FIC: The Other Boy, 2/2

[scribblinlenore]

The Other Boy
22,000 words, NC-17, True Blood/Adam Lambert crossover

It's just Adam being Adam, and Eric doesn't know why this is it, what sets him off. Maybe he doesn't want to think about anyone else's hands on Adam, not when they're fresh from battle, not when he can still feel Adam fighting at his side, the shape of his presence, which isn't the cure for anything Eric has lost, but is familiar and wanted just the same.



He and Pam continued to travel, sometimes with Godric, sometimes not, and everywhere there seemed to be evidence of Adam. Paris was much different since the last time Eric had been there, since the dead dove in the road. Motorcars rattled over the streets, and people streamed along the sidewalks, a bouquet of sweat and busyness and delicious copper so close beneath the skin.

They followed home a wealthy merchant, dressed in black tails and starched white shirt, red-faced and weak with wine. At the door, Pam smiled at the man, and whispered, "Invite us in," and after they'd feasted, they wandered the rooms of the man's house, looking at the priceless objects he'd so carefully collected, which seemed ridiculous now that this guts were strewn across the Persian carpet in the parlor. Eric found the painting in the man's study, hanging by itself on a wall, a particularly valuable treasure. It was of a figure, naked and male, half turned away, with wings and a familiar shock of black hair. The brass plate on the frame read: "Fallen Angel."

In Vienna, they heard excited stories about the previous year's opera season, a mysterious tenor who'd startled the breath out of everyone in the pin-silent auditorium every night for a week and then disappeared, never to be heard of again.

The trail went cold for a while and then picked up again across the ocean, where the twentieth century smelled like coal smoke and ambition. Chicago was a busy, striving place with tall buildings puncturing the sky and grain-fed victims making easy pickings in the shadows of the many whorehouses and speakeasies. Music seemed to be everywhere, on street corners and spilling out of windows, not like anything Eric had ever heard before, a tangle of rhythms, the sound of the new world. Musicians had been streaming up from New Orleans, and people dimly recalled a man with dark hair and a love of dramatic jackets whispering in the ears of nightclub owners, "That's the future you're hearing. Let them play every night."

In New York, a gossip column mentioned a dilettante who'd been a regular at Café Society for a few months until the night he reportedly began to cry tears of blood and quickly fled, never to be seen again. It was the same night a whiskey-voiced black woman first sang a song about lynching.

Eric lost track after that, until San Francisco, a few decades ago. He and Pam feasted their way through the leavings of peace, love and understanding, whole buildings of burnt-out hippies, tasting their drug-dazed hallucinations in every drop. It was purely chance that Eric noticed the magazine crumpled on the floor of one of the flophouses, splashed with gore, but the picture was still clear: some rock star at a party, a tall, thin man with cheekbones like knives wearing a jumpsuit and orange boots. Beside him, barely in the frame of the photo, just a shoulder, the fringe of hair.

Pam peered over Eric's shoulder, blood smearing her mouth. "Is that him?"

"Who?" He'd never mentioned Adam to her.

"The other boy."

He stared at her. "I have no idea what you mean."

She laughed. "You know, you're not as mysterious as you like to think you are."

Later, Eric found a copy of the rock star's record, Ziggy something, and as he listened, he could hear Adam behind the notes, like a game of hide and seek.



"Fuck me! Harder. Oh God, Adam, please!"

A few days with Adam's human in the place, it turns out, means hearing this, high and breathy and seeping through the walls, at least three times a night, and Eric understands now why Adam asked for permission, the sneaky bastard.

Pam leans against the bar, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, watching Yvetta practice her pole routine more distractedly than she usually does.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God!" The human's voice builds, louder and more desperate, to a final, wall-rattling wail.

"This just goes to show why telling people to get a room doesn't solve anything," Pam deadpans, and then she lets out a long sigh. "Two men going at it really shouldn't do anything for me, but-" She crooks her finger at Yvetta, with a big smile. "Come here, honey. I need you to help me with something in the storeroom. Oh, and lose that gum."

Pam sweeps Yvetta off to the back, and after a while, Adam and his human come out to the bar. Adam's arm is wrapped around the human's waist, and despite this, the human sways on his feet. Honestly, Eric is surprised he can walk at all. There are no marks left on his neck, though, because Adam is Adam, and he'll always be a caretaker where his humans are concerned.

Adam walks the human to the door and pulls him into a tight hug. "So you're going to go back to LA and wait for me there," he murmurs into blond hair. "I need you to do that for me, okay?"

The human nods, but he knots his hand in Adam's T-shirt. "You are coming back, right? And then we're going to New York? Promise me."

Adam kisses him, taking his time, hands moving in the human's hair, touching his face. "I promise, baby." They hug again, and then the human goes on his way.

"Thanks for being patient about that," Adam tells Eric, as he sprawls onto a stool at the bar.

"You could have mentioned he was loud before I said he could stay," Eric points out.

"Why would I do that?" Adam grins mischievously. "And you really didn't doubt my ability to make a man scream, did you?"

His gaze lingers, and Eric can read his expression, like a page in a book: I could make you scream, if you'd just let me.

"I never underestimate your appeal where humans are concerned," Eric says stiffly, looking away.

Adam lets out a sigh. "Fine. Be that way. I'll be in my room if you change your mind."

The clock hits nine, and customers start to drift in. Pam eventually saunters back from the storeroom, breezy and looking pleased with herself. Yvetta goes to work on the pole, flashing come-hither looks at the patrons and the occasional smile at Pam. The night settles into its predictable rhythm, music thumping out of the speakers, bodies close-packed on the dance floor. Eric watches with a satisfied tilt at the corner of his mouth. His domain.

"Eric Northman!" A high, distressed voice interrupts his reverie.

"Oh, please," Pam says with disgust. "Not another overwrought human. Enough is enough already." She walks off, leaving Eric to deal with Sookie on his own.

"Miss Stackhouse," Eric says with formal politeness. "What brings you to Fangtasia tonight? Perhaps you'd like a drink?"

Sookie waves off the offer, determined and impatient, the way she so often is. "It's about Bill."

"Of course it is." Eric barely holds back a sigh. "Should we talk in my office? It's quieter there."

Sookie follows him to the back. Eric closes the door and turns around with a raised eyebrow. "Now, what's the problem?"

"I don't know!" She brushes a hand through her hair, frazzled. "He's been acting all weird lately, and when I ask him about it, all he'll say is that it's vampire stuff and I shouldn't worry about it. But how am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to just pretend there's nothing wrong? I need to know what's going on, and I want you to tell me." She fixes a look on him, like she has no doubt he can give her answers.

And, really, it's not so hard to imagine what's troubling Compton, caught between what he wants and what the Queen demands. Eric understands that well. He's just not so sure that Sookie will understand it.

"I have no idea what could be bothering him," Eric lies, his voice smooth and tinged with surprise. She lifts her chin, sets her jaw, and he holds up a hand before she can get insistent. "But if it means that much to you, I'll look into it, see what I can find out."

The tense line of her shoulders softens. "Thank you," she says, mollified. "I'd appreciate it."

Eric nods, and Sookie opens the door to leave, and standing right outside the office is Adam, curiosity written all his face. He gives Sookie a smile, a pinch between his eyebrows, because he always has been perceptive, and he must sense, as Eric did the first time he met her, that Sookie's no garden-variety human.

"Hi there," Sookie says, returning Adam's curious stare for a moment before going on her way.

Adam watches her walk off, and then barges into Eric's office, not waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind him. "What's going on?"

Eric settles at his desk, shoulders squared imperiously. "I didn't remember eavesdropping being one of your faults."

Adam crosses his arms over his chest. "Yeah, well, I know helping humans isn't one of your virtues, so what are you up to, Eric? What do you want from that girl? If you think I'm just going to stand by and watch while she gets fucked over, you really have forgotten who I am."

A good offense makes the best defense; that's as true in moments like this as it is in battle, and while Adam is smart and strong, he's never had a head for strategy. "What are you up to? And how is the Queen involved? Is that why you're here? To report back to her?"

Adam stares, stunned. "No, no. Eric. It's not-it has nothing to do with you. I wouldn't, ever-"

Eric can see it's the truth; Adam wouldn't betray him. He's as misbegotten a vampire in this as he is in his fondness for humans.

"What does she want with you, Adam?" Eric asks again, more quietly.

Adam lets out his breath. "It's all a big misunderstanding, really."

A percussive boom that sounds suspiciously like an explosion interrupts the explanation, and then Pam is shouting, "Eric!"

He moves in a flash back out to the bar, Adam at his side, and finds the front door flung off its hinges. That's hardly necessary since they're open for business, but the Queen's sledgehammer-faced minion hasn't gotten any smarter since the other day. This time, he's brought reinforcements, uglier and more dimwitted than he is, and he stands there on the threshold of Fangtasia looking pleased with himself and spoiling for a fight.

"What is the meaning of this?" Eric demands. "I've assured her majesty that I'm doing everything I can-"

"This isn't about you. We're here for him." He nods at Adam.

Eric looks to Adam, who makes a wry face and shrugs, as if to say, What are you going to do? Sometimes the Queen of Louisiana just sends her minions after you. He certainly doesn't appear surprised by the development.

"Hand him over, and we won't have to smash up the place," Sledgehammer Face promises, obviously hoping that Eric won't take him up on the deal.

Adam goes still at Eric's side. There's hurt in his face, but also resignation, and Eric should give him what he's expecting. Should just hand him over. Not because it's easier, but because Eric was once a king. He understands: orders are given, and orders are obeyed, and that's how the world keeps spinning. Anything else is chaos. That's why he's never challenged Sophie-Anne's authority, although he's a thousand years old and immeasurably stronger than she is. Loyalty is the fragile thread civilization hangs on, just as true now as it was when Eric was human.

And what claim does Adam have anyway? He and Eric are opposite poles, nothing in common, nothing to connect them. Except for the fact that Adam tastes like the beginning.

Which is, Eric finds, all that really matters.

The Queen's idiot minion never sees it coming; Eric moves faster than time itself, and Sledgehammer Face leaves a person-shaped dent in the wall. It takes Adam a second to get over his surprise, and then he joins the melee, yelling instructions at the humans in the room as he takes on two of Sophie-Anne's thugs, "Get out of here. Go, go!"

There's a stampede to the door, and Eric uses the distraction to send another dimwitted minion flying across the room. He lands with a satisfying splat. Pam joins in the fight too, and maybe it's the pink strappy dress she's wearing that makes the thug she's going up against underestimate her. About a second into the contest, she throws him down to the ground, her hand around his throat, her spiked heel leaving an imprint on his stomach.

Adam on one side of him, and Pam on the other, and Eric feels what he never expected to again: the sense of a circle closing.

Eventually, the minions figure out that they're vastly outmatched. They limp away, dragging their fallen comrades, and for a moment after they've gone, Eric, Pam and Adam just stand there, surprised it's over.

Pam finally breaks the standoff of silence. "Well, I've chipped a nail," she says, examining it with disgust. "I hope you're both happy."

"Honey, the way you kicked ass, I will get you the best damned manicure money can buy," Adam tells her, with a deeply admiring glance.

Pam tilts her head, as she considers the offer. "All right. But I get to pick the manicurist. I want one who tastes good."

Adam winces. "Maybe we can discuss the details later?"

But Pam is already walking away. "And don't expect me to clean up this mess, either."

Once she's gone, Adam turns a look on Eric that is just as sappy and pleased as Eric might have expected, Adam's face practically glowing, his smile blinding.

"You owe me an explanation," Eric tells him brusquely. He really doesn't want to have a moment.

"Yeah, so. About that." Adam takes a big breath. "The last time I paid Queen Sophie-Anne a visit, I might have left just a teensy-tiny bit," he pinches his fingers together until there's only a sliver of light between them, "before she was finished with me. But in my defense, she made me sing 'The Glow Worm' about a million times. I've never been so bored in my life."

Eric stares at him. "How were you able to get out of the palace without her permission?"

"Oh, you know. The guards weren't all that hard to distract." He drops his voice suggestively, giving Eric a look through his lashes.

It's just Adam being Adam, and Eric doesn't know why this is it, what sets him off. Maybe he doesn't want to think about anyone else's hands on Adam, not when they're fresh from battle, not when he can still feel Adam fighting at his side, the shape of his presence, which isn't the cure for anything Eric has lost, but is familiar and wanted just the same.

He leaps at Adam, and they fly across the room, hitting the floor hard enough to make it shake. Questions flicker through Adam's eyes in that fraction of a second it takes Eric to fist his hand in Adam's shirt and force their mouths together.

"Oh, fuck yes," Adam murmurs against Eric's mouth, kissing back. "So much better than fighting."

What Eric wants from Adam is still a question that's hard to answer, but this is a start, Adam under him, the long line of his body, muscles bunching and flexing as Adam pushes up against him, grabbing, grinding. Eric goes for Adam's throat, the sweet spurt of blood on his tongue, Godric, but it's more than that. It's Adam, as infuriating as he can be, moaning as Eric laps at his neck, gripping Eric's shoulders, sinking his teeth into Eric, taking, tasting, completing the circuit.

They writhe against each other, hips pressed hotly together, and Eric would fuck him right there, on the bar floor, on the battlefield where they sent the enemy fleeing. He would, except he's a vampire and was once a king, and that makes him a territorial son of a bitch. He needs to fuck Adam in Adam's own bed, to vanquish the other lovers who have been there before him.

He grabs Adam by the arm and blurs them into his room.

It's been a long time since he's done this with a vampire, and he suddenly remembers the special pleasure that comes with not having to be careful of his strength. He tears their clothes off and kisses Adam hard enough to break a human and pushes him down onto the bed, kneeling between his legs. Eric's favorite place on the body is the inside of the thigh, the delicate crease where it meets the hip, the way blood always tastes a little sweeter there. He licks his way up from Adam's knee, and Adam cries out when Eric sinks in his teeth, grabbing at Eric's hair, begging, Please, please. His cock brushes Eric's cheek, leaving a wet trail, and as Eric drinks, he can feel Adam get harder.

Blood isn't the only thing he wants to taste, and he lifts his head, retracts his fangs, and licks his lips. Adam props himself up on his elbows, watching, eyes wide and dark, waiting. Eric leans up and bites one of Adam's nipples, tight and penny-dark, working it with his tongue. Adam sinks his fingers into Eric's hair, holding fiercely. "Eric," he moans.

In a thousand years, there have been very few people who have said Eric's name like that, intimately, with the force of history behind it. He presses his hand against his own cock and kisses his way down to Adam's, running his tongue along its length, the taste of sex mixing with the lingering flavor of blood in his mouth.

"Fuck," Adam gasps out softly, his hands gripping Eric's shoulders as Eric starts to suck. "Do you know how long I've waited for you to do that?"

Maybe Eric has been waiting just as long, but he's not going to admit it. Instead, he's going to drag as many desperate sounds out of Adam as he can, with his tongue and his throat and his fingers. Adam grabs Eric's hair, trying to take charge, trying to ride his mouth. Eric braces his hands on Adam's thighs, holding him still, pulling back until he's teasing just the head. Adam snarls insistently, and Eric smiles. Maybe he has always wanted to have Adam coming to pieces in his hands.

Of course, Adam is always a complication, and there's nothing like submission in his nature. In a flash the room tilts and Eric finds himself on his back with Adam kneeling over him, grinning.

"Honey, two can totally play at that game." He runs his hands up Eric's sides, staring intently, as if memorizing the geography of Eric's body.

"Is that all you've got?" Eric says, with a slightly mocking smile, because Adam always rises to a challenge.

Adam arches an eyebrow, as if it say, Seriously? "Oh, I'm going to show you what I've got," he promises, circling his thumbs in maddening little circles around Eric's nipples, tighter, tighter, until he's finally touching, using his nails, making the flesh stiffen, making Eric arch his back and call out for more.

"So fucking gorgeous," Adam whispers, his breath warm on Eric's collarbone, against his ribs, trailing down over Eric's stomach.

"Adam," Eric says sternly, an order.

Which is, of course, a waste of time, because this is Adam, who smiles, eyes bright blue with mischief, and puts his mouth all over Eric's thighs, murmuring "Mm," again and again, as if Eric's frustration tastes good.

Eric yanks him by the hair, and Adam puts on an innocent face that would be unbelievable in the best of circumstances and is utterly laughable when he's naked and hard and looking like one definition of sin. "Oh, did you want something?"

A growl seems like the only appropriate response, and Adam laughs and runs his hand up Eric's thigh and bends his head. "I've been waiting forever for this too." The puff of his breath on Eric's cock sends a white-hot shot of pleasure all through Eric, and when Adam stretches out his tongue to lick, Eric knots his hand in Adam's thick, soft hair and makes some urgent noises of his own.

Adam murmurs happily and starts to suck in earnest, slow on the way down and with a sweet, maddening twist on the way back up, sounds spilling out of him, obscene and perfect. Eric jerks his hips, fucking, and Adam lets him, which feels like triumph, until Adam's fingers start to wander, past Eric's balls, sneaky and expert, rubbing at his hole, sending shock waves up his spine.

It feels good, and it would be so easy to yield, but Eric hasn't been playing a game of chicken with Adam for two hundred years to lose now. He hooks a leg behind Adam's knees and pushes at his shoulder, flipping their bodies, retaking control with a determined hiss.

Adam smirks up at him, eyes bright and amused. "Okay, fine. We can do it your way. This time." He slides his hand around to the back of Eric's neck and pulls him down, and they kiss, for a good, long time, the wet, soft sound of it loud in the quiet room. Adam's body feels just as amazing beneath Eric's as he might have imagined-if he admitted to thinking about such things-and he moves, slowly at first, and then more determinedly, skin meeting skin, his cock slipping wetly against Adam's strong thigh.

"Please," Adam murmurs, soft and vulnerable, and from any other vampire that would seem practiced, a ploy, but Adam isn't any other vampire, and want clenches Eric's belly, hot and undeniable.

He presses his face against Adam's neck, touches his tongue to the spot he bit before which is healed now. He doesn't sink in his teeth, just explores the place on Adam where he left his mark, however fleeting. Adam draws in a sharp breath, realizing, and he strokes Eric's neck with his fingers, and then his tongue, and Eric feels it again, that circuit-closing sense of completion.

Maybe Godric still has one thing left to teach Eric, even after. Maybe the lesson here is that it is possible to trust a vampire you didn't make. Maybe everything does change, even Eric.

The moment he thinks this, of course, Adam takes the opportunity to turn the tables again, forcing Eric over onto his back, straddling Eric's hips.

"Compromise," he says when Eric glares, and then he sits back onto Eric's cock, and Eric arches into him, cursing and shaking.

"Is that all you've got?" Adam says, with a lopsided little smile.

Eric has never backed down from a challenge either-that at least will never change-and he grips Adam's hips and pounds up into him. Which must be exactly what Adam wants, because he throws his head back and pushes down into every thrust, muttering, "Fuck, yes. Eric."

Vampire strength pitted against vampire strength, and they fuck until the floor shakes and plaster is jarred loose from the walls and the bed groans like it might collapse. Adam leans down for a kiss, and Eric puts his hands everywhere, all over Adam, leaving his prints on Adam's skin. When Adam seizes and cries out, "Oh, fuck," he has Eric's fist wrapped around his cock, gripping, pulling the orgasm out of him, and then Adam's body is clenching, returning the favor.

Afterward, Adam lolls lazily in bed, his head on Eric's chest, seemingly no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. Of course, it is his room, so if someone is going to get up, it should be Eric. He doesn't, though. He lets Adam snuggle closer, and if occasionally he strokes his palm along Adam's forearm or presses a kiss into Adam's hair, it's nothing he'll admit later.

"Your human," he finds himself asking, not even sure why, "are you going to turn him?"

He feels Adam stiffen in his arms. "I might," he says carefully, "if Tommy really wanted me to."

"Has he asked you?"

"No. The closest he's come is asking what it's like. To be a vampire."

"What did you tell him?"

"That it's a very long, annoyingly coherent acid trip," Adam says wryly.

Eric shakes his head. "You're made wrong. Have I ever told you that?"

Adam laughs. "It might have come up once or twice."

"Adam." He tilts Adam's chin up, so he can look him in the eye. "You should turn him," he says seriously, meaning it.

Meaning: You should have someone. I don't want you to be alone.

Adam's eyes go wider, and he smiles softly and kisses Eric's mouth. "That's so sweet."

Eric gives him a hard look, because there is nothing remotely sweet about him. Adam keeps smiling anyway and kisses him again, and then his expression grows solemn, his gaze never leaving Eric. "Tell me what happened."

"You know what happened," Eric tells him tiredly, and starts to pull away, but Adam won't be budged.

"I need to hear it from you," Adam insists.

Eric sets his jaw and for a moment considers ignoring the faint hint of begging in Adam's voice, but he can't. Because, as hard as Eric has tried to deny it, Godric belonged to Adam too. "You know how he struggled with what we are. He wanted our kind to change, and when we didn't, or couldn't, he-you always understood that better than I did."

And I hated you for it. He doesn't need to add that. They both know.

"Except I didn't really understand at all," Adam says, a pinch between his eyebrows. "Not the way-Godric saw it completely differently. He thought what we needed was to evolve, to be something else entirely, not human or vampire. And I thought-it's about remembering for me. Who we once were. Who we wanted to be."

"Godric said I'd understand when I was as old as he was," Eric says quietly.

"Do you think you will?" Adam regards him curiously.

Eric's mouth pulls into a thin smile, and it hurts like hell. "Not if I live forever."



In the early, overwhelming days of Eric's second life, he existed as a frenzy of hunger, blind carnality, instinct driving him from kill to kill and then back to the pleasures of Godric's body. When they fucked, it was an erotic act of violence, fingers tearing at skin, bodies clashing, voices bruised with cursing, Godric's eyes shining with a brilliant, unholy light, blissfully savage. If Eric remembered anything at all about his human self, it felt distant and unimportant.

Gradually, though, Eric's animal nature began to quiet-not that he had any less lust for blood or for Godric-but there were enough chinks in the hunger for wisps of his humanity to sneak back in, things he'd forgotten completely. At first, it was only physical memories, how food used to feel in his mouth, the way his eyes would squeeze tightly shut in bright sunlight; but then other ghosts began to return to him, the frailties of flesh and blood, things like longing and uncertainty and regret.

Only chinks, and Eric did his best to push those memories away and focus on the vicious joys of his new existence.

He and Godric made their way along the rim of the North Sea, traveling farther than Eric had ever dared as a human. In the Orkney Islands, they stumbled onto a farm, a loose collection of buildings blanketed by snow, the soft bleating of sheep like a lullaby under the frozen, starry sky. The damp chill in the air did nothing to tamp down the delicious scent of humans wafting from the house, and Eric followed Godric, moving with lethal silence, around the rough side of the stone building to the door.

It was the same as always once they were inside, striking before anyone knew what was happening, the two of them a vicious blur cutting through the family like a blade. Futile human shrieks shook the walls, the intoxicating scent of terror thick in the close space, blood everywhere, splashed on the ceiling and smeared in Eric's hair and soaking into the hard-packed dirt floor.

Same as always, only not, because Eric froze, hijacked by the past in the middle of all that beautiful mayhem. Maybe it was the color of the woman's hair, strands of cooper spun with gold, the way it floated on the air when she turned her head. Maybe it was the shape of the man's jaw, solid and uncompromising. Suddenly, Eric was somewhere else entirely, and the floor there was also littered with bodies, but nothing about the slaughterhouse smell in the air struck him as delicious.

"Eric?" Godric's voice drifted over to him like a curl of smoke.

Eric couldn't answer. The sounds in the room-a girl's high, insistent wail, the wet death rattle from gasping lungs-made it impossible to think. A cold, shocked sensation kept threatening to creep up his throat and choke him.

Godric finished off the remaining humans with expedient swiftness. This was one of the first things he'd taught Eric: never leave living witnesses. Eric could only look on uselessly, and the stink of death grew steadily more oppressive. He felt his stomach rebelling as if… but that wasn't possible. Only humans threw up.

A barn stood in the lee of the house, and Godric pulled Eric by the arm, up into the hayloft, down into the warm, soft straw. They wouldn't be safe from the sun here come morning, too many gaps in between the rough-hewn boards, but dawn was still a long way away. Godric curled around Eric, a large presence in a small body, and for the first time since he was turned, Eric felt no hunger at all, just a shuddering disgust, not at what he'd become, but for what he'd once been.

No doubt Godric understood-he understood everything-but Eric still felt the need to say it. Because Godric had watched him on the battlefield, haloed in glory, defiant of death, watched Eric and wanted him, and it felt like a lie to leave out the less glorious parts of his history. He pressed his face against Godric's skin and confessed it all, every failing, every frailty, and Godric ran his hands over Eric, over his back and along his arms and into his hair, absolving him of his humanity with every touch.

They slipped out of their clothes, and Godric moved on top of Eric, his soft weight pressing Eric back into the sweet-smelling straw. His tongue slid along Eric's jaw, making Eric shiver, and he whispered into Eric's ear as he entered him, "I will always be here, my child, to remind you who you are now and who you can become."

When they left that place, the old memories lingered, just as feeble and human, but the feelings attached to them seemed to drift away. And every time Godric touched him, every time he lay in Godric's arms, they grew a little dimmer.

This was true for a long time. Until it wasn't anymore.

The night before Godric's last on earth, they lay in each other's arms one final time, something they hadn't done in-longer than Eric cared to remember. There was no sex, no sleeping, no rest, because Godric had moved beyond all need. Immune to every hunger. The only thing he desired, wearily, was the end.

It felt like falling into the past, at least to Eric, to take off their clothes and lie down and press their bodies close. Godric ran a hand up and down Eric's arm, brushed the occasional kiss to his hair, trying to offer comfort, but his touch was empty, and Eric could hardly feel it.

He might have admitted then, if he were the kind of person to admit things, that Adam had never been what came between them. But in that moment, Eric hadn't thought of Adam at all. The only thing that mattered was Godric, who was too distant and too different from anything Eric understood, and he wanted to say something, but it was like trying to speak a language that didn't exist. He could see, no matter how much he tried not to, the end hurtling toward them, not dark but light, a brilliant abyss there would be no coming back from.

The sounds of the bar drift in through the closed door, the clink of glasses and tinny music and booze-slurred voices, business already resuming. Eric really should get up, start sorting out the mess down there, or else rouse Adam for another round of sex. He doesn't, though. He just lies there, lingering.

Adam is curled against him, arm flung across Eric's waist, his eyes closed, actually asleep, because as with all human things, Adam still loves to nap. Eric strokes a hand absently along Adam's back, and the thing is: Adam is also different from anything he understands, a language all his own, always has been, but there's nothing distant about him. He's right here, at Eric's side.

"You're thinking too hard," Adam slurs out drowsily.

The corner of Eric's mouth flutters upward. "You read minds now?"

"You're not as mysterious as you like to think." Eric can feel Adam's amused grin against his skin.

There's only one way to deal with that, and Eric moves quickly, covers Adam's body with his own, pressing him into the mattress. He tastes Adam's neck with his tongue and then bites, not breaking skin, just making a promise. "I still have a few surprises."

Adam smiles up at him brilliantly.



Nothing changes, not that anyone should notice. Adam is as infuriating as ever, slinking around the place making doe eyes at humans. Eric pretends to ignore him as usual, and Adam takes over the stage whenever the hell he feels like it. Only now he puts on a show for one, even when the place is packed, not taking his eyes off Eric while he's singing, making promises with the purse of his lips, his expression sultry and a little smug. In his room there's a pile of splintered wood and sawdust that used to be Adam's bed and a crater in the ceiling where they got a little more acrobatic than the building could handle.

"I see you've worked things out," Pam says, sliding in next to Eric at the bar.

Eric doesn't look up from the books. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Uh-huh. I guess there must have been a natural disaster then." He can hear her teasing smile. "Because I definitely felt the earth move."

He glares at her, which is totally undercut when Adam finishes up "Stairway to Heaven" and launches into a medley of traditional Swedish love songs.

Pam laughs out loud. "Oh, you two are sweet." She strolls off, not paying the least bit of attention to the hard stare Eric throws after her.

His gaze shifts back to the stage. The look in Adam's eyes is warm and amused, but also calculating, like he has plans for Eric, and Eric seriously considers cutting Adam's set short. They still have half a dozen rooms in the place left to demolish.

His phone interrupts this train of thought, and he checks the number before answering. "Mr. Reynolds. This better be important."

"Man, you have go to get yourself over here. Right now," Lafayette babbles, voice rising hysterically. "We have some serious ass problems with this little business venture of yours."

"Business venture?" Eric says coolly. "I have no idea what you mean."

Lafayette lowers his voice to barely a whisper. "Yeah, I see you trying to throw me under the bus, but ain't nobody gonna believe I got this assload of V without some pretty high-powered help of the undead kind. So unless you wanna go down with me, I suggest you get on over here and help me figure out how to fix this shit."

The line goes dead in Eric's ear, and he sifts through his options. It's beneath his dignity to go running because a human snaps his fingers, but if the Authority discovers he's been selling V-well, hopefully it won't take too long to sort out whatever mess Lafayette has made, and then he can get back to his plans for wrecking the bedroom furniture with Adam.

It's a clear night, and the stars become white-blue streaks as Eric flies, reaching Lafayette's house moments later. It's still, no lights on, and Eric moves silently up the steps, forces the lock, and goes inside. He spots a sliver of light from beneath a door at the top of the stairs, and he makes his way up noiselessly, tries the door, flings it open.

Lafayette lies on the bed, or writhes really, his body athletically tangled with another man's. At the sight of Eric, he snaps the sheet up over them both and glares. "Motherfucking cockblocker, what do you have against me getting laid?"

"Why did you call me?" Eric asks, glaring back.

"Oh, no, no, no. You're the one always crooking your finger at me. If it was up to me, we wouldn't be having any more of these little conversations."

It's clear then what the phone call must really have been. There's only one person he can think of who'd want him out of the way and only one reason why. Eric hurries back down the stairs. As he goes, he hears Lafayette's boyfriend ask, "Who was that?" and Lafayette answer, "You don't even want to know."

The night folds around Eric, and he gets back to Fangtasia little more than five minutes after he left. Unfortunately, it's long enough for all hell to have broken loose. The place looks like a tornado hit: broken glassware is strewn all over the floor, splintered chairs lie in heaps, human customers cower under overturned tables looking dazed. There's no sign of Adam anywhere, and even though Eric's instincts tell him that Adam is gone, he runs down the hall anyway and checks every room.

"Pam!" he calls out, with a sinking feeling. He can't sense her either.

But then there-she's there, and he rushes back to the front to meet her. Pam stands framed in the open doorway, her eyebrows arched like question marks.

"Where have you been?" Eric asks her, with a flare of anger that he'd been worried.

"I got a call from Cecily's Shoegasm that the new Louboutins I wanted were in, but when I got to the store-what the hell happened here?" The moment the words take shape, realization registers on her face.

Eric turns, strides off to his office-the Queen could have spies in the club even now. Pam follows closely on his heels and shuts the door behind her. "At least we know where he is. And he's too charming to kill. Well, probably." Eric makes a face at her, not helping, and she raises her eyebrows, as if to say, What do you want from me?

"We have to get him back," Eric says, pacing. "Although I don't know how. Her majesty doesn't like to give up her toys. And after that stunt Adam pulled-the Queen is even more impossible when she's been defied."

Insane Adam. Why couldn't he ever learn to play by the rules? And now how is Eric supposed to win him back? The irony doesn't escape him that only a week ago he would have laughed if anyone had suggested he would ever care about such a thing. Clearly, a week ago, he'd been much more sensible. He sweeps his arm across his desk, sending the contents flying in a fit of helpless fury.

"So, what are you going to do?" Pam asks quietly.

Eric sets his jaw. "The only thing I can. Go to her majesty and plead his case. For whatever that's worth."

He changes into clothes appropriate for court and heads off. The closer he gets, the stronger the feeling becomes: he's headed toward Adam. At the palace, he rings at the door and requests an audience with the Queen from the page who answers. He's shown into a receiving room, pink and white like a frosted cake, without a single piece of furniture. The Queen prefers to keep her supplicants standing while they wait. Time ticks by, and the overpowering sense of Adam nearby is a maddening tease, so close and yet out of Eric's reach.

Sophie-Anne saunters in at long last, wearing a pink confection of a dress that rather alarmingly matches the interior décor. "Mr. Northman, what a surprise!" She claps her hands together, making wide eyes at him, smiling a honeytrap of a smile, clearly in the mood to play.

Eric sighs inwardly. "Your majesty."

She sweeps further into the room. "I just had this redone. What do you think?"

Eric makes a show of admiring the Rococo-like frescoes starring Sophie-Annie in wide-brimmed hats and voluminous skirts cavorting with well-dressed aristocrats in scenes of bucolic bliss, glistening and sugary, as if they've been painted with icing. "Very life-like," he tells her.

"So what brings you by?" She tilts her head, wrinkling her brow. "A guilty conscience?"

Apparently, she's grown bored of the game already.

Eric bows his head humbly, or at least with his best impersonation of it. "Your majesty, let me explain-"

"How you tried to keep my songbird for yourself?" She drifts closer. "If I weren't a glass-half-full kind of girl, I might see that as an act of treason."

"That was not my intention," Eric quickly assures her. "Adam and I share the same maker, as you know, and while I don't approve of his irreverence for our customs, he is family. I felt duty-bound to protect him, even if it was from the consequences of his own stupidity. It was always my plan to encourage him to come to your majesty of his own accord and make amends."

"Mm." The Queen nods along. "Completely understandable. Very noble. There's just one itsy-bitsy point I need to correct you on." Her eyes glitter with a hard, acquisitive light. "He was your family. Now he's my very own little music box, to do whatever I want with."

Eric isn't in the habit of begging, not from anyone, not for anything, but he does it now. For Adam. "Please," he says, the word threatening to stick in his throat.

"Well, I suppose-" She adopts a thoughtful expression, letting the moment drag on forever, every tick of time excruciating, which is precisely the point. "You'd have to bring me something I want more than my pretty songbird."

Of course, Eric knows what she means, check mate, but even if he were willing to sacrifice his own interests in Sookie to get Adam back, he doesn't know how he'd be able to manage it. He can't just kidnap a human, not one who'll be missed anyway, not one who shoots light out of her fingers when she's antagonized.

"Can I see Adam?" Eric asks. Maybe the two of them can figure out a Plan B together.

The Queen must also think this is a possibility, or maybe she's just in the mood to be contrary. "Now why would I let you do that?" she asks glibly. "Half the fun of being a collector is locking away your treasures so you're the only one who can enjoy them." She leans in very close and says into Eric's ear, her voice a sickly sweet dagger. "Bring me what I want, or you're never going to see him again." She goes tripping off, with a toss of her hair, calling out, "Who's ready for another game of Twister?"

Eric can already smell the slow slide toward dawn, and if he doesn't leave now, he won't make it back to Fangtasia before daybreak. He has no choice but to go. Pam is waiting for him, her forehead creased when he comes through the door. He shakes his head; he's not in the mood to go into details, and anyway there's no time. They take refuge from the rising day, and by the time Eric wakes, whatever niggling doubts he might have had are gone. You never trade a known quantity for a phantom opportunity that might never materialize; every military man understands that. In Adam, he has a powerful vampire who's loyal to him while with Sookie-well, he has no idea what he has there. It's simply prudent strategy to make the trade.

That only leaves the question of how, which is answered quickly enough by Sookie herself. She blows through the door before they open, in an agitated flurry that can only mean there's yet more trouble in Comptonville.

"Did you know about this?" She tosses a folder of papers at him.

Inside he finds what appears to be the Stackhouse family tree. "I can't say amateur genealogy is one of my hobbies, no."

"I found this in Bill's papers when I was looking for some clue about what's going on with him. There are notes in there about what I can-about me. He's been spying on me! I want to know why." She fixes him with the insistent, half-crazed look she gets whenever Compton's the topic of conversation. If Eric were a therapist or even just somebody who gave a damn, he'd point out how dysfunctional their relationship is.

"It's very flattering that you seem to think I have all the answers, but the truth is, I have no idea what Compton is up to." He stops, wrinkling his brow thoughtfully, because when opportunity comes strolling into your bar, you have to know how to cultivate it. "Although-"

"What?" Sookies demands, watching him intently.

"I might know someone who could help. But they won't come to you. Are you up for a road trip?"

"Yes! Anywhere. I just want to know what's going on. Can we leave now?"

He puts on an annoyed face. "I can't just abandon my business every time you have a problem with your boyfriend. And there's not enough time to drive there and back before the sun rises."

"Can't you just-" She waves her hand in the air. "You know. Fly us there. Or whatever."

"I guess I could," Eric says reluctantly. "Although I can't promise it'll be a smooth ride."

"I'm not some china doll," Sookie tells him indignantly, hands on her hips. "I'm not going to break because there's a strong wind. So don't just stand there. Let's go already."

Eric lets her hustle him outside, and he gathers her up, and the humid night melts around them. It's no drain on his strength to carry her; the tricky part is remembering to go slow enough that a human can still breathe. By the time they arrive, Sookie looks like she's been blown over by a hurricane, red-faced and panting, her hair wild. He sets her down gently, and catches her by the elbow when she threatens to topple over. She shakes him off, determined to stand on her own two feet, that bravado of hers that Eric finds both laughable and endearing.

A truth registers in him, something he will never tell anyone: He really doesn't want to turn her over to the Queen, and not just because she might someday be useful to him.

Still, strategy demands what it demands, and Adam is the known quantity. "It's just inside," he tells Sookie.

She follows him across the stepping stone walk. "What is this place?" she asks in a hushed, reverent tone that belongs in a church or a museum.

Eric ignores the question and rings at the door. A page answers, and her eyes widen when she sees Sookie at Eric's side. She stands back to allow them to pass, and says, "I'll let her know you're here."

While they wait, Sookie drifts around the front hall, marveling at the vaulted ceiling and the gilt-edged trim. "I've never seen anything like it. Well, except in pictures. It's like-a palace out of a bedtime story."

Sophie-Anne materializes at the top of the stairs. "Oh! You got it for me."

"As promised, your majesty," Eric says, with a formal half bow.

Sookie whips her head around to stare at him, her mouth falling open, betrayal already beginning to glimmer in her eyes. "Your majesty?"

The Queen descends the stairs, the hem of her dress making a sibilant snake hiss on the marble. She closes in on Sookie, circles around, lifting a lock of Sookie's hair curiously and letting it fall, taking an extravagant sniff. "What is she?" she asks rhetorically, in a dreamy voice, and then breaks into excited clapping. "Oh, I love my present!"

"Present?" Sookie says, mouth set, ready for a fight.

Sophie-Anne doesn't notice, or doesn't care. She snaps her fingers. "Take it upstairs." Two thugs scuttle forward, grab Sookie by the arms, and drag her over to the steps.

"Get your hands off me!" Sookie thrashes in their grasp. "Eric! Don't you dare leave me here! And, you, get your clammy hands off me!" She kicks at one of the Queen's minions, who snarls at her, and after a careening moment when it looks like all three will spill back down the stairs like an avalanche, they finally get her to the top. "Eric!" Sookie's voice cracks, just a little, as they drag her down the hall. "I trusted you!"

I'm sorry, but Eric won't say it, won't let it show. A thousand years have taught him many things, certainly how to keep his expression as blank as stone. "We had a deal," he reminds the Queen.

"So we did." She pushes her mouth into a pout, like a spoiled child.

Eric has always known she could just as easily go back on their bargain-it's entirely her nature, any vampire's really-but now it seems all but inevitable. So there's no guessing why she waves airily to one of her minions, who scurries off and returns after a while dragging a disgruntled-looking Adam by the arm. Maybe just to prove that Eric has no power to predict her.

Adam's hair stands on end as if he's been trying to rip it out; he's still wearing the same leather pants and white shirt, rumpled now in a way that has nothing to do with fashion.

"Before you go." Sophie-Anne lays a hand on Adam's shoulder and pushes a hard, wet kiss onto his mouth. "You still owed me for losing that last game of Yahtzee," she says when Adam makes a face.

Her lipstick lingers, red and sticky, like a territorial mark smeared across Adam's mouth, and Eric can see, or maybe just imagine, faint, telltale traces of it all over Adam's face. Eric doesn't just want to erase those prints; he wants to erase Sophie-Anne herself. Since that's not an option, he settles for taking Adam proprietarily by the arm and starting for the door. Adam shoots him an irritable look that no doubt means, Haven't I been manhandled enough already? Eric glares right back, Don't start with me.

Never trust anything that seems too easy-that philosophy has kept Eric alive for a thousand years-and so it hardly comes as a surprise that Sledgehammer Face materializes out of the ranks of the Queen's minions and hunkers down in their path, blocking the door, square and ugly as a cinderblock wall.

"Seriously?" Adam mutters.

Eric snarls at Sledgehammer Face, showing his fangs. He's been compelled to do something he really didn't want to tonight, so it seems only fair, a balance of the scales, that he should get to do something that would give him pleasure, like tearing this moron limb from limb.

"Bruno," the Queen says, waving her hand lazily. "You're holding up our guests, who no doubt have a very busy night of reunion sex to get home to."

Bruno steps out of the way, however reluctantly, and Eric hurries Adam out of there, hand on his elbow.

Adam, of course, gets chatty the moment they step past the front gate, as if the danger is all safely behind them now. "How did you get me back?"

Eric doesn't answer, moving fast enough that the wind whistles past them, holding fast to Adam's wrist, dragging him along.

"What did you do?" Adam persists and when Eric still doesn't answer, he digs in his heels, his boots scuffing in the dirt, slamming to a halt. "Eric."

Eric lets out an exasperated huff. "Nothing that wasn't always going to happen."

Alarm slips across Adam's face. "I thought I sensed-does this have something to do with that girl? Fuck, Eric, what did you do?"

"Would you rather still be losing at Yahtzee?" Eric snaps at him.

"She cheats!" Adam shouts irritably, as if that is the last straw, being accused of sucking at board games.

Vampires-at least vampires who aren't Adam-don't have a scent, just the wind and old blood, but Eric imagines he can smell Sophie-Anne on Adam's skin, cloying, sticky, as if she still has him in her clutches. And that's not, Eric won't-he grabs Adam by the hair and drags him into a kiss, snarling and biting.

"If you could piss to mark your territory, my favorite leather pants would totally be ruined right now, wouldn't they?" Adam says dryly, but he's gripping Eric's biceps tightly, possessively. He sticks his tongue so far down Eric's throat it's as if he's mining for something. "This whole struggle for dominance thing would be more interesting if we were naked in bed, don't you think?"

He takes off, and Eric follows, and in the few moments it takes to get back to Fangtasia, Eric is reminded of their history, all the many times they were streaks across the night sky, side-by-side shooting stars. Maybe it's thinking about the past, or that Eric can still sense the Queen on Adam even after a hundred-mile dash-whatever the reason, the word mine throbs through his head, over and again. If the dark spark in Adam's eyes is any indication, he not only knows this, but likes it, and they stumble through the door to the bar, kissing and pawing at each other.

It takes Pam clearing her throat, rather loudly, to pry them apart. Eric glances over, and the last of the worry slips from Pam's expression. "I see it went all right," she says, with a sarcastic slant to her mouth.

Ordinarily, this is where Eric would give Pam a look, eyebrow arched, Is that how you speak to your maker?, which she would cheerfully ignore, but he gets distracted by the sight of Adam's lower lip, soft and full, begging to be kissed, and the wide vee of his shirt collar, showing off the pale curve of his neck like an invitation.

Pam rolls her eyes. "Okay, I'm going to say it, even if it is pointless. Get a room!" She goes click-clicking off, and Eric hears her call out, "Yvetta! I've got another special project for you!"

Adam takes the "get a room" remark to heart, picks one at random, and pushes Eric up against the wall as they step across the threshold, because intimate acts of aggression-that's who they are.

"Later, we're going to talk about whatever you did to get the Queen to let me go." Adam runs his mouth along the line of Eric's jaw, sucks on a spot beneath his chin, pulls at Eric's ear lobe with his teeth. "But right now all I care about is how fucking hot it is that you came to get me."

He kisses Eric's throat, dry and chaste, and then laves the same spot with his tongue, making growly pleasure noises deep in his throat, and then Eric gasps out and arches his neck as Adam sinks his teeth in.

"So good," Adam murmurs as he laps up the blood, slurred, pleasure-drunk. "Not just 'cause you taste like him."

Eric doesn't know if he believes that or not, but it's enough that Adam believes it. He runs his hands through Adam's hair, pulling at the strands. Eric is taller, but their bodies fit as if they were made for this, hips slotting together, and Eric pushes up from the wall, rubbing his cock against Adam's hip, feeling Adam's cock, just as hard and hot, against his own thigh.

Adam kisses Eric's neck, the spot where he'd just been drinking, smiling. "We're going to do this my way this time, remember?" And then Eric is flying, effortlessly tossed. He lands on the bed, and Adam lands on top of him, straddling Eric's hips, holding Eric's wrists down against the mattress. "Let me. You know you want to."

Eric could hurl Adam across the room, across the county-they both know that-but he doesn't, because Adam is right. Eric wants this.

Of course, Adam's way, predictably, is maddening. For the longest time, he lies on top of Eric kissing, without taking off a single piece of clothing from either of them, rubbing against Eric in a slow, crazy-making tease, layers of fabric standing in the way of skin.

"I will ruin your favorite leather pants," Eric threatens, snarling and impatient, "if you don't get them off right now."

This draws a laugh from Adam, and more unexpectedly, a fit of obedience. He clambers off the bed, not minding his knees and elbows, catching Eric in the stomach, which earns him a kick to the chest.

"Play nice," Adam says, still smiling.

He sways his hips, humming under his breath, and undoes the top button of his shirt, slowly, slowly, taking the fact that they're both immortal and technically have all the time in the world way too seriously in Eric's opinion. Adam strokes a finger over the little bit of skin he's revealed, in slow sensual circles, hips moving in time, his soft singing pitching lower, into a sultrier octave.

Eric leans up on his elbows to watch, and he's suddenly reminded of that night long ago in London, the way Adam moved over Godric, smooth as water, pale skin glowing in the candlelight. Beautiful-something Eric couldn't admit then. Eric rubs his cock through his pants.

"Don't," Adam says, or orders really, eyebrows drawn together in disapproval.

"Why? You're not doing anything about it." Eric presses the heel of his hand against his erection.

Adam tosses off the rest of his clothes in a flurry and starts in on Eric's, yanking his pants down his legs, ripping the shirt off him. He stops for a moment, just to look, and Eric isn't above showing off a little, stretching out his long legs, letting his thighs fall open. Adam's mouth curves up softly, and he crawls back on top of Eric. It's easy to read the playful, determined gleam in his eyes; he's a man with colonial aspirations.

He's thorough about it too, putting his mouth all over Eric, slotting his fingers into the hollows of Eric's hips, rubbing his cheek against Eric's belly like a friendly cat, pressing his nose into the curve of Eric's neck as if trying to find some long lost hint of Eric's human scent. He touches everywhere, everywhere but Eric's cock, because he's Adam, and if he weren't driving Eric crazy, he'd be someone else entirely.

"Enough," Eric barks out, in a voice that's led men to war, tangling his hand into Adam's hair. If Adam won't get to it, won't put his mouth where it belongs, then Eric will make him.

This brings a laugh spilling out of Adam, joyfully. "Oh, you are impatient." His eyes sparkle approvingly, and he dips his head, and if he's made Eric wait too long, he makes up for it now.

Eric has never had any intentions of coming apart in Adam's hands-hasn't given that much control to anyone since-but Adam clearly has plans of his own. He hollows out his cheeks and does this thing with his tongue on every upstroke that sends curls of pleasure all down Eric's back. He slides his hand between Eric's legs, rubbing, pressing inside. Nothing about Eric has ever been yielding, body included, but he feels himself yielding now, for Adam. And Eric is going to come, wants to come, in Adam's wide, gorgeous-

Adam lifts his head, smiling insufferably. "I want you to come in my mouth. Just not now." He kneels up. Lube has materialized from somewhere. Eric has to wonder if Adam has planted bottles of Wet in odd spots all over Fangtasia. Adam smears it liberally over himself until it's dripping onto the sheets.

Eric has only ever done this with Godric, and not for hundreds of years, and as Adam fits himself between Eric's thighs, his expression is strangely solemn, as if he understands this. He works his way inside, slow and slick and careful, and that's not how Eric wants it. Nothing between them has ever been careful. He grabs Adam, hand sliding behind his neck, and pulls him down into a kiss, biting, drawing blood. Not one of your humans.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Adam mutters.

He becomes a lot less careful after that, hips snapping forward, hard and relentless and good, his cock dragging against that place deep inside Eric, sending vicious whorls of excitement through him. Eric has Adam's scent all over him, and the taste of Adam in his mouth, shared source, but also more than that, and suddenly Eric understands. Adam was never meant as a consolation prize. He's a reminder to Eric of who he once was and who he is now and who he could be.

Eric slides his legs higher up Adam's back, tightens his thighs, drawing Adam closer, deeper, pushing up into his thrusts. "Adam." His voice comes rough, almost pained. "Please." He never says that, and now it's happened twice in a matter of days, and that's just the thing about Adam. He always takes Eric outside of himself.

Adam's expression turns soft and then fierce at the word, tenderness mixed with lust. "Eric." He's gone wild, an inhuman whirlwind, fucking, kissing, moaning, jerking Eric off. When Eric comes, he's gripping Adam's shoulders hard enough to leave marks, biting his lip, tasting his own blood, and Adam is staring down at him, eyes wide and bright with… well, joy is the only word for it.

Orgasm turns Adam into a mumbling, boneless weight. He collapses across Eric's chest, and Eric crooks an arm around him, threading his fingers absently through Adam's hair, rubbing at his scalp, which makes Adam murmur happily and arch into his touch.

It doesn't seem like too much to ask to just lie there and enjoy the way Adam smells after sex and not talk, but then the two of them never have seen anything the same way.

"So, now it's later," Adam observes, voice husky and post-coital, and Eric really doesn't know how he's supposed to talk about anything when Adam sounds like that.

"You could just let it go," he points out.

Apparently not, since Adam twists around, using Eric's shoulder as a chin rest, so they can have this conversation face-to-face. "I'm not going to like it, am I?"

Eric looks up at the ceiling. There's a crack running length-wise across it. Their sex life hasn't done the building's structural integrity any favors. "I've given Sookie's boyfriend the opportunity to charge in and prove his undying love by rescuing her. So, actually, I'd say it's exactly the kind of thing you like."

This is even the truth, mostly, and eventually, after Adam's had a moment to consider it, his mouth curves up knowingly. "Closet romantic."

Eric doesn't answer, just kisses Adam, because he at least knows when to keep his mouth shut.

Sadly, it's not catching. "But shouldn't we help?" Adam says, eyebrows drawing together thoughtfully. "What can one vampire do against the Queen?"

A picture flashes through Eric's head, of Adam storming the palace, brave and beautiful and insane. He keeps his voice carefully level. "It's not going to be just one vampire. The monarchs have a fragile balance, at best. There are spies in every court, and when word gets out that Sophie-Anne has acquired a human with unusual abilities-things are going to get very complicated."

If the Queen lasts a week before the inevitable coup, it will be a miracle. Eric keeps this part to himself.

"Sounds like a good time to get out of town," Adam says, unexpectedly.

Eric had anticipated an argument, one of Adam's epic fits of stubbornness, not this tentative note in Adam's voice, and he can think of only one reason for it, a reason he doesn't like at all. "Will you go to New York with your human?"

"Not while things are 'complicated'. I don't want Tommy getting caught up in the middle of anything-" He trails off, a lilt at the end, an invitation.

"We could go somewhere," Eric says slowly, testing. Like old times, he thinks, only without the hatred. "Just for a while. I can't leave Pam, not for long."

Adam nods. "And I promised Tommy New York. But we could-just for a while." He's trying not to look hopeful and not succeeding at it. "Maybe Tahiti?"

He rattles on about other places they could go. Eric strokes his hair and doesn't really listen, because he already knows where they'll end up. At the beginning. The spot where a prison cart once stood and probably now has a McDonald's built on it. Adam will take a dim view of Eric wanting to snack on the tourists, even the ones wearing white socks and sandals, and they'll end up at some underground club, bathed in glitter, and Adam will sing and steal everyone's breath, while Eric stands off to the side like he doesn't care, hanging on every note.

Because everything changes, and nothing at all, and as unlikely as it is, Eric finds he wouldn't want it to be any different.

THE END

Notes:
Complete lyrics to La Marseillaise can be found here.