Kurt stands on the sidewalk outside his house, staring up at the darkened windows.

It's late, and quiet – but every sense is keenly attuned, experiencing everything in a way he wasn't capable of only a night earlier.

Past the crisp scent of the fall leaves, the sweet, cool breeze that can't really touch him anymore, Kurt can pick up the faintest trace of Carole's perfume, the new fragrance he bought her for her birthday a few weeks earlier. He can tell that his family had lasagna for dinner, and that whoever was in charge of preparing it allowed it to burn just a little.

He can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room – and the soft, distant sound of his father's snoring.

He's vaguely aware that a day ago, in another life, the sound might have brought him to tears – but he feels nothing in response to all of this familiarity, all of these things he'd expected to miss – nothing but an inexplicable, intense irritation, the desire to just go in there and make it stop.

He takes a step forward – but a firm hand on his arm stops him. The back of his neck tingles under the soft breath that touches it, making him shiver, although he can't feel its coolness.

"You don't want to go in there, love."

"I do so," Kurt spits out, glaring defiantly up at the window. "This is the first place I wanted to come, the moment I… when I…"

"Woke up?" His sire's voice is low and soft behind him, as his hand slides across Kurt's stomach, firmly holding him back in case he should try to go toward the house again. "Yeah. That's the demon, kid. Trying to rid itself of the ones that'd tie you to your human life."

There's a deep, sharp ache in Kurt's chest, and he swallows hard, blinking back the strange blurring of his vision – strange, because there's no way he's crying – not now. No, the fearful, over-sensitive child he used to be is long gone. He feels nothing more for the residents of this house but the intense desire to go inside and tear their throats out, end the steady thump of their heartbeats that he can feel in his own chest.

"Besides," Spike murmurs, affection and amusement in his voice as he sidles closer, his lips a hair's breadth from Kurt's throat, and the nearly healed but still so sensitive marks he left there, "you can't go in, love. Not without an invitation."

"Invitation?" Kurt echoes in disbelief, turning toward him indignantly. "But it's my own house!"

Spike's smile fades, softens, and he shakes his head slowly. "No it isn't, love. Not anymore."

Kurt's eyes widened, and his gaze drifted away from Spike's face, staring down at the ground for a long moment as he tried to process that information. Finally, he looked up, speculative.

"They'd let me in. In fact, if my dad opened the door to see me standing out here at this time of night, he'd order me in."

"That he would," Spike agreed softly, nodding, eyes narrowed and studying Kurt's expression a little too closely.

"It's not like I'd regret it," Kurt pointed out. "Not without a soul…"

"You'd think that's how it works, wouldn't you?" Spike's smile was bitter, and he withdrew a little, taking his cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of his duster.

Kurt weighed those cryptic words for a moment, staring up at the house again.

"I'd suggest some less confusing, far more fun activity to pass the night," Spike continued, his tone lighter, once he'd drawn a couple of puffs from his cigarette. "What about that bloke you said was pushing you around, threatening your life?"

"Dave Karofsky?" Kurt's eyes widened, and a slow smile began to spread across his face at the thought.

"Yeah. Him, and anyone else what hurt you, love." Spike shrugged. "Let's make a night of it."

Kurt's voice was soft, uncertain, as he suggested quietly, "Blaine?"

Spike frowned, a glint of anger in his eyes as he put his cigarette to his lips again, leaving it there as he tucked his hands into his pockets and spoke around it. "That wanker that decided he wasn't gay after all and left you for your best friend?"

Kurt winced slightly, immediately wondering how it could still hurt. It wasn't supposed to hurt anymore, was it?

"Let's go," Spike agreed easily. "We'll take 'em both."

"Yeah." Kurt nodded, a smile slowly forming on his lips as he warmed to the idea, and took off following close at Spike's side. "Yeah, and – we can turn them, right? I mean – I can? If I do, then – they'll be drawn to me, right? Not leave me?"

"Again – you'd think that's how it works," Spike sighed. "And sorry, love, but no. I spent five minutes listening to the bint wail at your funeral, and by two minutes in she'd managed to make your eulogy about her. And as for your ex, well – let's just say they're made for each other." He paused, shaking his head. "No, I couldn't stand them for five minutes. I don't fancy spending eternity with them."

Kurt's heart sank with disappointment – but it was swift to fade. He brightened, catching up to Spike and taking his arm to stop him, turn him to face him.

"That's okay," he said softly, holding his sire's gaze with a sly, suggestive smile. "I don't need anyone else. I've got you."

Spike smiled, pleased, and slid his arms around his new childe, abruptly jerking him close, his smile breaking into a smug grin when Kurt let out a startled little gasp and closed his eyes, his head falling back slightly and baring his throat to his sire's attentions. Spike kissed his way up the pale, enticing column, nipping teasingly at Kurt's skin and relishing the little whimper of mingled pleasure and pain that escaped his lips.

"That's right, love," Spike growled against his skin, tugging him in closer. "You've got me. You're mine – and no one else's. Forever."