"Yours"
True Blood-verse; Post Season 4. Will be AU after Season 5 starts, obviously.
Pam/Eric- "Forever you will be mine."
30 years later, Eric shows up on her doorstep in Tokyo. Pam knew he'd be coming to her eventually; then, a few weeks ago, she'd been struck by prolonged feelings of pain; pure loss. It was almost as bad as when he'd lost Godric. She'd been feeding on a pretty little local girl named Miako when the first wave of it slammed into their bond. She'd tensed and waited for the inevitable stretching feeling along the white-hot line that connected them; the sensation that accompanied one's Maker creating a new child. She'd assumed it was only a matter of time before she had to contend with Sookie as a 'sister'.
The feeling never came; instead, the initial panic and turmoil turned into a seemingly depthless despair that racked whatever she had left of a heart. Miako had gone home confused, rubbing the puncture marks on her neck as Pam sunk down to the plush carpet beside her couch. Her apartment was relatively small, but it still had two bedrooms- including one that was nearly filled with a king-sized bed dressed in ice blue silk sheets.
She lived in a windowless building made just for vampires, and made a good living off writing fashion reviews and designing her own collection of shoes. Pets came and went; always pretty girls in their twenties or thirties, usually local, though from time to time, she'd take a tourist. None of them were intriguing enough to turn.
She was in the middle of designing a new pair of pink pumps, thumbing through fabric swatches, when she felt him start to draw closer; certainly, he was on the west coast now, if not on Hawaii. She was very thankful that he hadn't summoned her to Louisiana, though, of course, as her Maker he had every right to. And a smaller part of her was offended that he hadn't, and it hurt. It seemed that he'd just tossed away his favorite child, hadn't called her name out into the night or in her veins.
As the feeling grew stronger, she showered and slipped into her favorite French lingerie, and gave herself a pretty Tiffany blue manicure and pedicure before wrapping herself up in a fluffy robe and settling down to wait. She thought briefly about calling a donor service, but decided against it. Pam had plenty of synthetic on hand, and if he wanted a donor, he could damn well get one himself.
It's almost three o'clock when she hears- feels- senses that he's on the other side of her beautifully polished oak door; she unlocks it slowly, savoring the time it takes, maybe hoping he'll wonder, maybe hoping he'll understand how much his absence these long years has hurt her.
The door creaks open an inch before he slams it open with both palms, nearly knocking it off its hinges with his strength. She has time to think 'You always were a fucking force of nature' and begins to say it when he crushes his face to hers, his hands cradling her cheekbones and fingers sliding through her hair.
Her blood is giddy, rejoicing, zooming, beating out with trumpets and drums- maker, maker, maker- and like a reflex her arms go around his neck, because for the first 20 years of their relationship, this was their daily routine. Hell, their hourly routine.
His kiss turns from passionate to reverent, trailing down her face and then back up to linger on her forehead before he drops his mouth to her neck and bites, hard, drinking her.
She shifts, ripping the buttons of his shirt, and sinks her fangs right next to his nipple. He groans into her clavicle. Pam considers it fair play; if he's going to stride in here and reclaim her as his in such a caveman way, she has the right to be a little possessive, too. And his blood always tastes like she remembers the flavor of bourbon; the warm heat of it rolling over her tongue and down her throat, burning pleasantly the whole way down.
After a few sips the wounds close and he just stands there with his arms around her. Minutes pass and she's aware that she's closed her eyes- just enjoying his presence again. Finally, she clears her throat, ready to get past the conversation she knows they're going to have to have.
"What killed her?" Naming the subject is unnecessary.
"Cancer." His response is low, the tone dangerous, challenging her to say something about Sookie; something bad. She knows better now.
"She wouldn't let you turn her?" Even laying there slowly dying, she wouldn't give in? Pam has a moment of admiration for her conviction.
"No," he croaks, and it she didn't know better, she'd think he was still crying.
"She always was stubborn," she offers.
"Yes," he agrees. And the conversation is complete.
She moves closer into his arms, and puts her chin on his shoulder, standing on tip-toe. She remembers what he said to her in a London graveyard 135 years ago, after he pulled her from a fresh grave: "I'll be your brother, your lover, your father, your son." Now she knows that it was a line he got from his own maker, Godric, but it doesn't make it any less truthful.
She whispers it now, like a mantra, because he's hurting- because she's all he has left, and she knows it.
"Sister, lover, mother, daughter."
She feels the muscles move as they pull a smile onto his face. A small one, but it's a victory.
Then she kisses him; carefully, still unsure. He slips his hands under her robe to push it off her shoulders decisively. Then, with a speed only known to their kind, she zips across the sitting room and into the bedroom she designated as his 5 years ago, the day she moved in. He doesn't notice the nicely framed landscapes of Scandinavia she had hung on the walls because he's too busy ripping her lingerie into pieces. She wraps her legs around his hips as he slides his arms behind her shoulders, grasping her shoulder blades in his hands as he settles between her legs and presses into her with one fluid stroke.
She's reminded why the only man she's slept with in the last 80 years is Eric; he's ruined her for other men, because he's fucking fantastic at this. To an observer, they must look like crazed hummingbirds, a flurry of movement too quick to follow as they get as close as possible to each other, drowning in the unity they've so long denied. Sex with another man is just miming what the breeding blood bags do- only with Eric has it ever felt like she was whole, blood and body bound and beating like her heart once did, before he stopped it.
They lay face to face after, foreheads touching, staring at each other and holding hands, legs intertwined. One tear is poised on the edge of her eyelashes; she lets it fall and he watches it, then answers with two of his own. Maybe one is for his fairy and one for her, for the mess they made.
In an hour, they'll be dressed and moving around the streets before sunrise; she'll be snarking at him as he looks for a donor, updating one another on the last few decades. He'll be back to the smug, self-assured man he's always been, acting equal parts bored and amused at their banter. But for now, they're too engrossed in each other to let the outside world in.