Disclaimer: Unfortunately, playing on Charlaine Harris' playground does not give me ownership rights. Rated M for language and lemons.

AN: So I had a little trouble with review replies the last time around… I don't know what was up but I couldn't reply directly from the emails I was sent. :S Hopefully you all got your answers when I found a way around it but if I missed anyone I'm sorry! Your response has been so great, I'd hate to think someone went unacknowledged!

3. Ain't That a Bitch

It is a sad day when the 'death stare' no longer works on your friends. And I accompany mine with an expression that would have stopped Charles Manson in his tracks. Regular patrons at Loki's have been known to quake in fear when there is the slightest possibility of being on its receiving end. Yet Amelia Broadway was calmly sitting across the kitchen and I suspect she was giving me her weak version right back. Every bridal magazine available at the Borders on the other side of Shreveport lay open to the pages I deemed appropriate. I also cleaned the office supply store out of pink, yellow, and blue Post-It flags. According to Dear Abby on Planning Your Wedding, organization is essential.

The tense silence in the room was only broken by the rustling of catalogue pages as we thumbed through them. Amelia's father is a big name in the construction business. He's using his daughter's wedding as a venue to impress clients so the whole day has to be extravagant and the complete opposite of Alcide and Amelia's taste. The fact that Alcide's family owned Herveaux and Son, the 2nd biggest name in New Orleans construction, had him strutting around prouder than a cock in the henhouse. Copely Carmichael (Amelia took her mother's maiden name to avoid association with the man) hired his usual party planner and the woman needed only three things from Amelia: her and her bridesmaids' dresses, a color theme, and her and Alcide's personal invitees.

All other details and decisions were "nothing to concern herself over". I've never seen Ame want to hex someone so much. She demanded I prevent her from murder at the same time she asked me to be her maid of honor.

Amelia's fiancé was less than helpful. He was sitting with us, glassy-eyed and opinion-less, until Danzig's "Killer Wolf" ringtone blared from his back pocket and he took a phone call on the porch looking like a drowning man thrown a rope.

Alcide Herveaux is a gorgeous mountain of muscle, in that rugged, masculine way. It's clear he works with his hands and, if he had a vicious bone in his body, he could snap trees into kindling. He and Amelia are so different I'm not sure what the attraction is but he's a lot better than that pussy she used to date. Bob… something.

"This one has possibilities." Her voice was tense like she was waiting for me to tell her the dress was tacky and must have been designed by a blind Project Runway reject. I only did that once, I swear. But this one actually did stand a chance. It was a Vera Wang strapless satin gown, with a fitted bodice and a tulle skirt. It wasn't the traditional white but then, Ame wasn't the traditional bride. I was just about to tell her so when my own cell rang.

"Ravenscroft."

"Hello, is this Pamela Ravenscroft?"

"Yes."

"Ms. Ravenscroft, this is Kelly at Willis-Knighton Medical Center. You are listed as one of the emergency contacts for Eric Northman and I can't seem to get in touch with his wife."

A quick look at the clock on the wall and I decided to sidestep the "wife" part. I guess I couldn't blame the perky brat for not knowing the divorce papers had probably been signed not even an hour ago.

"Has something happened?"

"Mr. Northman was involved in a car accident this afternoon."

"Is he hurt?"

At this, Amelia's face morphed from weak curiosity to shock. Under other circumstances I would have laughed at her attempt to hide how frustrated she still was with me and listen in.

"There isn't much information I can give you at the moment. He is in the emergency room now but does not seem to need surgery. By the time you get here, he'll have been moved to our Intensive Care Unit. All other questions will have to be addressed by the doctor."

"Is he critical?"

"No, Ms. Ravenscroft, he does not seem to be but, again, the doctors will be able to tell you more. Do you need directions to our campus?"

"No. Thank you for calling."

"Alright, now when you arrive, just come straight up to the 4th floor."

I hate hospitals.

The unnatural silence of the ward made the click of my Louboutin heels seem booming.

I hate hospitals.

Everything from the antiseptic smell to the sick people with their germs turns my stomach.

When I reached the 4th floor reception area, I found yet another reason to hate hospitals. "Kelly" was nothing more than a rotund volunteer with a smile full of metal and a face full of zits. She couldn't have been more than 18 years old.

"I'm looking for Eric Northman."

Her smile faltered subtly and her eyes changed to resemble sympathy. Like I need that.

"He's right over there in Room 7, hon." Hon? "Are you Ms. Ravenscroft?"

"I am."

"Alrighty. I'll page the doctor to come speak with you. You go ahead in and sit with him."

I followed her hand gesture toward Room 7 and slowly turned the handle. This room was even more barren than the hallway. The walls were a nauseating shade of yellow. Furniture and equipment were sparse and overly organized. Eric's bed was the furthest from the door and the neighboring bed was empty. I made my way to the cushioned chair closest to the window and resisted the urge to find someone to wipe it down. The only sound in the room was the steady beat of the heart monitor.

It was then that I forced myself to look closely at Eric. A pang of recognition tingled down my spine. It wasn't enough Eric was the spitting image of our father but now I'd have twin images of both of them in hospital beds with the life all but drained from their faces.

He looked like HELL.

He'd look like he was sleeping if not for the deathly pallor, the cast on his leg and what looked like stitches near his hairline. Just like Dad, it was unnerving to see an unstoppable force like Eric look so frail. Without the ever-present smirk he almost looked… innocent.

One quick knock is all that preceded the abrupt entrance of what can only be described as a hobbit in a lab coat.

"Ms. Ravenscroft. I'm Dr. Amy Ludwig, the neurologist on your brother's case." The barely 3 foot woman nodded curtly. "The extent of Mr. Northman's external injuries are the hairline fracture on his left leg and the laceration on his head. There is no internal bleeding. He seems to have hit is head in the crash and was unconscious at the scene. The MRI shows some swelling but not enough for major concern. It is most likely that he'll wake up with a headache. Barring unforeseen complications, he'll start to rouse when the shock to his body wears off. This should be within the next 24 hours. We'll need to keep him in the ICU until that time and evaluate him again when he wakes. Any questions you have can be directed to the nurse or you can have her page me."

"Do you have any details of the crash?"

"I know he was damn lucky. The other car clipped his front end so he just went for a little spin. Other than that, that's a question for the police, little girl."

Little girl? That's comical since she'd be on par with a garden gnome. Clearly she skipped Bedside Manner 101.

One eyebrow rose to show my displeasure but she took no notice. Maybe I really am losing my touch.

"The nurse knows to page me when he wakes," she called on her way out.

Now that I had assurances that Eric's life was not in danger from someone other than the poster child for high school chess clubs everywhere, I pulled the bridal magazines out of my purse and continued my pursuit of a flattering bridesmaids dress. Taffeta and I are not, and will never be, on speaking terms.

Four magazines later the door opened again... I braced myself for round two with Dr. Congeniality. My eyes shifted toward the door and met with Sookie's hips. She leaned on the door frame like she was still debating whether or not she was really here.

"Hi Pam," she said faintly.

"Sookie," I returned. "I'm glad you're here to hold the building upright. I was worried."

A blush covered her cheeks as she too a step into the room, letting the door close softly behind her. She was still white-knuckling her handbag like a lifeline though. As soon as she caught sight of Eric, her eyes filled with tears.

"How is he?"

"The doctor says he should be fine. His leg's broken but no internal bleeding. He has a slight concussion from hitting his hard head but most of the damage will be to his ego when he sees the bruises on his pretty face."

"Pam," she chastised quietly. "This isn't funny."

I looked into her haunted eyes and softened my voice. "He'll be fine, Sookie. We won't let him be anything else."

Her eyes slipped shut as a small sigh escaped. "There was a message for me on my voice mail when I got home… I just needed to… to see him." Her voice drifted off and she took a half step back toward the door. I caught the moment of pure longing when she glanced toward Eric's bed.

"Are the divorce papers signed?"

Her eyes widened almost comically before her expression settled on "hurt bunny".

"Yes."

I stood and set my magazine on my seat. I set her handbag down next to it and took both her hands in mine. Her engagement ring pressed into my palm.

"Sookie. Level with me. Why are you doing this to each other?"

She couldn't, or wouldn't, look me in the eyes anymore.

"Pam," she sighed. "It's complicated."

"Try me."

"We just aren't on the same page now that we were when we got married."

"Bullshit. You love each other more than you ever did. That's not something to just throw away."

"You can't know that," she sniffled. One tear paved the way for more to stream down her cheeks. I regretted making her cry but trying to untwist the logic of their break-up was making me a little crazy. She moved to pick up her handbag and tried to give me a watery smile.

"Leave it alone, Pam. It's better this way."

I admitted defeat in this battle and gave her a quick hug. I reached behind her to grab a tissue and held it out.

"Please refrain from leaking on my shoes." I could feel the smirk Eric and I both inherited from our father creeping onto my face.

A sharp laugh echoed through the room and she gave her head a little shake. And there was the smile I wanted.

"I should go anyway." Her face dropped and she looked down at her hands. She spun her engagement ring around her finger nervously. A lesser person would comment on her evident inability to part with it. And, to think, Eric says I have no restraint. Then, with one last look toward the bed, she turned to leave. She made it across the room, with one hand on the door knob, and then hesitated.

I barely heard her whisper "please don't tell him I was here" before she was gone. I dropped myself back in the chair, at a loss.

Idiots. A perfectly matched pair of stubborn idiots.

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