Disclaimer

This is a work of fan fiction, produced for fun and not for profit. I do not own Buffy:The Vampire Slayer, Angel or any of the Buffy characters, quotes or plots taken from the show to make this bit of fun. I do not even own a house or a car. I do own cheese. So that's good.

Preface

I was amused to find a whole sub genre of Buffy fic devoted to gender flipping Xander. I think that walking a mile in a girls shoes may have made him a much better character, because Xan Man is pretty much the worst.

So, in my adventures in learning to write fanfic, I decided to tackle a few tropes and sub genres along the way. And here we all are. Yep.

Now after I discovered this sub-genre, I asked my friends which female actress they pictured playing Xander as I had trouble picturing it. Invariably everyone suggest Anna Kendrick, and I hafta agree. She would have nailed that role had she been the right age at the time.

Okay so before I weave my tale, I wanna state that I am rather well versed in queer theory, but Xander isn't. If he uses binary language that is on him as an uneducated teenage boy. He is gonna get a teachin'. But I myself know gender is a complicated affair and at the very least is on a spectrum- I am just inverting all the many sliders on the mixing board for our young scooby.

I didn't want to write a story focusing someone going through the pain and anguish of gender dysphoria, I wanted to write something about the sensation of someone who you had inside emerging from the past persona. So it IS a trans story, but it is really through a trans femme lens than trans masc. Characters represent different standpoints and along the way Xander is pulled through questions of masculinity, toxic masculinity, upbringing, social gender expression, sexuality and ultimately identity- something we all have to deal with. How Xander grows in this context is the heart. And I keep Xander's heart throughout. Because gender identidy is only one of the bedrocks of a person.

So sit back, grab some popcorn and a cup of what does you good and hopefully enjoy this tale. I am gonna take Harris on a bit of a journey of discovery, it's what he wanted after all, so do come along for the ride.

First stop?

The Prologue

(aka Route 666)

My road trip was supposed to help me find myself in this big crazy fish bowl that is life. You know the deal, one guy and his trusty steed blown any which way the wind of fate blows them, which usually means a series of adventures that shapes him as a man.

Obviously that turned out just swell.

I beg you to allow me to skip over the details of the mortifying series of humiliations that I endured upon said wind of fate. Let's just say I learned way more about bike mechanics and stripping for dollar bills than I had imagined. I also learned that whatever the hell it is that attracts demon women to me is still in full effect. So, yay. Oh, and side note? It is astounding just how many ways the good folk of the open road can steal your wallet.

But suffice to say, the road trip did not make a man out of Xander Leville Haris.

Uh, quite the opposite, actually.

The balancing of one's good and one's evil deeds is a real moral quandary that I shall, I promise, fret over in the not too distant future, but as I am currently sprinting from a gas station from which I stole supplies you must excuse me.

What is running through my mind right this second is along the lines of "oh god, oh god, please, please, please... I killed demons and helped Buffy save the world at least once… please don't let the clerk have a shotgun. Oh and stopping that whole bomb under the school thing. And don't say sex with Faith paid that karmic check because honestly the bomb was less scary. Please God let me make it to the tree line with my toilet paper, gator aid and… uh… women's pad things.

Did I mention all the vampires I dusted?"

I hear a gun shot crack behind me and give a good long curse to the heavens as I dive into the bushes. A warning shot, thankee, but I still nearly lost control of my remaining bodily functions and these cargo pants as filty enough as it is. Clearly my karmic bill won't cover all the gatorade, as I drop a bottle or two in my haste to not get peppered. Better thirsty than leaking through even more unwanted holes.

I make it to a safe distance before my heart stops, so all that table dancing for drunken middle aged women sure as heck paid off. My shelter for tonight is simple enough, a bridge on the way (I hope) to good old home sweet hellmouth. A little exposed for my liking, but folk of adventure, blown on the wind of fate are fortified against such trivial matters as privacy. I dump my ill gotten gains and collapse in a sweaty pile, gasping for air and grabbing my throbbing, painful boobs. forgive me for my French, but sacre blue, fuckez mez life or... whatever.

I get the whole bras thing now. I get sports bras doubly so. Running for your life with boobs? Yowzers.

Adventure? In a word? Sucks. I just wanna go home to where it's just demons trying to eat me only once in a while, were there is hot water and cable and pillows that don't crawl away and hot food and my friends...

...also, hopefully, said friends have a spell to turn me back into a guy.

For the last six days me and my sore boobs followed the freight tracks south west, hoping to catch an empty carriage. My romantic notion of ending the journey more like a Kerouac book than a play by Kafka. But that would require luck, which, like clean socks, is something I ran out of a long time ago.

The darkening sky starts to drizzle and spit as I limp my way up to the busy truck stop. Sunnydale has an airport and docks, so this highway sees a lot of freight. I find the bathrooms behind the diner aren't locked, so I wearily make my way in to clean up. A huge guy in red checked shirt looks up from the urinal as I enter.

"Lady, you're in the wrong place." He says in a voice like gravel's hick cousin, giving himself a shake. It takes me a moment to process.

"Right. Ladies, is… where I should be… as I am… yeah. Okay then. Have a nice… uh… that thing you are doing. Good job. Yessir"

As I approach the other door I feel the thick, thick layer of denial I wrapped about my situation crumble away. I know have haven't always tackled problems head on, or at all- I was always more of a pad my problems with humour and not deal kinda guy. But I guess this trip has changed me. Well, obviously it has. And I am afraid of what that obvious looks like.

I have been like this… my body has been like this, for three weeks give or take. Whatever curse or venom or vengeful spirit did this to me, it took a few days to happen. I thought I had flu at first, my whole body aching deep to the bones. But the discomfort grew into the severe owies, then onwards, head first into flaming agony. I felt I was being crushed and stretched, I swear my bones where creaking like trees, and the heat coming off me went way beyond fever.

When I came around it didn't take me long to figure out that it wasn't flu. I mean, I am not a doctor, and I don't even play one on TV, but it definitely was not flu. The vagina was my first clue.

But I didn't dare look in a mirror. I just couldn't. I caught a glimpse in my shaving mirror but batted it away so hard it broke.

Crossing the threshold into that forbidden zone that was 'the ladies' is a moment. Awkwardly clutching my bedroll and bag to my chest, I tentatively edge my boot across the line. I don't know what I was expecting. A thunderous omen that I had defiled some goddesses temple and thus was due her wrath, perhaps? Hell, you don't know, it could happen. You try living in Sunnydale and not have it shape your preconceptions of what is possible. I ate the school mascot when I was possessed as a hyena for the love of god.

Okay, one foot safe. Two feet good. I am standing in the ladies. Just a lady in the ladies. Doing, uh, lady stuff. Yep.

And here comes the new Xander theme song: Why is this happening to me?

I take a deep breath and instantly regret it. But the dramatic sigh still stands. I shuffle over to the row of surprisingly clean steel sinks and do what must be done. But first, I run a bowl of hot water and mix in some pump soap, and set about scrubbing my face and neck clean of the days of travel. I am bone tired, beaten down to my core. Tempered perhaps, all the battering has hardened me a little. Maybe the adventures are supposed to be like this, a long precession of humiliations and hurts that show you what metal you are made of.

Well Xander? What are you made of?

I wipe the steam from the mirror and see.