Summary: Sookie, an aspiring actress, gets her heel stuck in the windy streets of Rome and meets a man calling himself Ezio Auditore de Firenze. Eric/Sookie AU AH
Premise: Eric (Ezio) is lead designer for the XBox game series Assassin's Creed visiting Italy to research facts and locations for the newest sequel in production. Sookie is an aspiring actress who is vying for the femme fatale voice/motion capture role in the game. They meet by chance one evening in Rome.
A/N:I'm going to go ahead here and assume that most of us can get the gist of what's being said in other languages. If it looks like toilet, it means toilet. If it looks like good night, or beautiful, or whatever, more than likely that's what it means. Putting in French and Italian translations would be too cumbersome and detract from the point, since its mostly nonlinear nonsense anyway ;). If the translation is vitally important to the story I'll add the English in parenthesis. But like any great game, if you want to experience everything you have to do the damn side quests!
Disclaimer: Sadly, neither the Southern Vampire Mysteries (by Charlaine Harris) nor Assassin's Creed (produced by Ubisoft) belong to me. I just thought that maybe Sookie and Ezio/Eric could be friends. : )
Please, please tell me I am not the only woman on earth that simultaneously loves Eric, Altair, Ezio, SVM and the Creed!
*Blushes in the likely case that I am*
I grew up with boys! On with it.
Je t'aime
Sookie's POV:
"J'aime pamplemousse! C'est une belle nuit. Où se trouvent les toilettes?"
I leaned against the stone wall of the hotel's façade as casually as I possibly could in five inch toothpick thin heels. The treacherous spikes I was supposed to be balancing on kept getting caught in the deep cracks gouged between misshapen pavers of the ancient Roman road. My pretty khaki mini skirt was ruffling indecently in the strong, temperate breeze gusting between the tall buildings that lined the road like a funnel.
"C'est merveilleux! Quelle heure est-il?"
The stone facade of my hotel had retained the heat of the day's bright sunshine, and I leaned further into the wall for warmth... and to hide my face some from the curious glances of passersby. The hour was late even by European standards and my outfit was too sparse for the weather, even by American standards. My left heel slipped further into a deep rut in the road and wedged itself firmly between the worn pavers.
"Shit!"
I'm sure I lost all semblance of casual by then – leaning against a wall in a scant white top, pressing a cell phone to my head with one hand, holding down my itty bitty skirt for dear life with the other, while trying to yank a ridiculously inappropriate shoe out of the road. Yeah, a hopeless attempt at casual had turned into a full on spectacle.
But I kept trying. "Di dove è?" I said brightly into the phone. Shit! That was Italian! I berated myself as I finally managed to free my shoe from its rocky prison. I felt the expensive leather scrape harshly against dirty, ragged stone as the rubber stamp on the heel popped off.
"Damn it!"
A woman in a scarf waked past at that moment and laughed. She probably had a face and hair and an outfit, but to my eyes she was 99.9% scarf. A scarf just laughed at me. This must be what rock bottom feels like. I leaned against the wall again and gave my ruse one more shot.
"Avez-vous visité le musée Lourve? Vous me manquez? Je t'aime!" I sang briskly into the cell.
I heard the phantom voice of The Scarf laughing at me in the distance. This is stupid. I truly hoped that no one else was listening in on my "conversation", because it was absolute nonsense.
Was there someone on the other end of that call? Nope. Am I French? Nope. Do I dress like this normally? Hell no. I'm not a prostitute. The sad thing was that I couldn't make that situation even remotely believable. Sighing in defeat, I lowered the phone from my ear, held down my mini skirt, and hobbled back into the hotel on broken Blahniks. I felt eyes on my back, as though the entire city of Rome had witnessed my failure alongside The Scarf.
I'm never going to make it as an actress.
The Palazzo Bernini Hotel was quaint, calm and comfortable. The small lobby was dimly lit with a warm orange glow that was somehow absorbed by the thick burgundy carpets and made the dark patina on the delicate antique furnishings shine. That shine drew my weary blue eyes to a highly polished wood bar at the other end of the lobby. Only a lonely-looking bartender and a pair of elderly gentlemen in the corner occupied the inviting room, and my feet moved in their direction quicker than you could say leather and liquor.
All three men looked up at me as I entered their quiet domain, but I was too disheartened to care what they thought of my windblown and disheartened appearance. I needed a damn drink. The elderly gentlemen quickly returned to their hushed confidences in the corner, and the bartender's face lit up with a kind smile.
"Buona sera signorina. Una donna così bella non dovrebbe essere così triste. What can I do for you?"
It was a common practice in the touristy areas of Europe to address people who looked like tourists in both languages. To my optimistic mind, it was to give the patron the opportunity to respond in whichever language they understood best, or perhaps to give locals with western tastes the benefit of the doubt. Either way, I was a Class A tourist but I did understand a bit of Italian, and found that people liked when you at least made an effort to speak their language.
"Grazie signore. Lo non sono ... just discouraged."
"Ah! Sapete alcuni Itallian!" The bartender beamed, the dim light transforming his weathered face into a map of tan, feathered wrinkles and divots. The man's smile was genuine and infectious. I felt my lips stretch into a smile in return as I sank down onto a squishy leather barstool.
"No, no. Not much. Erm, Io non ne so molto." I blushed, positive that I didn't pronounce the phrase correctly. Once my persistent self doubt shows up for a pity party, she stretches her poisonous fingers into every part of my brain.
"You speak Italian wonderfully, miss. It wouldn't matter how you speak in any language, piuttosto piccolo, sei così bella."
I blushed again. While unsure that I caught all of that, I did know that the kind man had just referred to me as beautiful. "Grazie."
"Il mio nome è Phabio. What can I get for you, piuttosto piccolo?"
Phabio, huh? That was actually quite endearing. I didn't have the foggiest what to order. All I knew is that I wanted something strong to smooth away the dent in my dreams the past hour had inflicted.
"La belle jeune femme aura un sambuca." I turned in my seat to see who had the audacity to order for me, and was dumbstruck. The stranger's piercing azure eyes stared straight into mine as I gaped… and a deep, sexy chuckle rumbled within his wide chest.
"Faire que deux."
Eric's POV:
It was a long day. Beyond long. It had been ridiculously fucking interminable. What was supposed to be an enjoyable holiday of a charitable consulting job had morphed into actual work. My appointments were either excruciatingly late or frustratingly fruitless, and every contact that made the time for me didn't have a scrap of information that couldn't be found through ad banners on the internet.
Historical facts regarding the Italian Renaissance weren't hard to come by, of course. American fourth graders knew more about Leonardo da Vinci than the current president of their own country. Galileo, Michelangelo, Raphael de Santi, Bernini, the Medici, the Borgia… all easy shit to research. But the underground clandestine factions? That was more difficult information to obtain, and for good reason. History is written by the victors, and as the Pirates of the Caribbean taught us - dead men tell no tales.
The breezy evening wasn't cold exactly, but I was relieved to enter the still air of my rented flat.
I shrugged my leather bike jacket off my shoulders and enjoyed the feel of freeing my naked arms from the garment's confines. One good thing about this pastime of mine was the welcome vacation from neckties. I rolled out my muscles in just a black tank top, enjoying the cool AC on my shoulders as I walked to my narrow window. The Piazza Bernini was nearly deserted except for the taxies, the periodic organ donors on scooters, and a few hurried pedestrians… and a woman with her shoe caught in the sidewalk.
I could tell that the wind was still gusting as it fanned and whipped the wavy mantle of blond locks around her face. The picture was comical; the woman was obviously on the phone, but the breeze had blown her hair to stick to her cherry pink chapstick. Her lips were sputtering while she talked, trying to dislodge the hair from her mouth, which she obviously couldn't do with her hand, as the one not holding the phone was desperately trying to keep her miniscule pleated skirt from flying away. Add in the fact that she was yanking her leg and wobbling to free herself from the SPQR she'd stuck herself in, and I couldn't help but laugh. My mirth rumbled through the spartan flat, and it felt so good to smile after such a trying day.
I had to know what this windblown, awkward girl was saying, so I opened the window despite the air conditioning. Breezy Phone Girl had won the battle with her shoe vs. the rutted Roman road, and leaned smoothly back against the Pal azzo Bernini Hotel. The wind halted suddenly and her hair settled. I stared at her intently, transfixed. Beautiful. She was so beautiful. Tousled gold waves framed a flushed, heart shaped face complete with wide blue eyes and bowed pink lips. Her small body was phenomenal, all curves and dips and smooth tan skin. Lovely though Breezy Phone Girl was, she looked a shade frantic as she spoke. I couldn't stop looking at her, and finally her voice carried to my open window on a puff of wind.
"Vous me manquez? Je t'aime."
Ah. Breezy French Phone Girl. In that instant I decided that after my long day I could use a drink… at the Palazzo Bernini Hotel.
Sookie's POV:
The burning liquid seared my throat in a delicious way, purifying my nerves from my faults. Not to mention that it was harshly delicious. The man sitting beside me was even tastier, and perhaps French? He didn't look French. In fact, he looked like a ruthless, muscular Viking with a sideways, sexy smile… absolutely not French. And he smelled good, like the ocean in winter. What a strange thought to have! But he spoke in French, so maybe he is…?
"Quel est votre nom?" I asked with halting diction. Blond French-Maybe-Guy looked a bit uncomfortable at my haphazard inquiry. I just asked for his name, right? I mentally reviewed the one French class I took on a whim in college…
" S'il vous plaît pardonnez-moi, belle, mais je ne connais pas beaucoup le français. Parlez-vous italien?"
Oh…. The guy doesn't speak much French and wants to try for Italian. I suck at both languages, so sure, why not?
"Naturalmente. Qual è il tuo nome?"
Mr. Viking seems to sigh with relief. Italian must be more comfortable for him. "Forse dovrei chiedere per il vostro primo, bellissima."
Nah uh. I was running this show. I gave the tall blonde man a look that meant business, and his lips twitched into a tiny smile.
"Sono Ezio Auditore."
I almost choked on my sambuca. "Ezio Auditore? Figlio di Auditore Lorenzo di Firenze?" This guy was sexy as all get out, but he couldn't be serious. The skin at the corners of his icy blue eyes tightened slightly as he stared me down.
"Si."
The choking noise that came from my throat was an incredulous laugh. I stood and tossed a few Euros onto the bar. Meeting this phony of a man just put the cherry on top of a truly disheartening day and I longed for the comfortingly lumpy single bed upstairs. I was tired, and tired meant English. "Well, it's wonderful to see that you survived the past five centuries, Segnor Ezio Auditore, figlio di Lorenzo di Firenze. You must be exhausted."
The Viking looked dumbstruck. "Wait, you're American?" I backed away with purpose. "What's your name?"
"I don't think so. Buonanotte, Ezio. Give my best to Ubisoft, you big faker." With that, I spun on my mangled heel and walked steadily up the two flights of stairs to my room, latched the door, and tumbled into the small, lumpy bed.
But it sure took a while to fall asleep...
Eric's POV:
Breezy American Girl just handed my ass to me, and I didn't even know her name! Phabio the bartender sported a suspiciously smug grin as he wiped down glasses at the opposite end of the bar, but I couldn't hold it against the older man. If I had witnessed that shit from anywhere other than where I was sitting, I sure as hell would have been trying not to laugh my ass off. I smiled at the guy instead, in a manner which I hoped came off as a tad apologetic and embarrassed.
"Any chance you could tell me her name, Segnor?"
The bartender set down the glass he was cleaning as his shoulders shook with mirth. "Mi dispiace ragazzo, non l'ho pescato. No, even if I had caught it I think you struck out there, Ezio."
I nodded and threw back the last of my drink, placed some money on the bar, and took my leave. The short walk back to my flat was quick but cold. The temperature had dropped significantly over the course of my excursion as though the weather felt like punctuating my failure with a few frigid slaps of wind. I resolved myself to forget Breezy American Girl thoroughly with a side trip to see my Roma booty call in the morning.
Selena is razor sharp, lusciously beautiful and sinfully sensual. I'd met her at an upscale club here a few years ago when the first Assassin's Creed was in preproduction, and we'd been off and on lovers ever since, but never anything more. Our personalities were so similar and stubborn that we couldn't even pleasantly agree on where to have lunch, let alone how to manage a long distance relationship. The only thing we were good together at was fucking… so that's all we did. No flowers, no dates, no anniversaries, no meeting relatives or friends. Never much meaningful conversation, just sex. Yeah, I'd go see Selena tomorrow and that will fix everything…
So why can't I stop thinking about her? I flopped down on my bed, frustrated. I suppose it didn't help that my small window faced the the vacant street, and I could easily see the entrance to the Hotel Bernini while I tried to fall asleep…
That must be why I didn't go to Selena's when I woke up the next morning. Calling her didn't even occur to me again. No, instead I hopped on my bike and tailed the chauffeured car she had slipped into and followed her to Vatican City like an obsessed stalker.
Vatican City
Sookie's POV:
The Sistine Chapel, like so many famous sites in Europe, underwhelmed me. Perhaps I envisioned angels shooting out of the walls in a vast, cavernous space that struck my senses dumb with its grandeur… but it didn't. Call me uncultured, but it was a small chapel made infinitely smaller by the amount whispering, damp tourists crammed into the small space. The ceiling was extraordinarily beautiful to be sure, but the mass of bodies coupled with the cat-calling and skirt-chasing antics of the Vatican Guard threw off my appreciation of the spectacular spot. A pair of particularly fervent silk festooned admirers called out to me specifically even as the speaker system called for solemn silence in the sacred place.
"Ciao, bella ragazza americana bionda! Tu, in gonna marrone sexy!
Care a fare un giro? I musei sono così noioso, e vi posso dimostrare molto di più!"
Once again, I was hindered by my minimal comprehension of the Italian language, but from the way the ridiculously dressed guards were staring at my body, I knew they were being crude. I was calling every Italian swear word to the forefront to yell at the smirking, inappropriate guards, when a warm palm lightly touched my bare shoulder.
"E 'proprio ora di molestare donne in una chiesa? E 'un privilegio limitato alla Guardia Svizzera?"
(Is it proper now to harass women in a church? Is it a privilege limited to the Swiss Guard?)
"No, signore. Ci scusiamo. Vi prego di continuare con il tour."
(No, sir. We apologize. Please continue with the tour.)
Aw crap. I knew that deep, husky voice to a tee already, despite having only one small, lie-driven conversation. Turning towards the source of the pressure on my shoulder, my eyes met the icy blue gaze of none other than Ezio Auditore, fictional historical video-game assassin.
"Not you again", I huffed. It wasn't the nicest thing to say after being sorta' rescued, but this guy had seriously pissed me off last night. I looked him over, took in his impressive stature which was impeccably encased in expensive-looking tailored dark gray slacks slung low on his hips and light turquoise V neck sweater that was just a shade too tight to be legal and probably cost more than my plane ticket across the pond. His face was just as much of a work of art as it had been yesterday, all defined angles and soft lips made infinitely sexier by the subtle blond stubble on his jaw, which hadn't been there when I first met him. His mesmerizing eyes were glowing with amusement as he looked down (way down) at me, and the whole package was so astoundingly sexy that it pissed me off even more. Why the fuck would a guy like this feel the need to lie to any woman as a pickup strategy? If I'd never heard this gorgeous man speak I'd be front row and center of the crowd of a hundred thousand women enthusiastically throwing their panties at his fucking feet! Dipshit…
By this time, I had definitely been staring for far too long, and "Ezio" chuckled. "Now, is that any way to thank someone who put a pair of pervs in their place for you, Breezy American Girl?"
What? Breezy… what? I strategically chose to ignore whatever that was in the interest of a speedy escape. There wasn't any need to have another conversation with this guy, so I opted for cutting politeness.
"You're correct. I apologize, Mr. Auditore, and thank you for your assistance." Ok, so maybe I missed the mark on the politeness thing, because even I could hear the acid in my voice when I spat out the ridiculous name Liar Liar Pants on Fire had given me twelve or so hours ago. I spun on my heel as smoothly as possible in the crush, fully intending to make a dramatic, if obstructed, storm out of the Sistine Chapel. I shoved through a group of eager tourists trying to sneakily snap forbidden photos as I pulled out my phone, intending to call my driver for a pick up and hour earlier than expected. Spectacular once-in-a-lifetime spot it might be, my interest in Vatican City was just thoroughly squashed.
I was navigating through more tourists and my contact list when my pretty new iPhone 4 was snagged out of my hand. "HEY!" My shout in the relatively quiet place was met with nasty glares from other people violating the rules of church etiquette. Dickheads.
My phone was, unsurprisingly, in the grasp of one sexy ass lying bastard, whose large fingers flew across the screen with more speed and accuracy than should have been possible. "Ezio"s face wasn't smiling when he handed the device back a moment later.
"Just in case you feel like being mature, and would maybe like to have a drink and hear a civil apology..." The big man melted away into the crowd, which was quite the feat. I shoved my way out in the opposite direction. Once I emerged into the brisk, fresh fall air swirling between the huge marble columns of Vatican Square and warm sunshine had a chance to clear my head, I looked at my phone. My contact list was still open, but with a new addition. In big, black font, the entry had a string of numbers, an email address, and one name:
Eric Northman.
I let myself give a tiny sigh and an even tinier smile before gently slipping the cell into my worn Coach bag. I just knew he was a Viking…
Eric's POV:
Holy shit. Breezy American Girl is so fucking stubborn! I know I fucked up, but it was painfully obvious the woman was as completely attracted to me as I am to her. It took all of my willpower to keep my dick down while she eye fucked me in the Sistine fucking Chapel, which is a good thing because whether she realized it or not, she straight up stared at my junk for a good five seconds, and my chest for almost ten. Fuck! Even in a church I wanted to growl like an animal, shove her against the closest wall and fuck her against a Michelangelo fucking fresco until she went blind!
Fuck. I know I'm completely worked up when I use the F word in every possible sense in my internal monologue. The bitch! Fucking sexy as fuck bitch… God, I hope she calls so I can at least explain myself… and screw her brains out. Good thing I know my way around an iPhone. If she doesn't call me then I can call her…
I grabbed my own phone and checked the incoming texts. At the top of the long list was a message from an unknown number… the text said "Gotcha". I smirked to myself as I saved her number in my contacts and whistled as I made my way to the black Ducati parked just outside of Vatican City.
Yo: TBC... if you like it, that is ;) Guess who once wanted to be an actress and made an ass out of herself in Rome? LOL! Updates aren't in the cards until I finish either Faerily Dead or Too Much (a Vampire Diaries fic). I've discovered that two ongoing published stories is my limit. I've just had this sitting around for almost a year and wanted to share and test the waters. Please leave me your thoughts! *hugs*