A/N: A little one-shot because I was moping about Pam and Eric no longer being bonded. I hope the writers listen to Mr. Skarsgard since he's demanded to be able to reclaim his baby :)

FYI, I glossed over a lot of details here, but let's pretend this is set sometime after the beginning of S6 (that's another fanfic for another day, boo), and the "war" is over, Billith is defeated (didn't want to try to come up with the how's of that shitstorm). Tara's gone, because I have no desire to acknowledge her existence, let alone write her, although I left it up to the imagination what became of her, because honestly, I don't care. And life is slowly returning to normal. As normal as Eric and Pam will ever be. Anyway, long A/N's are for the birds, aren't they? Enjoy, dears.

It was the first thing she remembered of her vampire life.

Before she realized she wasn't dead. Well, completely dead. That he must have saved her after all.

Before she realized she was in his arms, covered from head to toe in dirt and her own blood. Before she registered that she wasn't breathing, that she could see and hear and smell and taste everything on mind-bending levels. Before she realized she was starving, before recognizing any of the wants and needs that were ripping through her like wildfire, it was there.

Excitement. Curiosity. Lust, so strong it was nearly choking her. Pride.

She remembered clearly searching out his eyes, her own wide with confusion, not understanding what was happening. She quickly forgot, though, as his lips crashed into hers, allowing one need in particular to take over her brain. It wasn't until hours later, when they were satiated of each other's bodies for the time being, that he had finally enlightened her; lying in the grass between the headstones of the abandoned graveyard he had buried them in, their bodies intertwined, his fingers toying with hers as he explained everything to her as best he could; giving a name to the thing she quickly grew to love most in this world, second only to him.

Their bond.

It had been a learning experience for both of them, really. He had never before been a maker, only a progeny, which he told her was a different feeling altogether for him. They both learned quickly though, and they learned together.

He was upfront with the fact that he could control her, and that many makers did just that, often for their own entertainment or gain. But he had sworn to her that night he would never abuse his power, the first of many promises he had made and kept over the years. He had never taken advantage of her, and prided himself in watching her make her own decisions without his command, even if, at the beginning especially, she learned many lessons the hard way. She knew from both of her brief stints as a maker that it was quite a rush to hold that power, but never once in her existence had he used it ill against her.

And she reveled in their connection. The level at which a thousand year old being feels was simply exhausting at first, running rampant through her body and mind every waking moment, overwhelming her own emotions, so loud inside her head sometimes she couldn't think straight. But even then, she loved it. Adored it. Needed it. As much as feeling a female's ever-changing highs and lows for the first time intrigued him, she was captivated by her insight into his ancient mind.

She was surprised to feel the adoration he had for her even on her very first night, especially after the stunt she had pulled in her desperation to be his. She had felt it change and grow, turning into a love so pure she felt almost shy when it would wash over her when he looked upon her, not sure what she could have possibly ever done to deserve it. She was well aware of the way it had deepened to unfathomable levels over the years. The way his lust spiked when she walked into a room, the explosive anger he felt when she had endangered herself, the possessiveness he felt when he saw someone else looking at what belonged to him.

It was her connection with him, her lifeline.

And now it was gone.

She hadn't had much time to get used to its absence, either. At first, her bond with Tara had lessened the impact, but now that was gone as well, although she couldn't say she missed it; being a maker just wasn't for her, and sharing their blood wouldn't be a mistake she'd be making a third time.

Now, it was just her. Emptiness. Her thoughts, her feelings, echoing inside the void that he left when he said those magic words.

She understood why he had to do it. She accepted it. She tried to be strong, just as he had taught her to be, but it still cut deeply that it seems it was all for not. He was doing the only thing he could do to keep her away from the fiasco at the Authority, but Tara's rash decision to kill that prick Elijah without her consent had landed her there anyway, without the connection to him to call for his help.

But, if she had learned anything in her existence as a vampire, it was that you can't change the past. What's done is done. He got her out, one way or another, and other than their still-severed bond, things were beginning to get back to normal.

So normal, in fact, that she finds herself standing at the door of Fangtasia, checking the ID's of the few bloodbags brave enough to visit a vampire-owned establishment. As much as she pretended to hate it, there was something soothing about it, a connection to the life she thought was lost forever. Even more comforting was knowing that behind her, inside the club, Eric was lounging on his presumptuous throne, once again enthralling the less-than-massive masses. She knows that if she could feel him, that she would be filled to the brim with his boredom, his ever-present broodiness. Without even turning around she can picture him perfectly, those endlessly long legs stretched out before him, the expression on his handsome face caught somewhere between complete blankness and total misery, pretending to look at something ultra-important on his cellphone when in fact he's trying to beat his high score in that stupid game with the mad birds.

She doesn't have to look to see all of that, but suddenly she longs to. With the influx of patrons down to a mere trickle, she turns, leaning her body against the frame of the door, her eyes falling on him, finding him doing exactly what she expected.

And once again, she's lost in the past, not quite as distant this time. One of the things he had quickly learned about being a maker was his ability to use his hold over her blood to tease her unmercifully. She couldn't count the nights that she stood in this exact same spot, a line of humans and vampires practically wrapped around the building, when he was suddenly inside her head poking around just because he was bored.

He had gotten it down to an art many years before, so by the time the club opened and for the first time she was forced to work rather than play, he had his game perfected. He loved to watch her squirm, and squirm she did. With a simple thought, he could bend her to his will from across the room, entrapping whatever part of her brain controlled her responses to lust and sensation in his web just for the pure entertainment value of it. He took far too much enjoyment in watching her struggle to keep a straight face as she would suddenly feel as if she was in his arms, his long fingers wandering in places he should be too far away to touch, until she was all but trembling with need, clutching onto the doorframe to keep herself upright on her shaking knees.

She would never feel that again, as much as, at the time, she hated him for it. Never feel his pride flow through her when he looked at her. Never feel his blood reaching out to her, calling her. And he could tell her he loved her a thousand times, but nothing would ever make up for the loss of being able to feel it inside her, right down to her very bones.

Her hand is reaching up to wipe her eyes before she registers the movement, and she frowns as she pulls her hand away, seeing the blood staining her fingertips. Immediately, her eyes are darting around, mortified at the thought of a human seeing her cry.

Usually she would deny she was crying, even to herself. But now, she knows there's no use. Crying is what you do when you're in mourning.

She abandons her post, her head lowering as she walks swiftly through the bar back to the back, not stopping even as she hears Jessica call her name from her spot behind the bar, her high heels clicking on the hard floor as they carry her straight back into the empty employee's bathroom. She stops in front of the mirror, glaring at the tiny streaks of blood beneath her eyes.

She practically tears the dispenser off the wall as she rips a paper towel out, wetting it before she dabs at her cheeks. It's certainly not the first time her sorrow has spilled over, but she usually saves it for when she's by herself, closed in the coldness of her coffin alone; never where anyone can see or hear her. Especially not him.

"You are upset."

The deep, gravelly voice from the doorway startles her enough to make her jump, although she's not surprised she didn't hear him coming. You only hear Eric Northman if he wishes to be heard. But then again, she's never needed to hear him. She could feel him.

"No shit, Sherlock," she grumbles, tossing the paper towel in the garbage beside the sink, hearing the soft click of the door as he shuts it behind him.

His face appears in the mirror above her shoulder, his expression unreadable. She almost flinches as his fingers touch her shoulder, attempting to gently turn her to face him, but she stubbornly refuses to budge.

He studies her face in the mirror in silence for a moment as she remains frozen. So much had happened in the last few months, she never knows where she stands with him anymore. Because of this, she's pleasantly surprised when he takes a step forward, one of his long arms wrapping around her waist to pull her back against his chest, his chin resting on top of her head.

Immediately, she relaxes into his embrace, her hands rising to rest on his forearm, and for a long moment, they remain silent. But she knows him too well, knows that he won't let it go. Even when he's been the cause of her tears over the years, he's never been able to stand seeing her cry.

His head turns slightly, burying his nose in her hair, his lips just inches from her ear as he whispers, "What is troubling you, min söta?"

"Everything," she whispers dejectedly, her eyes lowering from the mirror to avoid meeting his gaze in its reflection.

His chuckle rumbles through her with him pressed against her the way he is. "Could you be more specific?"

For a moment, she's silent, working up the courage to tell him the truth. Without him monitoring her emotions, it would be so easy to lie. To brush it off. But for once, she has his full attention, and she forces herself to take advantage of it.

Not knowing where to start, she states simply, "I miss you."

He snorts without humor, a sad smile on his face as his cheek rests against her hair. "I don't know why," he murmurs, "I have not been the maker to you I set out to be all those years ago."

She shrugs, not bothering to deny it. Some of the things he's done, the things he's said, the promises he's broken…she knows as well as he does, if someone had told him about them a hundred years before he would have scoffed at them. Just a year ago, he might have slaughtered them at the suggestion.

"I want to fix that," he says softly, his eyes piercing hers in the mirror. "I do not expect your forgiveness, but I want it. I can hope for it."

"I do forgive you, Eric," she answers quickly, but just as quietly. "I would forgive you of anything. You know that."

He nods, his fingers on the hand not wrapped around her waist rising to sweep her hair over her shoulder, exposing the column of her neck; and she shivers, surprised, when he lowers his head, tentatively pressing his lips against the soft skin just behind her ear. He doesn't move away, even as he speaks again. "I know you would," he whispers, "I know you would forgive me of anything, Pamela, but that's not the point. I want to deserve it."

"You already do," she murmurs as her head turns, searching for more contact, longing to feel the cool press of his lips against her flesh again, realizing that she may not be above begging for any sort of physical contact after the distance that's grown between them. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe it." The implication of her words hangs thickly in the air around them: that she doesn't have to be here anymore, that she's no longer bound to his side, that she could leave this place, leave him, and never look back. "We'll be okay," she whispers finally, "Eventually, we'll be okay. We always are, aren't we?"

"I do not like your tears," he says, in his odd way both an answer to her question and a question of his own, gently prodding her to tell her the cause of them.

She smiles softly, and he arches an eyebrow at the sight. She's surprised that, when she pulls away, he clutches her tighter. But she has no intention of leaving his embrace, not until he forces her to. She manages to turn in his arms to face him, pressing her cheek against the soft, dark cotton of his t-shirt covering his hard chest. She doesn't speak at first, and he allows it, simply holding her close, able to feel the coolness of his fingers as they trail up and down her spine through her ridiculously gothic getup.

Her eyes are closed when she finally breaks the silence that's fallen between them, surprising even herself with the words that fall from her mouth unbidden, giving voice to a truth that she's pushed to the side for years now without even meaning to.

"I want to be with you," she whispers, so quietly she wonders if he hears her, almost wishing he hadn't heard her. They aren't words she can take back. They are words that can break her, possibly irrevocably; and more than likely, they will. There are reasons for their rift, reasons that still exist, that haven't gone away.

Questioning just what in the fuck she was thinking, or more accurately, not thinking, she begins to pull away, suddenly desperate to put distance between them. His rejection of her these past months have been bad enough. But in that moment, she realizes that if he utters her name, despite what she's just told him, it will be the end of them. She'll walk away without a backwards glance, no matter how much it hurts, promises be damned. At some point, without even realizing it, she's reached, or perhaps passed, her breaking point. At some point, with hardly a crack in her exterior to show for it, he's broken her. She's laid herself bare for him, over and over again, only for him to turn his back on her for someone else.

Not this time. She's said too much, made a statement she can't take back, but she doesn't have to stand here and wait for the bomb to drop, for him to destroy her entire world one more time. But before she can truly disengage from him, his hands are on her waist, like iron clamps as he pulls her back roughly against him. When she pushes against his chest, trying to free herself from his hold, he catches both her wrists in one hand, trapping them between their bodies as his other hand on her back holds her effortlessly in place.

"I didn't mean—" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"It's been a long time," he murmurs, "Too long."

Her eyes go wide in surprise, and she looks up at him, frozen in place, trying not to read too deeply into his simple statement. He's always been a man of few words, so she's somewhat stunned when he elaborates without prodding.

"I miss being with you," he whispers honestly. "I never wanted this, Pamela."

She swallows thickly, forcing herself to nod. They were together for so long, so many years, and she always knew they were the exception to the rule. Children were not meant to stay at their Maker's sides for so long. The maker taught, he trained, and sent them on their way, calling them back if they saw fit. But she had never left him, never wanted to. He was, and always would be, her entire world. And even though their intimate relationship had cooled within the last decade, she could never quite put her finger on why.

But it occurs to her now that the events of the last few years have changed him. He's not the same carefree, happy vampire he used to be. He, too, has felt the sting of rejection, even if it seems it has ceased to faze him. He's lost his maker. They've almost lost each other. But they're still here. They've survived.

He finally releases her wrists, but his hands rise instead to cup her cheeks, and when he speaks his voice is somehow soft yet still firm. "I taught you when you were new that this was forever, did I not?" She nods as best she can in his grip, and he continues as his fingers stroke her cheeks. "We will always have our ups and downs. We'll drift apart, but we'll always come back together. We've done our fair share of drifting, älskling."

"Yes," she breathes, entranced by his voice, by his words.

"We'll fight," he murmurs, his face lowering until their lips are a breath apart, "We'll fight, we'll fuck, we'll hate each other…" He trails off, searching her eyes, before his lips barely brush hers, and her fingers rise to clutch at his shirt as he whispers against them, "…but we'll love, Pamela. We'll love each other until it kills us both."

And then his lips are pressed to hers, his grip on her cheeks pulling her closer as she returns his kiss hungrily. She feels his tongue brush against the seam of her lips as her arms wrap around him, immediately parting them as their kiss deepens.

It had been too long, far too long, since she tasted him. Since she felt his large hands possessively roaming her body. When she feels him lift her up against him, her legs wrap around his waist almost on their own accord, and she feels her back hit the tiled wall behind them as her fingers steal into his hair, clutching at him, afraid that she's imagining this. That if she doesn't hold on, he will disappear.

It's not until a few heated moments later, when her hands are sliding between them, reaching for the waistband of his jeans, that he pulls away from her mouth. He rests his forehead against hers, and lust tears through her at the sight of him, his lips smeared with her red lipstick, his eyes dark, pupils dilated, his voice hoarse when he speaks, stopping her hands in their tracks with two simple words. "Not here."

She nods, albeit reluctantly, understanding what he means by his simple statement, simultaneously annoyed and touched by the sentiment. They both owe their first time in so many years not to take place hard and fast, up against the wall in the grungy bathroom of their bar.

He surprises her, though, when instead of rushing them out to his car to get them out of there, he asks softly, "Tell me why you were crying."

She looks away from him, slightly embarrassed. "I thought too long about how much I miss being bonded to you."

"I miss it too," he whispers, "More than you know."

"I miss feeling you," she says earnestly, "The little things. When you think something is amusing. What you would feel when you saw me for the first time at nightfall." She swallows, looking away, suddenly shy; although her voice drops a few octaves. "When you would use it to make me come just to fuck with me."

"Ah," he says, a mischievous smile curling his lips, and she's unable to stifle one of her own. "That was fun."

"For you," she retorts.

"For you too, I'd imagine," he husks, his head tilting down to press his lips against the portion of her chest that's exposed by her low-cut dress.

"I just want to feel it again," she whispers, her voice cracking, sorrow and grief for what they've lost flowing through her. "Feel you again. I feel so empty without you, Eric."

"We can fix that," he murmurs against her throat.

"Really?" she asks, surprised, her fingers fisting in his hair as she wrenches his head from her neck. "How?"

"Exchange blood again, you silly girl," he answers with a smile as he lowers her to stand on her own two feet. But instead of pulling away, he only steps closer, pressing her bodily against the wall, his voice deep with desire as he whispers against her ear. "We will be one again, like we should be."

Her knees feel almost weak, and she's only able to answer breathlessly, "Okay."

"Until then," he breathes, moving back to her lips once again as the hand not cupping her face slides down the curve of her body, "I could always make you come the old fashioned way. But then we're getting the fuck out of here."

Her eyes are wide even as he kisses her again, and his hand is just beginning to inch the hem of her skirt up her thighs when the door to the bathroom flies open wide, revealing Jessica, whose eyes look like saucers as she takes in their compromising position.

She only remains silent for a moment, staring at them, before she claps her hands giddily, squeaking out the words that she's heard her say once before, what seems a long time ago now, before she skips back off into the bar, leaving them alone once again.

"I fucking knew it!"

She can't help but laugh at the look on Eric's face as he stares after the retreating, cock-blocking baby vampire they had taken in, and she kisses him again softly, before taking both his hands in hers. "How about we just get out of here now," she murmurs against his lips.

"I still do not understand why we had to bring her here," he grumbles.

"She didn't have anywhere else to go, Eric," she answers.

"Not my problem," he sighs.

"Completely your problem," she retorts, "You're her Sheriff. Even though I do all the work."

"Not my problem," he repeats.

"It's going to be your problem, the next time I go shopping."

His eyes finally turn back to hers, a grin slowly crossing his handsome features. He presses his lips to her forehead, before he begins to pull her towards the door.

"Come, little brat," he says playfully, "You need to be able to feel how much you annoy me."

She grins as she's pulled out the back door, following him out into the cool midnight air, her answer more of a sigh of relief to herself rather than to him.

"I can't wait."

A/N: I stole part of Eric's speech from my other favorite blonde vampire boyfriend, Spike. I've always thought this quote was perfect for Eric and Pam:

"You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other till it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends. Love isn't brains, children, it's blood...blood screaming inside you to work its will. I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it."

Anyway, reviews are always super duper appreciated. Until next time, friends :)

Swedish translations:

min söta – my sweet

älskling – darling