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Eric is feeling particularly useless tonight. It’s a low night, not exactly the first in a long, exasperating row, and his gut is telling him it won’t be the last, either. People are wary of Fangtasia these nights, but then again, people are wary of vampires in general these nights, what with the whole Russel incident, which has been a fucking disaster but Eric has nothing to do with it, if you ask him. No one does.
There are barely fifty people in, and most of them so pathetic he can understand why the majority of his kind didn’t bother with the mortals, each with a bottle of whichever blood type doesn’t entirely disgust them in hand. Honestly, Ginger seems a desirable companion as compared with the filth. Eric involuntarily smirks. Poor, sweet Ginger. He’s really going to have to bang her one night. Not too soon, he hopes.
A few months ago, he’d have done it, thinking his end is nearing as he had; right now, he’s positively… well, still dead, but not truly, and unless Sookie magically appears before him and asks him in her absurd Southern accent that he please has his way with her right there and then, Eric isn’t interested in doing that with anyone, much less one present. (While he certainly doesn’t believe Sookie to be dead, it’s a possibility that frightens him. He doesn’t think about it.)
* * *
Spike is so beyond bored. There’s no one interesting in the entire state of Louisiana to fight with, and if there’s no one to fight, there’s no one to fuck, so what’s the whole point? He’s still glad he got away from Los Angeles, though. He was getting extremely tired of Angel’s bullshit, and Illyria, while sometimes fun to be around, generally unsettled him. Lorne’d always been the best one – with him off somewhere, things started feeling like a job. Spike has always despised jobs.
Another thing he despises is this whole new “out of the coffin” deal. Wow, great job, lads, now they can sue us for having a snack. Bloody brilliant. Sure, there’s that Tru Blood crap, but… Spike still remembers the chip episode, and drinking blood out of a bottle reminds him of drinking blood out of a novelty mug, while being chained up in a bathtub. It’s not a memory he takes any particular delight in, thank you very much.
Still, the synthetic alternative sure makes a refreshing take on Bloody Mary, a thing he discovered in one of those theme bars in Dallas. Dallas itself was mostly a drag and he only stayed there a couple nights, wandering off to less populated areas afterwards. He’s never been a city person – while he’s generally outgoing, people in larger quantities rub him the wrong way. Good thing streets are still empty in the dead of night. People have started fearing the night again; the thought makes Spike grin. Now, about that Bloody Mary…
He’s heard of the place, of course. That young vampire he met last night(redheaded, opinionated, but too much of a darling for his liking) talked about it, for one, and it’s not like there are many places in Shreveport where Spike could go, not realistically at least. There’s the rock club, but it’s too Southern for his liking(he was there the previous night; Southerners are just as accepting of vampires now as they’ve previously been of blokes with nail polish, and he happens to be both, proudly, so there’s that). He decides not to seek a place that’s more punk – punk, like most good things, only thrives on the Island, and hasn’t been blooming even there these past decades, either – and instead heads straight towards the place.
(The name is too horribly dumb to even think of.)
Reaching the place – and one couldn’t just walk past it, huge bright letters announcing to everyone curious in the world that yes, this here is Fangtasia – Spike can’t help but scoff. He fumbles with his phone, texting the vampire from last night(Jess, as it appears) to ask if she’s in there too by chance, and lights a cigarette while he waits for a reply. There’s not much of a crowd outside, and he assumes there aren’t that many inside as well, but that’s all peachy, as long as he can get a Bloody Mary and maybe find himself some company. His phone beeps. Jess is not there, but she wishes she was, and they should totally hang sometime – Spike nervously smiles and turns his phone off before he’s accidentally tapped on that other chat, because, well. She hasn’t written to him in five years now.
He smokes the cigarette at once, steps on the bum and heads in. Maybe more than a Bloody Mary.
* * *
First of all, Eric is absolutely not worrying. He owns this bar, and he can go talk to patrons just because. He doesn’t need reasons like it can’t be healthy to drink this much even if he’s already dead or his shoulders are so slumped what happened, certainly not he’s kind of cute but in a kicked puppy way(Eric Northman definitely doesn’t find puppies cute, for the record). He doesn’t need encouragements either, but the guy has been glancing at him every few minutes for the past hour, and why is Eric giving himself a pep talk. The guy is drinking a lot, he’s probably well past a bottle of this whisky already, and it’s odd, because… vampires, they don’t really drink that much. With eternity in front of you, it’s easy to block out any pain. Well, most kinds, anyway. This guy, Eric doesn’t usually care but he’s suddenly curious(and totally not worried).
“Pam.”
She raises an eyebrow at him, her fingers hovering over her phone’s screen. “What.” He slightly nods in the direction of the guy as he’s ordering his fourteenth big glass of whisky, no ice. “This one’s a first timer, yes?” She rolls her eyes. “Would have remembered that scowl. So?” He inhales, patiently. “So, tell him to meet me at my office.” She raises the other eyebrow too, which is fair because Eric doesn’t do this. (Except, she’s probably assuming, but he doesn’t do that in his office, either, so.) He groans, a bit louder than a whisper but the regular vampires all turn their heads in question. The not-regular one just slams an empty glass on the bar. “Pamela, do I need to command y-“
A human wouldn’t even notice her going over to the guy and returning. “Fine, it’s done. Happy?” She has that face she makes when she’s curious but wouldn’t admit to it, which is perfect because Eric doesn’t feel like talking about this. He smirks at her, feeling more at comfort as he dives in their old inside joke: “I will be back, so don’t fuck anyone on the throne.” She gives him the closest to a grin she ever gets to. He gets up, humming an old song under his breath. It’s good to have someone as close as she is to him, even if they get romantic too rarely. He’s grateful to have Pam.
She’d get too smug about it if he told her that as often as he thought it, though.
* * *
Spike came to the place with the stupid name to have a good time, and while drinking himself blind wasn’t in his plans, he’s still been enjoying it so far. Now, he’s shoved in an office, and that woman didn’t explain a thing, and there’s no alcohol in sight. He all but pouts, sitting on a chair that is too soft to be comfortable. He doesn’t suspect he can smoke in here, either. Bummer. Then the door creaks and Spike’s survival instincts are surprisingly awake – his after-life might not be all flowers and roses but he sure as hell isn’t giving it up without a fight, and maybe a fight’s the reason he was lured into this office with its stupidly good interior and plushy pillows all over. He gets up, too quick for his already swimming vision but that’s irrelevant. His hands curl into fists, black nails cutting into his flesh just faintly enough. He looks up.
And up, and even higher.
Wow, that guy so did not look that tall when he was sitting on that throne back inside. (Technically, Spike is still inside. He also is not really interested in technical details, because he’s busy trying to make his staring look more intimidating than it probably is.)
“The hell?” he finally asks, after they’ve been staring at each other for a few seconds over what’s considered appropriate and not homo-erotic. Maybe he should introduce himself instead. Or say literally anything but what he just said. The other guy smirks and wow, Spike is feeling so attacked right now.
“You okay?” the guy asks, his voice husky and hinting of worry despite that smirk still being present. Spike is not having any kind of fun at all. Is it normal for anyone to be that muscly, honestly– “You were going a bit intense on the whiskey back in there,” he says, carefully, as if Spike is a tiny china doll which could break at any given moment. Spike might be delicate, among other things, but he did not sign up for this. “None of your business, mate?” he mutters. “Sit,” the guy half-orders as he’s seating himself on the chair next to the one Spike was just sitting on, and Spike would insist that he’s fine as he is except who is he kidding. “And it is. As in, this bar is my business.”
Well, of course, of course he isn’t just some random guy. Spike would roll his eyes but everything is spinning a tad as it is. “So, uh, you own a bar and you’re also a shrink, eh?”
The guy frowns and Spike would do literally anything to get him back to smirking. “Sorry, uh. Not big on talking ‘bout this one,” he mumbles, hoping to at least erase the frown. The guy nods. “I’m not going to make you talk, if you don’t want to.” He makes a pause, then gives Spike an oddly comforting look. “You can smoke here,” he smiles for a fraction of a second, Spike almost misses it. He all but lights his nose on fire in the hurry.(‘Again,’ he mentally giggles. He’s going to get scars one day.) “But you’re gonna have to stay here with me for a bit.” The seriousness is back in the guy’s eyes; Spike doesn’t think he could deny him anything.
It’s a gross thought to have, probably. How much did he drink? Spike isn’t sure he even counted past the seventh glass.
“I haven’t seen you here,” the guy offers, casually. Spike shrugs. “I arrived here last night, first time visiting. The town, that is.” “Any impressions?” This is impossible, how can he make small talk seem interesting, what the bloody hell. “Not a big fan of the South, no offense,” he hurries to add, although he’s already figured out the guy isn’t local, his accent too stiff for these lands. “Are you planning on staying longer?” The guy’s tone is undecipherable, and Spike wishes he wasn’t imagining the invitation. He laughs, too breathless to sound pretty. “No way in hell. Why, you offering something?” he waggles his eyebrows in a way which could pass for a joke, or not. The guy chokes, his eyes glowing with mischief and then going back to pieces of ice. “Just professional interest. I’m also the sheriff of this area, I’d have to know if you were to settle here.”
If Spike didn’t feel useless already, now he does.
“So, your hobby being locking people in your office and intimidating them to the true death.”
* * *
He is impossible, Eric is debating whether he should shut him up by pushing him against the wall and jumping him or by grabbing him in a cuddle, but both involve physical contact and the guy’s body language is hardcore yelling ‘STAY THE FUCK AWAY’; Eric has to cross his arms to stop them from doing anything on their own will. “The door isn’t locked, I just wanted you to stay here because–“ because you look very sad which is awful but also really hot doesn’t sound convincing, and Eric groans. The guy shudders at the sound, and Eric is suddenly into panic mood. “Sorry. Just. You looked like you needed some time away from the bottle?” The guy throws him a look. “That is the opposite of what I want, though,” he states, matter-of-factly. “Also, isn’t it a good thing for you that I’m spending money for drinks in your bar?”
Eric is going to lose it. This is all too much, the guy is obviously going through something terrible but he won’t speak to him and is trying to joke instead, which is so fucked up because his eyes are all but dripping with blood, Eric is not liking this situation at all. The guy is saying something smartass, but it goes unnoticed, and he shuts up abruptly when he notices Eric is suddenly very still. “What.”
“What is your name?” Eric wants to kick himself because this should have been his first question, but late is better than never. The guy looks taken aback, and he takes a few seconds before slowly uttering “William Pratt? Also known as Spike? You?” Eric can almost hear the question marks, and it’s so ridiculous he’s going to start laughing hysterically. He shouldn’t, though. He looks the guy in the eyes, arms still crossed at his chest, and rewrites what he’s about to say in his mind a few times before finally breathing out. “William. I figure you’re not going to talk about whatever is eating you, which is alright, but. You seem like you need a hug. Or, something more, and I’m not saying you have to but I am not letting you proceed getting smashed, regardless.”
The guy- William scoffs. “The hell. What the hell typa person…” his voice gets less audible as he buries his face in Eric’s chest, arms wrapping tightly around his body. Eric smirks, placing his own arms on William’s back as lightly as possible. It’s a bit uncomfortable, they’re sitting on different chairs which means they have to angle their bodies awkwardly to keep up the hug, but they’re immortal. Pam often has to remind Eric that “I’m immortal” is not a valid excuse for getting himself into such situations. He tries to mask his random giggle as some sort of very strangled noise, which makes William detach from him, which is overall a terrible outcome until William looks at him curiously and his face is even hotter when he’s not annoyed, what the fuck? Eric is feeling things he hasn’t felt since Sylvie, which is interesting, and also he suddenly wants to die, because how does one look at these eyes and not die.
Naturally, Eric looks away, and William seems a bit disappointed as he’s shifting through his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter(not that Eric is peaking, or anything). They’re both staring at the wall opposite of them, sitting quietly, their shoulders almost brushing. At a point, William turns towards Eric, starting to say something, and Eric turns too, but he miscalculates the distance and ends up hitting his chin in William’s forehead, which is so mortifying. The guy, the sweet, sweet guy, bless this sweet guy, starts giggling, which drags Eric along, and laughing is much less horrible than reflecting over how clumsy he is – well, laughing is less horrible until they both, because it happens at the exact same time, realize how close their faces are.
* * *
Why the hell not.
* * *
Eric isn’t sure how it happens, but William is the one taking the initiative. Their kiss is so feeble at first, not even gentle so much as ghastly; this is not how Eric does things, so he places one hand on the back of William’s neck and immediately drops his other hand all the way to his ass. “Is this…?” he pulls back, seeking any sign of discomfort in the other’s face. William actually rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mate, that is an arse you’re holding.” Eric cannot believe this. “What the fuck,” he breathes out, too turned on to get angry but still capable of being annoyed. William actually laughs this time, not that shy sound from earlier, and it’s so majestic Eric immediately forsakes all issues he had just so he can focus on this ridiculous man again. Their second attempt at a kiss is way more enthusiastic on both sides, which is nice, so nice, fucking perfect up until they fall on the floor, William on his back and Eric pressed flush on top of him. It takes a little shuffling around, the carpet could have been a bit fluffier – but they’re also immortal, so they make do.
It’s… interesting. Eric’s always been much more into men than into women, but it’s also never been sensual, him and another guy. Things are always rushed and never last longer than the act itself, but Eric’s always thought it’s just him. Men in his bed could never become men in his life because no one can control him, and they all seem to try, and get frustrated at failing. William is everything but those men; there is hell in him but his eyes are painfully sincere and Eric is especially sorry he doesn’t have a couch in his office.
They take their time, both of them hungry but both of them awfully cautious of how much they don’t know about each other. They learn while trying, and besides, it’s not like they’re in any rush. It’s an hour till sunrise and they’re panting next to each other, not even completely naked yet. It’s more pleasure than Eric has felt in a while.
“Maybe we should…” the other sighs, staring grumpily at the clock on the wall as if he could change the simple fact. Eric nods, reluctantly. “Yeah. We should.” He looks William, bed hair and messed up eyeliner to combat boots(‘why is he still with his shoes on, fucking weird’), and smiles. “Tomorrow night, though?” William’s eyes glow. “Yeah. We could, I don’t want to get wild here, but we could actually use a bed,” there’s mischief in his voice, but then he reaches and ruffles Eric’s hair, what the fuck- Eric smiles helplessly. “Anything.”