard once they reached his table. It was clearly a dismissal. Dana sat uneasily across from Sookie and Eric while the friend (sadly) rejoined the group.
"I'm Eric," he said. "This is Sookie. And you're Dana Marsh."
"I thought you looked familiar. I saw you on TV," Sookie piped up.
"As did I," Eric added. Every vampire had. Dana Marsh had been the first prosecutor in the nation to charge, and convict a vampire drainer for second degree murder.
Eric feigned a faraway look in his eyes as he recited, "'The defendants want you to believe that the victim did not feel, he was not human, not even alive. But wherever you draw the line between human and inhuman, living and dead, the law says that a vampire's blood is not anyone's for the taking. This vampire, his name was Eddie Founei. He suffered, and he died, all for the sake of a few minutes of someone else's euphoria.'"
"That was from my closing argument." Dana blushed. Pam wanted to run over and relieve the human of some of that blood that was coloring her face. The modest girls were the most fun.
Dana just smiled and shrugged, looking embarrassed.
"For someone who earned the nickname of Counsel Cool as a Cucumber, you sure get flustered a lot."
Pam immediately got a mental image of Dana and cucumbers. When a bikini clad Sookie joined the picture, Pam didn't hear much else after that.
#
Hours later, Pam locked up Fangtasia for the night while Eric grilled Sookie for possible blackmail material on Dana.
"She thought you were a sex god, wondered if we were serious, and thought it was typical of men to prefer blond bimbos with boobs," Sookie reported sourly. "That and a bunch of dirty thoughts about your chest, your crotch, and your forearms. Can I leave now? And you owe me $500."
"Did you detect anything supernatural about her? She's not a telepath? Psychic? Witch?"
"No why?"
"That means she can fight glamour out of sheer willpower." As opposed to the coincidence of being born with telepathy or fairy blood.
Sookie didn't miss the unspoken jibe. "If you don't need me anymore, I'm going home," she said flatly. The ancient vampire kept his eyes on her until she stormed out the door.
"Did you detect anything supernatural about Dana?" Pam asked hopefully.
"Her blood was completely ordinary. Minus a slight Vitamin D deficiency and overdose of sodium."
"But the woman herself…" Pam sighed dreamily.
"I thought she'd be your type."
"You're using Dana to make Sookie jealous." The younger vampire smiled.
"Think it will work?"
"I should just turn Sookie and put you out of your misery." Pam didn't mean into a vampire.
"She's mine."
"You never share your toys," Pam pouted because she knew it annoyed him when she did that.
"I don't care if you play with my toys. I just don't want you there when I'm playing with them."
"Scared they'll like me better?"
"You kill my boners."
Fair enough.
"And Pam."
Pam looked at her maker quizzically.
"Sookie is not one of my toys."
No. She was a distraction that Eric couldn't afford.