To Be Claimed

Meh, I’m too tired to go over review responses—but not tired enough to write, hmmm. Rest assured that I am still reading them—I hunger and crave reviews. Makes me feel all fuzzy inside to know what you all think. And if you pay attention, I do use those responses to help shape the future of my fic! o.~

***

Xander watched Spike warily. His mother had never cared for the KitKin and made sure they knew it. He’d never bothered to look them up in any of Giles’ books, so his knowledge basically consisted of ‘air-headed, hedonistic artists wallowing in the simple-mindedness of gullible humans.’ He still had no idea what her whispered words really meant, though he had vague suspicions that the KitKin had organized Woodstock. The only reason he knew this was a KitKin parlor was a hidden, dusty picture of his mother standing with one of the painted creatures in front of a similar storefront. He’d always wondered what had happened to make her change her opinion so drastically, yet he was smart enough at six to know better than to ask. Spike’s tiny little smirk hinted at ‘this is something I’ll love and’ll make you squeal like a girly-man.’ Not reassuring.

“Best artists for this type o’ thing, Pet. Now, c’mon, haven’t got all night. Barely an hour left, and I want this good and solid ‘fore we get to the pouf’s place, so out we get and in we go.” Xander climbed out of the car and followed his Master. Was Spike bouncing? The heels of his boots certainly seemed to leave the pavement too often. Chipper chipped vamp. Oh yeah, this was going to be bad.

**

Walking into a KitKin parlour is always a shock to the so-called ‘virgins.’ Color is splashed on the walls in seemingly random patterns, yet standing in the low lighting of floating, blue globe-lanterns those all-encompassing murals slide and melt into visions of dreams and fantasies from the viewers’ own heads. Spike enjoyed the soft, subtle hues that shifted for his Pet. The colors didn’t settle on any one thought—an unusual reaction, but not unheard of—creating a flowing view of hands and soft touches to hair and gentle figures moving together with ease and familiarity.

“Oh, yes, just perfect.” Spike watched Xander flinch and turn with wide eyes, the murals fading into random waves and curls again. “Yes, yes! Why, I haven’t had such a lovely display for nigh on fifteen years! Welcome! Yes, welcome, in in in. We simply must find your matches and see if we can’t get you out of here with some of the inside on the outside.” The little creature continued to babble inanely as he stepped forward and snatched up both of Xander’s hands, tugging slightly to get the stunned hum- … Margesh’un moving. His Pet blinked dark eyes from the small man to Spike and back, his mouth not even bothering to open and try to counteract the ongoing flow of words. Spike grinned and followed.

**

You know you’ve stepped into an alternate reality when an old, white-haired man that only reached the height of your hip and was all sorts of skin color that didn’t exist in nature was able to drag you through a labyrinth of hallways—that shouldn’t exist from the size of the storefront—and force you into a chair all while talking longer and faster than you’ve ever talked yourself. Xander was, for the first time in his memory, feeling the need to breath for another person. He’d always heard the jokes from others, but this was just bizarre. And then, his Master, once the bloodiest and most hyperactive vampire of his time, follows along with a placid smile. It was definitely time for Xander to check which reality he’d landed in, cause it better have seafood.

“Don’t fret, whelp,” Spike murmured, his hands easing up and stroking the skin-warmed leather still across Xander’s throat. “These folks’ll have you Marked right proper, they will.” And then those fingers were pulling and gently untying that leather, and Xander woke up from the dream. His hands shot up faster than his head. He gripped the leather tightly and met Spike’s eyes. There was a hint of anger, carefully covered with amused concern. “You never told me the story ‘bout this bit of cowhide, Pet.” The soft tones were wrapped around cold steel, and Xander couldn’t let go of the leather, yet his tongue let go of the words.

“He gave it to me,” and Xander could hear his voice going all sorts of broken and whispery already. “Meant for me to keep it as he kept me. Wrapped up and safe, I was.” He continued to stare into blue eyes that were his world’s current focus through the threatening tears. “He knew. He’d known for years. The only one. And he wanted me. Wanted me to be his, and he knew exactly what that meant. The” he choked back the ragged breaths and took a few deep breaths “the collar was his announcement. Ours. I was of age and beginning my search. For his class, he was worthy. And accepted. And I was his.” His lips trembled, and he licked them nervously. Spike hadn’t moved, cool fingers still tangled in the leather at the back of Xander’s neck. “We hadn’t gotten to Claiming. Just the Declaration. There’s more time spent in showing off the potential bond than with a Master Vampire.” He wanted Spike to understand. Wanted his Master to be aware that there was no competition, cause he could see it flickering in Spike’s eyes. “He died.” Xander could feel the magic in the room pause. It had been moving slowly with his rising energies, and now it seemed to stop in respect. Xander let his fingers loosen on the leather and inch back to barely brush his Master’s. His full Master. He closed his eyes, aware that his pain was bleeding out in his scent. “I killed him.”