This story spiraled out of three things: the idea that Spike acted on his "can't be a monster, can't be a man" statement by changing his gender, that said change was followed by a S/X scene, and that hold_that_thought requested that I write it.
As usual, I don't own these characters. Joss Whedon does. I just like to take them out and play with them sometimes.
This is meant to be a parody of sorts, taking place after Entropy.
Spike woke up startled.
"What the bloody hell is going on? I keep having that dream. Why do I keep dreaming about acting like a complete wanker in a bathroom that's way too large? Why am I always trying to force myself onto Buffy instead of biting her or killing her like the evil monster that I am – was—am. Bullocks! Come out you poncy bugger!"
Spike strode around his crypt searching for the exposition demon that had obviously taken residence and made him talk to himself like he was character on Passions.
"Third one this week. Cor I hate exposition demons. Can't escape their power unless you get them out of your home. There I go again, expositing useless information to myself."
Spike searched the nooks and crannies of his crypt to no avail.
"Damn thing must be in the bedroom, or what's left of it after Captain Cardboard's Courageous Comeback. Bloody hell. Alliteration! The idiotic demons of the world just won't give me a bloody break! Argh"
Spike jumped into the ruins of his once beautiful bedroom--beautiful for a being furnished by the junkyards at any rate.
"Tons of rubbish. It'll take me forever to find this thing. Who knows how long it's been here. Maybe it's responsible for that horrid dream. What a nightmare. And when do I ever take off my coat to go talk to the Slayer anyhow. What kind of poofter acts that way? I'll tell you what kind. The kind that's chipped and in love with their enemies. The combination of Buffy and the damn chip has left me neutered in every respect. Can't be a monster, can't be a man. Ah, here it is. Time for these poncy asides to stop."
Spike had found a nest of demons beneath the ruins of his bed. Alliteration demons, exposition demons, Freudian dream causing demons, and more. He took extreme pleasure in kicking them all out and cursed himself for leaving his doors open.
"Gotta get out of here while their power wears off. I'm still expositing. I think a walk through the graveyards might help me figure out what those dreams are trying to tell me. Hey. Where's my coat?"
As eerie music from the nighttime funeral, a common and very stupid occurrence in Sunnydale, found its way to Spike's crypt, he realized that he no longer had his coat.
"Just as I dreamed it. Bloody hell!"
Spike stormed out of his crypt, eager to escape the horrible exposition scene he found himself in.
Xander stood in front of the mirror in a kind of numb shock. He couldn't believe what he had just done.
Xander hadn't been able to fully grasp what he'd learned about Spike and how many of the females in Xander's life had been willing recipients of Spike's cold, dead baby batter. Xander hadn't understood what he was feeling. The disgust with no real aim. The rage that was so far from truly murderous. Buffy and Anya had stopped him, but he knew that he would have stopped himself. Xander needed to figure out what was going on in his head.
(Gratuitous Flashback Alert! Bad violin music plays, the edges blur, and the words "Spike's Crypt, 20 minutes ago" appear out of the ether)
Xander went to Spike's hoping to erase the image of Anya underneath the blond vampire that was currently burned into his eyeballs, hoping it would clear Xander's mind a bit, but he wasn't prepared for the depths of clarity he was about to reach.
Xander entered the crypt prepared for a potentially violent confrontation, but seeing Spike curled up around his bottle of Jack Daniels softened Xander's heart, hardened other parts, and sent a blur of images through his head—Spike and Xander sharing a beer and that onion thing at the Bronze; the two of them drinking and eating, two of Xander's favorite past times. Suddenly all Xander could see were those striking cheekbones, those sculpted muscles and that billowing coat that smelled of blood and leather and cigarettes—that smelled like Spike.
Xander walked to the corner of Spike's crypt, and came out of the closet with Spike's coat.
Spike walked amongst the graveyard, feeling naked without his coat.
"I've gone without the bloody coat before.
I suppose I can do it for a few days more.
Just a matter of time before it shows up.
What I wouldn't do right now for a cup—"
Spike paused suddenly noticing his odd speech patterns.
"Am I speaking in rhymes?
Bollocks! Of all the times!
What is this? Flock to Spike night?
Sodding rhyming demon come out and fight!
I don't have time for this stupid scheme.
I'm still trying to work out my Freudian dream!"
Spike screamed in frustration and punched a gravestone, miraculously the one the rhyming demon was hiding behind, and killed the demon.
"I bet Red and the Whelp are behind this. Ugh, now I'm speaking like a bad fan story. Cor! Blimey! No wonder I keep finding ridiculous demons. Bob's yer uncle, I have to get to the Watcher."
Xander thought back to when he first started taking notice of Spike's beautiful body. He'd always made little mental notes to himself about how nice Spike looked, but he always thought it was just his way of cataloguing possible styles. Spike always looked cool and Xander always wanted to be cool. It made sense.
Xander thought back to that day in Spike's crypt. He had gone on the pretense of helping Buffy, but really, there was no reason to believe that Spike could find an invisible Buffy any better than any other Scooby. Or that Buffy would be at Spike's crypt. He now realized he was just using every possible excuse to see Spike.
That was the day he had finally understood how Spike had really gotten his nickname. Spike's purple helmeted, one eyed trouser monster had grabbed Xander's attention and hadn't let go. Xander was sure Spike had spiked quite a few people in his day, and doubted anyone considered it torture.
Xander had been a little suspicious of Spike's actions that day. Xander could have sworn he heard someone squealing every time Spike did a pushup. Xander came to the conclusion that it must have been himself squealing with delight, and he thanked the powers that be that Spike was so wrapped up in his exercise that he didn't hear.
Everything was falling into place. The lame lines about Spike getting a girlfriend were just Xander-code for "Spike! Take me now!" The rage he felt after seeing that video wasn't jealousy over Anya, it was just Xander subconsciously proclaiming to the world that Spike was his and no one else could have him.
Xander wrapped the coat around him. Maybe if he hadn't been abused by African spider monkeys as a child he wouldn't have repressed his feelings. Maybe if his parents hadn't repeatedly put Xander out while yelling at the dog to go to bed, he would know how to express his love openly, instead of through thinly veiled threats of violence. And now everyone was getting play from Spike but Xander.
That was going to change.