Rated M primarily for swearing/rough language.

Have you ever watched a television show that revolves around relationships, and just be like "Oh my God, she doesn't deserve him?"

Because I have. I've always felt this way about Sookie Stackhouse. While Bill didn't deserve her, and Alcide had his own weird issues—Eric Northman was far too good for Sookie Stackhouse. She was dumb, she took him for granted, and she foolishly let him go after she got precisely what she wanted—old Eric and new Eric combined. Foolish, foolish girl.

I've only recently discovered Lucifer (I know, I know—super late to the game), and devoured the entirety of the show in a month. Ninety-three episodes was not enough. Oh. My. Lawd. But just like with Sookie, I've got a huge issue with Chloe. Time and again it's not Lucifer that breaches trust, or fails to listen to his partner, it's Chloe. She takes him for granted. Tries to outright get him killed, even after he's saved her! With those wings! (swoon)

During my fevered binge of this show (did I mention I was sick for over a month while I watch it?), I kept likening Lucifer to Eric Northman. See, they're a lot alike. Very charismatic. Both evil and super sweet in the turn of a mood. Incredibly loyal to those they love. Night club owners. Oh, and they're both technically bisexual. ;)

So after I watched all of Lucifer it was only natural to do a rewatch of True Blood as well. Fact: the last time I binge watched True Blood, my green-cheek conure ended up learning to say Sookie simply by listening to the show. Sookeh!

Of course, with both TV shows bubbling in my creative space, I'm now finding myself wondering what would happen if I put Eric Northman and Lucifer Morningstar in the same room. And what would happen if Lucifer is given a problem to solve? What better way to find out than actually putting it down in words?

To note: This story takes place directly after season 4 of True Blood and is from Eric Northman's perspective. Anything beyond season 4 *does not happen* in my story, although perhaps you'll see tidbits here and there. From Lucifer's side of things, this takes place during Season 3, right after Lucifer sees Chloe and Pierce/Cain cementing a blossoming relationship. Anything after that *does not happen* in my story, although again, perhaps you'll see tidbits here and there.

Since this will be from Eric's perspective, I can explain now that when Lucifer went to tell Chloe how he really felt but instead fumbled upon the awkward romantic moment between Chloe and another man, he decides to take off as he's wont to do when faced with hard emotions he doesn't know how to deal with. He gets in his Corvette and goes for a long, long drive, trying to find a place that's *nothing* like LA. And he ends up, of all places, in Shreveport, Louisiana.

He's never actually met a vampire before. Not after they've come out of the coffin, and not before. Well, at least not that he's aware of. So when he spies Fangtasia, he decides the best way to forget his woes is to meet some sexy new friends, because isn't that what the vampire lifestyle is? Sexy and carefree and perhaps a bit of a bloodbath?

It's clearly exactly what he needs right now.

The loud thump of the music was giving Eric a headache. Funny how it had never done that before. It did now, though. It grated on his last stretched-thin nerve. In fact, plenty of things did so now. He glared at the closest fangbanger who seemed desperate to come up to his throne and kneel before him. If she so much as took a step toward him, he was going to toss her out of Fangtasia. He couldn't stand any of this bullshit. It was all so. . . trivial.

The music. The fangbangers. The disgusting True Blood he pretended to drink. Ginger's fucking screaming every time something surprising happened. Pam's moody looks now that he was back to normal. Sookie.

It all gave him a splitting headache.

The fangbanger ignored his glare and sidled up toward the stage, hands clasped at the base of her throat as if in prayer, and a mix of hope and fear in her brown eyes. When she opened her mouth to speak Eric snarled at her, not even bothering to scare her with fangs. The rage on his face was enough to make her squeak out a quick scream and then backpedal halfway across the club to disappear in the crowd of dancers.

Why should he suffer the indignity of being treated like a god by some barely legal blonde dressed all in black like it was Halloween and he was the damn candy? He could almost hear Pam's eyeroll from behind the bar. When he turned his icy blue eyes in her direction she was conveniently looking anywhere but at him. Typical.

All of this was Sookie's fault. All of it.

He'd foolishly wanted to run away with her. Had asked it of her. But no—the damn waitress had wanted him to get his memories back, because he wasn't the Eric she knew—and maybe even loved—unless he was the man who had tortured people, killed people, used people. And the moment he'd gotten those memories back? Become the exact thing she professed to wanting?

She'd spurned him. Spurned him and Bill both, saying she loved them both and therefore couldn't be with either of them. How the hell did that even make sense? Just choose one, for fuck's sake. Or both. Eric despised Bill, but he wouldn't say no to a throuple if the woman was bold enough to demand it.

Worse than turning him down though, she'd woken something inside of him that had been dormant for a very long time.

Feelings.

Emotions.

Ridiculously useless sentiments about everything.

His heart. It hurt.

Admittedly, it was Godric's death just the year before that had made him weep real tears. The pain had been almost unbearable. But it was Sookie who had drawn that pain out and everything else with it. It had been slow and subtle at first, but when he'd lost himself to the witch's curse, Sookie had yanked everything out all at once—the good, the bad, the ugly. Suddenly he could love again. Not some fierce loyalty where love used to be. Actual goddamn love.

And then she fucking took it from him. Showed him love, made him yearn for it, and then told him it wasn't for him.

Now everything felt wrong.

Blood didn't taste good—not after having Sookie's blood, not to mention that fairy.

Sex was subpar at best, and he'd had multiple partners, both male and female, in the past two weeks, trying to erase the memory of that one single night with the halfling waitress. Nothing compared and it was making him sexually frustrated. How was he supposed to get over this if nothing was good enough?

And the feeling of home? It had disappeared. Fangtasia wasn't home. Shreveport wasn't home. Home was back in Bon Temps in the hidey hole beneath Sookie Stackhouse's house. But it wasn't for him. Not now, not ever. According to Sookie, anyway.

Meanwhile, things were changing at Fangtasia. Somehow, during the fiasco the month before, Pam had ended up becoming a maker—turning Sookie's best friend Tara. Tara had now been dumped at Fangtasia for Pam to deal with, and the feisty little vampire was sarcastic, rude, and full of self-hatred. A perfect Fangtasia employee, if he was being honest with himself. But she was a constant reminder of Sookie, which kept him in a foul mood.

Although, if he was being honest with himself, he would be in a shitty mood regardless of whether she was pissing customers off and bitching about Sookie. But she sure as hell didn't help matters, did she?

He shifted on his throne, fingers digging into the wooden arms as Ginger came sauntering up with a blue-eyed redheaded woman in tow. He needed to feed, regardless of his feelings, but he'd made sure Ginger knew only to bring him willing meals that did not have brown eyes, blonde hair, and anything else that would remind him of the damned waitress. No pretty white sundresses. No bounce in her step. No mind-reading fairy blood.

"Eric, meet Stacy." Ginger did her best Vanna White impression as she brought forth the slight woman wearing business casual.

Eric gave the woman a curt nod and then stood from his chair. The wood creaked with relief as he left the faux-throne and hopped down off the raised stage to stand in front of Ginger and Stacy. She was short. Far shorter than Sookie. Which was good.

"Follow me, Stacy," he said, no emotion in his voice as he skirted around the dance floor and headed for the back offices. Ginger stayed behind, intent on wiping down Eric's throne and the two flanking chairs next to it. She loved that throne more than she loved him, he was pretty sure. And Ginger held him on a high pedestal.

The sound of the music eased as he drew Stacy through the Employees Only door, and Eric's headache finally began to abate. He wondered if perhaps it was time to take a bit of a trip. Perhaps back to Sweden, or somewhere else cold and quiet and lacking all of his responsibilities. It had been a while, and he did have other properties. It might be nice to get away and forget everything that Louisiana currently stood for.

He led Stacy into his office and sat down on his desk, crossing his ankles as he looked down at her. He had never really been into smaller women—it was always uncomfortable and awkward to take what he wanted if he was only after a meal. This woman wasn't your regular fangbanger, though. She was missing the goth styled clothes and he couldn't see any fang marks, either. No matter. Despite his running the club, he usually didn't feed on the hangers-on. They were a dime a dozen and Eric generally preferred something unique.

Although now none of it seemed to matter to him. He'd had that glorious fairy blood, and everything else tasted drab in comparison.

"Where would you like me to bite you?" he asked, watching as she fidgeted in front of him.

"My wrist?" she asked, giving him a wide-eyed doe in the headlights look. "I've never done this before."

Stacy shrugged out of her lightweight jacket, carefully placing it over the back of one of the chairs. She shoved an arm out, offering him her wrist.

"Why start now?" Eric asked, despite having not one iota of curiosity. He loathed small talk, but he'd rather it if she didn't scream when he finally bit her. Sometimes screams were welcome—both of pleasure and of fear—but he wasn't interested in that right now. He needed to eat, simple as that.

"I want to understand why my brother is so fascinated with you people," she said honestly, and Eric did his best to let that comment slide. "I figured if I met someone, let them drink my blood, see what the fuss is all about, maybe I'd understand."

"You might want more than just a bite," he informed her. "There's more to us than our need to eat." Ironic, considering it was the only reason she was in his office.

He popped his fangs out and kept eye contact as he brought her arm up to his mouth. He was gentle enough, sliding his fangs into her perfect skin. For the briefest of moments, his appetite came to the forefront as the hot blood spilled over his teeth and onto his tongue. Blood was what kept him alive and for a thousand years he revelled in nearly every single bite. The hot, salty tang tasted of the sea, and Eric was nothing if not a child of the stiff ocean winds. As Stacy's blood filled his mouth, that familiar connection to his past came with it.

But after the first swallow, everything faded. The salt of the ocean spray on deck. The dark, quiet nights in the longhouse. The crackle of energy as you battled for your life. It all disappeared as even the taste of Stacy's blood seemed to turn flat on his tongue. The draw from her wrist became nothing more than sustenance and he closed his eyes, breaking her gaze while he satiated himself. He took only what he needed—he might be going against mainstream society by taking real blood, but he wasn't an idiot. He didn't kill these days unless someone deserved it. Stacy might have segregated vampires from humans in her mind, but she wasn't a racist threat to his survival. She just wanted to understand.

By the time he was finished slaking his hunger, he was disgusted. With himself, with her, with how society was shaping up. There was no satisfaction here. He was merely existing.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked as he offered her an alcoholic wipe to clean herself with. He wasn't going to offer to heal the two fang wounds. She wanted to come get a taste of vampire culture? Let her have the proof to show her friends and family. If she was embarrassed by it, she could cover it up with makeup. Although it never did truly hide a bite.

"No money," Stacy said, breathless. But her eyes asked a question.

Eric shook his head. "If you want more than that, I suggest you hit the dance floor. I'm not in the mood." He paused and then gave her a fanged smile. "And even if I were, I don't think you'd be interested in what I'd have in mind." His thoughts lit on the dungeon in the basement. There was no one down there at the moment. A great place to do the more unmentionable things he had an appetite for. But not with her. Not right now.

He led the petite blonde back out to the club and let her wander toward the writhing bodies. He watched the mass of black-clad people accept her into their fold, her lighter coloured clothes slipping in with ease. She'd be fine and she'd undoubtedly find someone to have risqué sex with. Just not with him.

Eric contemplated the throne across the room and decided he didn't feel like sitting there any longer. If he didn't go back to his office and work on paperwork—the drudgery made him want to stake himself—he'd be better off being behind the bar, overseeing Tara at her job as barkeep. She knew how to make a drink, but her sarcasm was going to get her staked if she wasn't careful. He'd say the attitude was because she wasn't taking well to being a vampire, but she'd been just as straightforward and rude as a human. Nothing new except her bloodlust.

He stopped next to her and she sneered up at him, fangs and all, daring him to say a word. He smirked right back at her—there'd never been any love between the two of them. In fact, she'd been part of the problem while he'd been under the influence of the witch who had taken his memories from him. Now that she was a vampire, perhaps she'd stop assuming they were all bloodthirsty killers out to get her.

Well. . .

They were bloodthirsty killers. But that was beside the point.

Maybe if he kept good care of Tara, Sookie would appreciate it, though. Tara wasn't his own progeny, but she was Pam's, which made her. . . his granddaughter, so to speak. A grandfather at a thousand years of age. How novel.

He slung a few drinks, watching the baby vamp as he worked, trying to get out of his own mind.

Perhaps the world didn't stop when the door opened. The music kept playing, the fangbangers kept grinding against each other, and Eric continued to ream Tara out for disrespecting a vampire patron who had just been looking for a specialty True Blood cocktail. But the door did open, and time should have stood still.

Perhaps Eric Northman should have seen the man in the tailored suit walk across the floor, curiosity in his eyes as he watched the dancefloor. However, Eric was busy making the damn cocktail, mixing it so slowly that the stupidest of bartenders could figure out how the ratios worked. Instead, the man in the green suit, a jaunty bounce to his step, sidled up to the bar unnoticed. His gaze went everywhere, a slightly manic look in his eyes as if he was riding a high of emotions, trying to run away from the scary ones.

When Eric finally looked up from the glass of chilled True Blood he'd slid across the counter, his eyes were caught by the energetic brown gaze of the man who clearly did not belong in a vampire bar. If Stacy had stood out, this man was a beacon of Do-Not-Belong.

The hunter green three-piece suit was tailored to the man, and he even had a pocket square that matched the pale green shirt that paired so well with the quality linen of the jacket and vest. He had a five o'clock shadow that was now bordering on early-morning scruff and his nose was just a bit too pointy, but the slightly crazed smile on the man's face was a study in charm. And the rich warmth of the eyes was nothing like the dark brown eyes of Sookie Stackhouse. Oh, no. They were completely different. And for some reason, they were steady on Eric.

The smile widened when the other man realized he was being assessed. And then it turned cheeky.

"Come here often?" asked the man in the suit, the first person in ages to be so bold as to drop a shitty pickup line on the Viking vampire. With a British accent, to boot.

It should have pissed Eric off. He'd been in a mood since he'd left Bill Compton's house that night Sookie had shunned them both. Absolutely no one had gotten through to him. With kindness, with anger, with anything. He hadn't been hiding behind a brick wall. He'd been the fucking brick wall.

But this one simple—and ridiculous—pickup line coming from a man who belonged on the red carpet and not in a backwoods vamp bar like Fangtasia struck something in Eric.

He couldn't stop it. He burst out laughing.

Some final notes:

When it comes to my writing style, I am primarily a planner. I have an outline of what I expect to happen in this story, and am excited to write it. That being said, I am flexible and have been known to completely rewrite a roadmap if it turns out the characters are fighting me. Sometimes they do!

Expect chapters to be around 2,500 words long. The shortest I will go is 1,500 words, but I always try my best to keep each chapter at normal chapter length.

Do you have a favourite True Blood character that isn't Sookie, Bill, or Eric?

Do you have a favourite Lucifer character that isn't Lucifer or Chloe?

Want my musical playlist? Just look to the chapter Titles. Much like True Blood, I'll be naming my chapters after songs, just like they named episodes after the end credit songs. I can't promise my taste is as good as theirs though. ;)

PS – I apologize if I mix up True Blood Eric Northman with the Southern Vampire Mysteries Eric Northman. I'm afraid I was obsessed with both and sometimes they easily get mixed up in my mind.