Till death do us part
(c) 2024 by ihatemilk
Trailer: It's not love; the God of War can't love. But he can't live without her, either. Two thousand years in a tomb only made it worse. But obsessions can be cured; it's nothing a good therapy won't fix. And he's a billionaire, he can afford the best.
She made it clear there was no them. So why the jealousy when he moves on? Wasn't this what she wanted?
They wouldn't work, anyway. He's not ready for how vulnerable she makes him. And she'll never trust the life-long enemy, no matter how weak in the knees he makes her. There's no future for them, not the one he turns out to want - her, all of her, a life together, the commitment she can't give him. But it becomes hard to push him away when his actions start confusing her; when, for the first time ever, he just takes care of her. And makes love to her like no one ever has.
#darkness, #angst, #romance, #passion, #desire, #obsession, #sexual tension, #emotional sex, #emotional rollercoaster, #love, #infidelity, #alcohol abuse, #heartbreak, #heartache, #introspection, #inner dialogue, #inner conflict, #stream of consciousness,#emotional hurt/comfort, #psychological drama
Author's notes: In the XWP 6th-season episode "Soul Possession" when they meet in the XXI century, Xena rejects him again. But the God of War doesn't cry – he starts another war – in Yemen – where she almost dies – and their lives take a turn they're not ready for.
(the story is partly, loosely, randomly and semi-accurately based on real events from Yemeni civil war).
Pairing: Xena/Ares (F/M), alleged Xena/Gabrielle (F/F) Rating: M
Copyright disclaimer: The characters from the series Xena: Warrior Princess belong to the Renaissance Pictures. The songs lyrics belong to respective owners.
August 2013
It was mid-August of 2013 and Dubai was hot this time of the year, just the way he loved it.
And that was about the only good thing he could say about the last couple of weeks. He'd had his ups and downs since he started his new reign on Earth in 1930's, but this — now — was the worst he'd felt in a long time.
Seriously, he'd been way better off locked in the damn tomb.
But he loved his Dubai home.
On days like this, he found comfort here that he couldn't find anywhere else. It was the first place since Olympus that felt like home. Then again, he had intended Burj Khalifa to be just that. The top of the world; his own, private Olympus, overlooking the city he had built from scratch.
Opening the sliding door of the first-floor terrace of the two-story penthouse, he glanced over at the weather station screen claiming it was 05:20 am and 16 degrees Celsius; a bit chilly to be standing there almost nude. He could fix the garment situation with a snap of his fingers but didn't bother. In this new life, he liked to expose himself to those little discomforts at times. It made him feel alive.
He stepped onto the warm terrace flooring and took a look around. He loved his home but this — nothing felt as good as collapsing on the black puffy sofa and reaching for the half-open packet of Marlboro Reds 100's on the little rattan coffee table in front of him — one of the very few items of furniture scattered around the spacious terrace. How come he'd never appreciated the strikingly obvious beauty of minimalism just until recently — that he didn't know.
He put a cigarette in his mouth and produced a tiny fireball at the tip of his thumb, as he always did when alone; godly powers were still fun. She would smile at this, he could see it; and give him a look that one gives a five-year-old when they bring a hideous drawing you should praise them for. He chuckled at the thought.
Drawing the first hit deep into his lungs, he pushed back against the cushion and took in the landscape that the 108th floor usually offered a full, unobstructed view of.
Dubai was beautiful on its own, but on a morning like this - it was unearthly; right before the sunrise, while the fog still lingered, enveloping the lower parts of the city in its cloudy puffiness, letting just the skyscrapers get through. It was a rare sight in these parts, and it only lasted a moment before the break of dawn. Whenever he was here to see it, he would always find himself mesmerized by it.
It was what that view and her had in common.
Xena. Despite his best efforts to numb himself to the notion of her existence, the very sound of that name made every cell of his body itch in a way that made him want to shoot his brains off.
She was like a fucking disease; like poison. Like a fun new drug that gets you the highest you've ever been for those sweet first moments, and then is always there every next step of the way — when everyone tells you that maybe it's too much, maybe you have a problem — and you might even listen, might try to walk away, but no matter how far you go, it keeps burning you from the inside — and then later, when you lose your job, your family, your home — it's always there, like a permanent flame, like an itch you can never scratch enough, so itchy it makes you want to peel your skin off, scream your lungs out.
He couldn't, he just fucking couldn't get her out of his head. The more he tried, the worse it was, and no amount of war, women or substances — nothing helped anymore. It was just like he'd told her once, in her previous life, when he'd tried to trick her into marrying him so she wouldn't mess up his business with Dahak — he couldn't get her out if his head or his heart, only this time it was for real.
Maybe it was his damn karma for all those years of teasing her. Or maybe he was cursed. He'd hoped it would die down with time, this damn effect she had on him, but how fucking long did he still need to wait if two millennia hadn't done the trick?
Two thousand years in a fucking tomb — for nothing. The last sixty years of having an army of mortals comb through every nook and cranny of the planet, in search for his last hope — the contract that made her his wife in this lifetime — all for nothing — all of it for her to neatly place the papyrus in the trajectory of his fireball at the damn conference last week. Well, he was an idiot to let her provoke him into a fight with the scroll in his hand in the first place; but it felt too good not to; he missed her too much.
And here he was, a week later, back to square one. Two thousand fucking years — only to be back to the damn cat-and-mouse all over again.
Well, this time he wasn't having it. This time, he made the rules; and he wanted it all — she'd either be his, or won't be at all. Till death do us part, Xena… he had let her run away from the altar once, but he was going to show her the meaning of those words this time, no matter what it took. Anything in-between was just going to drive him to the brink of insanity. He had tried the middle ground, oh he had, he had for years. Well, this was it. He was done.
And insanity — at times it didn't seem too far away at all, after all the centuries in a tomb she'd locked him in; waiting for her to come back, get him out, make him feel alive again. What a fitting metaphor for this whole sick relationship. She pushed him back in that tomb every time she pushed him away, denying them, denying what he knew she felt too — what her body betrayed every time he was near — and that enraged him the most. Oh, she might try to fool him, to fool herself, as she had for years — but whatever for? She knew he wouldn't really hurt her — he'd never been able to when push came to shove. Didn't he always have her back in the end? Alright, showing up at the conference to claim her soul with the contract might have been a little upfront. But then again, she would always find her fucked up reasons not to let him in. Oh, not because she didn't want to.
She was scared.
A fucking coward, that was who she was. He was bad for her, her favorite line. What was she afraid of? That being with him will turn her back into the Destroyer of Nations? Not that he wouldn't love it, but she would be delusional to believe there was still any chance for it to happen. Even he had long lost faith in it. No, he damn well knew what it was. The blonde goody-two-shoes; just as two millennia ago, always between them, the unavoidable obstacle, only this time it was even worse — they were married, Gabrielle and her. If he hadn't been able to get between the two when the blonde and her were just friends, the prospects of achieving anything now didn't look too promising.
Unless, of course, the obstacle should be removed from the picture.
He liked to entertain the idea every now and then. And it was so easy. Gabrielle was a mere mortal, and he was a god — it was no challenge to cover his tracks the way that even Xena wouldn't sherlock out. So little, so little effort to cancel out the noise; to have her just for himself.
But something always stopped him; which made no sense, really. He'd hated the pesky little sidekick since day one; and yet — somehow, contrary to all logic, for some reasons he didn't want to get into — he couldn't. Besides, Xena would still keep her defenses up, maybe even more, maybe even find a way to blame it all on him. And honestly, he was just tired already, exhausted with wasting his life enduring all the emotional mindfuckery this relationship had put him through.
He squashed the stub in the black, stone ashtray. The fog was gone, revealing the city in all its morning beauty; still sleepy, but ready to start a new day. Which he couldn't say about himself. Frowning, he headed back to bed.
Maybe it wasn't worth it anymore.
Seriously, he'd been way better off locked in the damn tomb.
#
He didn't know how long he'd been in bed; felt like forever; and could as well have been, for all he cared.
He slept through most of the day for sure, as he usually did on one of those days — a system overload — when everything was a drag and he didn't even feel like blowing things up. He used to fight those moods, but not anymore. Nowadays, on a day like this he didn't bother to force himself to do anything more than basic.
It did worry him, though, that he had moods in the first place — this wasn't quite what he remembered himself to be like; even Aphrodite pointed it out. She joked that the two-thousand-year time-out was apparently a long enough time for him to come to a conclusion that maybe it was worth a try to develop some basic emotions, at least.
Following the intricate lines of the sand-colored, messy clay patterns of the ceiling, he marveled at how effortlessly it blended with the walls, fucking with geometry in the most eye-pleasing way. He was quite proud of how this interior turned out; the vision had been on his mind for quite some time, ever since he came across that Berber sandcastle in Sahara during one of his North-African campaigns. A house made of sand. As simple as that. There was something so comforting, so soothing about this simplicity.
He remembered she'd been to North Africa back in the day; she would love it. The desert, with its ruthlessness, dazing beauty, raw simplicity — it was so much like her.
What started as a deep breath turned into a sigh, ending up a throaty groan at the memory of last night's talk with his sister. It still made his fists clench. What started off as an innocent small-talk turned into a damn interrogation and lecturing — of course Aphrodite knew about his starry performance at the conference — it was hard not to — it was all over the news.
"What do you really want from her, Ar? Like, really."
"If you haven't figured that out by now — I'm afraid I can't help you…"
"So, like, if you still had the contract and used it, and made her yours, would that do it for you? Would that make you happy?"
"I kinda lost the chance to find out, in case you haven't noticed."
"I mean, like, if she was now yours, against her will—"
"What's your point?" he sighed.
"Just — wouldn't you like it better if she, like, wanted to be yours — instead of you forcing her? It's just an idea," she raised her palms.
"Well, thanks, miss obvious."
"So, you would rather have her want you of her own free will, right?"
Seriously, he never rolled his eyes so much as when he talked with his sister. "Take a one good fucking guess."
"How am I supposed to know?! Honestly, Ar... I wouldn't put it past you to get off on keeping her locked in a cage... for all I know — oh by the gods, no — now don't tell me you're actually considering it—"
"Look, you don't get it. I'm fed up, Dite, I don't care—"
"Hon, but you're aware you're being the same idiot as the last time? And the time before that? Like — think about it — have you ever succeeded at forcing her into anything?"
"I would've if it—"
"You haven't, babe. All you've ever achieved was push her further away. And I'm sorry but I've been watching this damn soap opera for way too long — and I swear I'm gonna lose it big if you don't listen to me this time."
"Oh yeah? So what's your great, miraculous—"
"Ar, it's not about miracles, it's about working on yourself..."
"You planning to start making more sense anytime soon?"
"It's about working on your attitude. Stating your goal and applying the right strategy to achieve it."
"Okay, now you're talking. So the goal is to make her mine, so now what? What's your great strategy?"
"No, honey bear, the goal — is to make her wanna be with you."
"Yeah, good luck with that..."
"Let me finish! You need to figure out what she wants and give it to her. Find out what she wants first. Okay... uh… I can see you haven't given it much thought before... Well then, you might wanna focus on that for a start."
"She wants me to fuck off, in case you haven't noticed."
"Honey, of course she does, when you act the way you always do... You know, a very wise old guy I used to date once said that you have to be crazy to do the same thing over and over again and expect a different outcome. But okay, let's put it this way — it's about what she wants in a man."
"I think she already answered that question when she fucked Hercules."
"Oh come on, Ar... not that again..."
"Thanks for your insight, sis, you've given me a lot to think about."
"Babe, please, come on... It's not gonna—"
He never heard the end of that sentence. That was pretty much how the coaching with the Love Goddess went. He loved his sister dearly but sometimes — he just had to go.
Fuck it, he was going to make it happen on his own, one way or another.
He was the God of War, for fuck's sake, and he always got what he wanted.
Always.
#
Days passed but he couldn't say he felt any better.
And, on top of that, the flashbacks of his talks with Dite would sting him in the weirdest times, and with such frequency that he even wondered if she was screwing with his mind somehow.
But whatever coaching nonsense his sister tried to piss him off with, she was right about one thing. It was high time to get over the damn conference fiasco and get back to business.
The heavy scent of oudh incense hit his nostrils as he materialized himself in the only place that offered the comfort he needed now more than ever. It was a far cry from Halls of War, and fully intentional — he wanted to cut off from things reminding him of the ancient Greece with her in it, all the fucking memories of her that were a disease that hindered him from living and breathing freely.
Would it help if she died?
Back in Greece it didn't. It only made it worse for decades.
But maybe it was worth it. Suffer for a while to be free for the rest of his life... only that he knew he wouldn't make it to stop himself from searching the earth for her new incarnations, and then it would all be in vain, the vicious circle continuing as it had so far.
Maybe he should just take her by force. Maybe this obsession only lasted as long as he didn't have her. Maybe a simple conquest was all there was to it. It was like that for him with everything else, why should this instance be different?
He needed a drink. And fuck no, he wasn't going to let her spoil his afternoon. This was his oasis and he wasn't bringing her here. He scanned the surroundings, reveling in the way the cavern-like living room was filled with the warm glow of the setting sun additionally reflected in the many little mirrors spread around the place for this very purpose. He could've just made the drink appear in his hand, but the current ambiance got him in the mood to walk over to the bar and pour himself a glass of scotch the mortal way.
Catching a glimpse of his white-clad silhouette in one of the mirrors, he realized he was still wearing the kandoora he wore to the board meeting at the Emirates National Oil Company, and, dismissing the instant thought of her reaction if she saw him now, he chose not to change. He had to admit he enjoyed wearing traditional local clothing; it was comfortable, perfect for the heat, and beautifully simple. And there was something admirable, noble even, about the Emirati and how they preserved their traditions, not switching to suits and ties even under the heavy influx of Westerners over their lands.
Stopping at the terrace doors, he took a sip of his scotch and, fixing his eyes at some random point in the distance, he thought back to the dilemma that had been on his mind all day.
He needed to step down. Being the CEO of ENOC had served its purpose so far but it currently blocked him from making his new business ventures come into life. On the other hand, it was being the CEO of ENOC that made those potential ventures make sense in the first place, and besides, stepping down would spark too much attention — which was never beneficial for him. He needed some walk-around. Someone clever who had at their hands a lot of ropes to pull behind the scenes, to save him time, enormous amount of time he'd otherwise have to spend boring himself to death by attending to all the dull little formalities the very thought of which made him tired.
It wasn't about money — he was the godfather of the Middle East oil business — but the thing was, being in the industry for over half a century now, he needed entertainment every now and then, to rouse the chess board, get his juices flowing. Exploring new opportunities, capitalizing on the business talent he never knew he had — it made life less dull. And kept him occupied whenever war didn't. And he needed to be occupied. Whenever he wasn't, she would crawl back into his mind, like a poisonous fume; and linger, and wear him down. And he didn't know how much more he could take.
He stepped out on to the terrace, lazily reaching down for the red and white packet on the rattan table to his right. Even with the subtle sand fog, the cityscape basked in the rich orange was breathtaking. It wasn't called the golden hour for nothing.
His city.
He took a hit of the cigarette and blew the smoke out, wondering if she would love it as much as he did.
#
He could forget about working.
Whether it was due to having finished the second bottle of Dewar's, or this fucking spell she had him under, which only got worse when he was shitfaced — but he couldn't focus. He was dying to check on her, see what she was up to. It was just plain curiosity; after all, he just brought her past incarnation into a world that she knew nothing about. Well, she did still have her memories from her life as Harry — she had to, at least to an extent, right? But anyway, she was practically starting her life from scratch now. What was she going to do for a living? The old Xena would become an assassin, or the mafia boss; gods, it almost made him hard to imagine it. Thinking what career her current self was likely to choose only made him raise his eyebrows in a grimace of disappointment. Not to mention if Gabrielle had any say in it, and it couldn't possibly be otherwise.
Gods, how he wanted to see her. Actually, why the fuck not? Back in Greece he'd pop in anytime. What was it that made it different now?
Of course, his damn sister. Damn Aphrodite and her blabbering.
What was it that she said? That one has to be insane to apply the same strategy repeatedly and expect a different result? Well, that might have just been the one thing that happened to make any sense.
Although, the longer he dwelled on it, the more his teeth gritted.
Was this what he did with her? Well, he might have been too consistent in his approach to win her back, maybe not hmm... creative enough? Too predictable? Maybe it was time to up his game.
A new strategy, that was what he needed.
"...figure out what she wants and give it to her..."
How the hell was he supposed to know what it was she wanted? It wasn't like she was going to tell him. And he sure as hell wasn't going to stoop so low as to get himself a shrink as per his sister's ridiculous suggestion.
"Honey, every top-tier player has their own shrink nowadays — showbiz, politics — you name it..."
"Oh, really... since when are you into politics, Dite?"
"You mean, into politicians — it's been a while, actually. Ever since I met the cute Secretary of Defense..." Aphrodite giggled, biting her lip.
"Now that I can believe in... Wait, what? As in - the current Secretary of Defense, of the US?"
"What? He reminds me of Hephie," she smiled sheepishly.
"Isn't he like eighty?"
"Oh, that's rich coming from a guy whose age can be measured in millennia... Though, if you mean whether he's still got it - you would be surprised to see what today's pharmacology has to offer in that department—"
"Oh, gods, please don't..."
"What? And anyway, stop dodging the subject! Here."
"What's this?"
"My therapist. Call her and make an appointment."
"Her?"
"Hey — don't fuck my shrink."
"Don't worry, sis — if she's anything like you, she's safe."
"You have until tomorrow. Otherwise, I'll come back and you'll be hearing all about how great mature men are in bed—"
"Bye, Dite!"
Gods, the pesky image of his sister with the guy he'd worked with for years still made him lose his appetite. On the other hand, the idea of talking about his private life to anyone other than his sister — which was a pain in the ass on its own — didn't seem any more appealing. The more he thought about it, about lowering himself like that, exposing himself to some random mortal — a stranger at that — the more he loathed the whole idea.
"You can't hate what you haven't tried, babe. And remember that no matter what, I love you sweet pea, and you can always come and share things with your sis."
"Yeah… thanks Dite, it's a tough choice but I'll think about it."
Oh, fuck it. Just to stop her from busting his balls.
He did. He called, he went. He didn't like it.
He didn't hate it as he'd expected to, but he didn't like — maybe not the notion of the counseling itself, but the doctor — she didn't just look the part — she was indeed dumb as fuck. And even the fuck didn't quite make up for it; either way, Aphrodite was going to wonder why her therapist struggled to sit straight in their next appointment.
But the very notion of psychotherapy — he was starting to appreciate the logic behind it; moreover, he was intrigued. After all, psychology was a relatively new science and he always enjoyed exploring new territories.
Several days and about nine or ten shrinks later, mentally exhausted, he proclaimed the search to be officially over. Although, the result of it surprised him big way.
His name was Brian, and he was a fragile looking, red-haired skinny little fellow in his maybe late twenties; practically a kid. Even the huge thick-lens glasses did a shit job at making him look any older. But there was something about him, something that made all that outside image irrelevant. Just mere minutes into the introductory meeting, Ares knew. He was not only sharp as fuck, but a total nerd and geek about his profession — and that Ares appreciated a lot — takes one to know one. Also, strangely, the guy felt totally at ease in his presence, with no trace of intimidation that Ares seemed to have invoked in every other therapist before Brian; well, in every other mortal, to be exact; maybe apart from the one that was the very reason the God of War needed counseling in the first place.
They did two sessions a week, and he couldn't believe it — those two hours each week were the time he would actually look forward to. He wouldn't admit it to his sister, of course — he'd rather watch a geriatrics sex-tape of hers than sign up for a lifetime of I-told-you-so's — but he loved the therapy and what it did to him, how it broadened his understanding of both himself and the aspects of life that he never suspected were there to analyze and understand in the first place. At the same time, it was fascinating how many of those revelations seemed so simple and obvious once brought to light. It was almost as though he'd been blind his whole life and was now gradually regaining his eyesight.
This new experience, the therapy — it did surprise him in a good way. There was just one downside to it. As much as it gave him a growing leverage against Xena in their eternal psychological war, there was something else to it, something that took him by complete surprise; and it irked him. As much as he initially anticipated that he would do a session or two and then confront her, the further he progressed with therapy, the more reluctant he was to see her.
There it was, the other side of the coin — the more he learned, the more he understood of how much he'd fucked things up between them over the years of being his emotionally untrained self.
It made him blind with fury, the first time it really dawned on him; the fury that he then unleashed on one of the nameless bodies he bedded not to think about her; he might have taken it a bit too far, which then angered him even more. Aphrodite had a really bad timing showing up back then. She hadn't spoken to him for weeks after. Well, good riddance. It was all her fault anyway, her damn preaching and meddling with his life.
For fuck's sake, the therapy was supposed to help him coin a bulletproof strategy, not make him doubt himself, question his motifs, and least of all — get him feeling guilty, making him go all soft thinking about how his actions made her feel. Yes, fine, he got it — she would never be his if he pushed her into it, trying to force her into taking his non-unconditional help when she was cornered, and then hitting the roof when she told him to go fuck himself. Okay, fine, that might not have been the smartest of him. But then again, what other means he had left, if all she had for him was contempt and a sword pointed at his throat?
Normal communication; it was something they never had. Did they even have a regular conversation, ever? It was always banter, put downs or threats with her. And well, he knew that now, and so what? He still didn't know what to do, how to handle her. How was he supposed to communicate with her? How did he replace being himself, with what exactly? Oh, he had tried a different approach once — when she was pregnant with Eve, when he'd almost told her he loved her — all it got him was a contemptuous smirk; and so, if he was to get such reaction from her, he would rather it was for being an asshole than a wimp. Being vulnerable — losing all leverage — giving her the upper hand — he would never shoot himself in the foot like that again.
And then, one day, he just did.
#