Eppur, si muove!

A ficlet 

 

Fandom: BtVS.
Pairing: Xander / Andrew.
Rating: "Censor, I'll have your naughtiest rating please."
Summary: Pope Benedict XVI has a tiny problem.



Buffy's status as a vampire slayer gave them access to the highest levels of the church's hierarchy, it was true. And Andrew had used his time in Italy well, soaking up the art, the music, the sculpture ... even quite a lot of the food (he rubbed his tummy unselfconsciously, and the little priest who was striding to meet them winced and crossed himself). But even Andrew had never seen splendor like this before. He gazed round the papal private quarters awestruck. And all because of a few little seeds that someone had given him, ages ago, when he was wandering around America after the destruction of Sunnydale.

He'd left the others at a petrol-stop on an interstate somewhere in Nevada. To be truthful, he'd come out of the john after washing his hands to find the bus gone. They hadn't even noticed he was missing. That had been a low point. But he'd hitched a ride from a handsome trucker named Drew, and they'd got to talking. Drew had been some kind of prize fighter. Must have been a good one, Andrew had thought, there wasn't a scratch on him. Drew had caught his glance, and smiled, and then suddenly the conversation had flowed much more freely. They were both rejects, it seemed. There had been some girl he'd won in a competition (where was this, Andrew thought, Alaska?). She'd gone to California and he'd followed her, but she'd eventually dumped him. Drew sighed, and there followed a slightly sticky moment when he asked Andrew if he had any children. Andrew had said that he didn't think he would be having any. At that, Drew had pulled out a little twist of paper and explained that it contained seeds of a herb which, amongst his people (was he part Inuit, Andrew wondered; he certainly looked a little different) was known to infallibly result in a pregnancy when taken by the man just before com-shuck. (Inuit! Boy he was good!) He'd tossed it to Andrew, saying that he surely wouldn't be needing it now himself, and maybe it would help him with his problem. Andrew, realising that despite the smiles and the smouldering eyes, they were only going to have beautiful conversation, had accepted the gift. The guy had dropped him off just inside Vegas, shaking his hand very formally, and telling him to be strong. Andrew had watched him drive off into the sunset, taken the little twist of paper out of his shirt pocket, kissed it and put it back. He was going to keep it forever.

Then he'd taken a good look at himself and decided to contact the Watchers, and ended up here, in Italy. A little while later a certain Xander Harris had drifted in, from Africa of all places. A different Xander -- tired, wounded, ready to leave go of who he had been, but not knowing where he'd find a future -- met a different Andrew: stronger, more caring, even wise in a geeky kind of way. Andrew had volunteered to look after Xander and he, too weak to protest, had agreed. On regaining some strength, Xander had started cultivating the neglected garden of the Council's palazzo and, hearing Andrew's Nevada story, had decided that "herbs" donated by a trucker might reward a little care and attention. Andrew was fairly sure that Xander was going to be disappointed, but wanting to see what they looked like anyway, had agreed.

Their conjunction, one hot night when summer lightning stalked the Aventine, had been spectacular. Xander, delighted when the leaves had proven to have seven spikes, had raised a fine crop of the herb, and had dried some of the leaves and some of the flowers, and ground up some of the seeds. He'd made little cakes with the seed paste, was smoking some of the dried leaf, and drinking a tisane made from the florets.

"It's not an instant hit," he said, grimacing. Andrew, who really didn't think that the leaf looked like anything recognisable, had the number of a healer written on a scrap of paper in his pocket. Thus prepared, he sat back to watch the show. Xander was quite high already, in his opinion, with the simple satisfaction of having grown and harvested the herb under the noses of the Watcher Council. He sipped on a mint julep, occasionally giving the rim of the glass a delicate lick with his tongue.

There was a groan from Xander's chair. Andrew stopped nibbling a sprig of mint and looked over at the chair. Odd, it was empty, and he hadn't heard Xander get up. The hairs raised ever so slightly on the back of his neck, and a cold frisson shot down his spine. His new Watcher training was telling him that there was magic abroad! Maybe Xander had become invisible! He turned back to suck on his mint julep while he considered what to do.

Seven very perceptible inches of Xander Harris brushed his cheek as he moved his head. Naked Xander! Standing next to him! Excited! And buffer than he'd ever seen him... Xander seemed to be straining his muscles so hard he could have a stroke. But as he strained so the muscles grew, and the small amount of fat around his waist was disappearing. After just a few seconds Xander's transformation was complete, and the julep glass was taken from Andrew's hands and put on the table. There was a muted growl, like when a lion goes at a lioness and warns her to submit, and Andrew felt a hand on the back of his head. Xander walked forward, legs astride the chair, plunging into Andrew's mouth, not stopping until he was buried up to the hilt. Now it was Andrew's turn to grow purple, his eyes popping as he gasped for breath. But Xander just stood there like a pocket bronze Titan, going "Aaaahhhhh!!!", rocking into him, not pulling out more than a tenth of an inch from the back of his throat, and even that only for a moment and so that he could punch into it again a second later. Andrew started seeing stars, and thought that his lungs were going to burst, but at that moment he felt Xander start spurting into him, and he held on grimly. Just... a... few... seconds... more... and then... Xander was pulling out, and Andrew's mouth was full of semen but he could breath through his nose again! Flaring his nostrils he breathed out and in as fast as he could, his chest burning with the oxygen. His mouth felt as though it was full of thick, warm soup.

"Swallow it!" It was Xander's voice alright, but ... altered. Xander came back and stood in front of him. He was hardening again even as Andrew watched. Obediently Andrew swallowed the lot. It took him four goes and a couple of little coughs at the end, and as he finished Xander walked back up to him. This time, instead of penetrating Andrew immediately, Xander picked him up without any apparent effort and carried him into the bedroom.

And that, thought Andrew, was where it had all started. And here, eight months later, in the heart of the Vatican, some of the consequences were playing themselves out. The little priest had finally reached them. He bowed, smiled a slightly strained smile.

"His Holiness will see you now."

Yes, thought Andrew. His Holiness had better see me now. Because one of the Watchers, the camp younger son of an English Earl, had a second string as a fine Catholic theologian. And because, once he knew what the herb could do, Andrew had posted samples of the seeds to certain people around the world. An unfortunate Objection was about to be invalidated, a Proclamation was to be issued, and a Wrong that had lasted thousands of years was about to be Righted. As Andrew and Xander entered the audience-chamber Andrew caught sight of a famous picture of God leading His people out of the land of Egypt. It seemed like a sign. The man on the throne gestured, and, finally leaving Xander's side, Andrew walked slowly up to him.

Pope Benedict XVI reached out his hand, gingerly, to touch Andrew's swollen stomach. At that precise moment, little Giles chose to kick. The hand was withdrawn summarily, and in a tone of mingled wonder and horror the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of the Faithful, Patriarch of the West and Keeper of the Keys of Heaven, said:

"Eppur, si muove!"