"Humility, And Other Things That Burn"

By Aresbitch

Disclaimer: not mine. Just having fun

Summary: Xena visits Ares after he’s punished by Zeus

Rating: PG-13?

Note: When I’m feelin’ the shipper love, I write. So, I wrote. This.

~~~

Ares’ throne room smells like incense, and she wonders how many of his priestesses are wandering around, making offerings and burning candles, hoping for a glimpse of their god.

They’re going to have to wait a bit longer, she thinks.

She pushes aside the curtain that separates the main court from the anteroom, spying Ares on his throne; sitting slouched with one leg thrown over an arm.

A young god in repose.

The dark glower on his face, so at odds with the bright pink skin of his cheek, makes her grin a little.

She bites it back as she approaches him, the satchel falling off her shoulder with practiced ease.

His eyes flicker over her before casually going past, but she sees the line of his shoulders, the tension he can’t hide from her.

“Xena.” His greeting sounds like anything but, and she bites back another urge to grin.

“Ares.” It’s always a pleasure to say his name, and she draws it out at her leisure.

“I thought you were in Thrace,” he says, adjusting his position, turning his stung cheek away from her gaze. She steps up on the dais and puts her hand on her hip, considering him.

“I was,” she replies. “A week ago.”

He makes a dismissive noise, still not looking at her.

“I’ve been busy,” he offers, and she smirks again.

“I heard.”

She puts a finger on his uninjured cheek and turns his head up so she can peer into his face. He resists at first, just a little, but gives in to her touch with a sigh, black eyes leveling on her, challenging her to laugh.

She doesn’t.

Barely.

“Doesn’t look so bad,” she says after considering the welts in the center. Ares suddenly looks outraged, bringing his leg down and straightening on his throne, effectively putting her between his knees.

“Not bad? It still hurts!” Both hands clutching the arms, he leans forward, thrusting his cheek into her gingerly feeling fingers.

The scent of leather and sulfur tickles her nose, and she gently takes a deeper breath into her lungs, holding it before exhaling softly.

When Aphrodite had mentioned that Ares had once again drawn down the wrath of his father, she’d been mildly concerned. Zeus was not the most stable of deities sitting on Mount Olympus, and he had, in fits of rages past, taken out cities. What would he do to a son who repeatedly defied his edicts, who insisted on challenging the pantheon?

When she’d finally heard his punishment, she hadn’t stopped laughing for an hour.

Now, standing in front of the glowering God of War, she’s flooded with a sense of relief that it hadn’t been worse.

Why she cared, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, think about.

“But you know what really hurts?” He asks as she reaches into her bag for the small jar of ointment. Made from precious aloe and eucalyptus, it gives off a nice scent as she carefully gathers some of it onto her fingers.

“No,” she replies, kneeling down in front of him. “What?”

A half smile plays at her lips as she waits on his answer.

“The humiliation, Xena. Having to stand in a town square, awaiting punishment like some fresh faced trainee in the Spartan Army.” His eyes slide away from hers, his jaw tightening with fresh disgrace. She tilts his face with two fingers on his uninjured cheek, bringing his bruised one within reach of the ointment.

It goes on clear, and he holds still as she smoothes it over the worst of the welts.

“Maybe next time when you’re father tells you hands off the Hestians, you’ll listen.” She pokes his cheek, just slightly, to emphasize her point, and he flinches, disgruntled.

“I was recruiting, for my temples,” he says, the fingers of one hand casually trailing along her other arm, skimming her skin. He turns towards her, dark eyes running over her face. “Why do you care anyway, Xena? Why are you here?”

She doesn’t answer him right away, because she has no answer, so she keeps smoothing the ointment across his injured cheek, and lets him watch her. His breath puffs across her face, and it isn’t unpleasant. She feels that tug of attraction again, low in her belly, higher around her heart. His touch is constant, pleasurable.

Then she thinks about Gabrielle waiting for her at the village inn, and lets her hand fall away from his face, reaching for a cloth to swipe her fingers on.

“Xena,” he whispers her name, a pleading sound that tugs harder at her resolve.

“Good as new.” She stuffs the jar and the cloth back into her back and moves to get up. “Next time you see Hestians standing in a line, ready to slap you into next winter for trying to corrupt them, duck.”

She rises and he rises with her, stepping forward as she backs off the dais.

“Don’t go,” he says, reaching for her hand, twining his fingers around her nerveless ones.

“Don’t go baiting your father’s temper and you’ll be fine.” She pulls her hand free, and it only shakes a little.

Barely noticeable.

He steps forward, following her as she goes, as a moth to a flame.

“You know me, I like to play with fire,” he replies, his eyes glowing with that fire that surges whenever he looks at her.

She goes through all the reasons she can’t trust him, can’t be with him, can’t give in to him.

He’s the god of everything she’s trying to put behind her.

He’ll try and tempt her back into the head of his army.

He’ll make her forget all the reasons she isn’t that person anymore.

His smile goes from seductive to wry, his mouth lifting at one corner.

“Xena, I would have thought you’d know me better than that. I want everything you are – the good, the bad -”

She puts a hand on his vest, and pushes him back.

A warning.

He reaches out and captures her hand, bringing it up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“Everything,” he whispers, the velvet tone of his voice, the sincerity lacing his words, undoing her inside.

He leans forward and his mouth comes dangerously close to making her forget everything, everyone. His breath is hot on her lips, and she leans forward before she’s aware of her actions, pressing her lips to his.

Like every kiss before, it’s like touching lightning, like tasting the sunrise, and the nightfall and the full moon and blood and death and life and glory.

For a second, she is his, as much as he is hers.

And then she pulls away and steps back and leaves the God of War wobbling on his feet, dazed as though he were in a battle trance.

“Stay out of trouble,” she says, her voice even, unaffected.

He stares after her, mouth open, unblinking.

She doesn’t look back, not even when she hears him pop out of the hall, but she touches her lips, gently, briefly, before pulling open the doors that lead out into the bright sunlight.

There’s a slave trader outside Athens who’s been taking his supplies from surrounding villages.

She needs to see about teaching him a lesson.

~end~

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