Characters: Russell, Talbot, Sophie-Anne
Spoilers: through 3x07 "Hitting the Ground"
Word Count: 552
Summary: In which Talbot and Sophie-Anne aren't exactly wild about the idea of being co-married to the Vampire King of Mississippi.
Author's Note: This was written for the Doomed Ships Comment Ficathon, for preromantics's marvelous prompt, Russell/Sophie-Anne, dining room curtains. I AM HAVING TOO MUCH FUN WITH THIS SHOW, it's official. Somebody stop me before I write the fic where Eric and Pam go Stephenie Meyer hunting! (I swear I mean that in the least evil way possible.)
Truly, it's a match made in heaven.
"Ugh," the queen says, with very little regard for her tenuous new freedom. "These curtains. They'll have to go."
Talbot's fangs come out.
"Now, now, ma chere," Russell tells her, "don't make me lock you upstairs again! Talbot and I would so like you to feel at home here."
Talbot, alas, seems far more charmed by the first sentence than the second. "Yes! Please! Lock the bitch up! That way our home won't be inundated with her two-bit trollop’s taste, and we won't have to stare at her tacky fingernails."
Fortunately, it's in Greek. Unfortunately, Russell suspects his lady fair caught the general gist regardless. Especially that last part.
"I demand that you get rid of him," the queen orders, an adorable little bundle of titian-haired fury as she crosses her arms in front of her chest.
"Well, now, that's not going to happen," Russell chides. He does hope his expression communicates his dismay at the very idea.
This inspires a smug little hmm! from Talbot.
"And you," he adds for the sake of fairness, and turns to his better (? honestly, sometimes he wonders) half. "I thought we had talked about this."
"Hah! Hardly! When do we ever talk? You said, 'I'm going to marry the Queen of Louisiana,’ I said, ‘You will do no such thing,’ and you went out and did it anyway! At this point, Russell, if you ever listen to anything I say again I will die of shock—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Immortals cannot die of shock.”
“Watch me,” Talbot snarls. Russell does wish he would put his fangs away. They’re at the dinner table, for God’s sake.
“As long as that means we don’t have to watch your curtains,” Sophie-Anne trills.
“You vile whore!”
“Talbot, really. Sophie-Anne is a very elegant lady.”
“Please! Nell Gwyn had more class.”
Sophie-Anne’s mouth falls open. “Don’t you dare compare me to that little—”
"Two incensed queens for spouses," marvels Russell. Ever the peacemaker. "I expect there's not a man in Mississippi who'd envy me at the moment."
"Fuck you," Talbot scowls, throwing down his napkin and storming out.
"Go sunbathe," snaps Sophie-Anne, following suit.
In their absence, the dining room becomes the very picture of tranquility.
"The course of true love never did run smooth," Russell murmurs, amused. He allows himself a chuckle. Perhaps a lesser man in the same situation would find himself … irritated. Testy. Inclined to slowly and, with – mmm – delicious thoroughness, snap the fingers off the next insolent fucker who dared to cross him when he has things far more important than the domestic squabbles between a pair of spoiled centuries-old children to deal with, and who really would appreciate not being plagued with this endless inane small-minded frenzy of loathsome and mind-withering BULLSHIT—
Well. Russell chooses, instead, to make light of the situation. For now.
“He thinks he is so funny,” Talbot informs Sophie-Anne in a cranky grumble from outside the door. (Aw. Perhaps they’ll bond after all.) He adds for Russell’s benefit, in a shout positively ripe and dripping with indignation, “You think you’re so funny!”
“Well,” Russell says to the only member of the dinner party who can still stand him: the blood borscht, “yeah.”
The borscht, at least, seems to sympathize.