The water ripples and churns. A series of ficlets. 49 - He was the god of war.
19 August 2006
He was the fucking god of war.
Ares growled and kicked at a lump of asphalt on the sidewalk.
He didn't need anybody, and certainly not sanctimonious bitches who acted like he was just another mortal subject to the flimsy, petty rules mortals spent their insignificant little lives rushing around trying to obey.
He could have anything. He could do anything from giving the country's leaders some much needed tips and watch them fall over themselves to rip through other mortal countries with their ridiculously advanced weapons, to just fucking hurling fireballs at whatever he chose.
And it wasn't as if there was a shortage of good-looking women. Several stood at the corner half a block away, blatantly available.
A car pulled up in front of them, and the window rolled down. There was a screech of laughter from a couple of the women, and one shoved forward a thin girl with heavy makeup and an expression of sheer bravado on her face. Ares could smell her fear, mingling with the sour scent of disease from the older women.
He arranged his face into a leer. Back in the old days, he would have taken the little—
Bile rose in his throat, and he turned around quickly, ignoring the catcalls and whistles behind him.
Swearing under his breath, Ares unlocked the door to the flat and stopped, resting his head against the cold, plastic-feeling wood.
He turned the knob and pushed.
Xena was standing at the window, looking out while cold wind blew past her, tugging at her hair and baggy sweater.
He shut the door behind him, and she shut the window.
"Xena, I…" he paused, unsure of what he intended to say.
She turned around to look at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I know."
Fuck it all. He was home.