"Fever"

By Aresbitch

Disclaimer: Not mine, just doing this for fun.

Summary: Ares and Xena connect. Or not.

Rated PG-13

Note: This is angst fic, because I love angst. It's also written in second person and probably falls over the edge into purple prose. Apologies, but this is what I wanted to write.

~~

You can't remember much of the battle.

Only that you lived.

And others didn't.

You sent Gabrielle back to the village, and for once she didn't argue. You need to be alone.

In times like this, right after a hard-fought battle, you need to be alone.

He's still in your blood, like a fever.

Your hands are shaking. The memory, the sight, of him standing on the ridge above the battle, power radiating from him, hands glowing with balls of lightning, ready to turn the tide from one side to the other.

At his whim.

Always at his whim.

It wasn't about who was right and who was wrong, only who was stronger, better, swifter.

You felt his eyes on you and you fought harder, running over you and you drove the steel of your blade in deeper.

The spray of blood across your skin was like the lick of his tongue.

A kiss before dying.

Arm burning from fatigue, lips bitten in fury, the harder you fought the more you felt him.

Inside you.

Now, in the aftermath, you can't stop feeling him.

Like opium, like wine.

Like your own heart beating.

Wanting him.

Your name exhaled shimmers through you like heat through a desert and you throw your head back, mouth opening.

Already his.

Arm around your waist, fingers splayed down over your belly, dipping lower until all you can do is lean back against him, wait for him.

The power is still in his hands, the lightning white glow turning red with passion.

The passion you have for him, the passion you share with him.

Breathing fire in your ear, mouth like the kiss of a scorpion's sting against your throat, he sways you, moves you, and you let him, lost in the sheer male power of him.

He lines his body against yours, presses his hips into your back, and you wonder how you ever thought he was bad for you.

The metal falls from your body and his hands soothe the creases they left on your skin. Like rain after too many hot days, his touch is cool and gentle, calming the fire under your skin.

It makes your heart race faster, makes you tremble until you feel his mouth move up, and eager as a newborn calf, you turn to meet his urgent kiss. Driving your tongue deeply into his mouth, you snarl your fingers through his hair.

Holding him, possessing him.

Loving him.

You can't be with him, he's a god and you're not. You'll die and he never will. You can't have children with him; bear him demi-gods and heroes while your boy sits in the Elysian Fields waiting for a mother who never comes.

He can't travel with you. What kind of god seeks the company of mortals, who doesn't grow to see them as small and weak and needing guidance?

So what you have is the moments you steal, pretending it's nothing more than an echo of who you used to be, and you love him the only way you can, with your hands and mouth instead of words and thoughts.

You let him pick you up. You wrap your legs around his hips as he pushes you up against a tree.

You close your eyes against the folly of giving in, and wait.

He drives into you and you bite your lip to keep from screaming out his name, to keep from giving him more than you can bear to lose. But you cradle him with your hips and you cup his face in your hands, and you stare into his eyes like storm clouds. You let him see the desire you have for him. And you pretend you don't see the love in his eyes.

There is no room in your life, or his immortality, for something so hopeless.

When the storm passes and you're both gasping and spent, trembling like reeds in the wind, he lets your legs slide down and takes one step back. Two.

The new space between your bodies is greater than the length of Chin, and you swallow against the dryness of your throat, unsure of what to say.

There's a vulnerability in his eyes that makes you waver.

But only for a second.

Then it's gone like sand sweeping over the pyramids.

He opens his mouth to say something, no doubt caustic and mocking. Now you turn your back on him, tell him in a cold, merciless voice what a mistake the last few moments were.

And then you listen to the silence behind you, as heavy as Sisyphus' rock, and you wait.

When the tingling fades from your spine, when your heart no longer beats like a war drum, you turn around again.

Not even his footprints remain.

You unpack your saddlebag, spread out your blanket, and wait for Aurora to light the sky with her pink kiss.

~~

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