A/N: So … a quick pimp for the contest I'm co-hosting with the fantabulous nycsnowbird:

THE DEAD PAN CONTEST: It's an SVM contest with a twist. We're looking for your best parodies set in the SVM/TB universe Your parody can be culled from books, TV, films or even cartoons. How fun is that? You get to play the casting couch game, with your favorite Viking! Get more deets here:

http://www . fanfiction . net/~deadpancontest

Okay, so before you go off and enjoy some EN Over Easy, check out the purrrdy that Hannah09(the author of The Sound of Music, which I proudly beta for, bts) made for me! A kickass FStop banner, featuring three—that's right, THREE—Erics (well, AS's, lol).

http://img341(dot)imageshack(dot)us/img341/17/fstopbanner1final(dot)jpg

CHAPTER 12: OVER EASY

Your photography is a record of your living, for anyone who really sees.

~Paul Strand

I was beginning to feel a bit like I was on a scavenger hunt. The great EN hunt.

I was once again being driven to an address which I knew nothing about except for the street name and number. EN had given me practically the same line last night, before we'd parted, as he had when he told me to meet him before; "Have the driver take you to 69 Easy Street, Malibu, tomorrow at 8:00 a.m."

Aside from trying not to laugh at the highly appropriate address, I'd tried to press him for some more details, going with the tried and true excuse of the need to know what to wear. But it was all in vain. His only response was that it should be beach-casual.

Beach casual? Well, it wasn't exactly swimming weather, so I opted for jeans and a t-shirt—going with the L.A. t-shirt I had picked up at the airport when I arrived in town.

When the car came to a stop, and I opened my door (I wondered if I'd ever remember that I was supposed to let the driver open the door), my jaw hit the ground with an earth-shattering thud. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight before my eyes.

EN was just straightening up from picking up the morning edition, his eyes sparkling and all movie-star-perfect as he spotted me and flashed me a grin. He took a sip from the mug he was holding in one hand, as he slipped the paper under his arm and revealed yet more proof that no man could carry off plaid like him. The flannel blue and white plaid hung low on his waist—almost too low, in fact, not that I was complaining—revealing just enough blond fuzz to make me drool from my alreadyunladylike gawking mouth. I did my best to close it as my eyes traveled down, down, and further down plaid-clad thighs and calves to bare feet, and back up, up and up, to a perfect honey-toned v-cut, abdominals that were defined just enough but not too much, and broad chest and shoulders—the kind that made you want to bury your face in and forego the need for breathing.

Boy, oh boy.

I noticed the chest begin to move toward me, so I finally place my feet on the ground and got out of the car, barely registering the driver shutting it behind me as Eric nudged my arm and led me toward the house.

I willed my feet to move—that's right, one in front of the other—and looked up at him.

"Mornin'."

"Mornin'," I answered with a sheepish grin as I returned my focus to the ground, redoubling my effort to make my feet work.

"Sweet dreams?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you sleep well?"

"Oh! Yeah, yeah. I did. How 'bout you?"

He chuckled. "Oh, I always sleep well . . . but I almost never dream."

I nodded, not quite sure how to proceed with that conversation but pulled up to an immediate halt when we got to the door. "Hang on. Wait. What exactly are we doing?" I shifted my eyes toward the door to silently indicate the unspoken 'in there'.

"Having breakfast," he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and walked in ahead of me. He glanced at me over his shoulder, giving me a fantastic view of his world-class ass—which was outlined quite nicely by that damn plaid. "You coming?"

He didn't wait for my response. I guess it was more of a rhetorical question.

I followed close behind, keeping my eyes glued to that perfect butt before realizing what I was doing and dropping my attention to the floor, which upon closer inspection, seemed to be a very well-maintained light pine hardwood.

"Help yourself to coffee," he gestured toward the far corner of the kitchen, where a coffeemaker pot sparkled with the promise of freshly brewed caffeine deliciousness. There was even an empty mug sitting all by its lonesome, just waiting to be filled.

"There's milk in the fridge," he called out behind me.

I nodded and mumbled a thanks.

"So, how do you like your eggs?"

I fixed my coffee to the sound of eggs sizzling behind me.

Soon after, he looked over his shoulder and called out, "Breakfast is served!"

He turned around, holding a plate in each hand and motioned to the back door with his head. "Grab my coffee?"

Sure. Whatever you say oh-god-of-sexy-and-breakfast.

I gave a wordless nod, grabbed both mugs, and opened the door. Of course, he nodded that I should go ahead, so I proceeded through the door in front of him.

All breath left me when I got outside. The waves of the Pacific lapped against the sandy beach, a mere hundred or so feet away. I barely even noticed the soft, cushiony chair that I sunk into, as I admired the view.

And then, an equally breathtaking view settled in front of me. EN sat in the chair across the table, plopping down two plates overflowing with eggs, and fluffy French toast which was topped with assorted berries and candied pecans.

I drooled. And not just for the food. After ogling for a moment too long, earning a knowing smirk from EN, I focused my attentions on the food.

As soon as I took the first bite, I was a total goner. The French toast—doused in maple syrup and powdered sugar—seemed almost too decadent for breakfast. But I certainly didn't let that stop me. Damn, the man could cook.

I was too busy thinking about how domestic the whole scene was—sitting on the deck, eating breakfast and drinking coffee in comfortable silence—and, of course, enjoying the delicious food, to realize that I was scarfing it down at a very unladylike pace. Now, mind you, I wasn't eating with my mouth open or chomping down loudly or anything like that—I was raised with better manners than that. But, as I stared at my empty plate, I realized that it had gotten that way entirely too quickly.

Dabbing the napkin to my lips, I glanced up ever so slowly. Maybe EN had matched my pace. A girl could only hope.

No such luck.

In fact, he had barely gotten halfway through his own breakfast. And, he was staring at me with what could only be described as an indulgent smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"I'm glad to see you enjoy my cooking."

I gave him a weak smile and nodded.

"I must say, I have never met anyone with a sweet tooth as insatiable as mine. Does that make us . . . compatible?"

I buried my face in my mug, opting to focus on the coffee instead of addressing his question. Besides, it seemed like he was already pretty sure of the answer.

After we both finished eating, Eric walked over to the couch on the other side of the deck, and picked up a large pile of manuscripts, dumping the teetering stack on the table.

I looked from him to the pile and back again. "Some light beach reading?"

He laughed. "Not quite. I have been putting off looking through these for entirely too long. Laf will probably throw a hissy fit if I don't get back to him soon."

"Laugh?" I asked. Was this some sort of Swedish breakfast riddle? I cringed, hoping knock, knock would not be his next words.

"Lafayette—my manager."

I nodded and mumbled an "Oh."

He let out a heavy I-carry-the-weight-of-the-world sigh, and picked a few titles from the stack. Settling back in his chair, he turned a bit to face the ocean before cracking open the first script.

"Uh . . . Eric?"

"Hmm?" He barely looked up.

"Uh . . . so what exactly am I supposed to do?" I mean, as much as I do enjoy staring at your scruffy, delicious profile and rippling muscles . . .

He looked up from his reading, picked a few more titles from the stack, and threw them toward my side of the table.

"I suppose you could make yourself useful, if you'd like."

"What do you want me to do with these?"

"Read them, of course."

I rolled my eyes. Well, duh. That so wasn't the question.

He shrugged his shoulders and gave me an encouraging smile. "Just let me know if it's something you would pay to go see me in."

Oh, brother. They should really do a study on the effect of an overly developed ego on the smirk and eyebrow waggle. The man could barely utter one sentence without employing either one or the other. Or both. Well, it's a good thing they both looked so damn good on him.

I forced myself to tear my eyes away and focus on my reading.

I had put in a solid hour of script reading before my phone buzzed

You have a new text message from Amelia Broadway.

Gurrrrl! How long you gonna make me wait?

Damn. I guess she wasn't going to let this whole Twitter thing go. I stole a quick glance at Eric, who seemed to be quite engrossed in his current reading material. Well, I guess it couldn't hurt to give it the old college try. Amelia sure as hell wouldn't let up until I did.

So I typed in my reply.

Negative ghost rider. The pattern is full.

Her reply was almost immediate.

Whatev grand master espionage ninja.

I snickered. That girl was almost as obsessed with Recon One (the HBO war mini-series that had earned EN many accolades, as well as a cult following) as with Fiends.

I set down the phone and took a deep, calming breath before approaching the "target".

"So, uh . . . Eric?" I squeaked out.

He made a hmm sound without even looking up from his reading.

"There's uh . . . something I need to ask you."

He glanced up at me. "Sounds serious."

"Oh, no. It's actually kinda stupid," I mumbled. "I would totally understand if you said no."

"Alright," he set the script down, giving me his full and undivided attention. "Are you going to tell me what exactly I'm saying no to?"

I took another deep breath, bracing myself. "Okay, well . . . my friend Amelia seems to think it'd be a great idea if—ifIsetupaTwitteraccount." I tried to get it out as fast as I could, rushing forward before I could change my mind. I took another gulp of air and added what I hoped would be an adequate explanation, "You know, to report about our days together."

He stared at me in silence for a moment that seemed to stretch for an agonizing eternity. At last, he broke into a wide grin. "You want to tweet me?"

"Uh . . . I guess, yeah."

"Say it, Sookie." He breathed seductively. Leaning closer, he gave me the smoldering, I-know-you-want-me eyes. "Unless you tell me, I can't give you what you want."

Even though his innuendo was filled with teasing playfulness, I still rolled my eyes. "That doesn't work on me, you know."

"What doesn't work on you?" He actually batted his eyelashes, in mock innocence.

"That." I waved at his face. "The whole bedroom, googly-eyes thing. Or the matching smirk."

He chuckled. "Okay, fine. But you still need to tell me. What is it that you want, Sookie?"

Ugh. I could just tell that he wasn't going to let this slide without taking full advantage. Fine. "Yes, Eric," I huffed, pausing for extra melodramatic effect. "I want to tweet you."

"Oh, lover, you can tweet me anytime," he purred.

I snorted and doubled over with laughter.

He gave me a moment to enjoy myself, but when my laughter hadn't subsided, he cleared his throat. "But, there are a couple of ground rules we need to go over first."

"Ground rules, huh?"

He nodded like an eager little boy, obviously relishing this impromptu term negotiation.

"Okay, let's hear 'em."

"First, I get to pick your Twitter name."

I tried to control the terror-induced shiver that ran through my body at the possible options he might come up with. "Fine. But I get veto power."

A lopsided grin curved his lips. "Wow, I must say . . . you drive a hard bargain."

He sounded at least somewhat impressed. Okay, that was a good sign. I think.

But I still waited for the other ball to drop.

"You also must protect your tweets."

"Huh?"

"It is an option you can set in your account, that way only those that you have approved can see your tweets."

"Oh, okay. Sure." I nodded my agreement.

That seemed reasonable—didn't want to leak sensitive information to that butt website, that's for sure. Frankly, I was shocked that he was agreeing to any of this anyway, but then it hit me.

"Hey, wait a sec," A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth as I looked him up and down. "You sure do seem to know a lot about all this Twitter stuff."

He met my gaze steadily, but I noticed his eyes had bugged out—just a little bit. We stared each other down. I could practically hear the whistle of high noon and I was sure the tumbleweed would roll on by any minute now.

"Oh my god!" I leaned forward, my body almost parallel to the table. "Do you have a Twitter account?"

He turned away, looking out at the ocean, before giving me a sideways glance. "And what if I do?"

"What if you do?" I sputtered. "Ha! Ohmigod! What's your name on there?"

He went back to his reading, unable to quite conceal the smile that played on his lips.

"Eric! Come on!" I threw my script at him, and he put up his hands to protect himself.

"Hey! What the hell?"

I glared at him.

"What?" he asked with his best innocent-choir-boy face.

"Tell. Me." This was too good. No way was I letting this go. "Now!"

"Oh, Sookie. I'm afraid I can't divulge that information."

I crossed my arms and continued to stare at him.

He merely smiled sweetly in response. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

I snorted. "Oh, okay. I get it. I bet it's something super embarrassing, like . . . vampho69!" I was overtaken by the giggles.

He looked at me all clenched-teeth and dagger-eyes. "Are you quite done?"

I waved my hand, signaling that yes, I was done. Even though my eyes still danced with sheer glee.

He pursed his lips. "By the way, I'd be a lot more original than that." His eyes darted away as he mumbled, "if I had a Twitter account, that is."

I snickered. "Oh, I think we've already established that you do."

I enjoyed another giggle, which was totally cut short by his seething glare. Geesh. What a buzz kill.

"Okay, Eric. Please enlighten me then. What name 'would' you chose?" I punctuated the air-quotes on "would" with an eye roll: we both knew "would" was just a flimsy cover for "is".

Silence.

I was having way too much fun to shut up about it. "Hmm, let's see," I tapped my finger to my chin in an exaggerated way. "Oh, I know! GourmetFangasm? h00rin4vikings? Oh! Got it! SwedishMeatballsFiend!"

"Nope. I'd say try again . . . but I'd rather you don't."

"Fine, whatever. Don't give it up," I pouted. "But I bet you pose as a fangirl on there, or no . . . one of those porn writers!"

His eyes shot to mine, and the smile was wiped from his face in a fraction of a second. As a much too belated afterthought, he met my gaze and forced out an awkward fake laugh that sounded more like a bark.

I gasped, my hand flying to cover my mouth. I was quite proud, though, that I resisted the urge to point. "Oh my god! You totally do!!!"

He crossed his arms and gave me a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Okay, Sookie, stop stalling. We need to talk about your twitter name."

Dammit. I knew that was going to come back and bite me in the ass. I cringed internally, realizing I had just dug my hole that much deeper by my little speculation about his cyber identity. I tried to ignore him, opening up the next manuscript in my stack.f

"Hmmm, let's see here . . ." he mused. "Well we could go with FiendFlasher."

I snorted, then shook my head.

"TeamHumangurl? Stalking4Vikings?"

I glared.

"Oh! Of course . . . EricsAssStalker!"

I death-stared.

He laughed his damn smug Viking ass off, which only upped the violent rage quotient of said death-stare.

I soon realized his amusement with himself had no bounds, at least not on the visible horizon. So I threatened him with another script. That quieted him down a bit. "So are you gonna actually come up with some serious names, or what?"

He let out an overly heavy sigh. "Oh, okay. I suppose."

He leaned back and contemplated for a moment, stroking his jaw.

I braced myself for another onslaught.

"I've got it!" he said, springing to his feet. "EyeSpyEric!" He blurted it out, beaming with pride as he explained what he thought was the genius spelling of e.y.e. as opposed to I.

I shrugged. I guess it was better than the alternatives he'd come up with so far, and it was an apt description of what I would be doing, at least.

As soon as I gave my lukewarm semi-approval, he spun on his heels and headed for the door.

"Wait—Eric! Where are you going?"

"Oh, just grabbing my laptop ."

He came back out within minutes, carrying a very fancy schmancy looking shiny silver MacBook. He moved our chairs together so I could look on with him.

"First, we should find you a profile picture."

I kept my eyes on the screen and clamped down on my mouth. I sure was curious as to what kind of pictures he would look for and where he'd go to find them, but I wasn't about to make any suggestions for the myriad of site URL's I knew by heart.

He began to enter text into the Google search box.

Eric Northman

Google answered in less than a very tiny fraction of a second.

Results 1-10 of about 1,300,000 for eric northman

I snorted, wondering how many results would come up for my name. He was disgustingly high on himself, but I guess he did have good reason.

He clicked on the images tab, bringing up a screen full of some of the most comical (and horribly sloppy) EN chops.

There were cowboy Erics. Viking Erics (so original, huh?).

There were even cross-dressed Erics.

And, of course there were nekked Erics. One in particular caught his attention; it was probably the bright yellow speedos. He clicked on the caption, which read Sweedos, but as soon as the page loaded I could hear him make an angry growling sound.

I looked over at him. He was practically seething. "The least they could do is cast a realistic body double." He took a heavy breath and ran his hands—er, his very large hands, and you know what they say about proportion—through his hair. "What I mean to say is—I have a lot more to offer."

I snorted again, but then returned my attention to the screen and my eyes bugged out. The "double" as he put it, was certainly no small contender.

We spent way too much time browsing through pictures, but hey, a girl can't really complain about spending a couple of hours looking through pictures of EN hotness, while sitting just inches away from the sex-god himself.

We browsed through a few more screens, until we both spotted a picture that made us gasp and lean forward simultaneously. Someone had put together two of my favorite things—Nutella and EN. Spreadable joy indeed. We stared at the chop for a long, silent moment and then looked at each other and burst into giggles. That was definitely the one.

With that task done, Eric navigated over to Twitter to set up my account. I sat back and watched as he filled out the form, pausing and looking at me when it came time to choose a password.

"So what shall it be?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Uh-uh. I'm not telling you!"

"By all means …" He gestured for me to come on over and key it in myself.

I thought about it for a moment, then told him to close his eyes and leaned in to enter in my super-secret password, doing my best to twist my body so I could shield the keyboard with it.

I heard him suck in his breath at the same time as I felt him flinch beneath me. Looking down, I realized that I was practically bent over him, and my hair must have brushed against his abs of Nordic steel. "Oh! Sorry!"

I tried to readjust myself, but I was now painfully aware of just how close every part of his body was to mine. I swear I could feel his heat against my own skin, even though we were barely touching.

"You're fine, Sookie." He breathed against my hair. As I returned my attention to the keyboard, I felt him inhale deeply.

I totally forgot what clever password I had come up with just a few moments ago.

Inclining my head in thought, I quickly came up with another one, and prayed that I 'd be able to remember it later.

"You aren't peeking, right?"

Silence.

I spun my head around, and saw that he had one eye slightly open and that damn EN smirk plastered on his face. I narrowed my eyes, and he closed it right up, but I wasn't buying it. So I covered his eyes with one hand and entered my password with the other.

"Okay, done!" I settled back into my own seat.

The smirk remained on his face as he finished up filling in the form. When it was finally all set up, he leaned back to admire his work.

"So . . . you ready?" He purred with an eyebrow waggle.

I was kind of afraid to ask, but I did anyways. "For what?"

"For your first tweet," he stretched his arms out, cracking his knuckles and leaving his hands there to hover over the keyboard, waiting.

I inclined my head until realization slowly dawned on me that he expected me to tell him what to type. For my first tweet. As his fangirl shadow.

And then, I had to bite down on my giggles as I became aware of just how I could use this to my advantage. Either he'd give up his Twitter name, or I'd be able to torture him as much as he'd tortured me. Now that's what I'd call a win-win situation. I raised my chin and fixed him with my sweetest Southern-belle smile.

"Oh, not a chance in hell, Buster. You don't get to see any of my tweets unless I approve you as a follower. And that means disclosing you super secret identity."

A/N: Oooooh, I do love it when Sookie gets all spunky-snarky ;D What oh what could our li'l barmaid's first tweet be? Check it out here:

http://twitter(dot)com/EyeSpyEric

Oh, but of course, don't forget to give me some review lurrrrve first :) Your reviews do make my fingers fly all that much faster :)

A/N A GINORMOUS thanks to my amazing betas—nycsnowbird and youbettago.

Oh, and youbetta was really amazingly patient and hilarious brainstorming with me on all the text messages and tweets and EN chop-heaven. I'm soooo excited to have her help me (=collab) with the tweet-galore of the next couple chapters.

Any mistakes remaining are purely my own.

And, just a quick shout-out to my favorite pre-reader/giggly-uber-late-night-brainstormer A-Redhead-Thing. ILY girlie!!!

Disclaimer: As always, I do not own any rights to the characters in SVM or the HBO series True Blood. However, the original content and ideas are mine all mine.