Spike couldn't move. His wrists burned every time he tugged at them, they were bound together against a hard surface.

Everything was dark, calming in an uncomfortable way. He rested his head against his shoulders and let out a defeated sigh.

Someone was pacing anxiously. Tap tap tap tap tap, their feet went. They stopped, Spike heard the clink of metal against metal and felt a sharp object press against his throat. "Who are you?" A raspy voice asked him, removing his blindfold.

His eyes were barely adjusted to the bright light and he could only make out the subtlest details of his captor, but that was more than enough. He'd know him anywhere. It was Angel.

"Did you hear me?" Spike looked at his sire in disbelief. He didn't answer, and Angel pressed the sword deeper into Spike's neck, drawing the faintest amount of blood. He's holding a sword? Spike noticed only then.

"It's me!" Spike coughed. "It's Spike." It's me, it's me, it's me, it'smeit'smeit'smeit'sme, he panicked. "Put that thing down, will you?" Angel cautiously retracted his weapon, but kept it close. "That's a stupid name." Angel said.

Spike ignored him. "You...don't remember?" He already knew the answer. Angel looked at him sadly, nodding his head. "I remember… pain. And I remember knocking you out, I don't know, I woke up and you were just there." He paused for a moment. "Felt like I knew you." And then silence, silence, silence, silence. The silence was painful for Spike and confusing for Angel, it was familar to him. Spike broke it, after a while, the only way he knew how. "Can you bloody untie me now?" He snarled.

Angel knelt down and cut through the rope binding Spike's hands and ankles.

"How do we know each other?" Angel shifted, now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the chair Spike was in. Murder flashed in Spike's eyes, their faces covered in dirt and blood, and "Please, don't hurt me!" rang through his ears, along with the sound of maniacal laughter and screaming children, and, and, and, and, and…

"Work friends." Spike lied. Angel looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing. Spike touched his shoulder absent-mindedly. He gave Angel a look that said, "I'm going to devour you whole." Angel did not get the message.

Angel was a blank canvas, he had realized. The only memories he recalled were the mere traces of pain. (Myfaultmyfaultmyfault, he thought, I hurt him. I broke him.) You can build monsters out of anything and nothing, if you twist and pull at them like clay. Agony creates a lust for the agony of others. At least, that's what happened to Drusilla. But now Angel was the clay. Spike was going to burn him, and a demon would rise from his ashes like a phoenix.

Good plan.

"Where are we, anyway?" Neither of them knew.

"Stay with me, just for tonight?" Angel asked quietly.

"Of course." Of course.