Note: a little poke at fannish convention. I'm...sorry. really really.

“This is sodding unconstitutional, you know,” Spike complained for the millionth time. He strained against the ropes that the slayer’s pup used to strap him into this godawful chair. Red had magicked ‘em all up. No way to break ‘em.

Paranoid freaks. Not enough that the government set his brain to Liquefy for even the tiniest, bittiest urge to rip someone’s guts out and paint the walls with em…now he had to bear the indignity of Kiddie Bondage Hour.

Spike collapsed back, defeated. Even he could hear that he was whining.

Blood hell, that was what his life had sunk to.

“Let me out.”

“No.”

“I’ll be good. Quiet as a little churchmouse, never know I’m here.”

“Liar.”

“When I get this sodding chip out of my head, I’m going to rip your entrails from your still-warm body and wear them as a trophy.”

“You know, I hear that’s all the rage in Hollywood these days. Damn that Paris Hilton. Good to know that in death, if not in life, I will be trendy and chic.”

Spike huffed out a sigh of disgust and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the bloody awful country tune the boy was wallowing in as he readied himself for bed. Spike wondered what the demon bint was brassed about this time, but didn’t care enough to ask.

Not like Harris deserved his sympathy. Bloody wanker. The boy was happy to use him for hustling pool at the Bronze after patrolling, but Spike wasn’t to be trusted, oh no. They were all a bunch of bleedin’ hypocrites, with their shiny happy speeches about…..

Hell. He didn’t even listen to himself whinge, anymore.

It was then, as Spike stopped bitching and played dead, that he felt that distinct but peculiar motility in his gut. It was a funny sensation that Spike usually rather enjoyed—visceral and base, like fightin’ and fuckin’. A way for his body to move and talk back to him, as it hadn’t done since he’d lost his heartbeat. This was the real reason why Peaches steered clear of human food—tasteless, his arse. The fussy bastard was too anal-retentive. Literally.

Freud was onto something, after all.

Tonight in particular, though, it made Spike curse his own forgetfulness. Harris was going to shit when Spike asked to be let out of his bonds.

Well…bad choice of phrasing, actually.

“Harris.”

“No.”

“Mate…I need to use the loo.”

Xander walked out of the kitchenette wearing an expression of utter disbelief. “You know, I’m no braniac, but…I’m not braindead. You don’t need to use the bathroom. And don’t call me that. It’s creepy.”

“I do, actually, and I’ll call you whatever the bloody hell I like, you wanker. Untie me. I need to use the shitter.”

“One—Language! Two—No.”

“You sat across from me tonight and watched me shovel 2 orders of hot wings and a bloomin onion straight into my face. Thought you were a bright boy.”

Actually, he didn’t, but at this point, flattery as a viable option.

“You’re full of shit.”

“Now you’re catchin on.”

“Gimme a break, Spike. You’re a vampire. The invention of the flush toilet was about as exciting for you as advent of the vanity mirror.”

Spike gaped. “All that food. Where did you think it went, you great git? Neither created nor destroyed and all that rot. The fact that I have a demon reanimating my dead body does not change the fact that what goes in must come out. You’re daft.”

“Whatever. There’s no way I’m untying you. Give it up. I don’t want to wake up and find you snacking on my sweetmeat.” Xander paused. “Wait, that didn’t come out right.”

Smirking, Spike lay his head back against the barcalounger. “Fine. If you won’t let me out, I’ll have to do my business right here. Certainly wouldn’t hurt the color of this piece of shite that you call furniture.” He studied the vomit-colored upholstery with disgust. “Might even improve it, come to that.”

Xander’s eyes saucered. “You wouldn’t.”

“Evil, remember? Watch me.” Spike clenched his hands and bore down with a grunt, making a big show of pushing…faking it of course. He didn’t give a rot about the boy’s furniture, but these were his only jeans, and he was damned if he was going to wear Xander’s awful kit again...or else he would stake himself.

“Spike! Stop that!” Grimacing, Spike hammed it up harder. "I mean it! You can't...." Spike smirked at the panic in the boy’s voice. Finally, some respect.

Well. Fear. Definite fear. He struck fear in the heart of men with….

His potential bowel movements.

Fuck him, the things he had to resort to.

But Xander rushed to untie him before he shat in the chair, so as far as evil plans to get himself freed went, it wasn’t a bad one.

‘Cept for the part where he was too desperate to take a dump to try to escape.

He bolted to the bathroom and got himself settled just in the nick of time. Just one more thing….

“Chuck a Maxim in here, would you Harris? Should crank one off while I’ve got myself some privacy. Christ knows you complain like a little girl when I wank off out in the open.”

Spike grinned at the grudging pause before the skin mag slid across the tile.

On second thought…he could live like this.