Hep V? Hep Don’t.

.

Eric tossed the permi-markers onto the bathroom counter and surveyed his handiwork in the mirror one final time.   Pleased with the results, he brushed his hair back, then winked at his reflection.

“Lookin’ good,” he proclaimed in his signature lazy drawl before shaking his head at such foolishness.

He wasn’t back in the States just to exercise his particular brand of off-humor, even though it did sneak in from time to time.

Then his face fell. Seeing the look on Sookie’s face when she spotted his Hep V markings had broken his heart even more than he’d thought it might.   When he’d first come up with this scheme, his sources had told him that the telepath was involved with the Werewolf, so he wasn’t too bothered by whatever reaction she might have…until he saw her.

It was as if they had never parted and a portion of his soul, an area he hadn’t even realized was closed, had suddenly, and painfully, opened.

He shook his head and refocused his wandering thoughts.   Every time he thought about Sookie his brain acted as if he really were infected!

Eric’s thoughts then turned to another type of infection: Pam’s jealousy. She was driving him nuts! He knew he should feel bad for not telling her the truth, but with her mouth these nights, it was far better that she didn’t know. He was also unsure as to just how far he could trust her. She probably wouldn’t ruin his plans, but he hadn’t been able to trust her fully since the Sookie incident outside the witches’ store, and he wasn’t about to start now.

After forcing his suddenly-erupted fangs to retract, he strode into the den of his safe-house in the backwaters past Bon Temps and sat down on the comfortable sofa to wait for Pam to eventually arrive. He clicked on the late-afternoon news and tossed the remote to the side, then leaned his head against the back of the couch and slipped into downtime…after snickering once again at how “difficult” it had been for him to knock a few holes in Fangtasia’s wall knowing that Pussypire Beehl would puff out his mooby chest and “do the job” himself.

Getting a sunburn atop a snowy peak was admittedly one of the stupidest things he’d ever done, but he couldn’t truly fault himself, not completely. After the mess with Russell Mark 2, the Authority shit, the Billith fiasco, and then the soon-to-be-dead Governor’s War on Vamps, not to mention a certain telepath’s determination to be as stupid as hybridly possible, he wasn’t surprised that even his vampire brain needed a break.

While he was recovering from said sunburn, he had touched base frequently with his contacts in several areas for comprehensive updates. Then he had reviewed his options, planned his strategies, and read up on all the international news he could find. He had properties in a dozen countries aside from his holdings in the States and his ‘windy shithole’ chalet, and knowing the political leanings of each place was mandatory for both his finances and his safety. It seemed vompires were still quite the rage these nights. Interesting…

He also knew that Pam had not been looking for him all that hard or it wouldn’t have taken her damn near six months to find him. Even though he had released her, he could still sense her through the remnants of their Maker/Child bond and knew that if she had stopped thinking about herself for a full minute she would still be able to sense him, too.

When he had felt her slow, obviously dallying approach, he had grabbed the already-purchased permi-markers and headed to the bathroom mirror. After decorating himself appropriately, he had hidden the markers, drank from his attendants, then glamoured them into believing that he was not only infected but that he had been steadily declining.

Once Pam had finally arrived in all her “OMG, you’re sick!” glory, he had swung his plans into motion all the while perfecting his already incredible acting skills, and Pam had bought it hook, line, and sinker. And if Pam – who supposedly knew him so well – would fall for his act, he was positive Bill Fucking Compton would, too.

Now that his head was clear, his heart was healed, and his body was no longer crispy, he had a bone to pick with that motherfucking mini-prick wanna-be goddess.

Fuck Sarah Newlin – he had smaller balls to fry.   He’d drain that bitch later.

.

.

.

*A/N: While I never say never, I really and truly do NOT see this going anywhere else – what you see is probably what you’re gonna get, but I just wanted to put my partial spin on Ep. 4 of this final season of True Suck. Thank you for reading!*

.

.

.

.

.

.

.