Full credit goes to the-lito on livejournal.


Sometimes—

now, since the wedding and the fateful cup—

she dreamed of lives she'd never lived. Where she wore capes of velvet, layered skirts of silk and satin, tight bodices that laced up in back. Her hair was in tight ringlets, shorn away for wigs, crimped in short finger waves. The people spoke to her in French, in German, in southern twangs, in Gaelic, in ancient Greek. There were balls and wars and steamships on muggy twilight rivers. She could see back through the storied past, could almost think she was breathing and laughing and walking beside people centuries dead. The sunlight and rain and breeze and dust and smoke felt so real against her skin.

Then she'd awake, still in her spacious bed in their luxury apartment. He would be stretched out beside her, chest rising and falling with reassuring steadiness, and she would curl close and savor the heat from his body. It was hard sometimes, in that moment between dreaming and waking, to remember just what was real. But Dionysus was like a life-line. The reassuring tether between the memories she should not have and the new life that she had never thought possible. Not in all of her dreams before.

One night she jumped awake violently—snapped from a vision of poker chips scattered across a green table, the smoke of cigars hanging heavily beneath the swinging lanterns, her gold satin skirts pressing against her thighs as she sipped a grimy glass of gin. There had been a man in a weathered, frayed hat across the table, brim pulled low to cast his eyes in shadow, and as the dark gentleman at her side, a man she would have sworn wore Dionysus' face, had reached forward to scoop up his winnings the shadowed man had drawn a revolver from his holster and pulled the trigger. The sharp pop of the gun had been deafening, and as she opened her mouth to scream she found herself staring up at a lofted ceiling.

This was no dusty saloon in the Old West. She was safe in her clean bedroom, in her four-poster bed. And her husband still lay quietly beside her. There had been no gunshot, no blood, no terrible wound to staunch with a kerchief.

When she turned to him she discovered that he wasn't asleep after all; the dim moonlight glittered off his dark eyes as he stretched out an arm to encircle her waist.

"Bad dream, Slim?" he murmured.

"Something like that," she said, letting him draw her in closer. She pressed her face to his wrinkled t-shirt, breathed in the clean, masculine scent of his skin. There was always a vague smell of wine about him no matter how much aftershave he used, but it wasn't the bitter, stale scent of booze most drunks wore. He smelled like a vineyard at the height of summer, earthy and warm and soothing. When the vines hung low and the grapes were begging to be pressed.

"Been having a lot of dreams lately?"

"A few," she confessed without much hesitation. "I've always been a vivid dreamer."

"Anything different about these, though?"

She shifted to look into his face. "You're either a very smart fisherman or you already knew there'd be something to take that bait."

"Well, you areimmortal now," he said, giving her that half-smirk that was so patently his. "A change like that, it's bound to have some unusual side effects."

"Does this happen to everyone?"

"Sugar, I honestly can't say, since I've never had such a transitional period. I bet Psyche could clear up matters a bit on that count, though."

"It's just so… Frightening," she said after a long pause for thought. She took one of his hands and stared at it, studied it—the lines across each knuckle, the curve of his nails. A normal, average, very male hand. Nothing there to hint that it belonged to a god, the embodiment of revelry and alcohol, a being thousands of years old disguised as a handsome playboy.

"Frightening?" he echoed softly as he slid those fingers between hers, pressing gently until their hands had folded into a fist.

"It's overwhelming when I actually stop and think."

"Oh, I never recommend doing that."

"I know." She smiled, a quick flash of white teeth in the semi-darkness. "But we can't all be social butterflies, Steve. I'm no stranger to introspection. Used to be a time when all I did was think and sing. And dream. About the things I would do, the places I'd see, the people I'd meet. When I was free from the past and my father. Our fucked up family legacy. Thing is: I never dreamed of this. You. Living forever. How do you do it?"

He was quiet. She started counting his breaths by each rise of his chest. At eighty-eight, he spoke.

"It was different before. Before the Pact, I mean. Time was a whole 'nother beast for us. Like a waterfall. And now it's a dripping faucet. It flowed so quickly. Before. Our minds, brains, consciousness—whatever you call it—didn't do so well with particulars. It was always people, rarely a person. Always seasons, never days. It took a lot of effort to focus on one moment. It was like… Feeling everything and nothing all at once. The power consumed us and carried us along, and we never really questioned that. We did our duties because we wereour duties, but it was a lot of blind impulse and brute force. It was for me, anyway. Maybe it was different for the others. It was probably different for them. Eros was different, I think. Athena. Artemis. Hephaestus."

He sighed heavily. Lifted their joined hands. Watched the moonlight glint off her engagement and wedding rings. His thumb caressed hers, sliding down slowly to rub gentle swirls across the skin.

"Now it's like… Breathing. I can't remember breathing before. The feel of it. The weight of it. And heartbeats. I can count them, when before it was like a hummingbird's. Everything's been reversed. To taste the true power, what it was like on Olympus, I have to focus every bit of myself—and it only lasts for a fraction of a second. Now, I can feel it in my throat sometimes. But my blood doesn't burn with it. And… I think that's a good thing. I feel more now that I can't feel everything. I can appreciate, and understand, and really see. I lived thousands of years before the Pact, and I could tell you everything I remember from those millennia in an hour. But since the Pact? It would take a lifetime to recount all of that. I think that's why we've lasted. Because we weren't built to remember, not the way mortals do. Time's slower since the Pact, and the feelings and experiences are more solid and vibrant. But even now I sometimes—for a heartbeat, or a blink of an eye—can feel the flow of the universe. And it's like a rush of cold air on a hot day. Or a glass of water on the beach. It gives me relief and strength, and that helps, too. It pushes back the press of time and makes everything new again. And that's how I live now. Day to day, beat to beat. Next to you. With you in my arms."

Tears were prickling the corners of her eyes and she couldn't even say why. It was his tone of voice, longing and wistful and sad and sincere, so unlike his usual flippant, suggestive cadence. And the words as they flowed over her made her feel and see everything he described, until her heart felt close to breaking. The softness of his touch, the way he stared at their hands with over-bright eyes in the intimate shadows of their bed…

She had never seen him like this. He was suddenly a stranger in their familiar bed, a much younger, frailer man awed by something so great even he could hardly understand it. The powerful deity was stripped away, all of his knowing air and smug confidence pulled back to reveal the purely mortal half created in the signing of a fateful agreement. Herewas the man, not the god, that she had known lay beneath—the man she'd married, not the god she'd made love to that first night.

"…And now that I think about it, guess I havegone through a transitional period, huh?"

Ariadne pushed herself up on her free arm. Leaned over her husband. Kissed him gently; then with growing pressure. He let go of her hand only to take hold of her shoulder, then cupped her flushing face in warm palms. His fingertips brushed the edge of her ear as his tongue slid over her lips, feather-light and so delirious—and then they were tangling together, arms and legs and fingers, her raven hair catching in his eyelashes.

"I love you, I love you. All of you," she whispered against his neck, breathless and aching, dizzy with the touch, the smell, the taste of him. "You're worth it, you're worth everything, any price."

"Eternity?" he said. "Forever?"

"Only with you. Immortality would be pointless without you."

His hand was at her hip, pressed against the waistband of her yoga pants, but it was gradually moving upwards. The fabric of her shirt bunched up, lifted, and his fingers were so, sowarm against her back. He moved so gradually it sent shivers through her bones, and then his hand was ghosting over her belly, her ribs, before reaching the swell of her breast. He drew a line around the curve with the pad of his thumb. She couldn't help but sigh.

"I'm yours, sugar. You're mine. This is ours. We're a matched pair now. Thick and thin, pale and flush, better and worse."

"Always," she agreed, pulling away to tug the shirt off over her head.

He looked up at her. The way the moonlight framed her shoulders and caught, glittering, in her tousled hair took his breath away. Made his heart race. She'd always been pale, iridescent, in the dark. But since the wedding and the Ambrosia she glowed with an inner light, a light to match his own. He knew he burned too brightly sometimes, too hot and harsh and overbearing, his passion consuming the way a fire devoured forest. But she was more like moonlight; yes, the same moonlight that haloed her now. A more forgiving, soothing light that cradled rather than scorched.

"Fuck me, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he murmured, with such soft sincerity that her heart leapt beneath her ribs.

Men had said as much before, but she had never truly believed it, not when all they really wanted was a quick fuck backstage in between sets, not when they made promises emptier than her bed in the morning. Theseus she had believed, but he had been the one to shatter her naiveté, and in the aftermath she had re-forged herself into something harder and more impervious. She had smiled or laughed at every such declaration—not until Dionysius had she believed it again. When he said it, it was no mere ploy to get between her legs; it hadn't been even on that first night, when both of their minds had been firmly on his bed. And it was no claim of ownership, either, the way it was with some men. So many said a woman was beautiful merely as a way of bragging that they had won some shiny new prize; that theywere special because they owned something others would admire.

No, with Dionysius the common compliment was something else entirely. He told her she was beautiful because he had seen a truth he couldn't help but admit. Because looking at her made him feel something inexpressible, and the only way to come close was to say, in a simple and unavoidable way, that she was better than all of the great paintings, golden landscapes, finely wrought jewelry, composed music, and distant stars combined in his eyes. She was beautiful and he was moved. Because it was less about having and more about being, and sharing. He felt privileged in her presence, and knowing that he admired her—allof her—made her feel more confident than a dozen awards.

She pulled her hair back from her shoulders, fine-boned hands sweeping up the messy black curls, and his breath hitched audibly in his throat as he watched the muscles move beneath her skin. The rhythm of her arms and shoulders as she lifted and pulled, the rise and fall of her breasts. Knowing that she, a mortal woman turned something else entirely, could have such an effect on him was a thrill. With just a turn she could leave him breathless and in her thrall.

"Sugar," he managed to say in a hoarse whisper, licking his suddenly dry lips, "I hope you're planning to follow through, because I'm reaching the point of no return here."

Ariadne let the hair fall back and leaned forward over him in a decidedly feline stretch, arms framing her pale breasts. Her hands brushed over the obvious bulge. She arched a dark eyebrow. He bit his lip. She smiled, and it was a predator's smile. Full of teeth and promise.

Her hands hovered over the drawstring of his sweatpants for a moment, before moving upwards. Slowly, to the point of infuriating distraction, she pushed back the faded t-shirt. The exposed skin of his stomach immediately goosebumped in the cooler air. Then she was leaning even closer to press a feather-light kiss to the spot just above his navel. He sighed audibly, hands clenching at his sides, as she continued up over the ridges of his abs and ribs. She took hold of the shirt with both hands, balling the fabric up between her fingers as she pulled—he lifted his arms obediently. The shirt disappeared into the darkness beyond the bed. He didn't follow its trajectory, far too focused on her mouth at his collarbone.

She looked up with eyes huge and luminous, chin resting against his chest. Her expression altered in the blink of an eye, shifting from pure seduction to something unreadable but intense. He opened his mouth around the question, but her fingers pressed against his lips in a quelling gesture. They lay there silently as the tip of her finger traced his bottom lip.

"…Why me?" she said finally in little more than a whisper. It still shattered the warm silence.

She'd asked the same question once before, when he proposed. It had spilled from her in the initial shock before the "Yes!" could rush forward. Because for all of their serious talk about relationships and love, and despite the more than heated tussles between (and on, and without) sheets, a rather large part of her had never expected it to last. She was a woman made to be abandoned and forgotten; or so it had always felt. Before.

And wasn't that what her life had become? Before and after. There had been a separating line drawn in the sand, and that line had been Dionysius. Before had been disappointment. Loneliness. An echoing emptiness that nothing would ever fill. A longing for the things everyone else seemed to take for granted: a home, a family that would care and support her, a sense of belonging.

Now? After? There was contentment. Moments of joy. Excitement. Public and private success. A place she could call her own—in a beautiful building, in a good man's heart. And while the Olympians could be worse than a bag full of cats, with their in-fighting and petty jealousies, they were still a family. People who would intervene if things went bad, and took an interest in one another's lives. Finally, finally, she'd found a place—as mad as it was—where she felt like she belonged. Fit in.

A part of her wondered when she'd wake up.

Another hoped she never would.

"Ariadne," he said quietly, hands sliding up her arms, reassuringly real and firm. He used her name so rarely; this never bothered her. She loved the names he'd given her, and she'd always thought her birth name a bit unwieldy. But when he diduse it, it was always softly spoken. Her name was safe in his mouth.

The answer he gave her last time had been cheeky and very, very him. "Because I love you and those mile-long legs, gorgeous! Because I want to wake up to that beautiful smile every morning. And I can't even imaginegoing out on the town with anyone else on my arm any more!"

It had been enough in that moment because she'd see the warm glow in his eyes, and knew it was more serious than that. There hadn't been a need for deep sincerity in that joyous, jubilant flash.

Now…

"I love you," he said. Paused. Swallowed. He'd never said it in that tone. "Before… I didn't think I wanted to. Love someone. Not the way I love you. Before, I wanted sex and fun. End all, be all. I wanted to make life a never-ending party. Hangovers and regrets and morning afters were for chumps. I wanted cups that were never dry, ladies that were always smiling, neon lights, and loud music. I knew what I wanted. I went for it.

"The first time I felt doubt was with you. Because I suddenly realized how empty things were in the shallow end. Parties are all well and good, but they're better when you've got a real reason to celebrate. When you've got someone to celebrate with. And you… You were the first person I didn't want to disappoint. The first person I worried about, and wanted to truly impress. I care about you. All of you. I think about you all the time, to the point of distraction. I wonder what you're thinking, feeling, doing—I dream about you. About us. About how good it feels to have someone to share everything with, from the most trivial to the profound. I had fun before you, sure, I'll admit that. But I wasn't happyuntil I met you. I don't ever want to lose that. I don't think I could bear that."

He stopped abruptly. Gasped a breath. And she saw the glint at the corners of his eyes.

She'd seen him passionate. Exuberant. Furious. Exhausted. Sarcastic.

She'd never seen him cry.

Heartbeat thunderous in her ears, she kissed him. Tried to impress the full force of her emotions on hot, bruising lips. Wrapped her arms around him, flesh to flesh, and could almost hear the music thrumming between their bodies. She was all jazzy rhythm; he was the guiding drumbeat. Her hair tangled and knotted around his clutching hands but she didn't mind the pain because all that mattered was being as close to him as possible.

She clung to his neck and shoulders as his leg hooked hers and his hips twisted; she rolled, carried by his momentum, and he caught her gasp on his tongue. His hands slid down her sides, leaving fevers in his wake. The last of their clothing joined the sheets on the floor. The pillows followed suit. Her hair was spread across the mattress as she dug her fingers into the curves of his shoulders. She yearned for him in a way that was overpowering and almost frightening; desire this consuming should be impossible, and the tiniest sliver of her that was still sane and rational wondered if thiswasn't part of immortality. The taste of forever on his skin. More intoxicating than the strongest wine.

His hand at her hip slid down and in, curving around her thigh. She bucked up at the touch, already balancing on a tripwire, and didn't try to bite down on the whimper that escaped her. His mouth smiled against her throat and she felt the edge of his teeth scrape her skin. He touched her in a way that made every sensation feel startlingly new, as if he were discovering her buttons for the first time.

"Dionysius," she moaned, and if her name was rare in his mouth, his was almost unheard of from hers. It sent a jolt through him, the fizzy kick of champagne.

He thrust. She arched. Her thigh pressed tightly against his hip. She wrapped her arms around his neck, hands digging into his back and shoulders, and held on for dear life. Her mouth was at his ear and he heard every hitch in her breath, every moan. He was wrapped in her, buried in her, drowning in her, there was nothing buther in the universe. The scent of lilacs clinging to her skin. The sharp red nails that bit into his back. The wild echo of her heart against his chest. The feel of her wrapped around him like a second, more precious skin. Everything was slick and tight and warm and soft, and how he loved making her sigh like that…

"Ariadne, look at me."

She turned her head and tried to focus beyond the dizzying pleasure and pressure. Her pale eyes were glazed and half-lidded; his were dark, full of hot, hungry promise. He wanted to see her face at the last moment, watch as the world crumbled for just one brief flash.

"Dionysius," she said, voice trembling to match their bodies. "Forever."

"Forever."

She said his name again, but it dissolved into a scream. Everything went black and white in the flood of the aftermath. But it didn't last, the too-bright-burn against the eyelids, the staccato heartbeats and labored breathing, the uncontrollable shakes and shivers. Like all things in the mortal world it passed in a matter of moments. Only they remained. As they always would, she now realized in a full and dizzying way. The experiences would be finite but they would also be infinitely repeatable, infinitely changeable, and only he would be her constant. Her tether between the everyday and the vastness of immortality.

He had practically collapsed over her in the last spasm. His head now rested heavily on her shoulder, his breath hot against her neck with his legs draped over hers, and she relished the way it felt. Every bit of tension had been erased and his entire body had relaxed into warm satisfaction. He mumbled drowsily as she shifted slightly, his arms tightening to keep her close, and she thought—funnily enough—of a big cat purring in the sun.

"How typical," she murmured fondly, combing her fingers through his thick, damp hair, shaping it into peaks and swirls. "How like a man, to fall asleep right after."

"Maybe I'm just regrouping," he said, voice muffled against her skin.

She didn't dream again.

That night, anyway.