The dim lights of the bar flickered lazily, casting long shadows that clung to the edges of worn furniture. The air reeked of stale beer and disappointment, a perfect fit for Spike’s current mood. He slouched over the counter, one hand gripping his glass of whiskey as if it were his only lifeline. Buffy had broken up with him, again. His chest tightened at the thought. After everything he’d done for her, the pain was still fresh.
He’d gone and gotten his soul back for her, thinking it’d be enough. But here he was, alone. Again. "Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, slamming back another drink. What did a vampire have to do to be loved properly?
As he motioned for another round, something, or someone, caught his attention from across the bar. A man with dark, wavy midnight hair stood out like a sore thumb among the regulars. What really struck Spike was the electric green eyes that glinted in the low light and a faint, jagged scar shaped like a lightning bolt on his forehead. Spike's senses tingled. The bloke smelled… different. Not like a regular human, that was for sure. There was a power about him, something akin to Willow’s witchy girlfriend, but maybe stronger.
The stranger was dancing, or attempting to, anyway. His moves were awkward and out of sync with the music, limbs flailing in an odd, amusing rhythm. Spike couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. It wasn’t long before the chuckle turned into full-blown laughter, a welcome break from the ache in his chest. He drained his drink in one go, slamming the glass down with a grin pulling at his lips.
"You're a horrible dancer." Spike called out as he approached the man.
The stranger stopped, his eyes lighting up in amusement. Instead of getting offended, he laughed, a carefree, almost infectious sound. "Well, no one’s ever really taught me," the man said, grinning widely. His British accent was unmistakable, though different from Spike’s. Softer. "Are you offering to help, then?"
Spike blinked, caught off guard by the response. He hadn’t meant to start up a conversation, but the bloke’s good-natured reaction had thrown him for a loop. "Why not?" Spike shrugged, smirking. The distraction was welcome. "Figure I could teach you a thing or two."
The two of them moved to a more open part of the bar, and despite the heavy tension in Spike’s chest from Buffy, something in this odd stranger’s company felt easy. Their bodies found a natural rhythm together, swaying in sync even as the bad music blared from the speakers.
"I’m William, by the way. Most people just call me Spike," he said, offering his name, the human one first, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
The stranger smiled warmly, a small glint of recognition flashing in his eyes. "Harry. Just Harry. Delighted to meet you, William."
Spike chuckled. "Right. Delighted, are you?"
Harry grinned. "Well, I don’t get many offers for impromptu dance lessons, so yeah. Delighted."
The banter came easily, like a reprieve from the storm raging inside him. As they danced, Spike could still feel the weight of his recent break-up with Buffy, the sting of being hurt yet again after all he’d done for her. But for the first time in a long while, it didn’t seem quite so unbearable. There was something about Harry, the way he carried himself, his presence felt… comforting. Familiar, almost.
They danced for a while, neither of them particularly good at it, but neither of them really caring. The bar faded away, the chatter and clinking glasses becoming background noise as they focused on each other. Spike felt a faint buzz of magic coming off Harry, subtle but unmistakable. Powerful, definitely more powerful than your average human.
"So," Spike said, tilting his head as they finally paused. "What’s a bloke like you doing in a place like this? Don’t seem like your kind of crowd."
Harry shrugged, a hint of something darker flickering in his eyes, just for a moment. "Needed a break. It’s been… a long few years."
Spike could relate. "Tell me about it."
They stood there in silence for a moment, but it wasn’t awkward. Just two broken men, leaning on each other in a dingy bar, finding comfort in their shared loneliness. Spike looked at Harry, at the light in his eyes despite the weight he could sense beneath the surface, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he thought maybe, just maybe, he could move on.
"You're still a horrible dancer," Spike teased with a smirk.
Harry laughed again, that bright sound cutting through the gloom. "Well, maybe we’ll have to work on that, won’t we?"
Spike raised an eyebrow, amused. "Maybe we will."