Written / Ms. Communication


Xena and Gabrielle are owned by whoever bought them from MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures. I don’t intend to infringe on anyone’s rights and I’m not making a penny off it. I’m just havin’ a good time. Kinda at their expense.

Nothing terrifically graphic - sex or violence wise. I've tried, believe me, but I just start laughing so hard that I can't keep typing and besides that the pronouns are too damned confusing.

Subtext: Pfft!

Brulee: http://cbrulee.tripod.com/pgs/contact.html

Ms. Communication

by Creme Brulee

My shot at a campfire scene.

She’s never gonna let me forget that thing with the horse. One slip and you’re marked for life. Bards, they’re all the same, they never forget a damned thing. They write it all down, that’s why. You say, “No, I don’t think it happened that way, Light of My Life.” And she pulls out a scroll that backs up her point of view in black and off white. What am I gonna do? Point at a dent in my sword and say, “See this here? That was the guy! I told you I killed him.”

She’s a pain in the ass. Never has a clue what she wants. One season she thinks she wants to go to the academy, then she’s an Amazon princess, after that she thinks she’s a freakin’ saint, then she’s got a bug up her ass about being a warrior. “I’ll protect you Xena!” From what? An angry pygmy?

And the whole time I’m supposed to be super-supportive of the woman who as much as got my son killed and spawned the devil’s child. Have I forgotten to mention that? This angelic looking creature, with the girl from the hut next door look, she’s the mother of the kid who eats Furies for breakfast. Can I pick ‘em or what?

In my bad old days I had to deal with some winners, true. But none of them did half the damage this chick’s done. And all of it in the name of love. If any of my enemies had half a brain they’d leave us alone and let her finish me off in peace.

Take this morning for instance. We get attacked by a group of the most foul smelling thugs. I was feeling wakeful, so I kicked their asses before she’s out of her bedroll. I’m thinkin’, “Hey, points for you, Big Girl. She’s barely out of bed and you’re in the black. Maybe she’ll make breakfast.” Instead, she gets in a snit and says that I’m always hogging the “care taker” roll and never giving her a chance. Like I should wait ‘til she’s awake and I’m dead to give her a shot at full fledged co-dependence? I swear, she wants me dead.

And you can hardly say it’s true, that I don’t ever let her help. There was that time my back went out and she went dervish on all of those Roman guys. I let her help out then. And it was a relief, I can tell you - that groovy, peace and love stuff’s fine for Eli and his lot, but it was kinda creepin’ me out from her. It was nice to see her break out of it like that.

It’s been a long day. We’ve been through three villages. In the first one we had to convince a Gorgon to nest elsewhere. I hate dealing with mythical crap before lunch. In the second there was the Scourge of Imbecillia, who turned out to be a thug with an unfortunate method for terrorizing the populace (more on that later). And in the third, a freakin’ despot who claimed that he was Cesaer reborn and sent to bring Greece back into the Roman fold. Seeing as he was so big on Roman fashions, I introduced him to a couple of new shroud folding techniques that left him breathless.

So here we are, it’s dark. The fire’s jumping and popping. I’ve finished sharpening my sword, Argo’s taken care of, the perimeter’s been checked... and I still can’t look over there at her. She’s been writing in that scroll for a dog’s age, I can hear her quill scratching away. She’s compiling more ammunition. I can tell she’s writing about me too because she’s all hunched over the parchment looking intense and kind of pissed. I have excellent peripheral vision. But I’m not going to look over there. Not when I’m so clearly getting the silent treatment.

If she hadn’t brought up the horse thing after lunch when we were trying to rid that village of the Scourge, I’d probably have gone over there by now. She said she didn’t mean anything by it, that it was the Scourge thing that reminded her. This guy’s thugs are notorious for dragging their victims through the village behind horses before killing them in front of the village elder’s hut. When one of the villagers recounted the story, she flinched and said “Ouch.” But she was rubbing her elbow as she said it and glaring at me. She says that it still aches when it’s humid.

To play it safe and show my heartfelt remorse I let her knock off the first battery of thugs to enter the town that afternoon. Did that appease her? No. She comes slamming into the tavern where I was chatting with the local barmaid and asked me if I was done for the day and if I thought she should finish off the rest of the army who’d pulled into town by herself? You cannot win with this woman. I went outside and helped with the rest of the Scourge’s bandits. I don’t know what she was complaining about, there couldn’t have been more than fifteen of them.

I can’t hear the quill scratching from over there anymore. I’m not sure when she stopped writing. Mostly it’s just the noise of the crickets and sounds of the woods now. I heave a sigh at no one in particular. We’re stuck in a rut of some kind, she and I. Miscommunication, she calls it. Seems like. I can’t stay over here forever - I hate sleeping while sitting up and wearing full armor - that’s pouty kid stuff anyway. I’m a warrior for Zeus sake, I can deal with this.

I steel myself and glance over at the bedrolls. I’m met with an unexpected display. She’s lying there, not a scroll in sight, not a stitch either. She’s buck naked. She’s giving me a heated, glassy-eyed look. I’m thinking there’s a trap being laid. But like every damned time that came before it, I’m going to walk right into it. That’s what heroines do.

I make a few swift calculations, execute a perfect somersault in the air, and land with boots to either side of the bedroll she’s reclining on. She doesn’t even flinch. Maybe we are in a rut. But she’s still glassy-eyed, so I do the dropping the weapons with a thud thing. That always gets her going and tonight is no exception. She’s breathing harder. I release the clasps to my breastplate and let that fall with a thump as well. She’s working up a sweat now, having a tough time not writhing in anticipation. She’s so easy. It’s one of her best qualities.

I go about undoing the rest of my gear and watch her get worked up to the point of agony. She’s writhing now alright (I’m gettin’ some tonight!). I’m in the midst of removing my last vambrace (I intend to leave the boots on even though she complains when I do - she doesn’t look like she’ll even notice), when she says, “Would you hurry up? You’ve been driving me crazy all day. I need you now!”

This, of course, I find confusing. Even more confusing than when I’d looked over here and found her naked and wanting, when I expected clothed and petulant.

I usually wouldn’t interrupt so urgent a moment and need, but I can’t help but comment, “You sure weren’t acting like it!”

She tugs on my bootlace pulling me down so that I’m straddling her stomach. Lucky me. She half turns and stretches to grab something out of her pack. Lucky me again. She turns back and hands me a scroll. I’ve grown wary of this particular gesture. It’s usually followed by an, “I told you so.”

“I just wrote it. Read it, it won’t bite you.” She urges.

I give her the eyebrow look and she rolls her eyes at me. “And you used to command armies?”

“It’s a lot easier when people expect you’ll kill them if they make a false step.”

She shrugs and tries not to make her, “Poor Xena” face. It’s a sarcastic expression that I can live without.

I unroll the thing and look at it. It’s a full scroll length of heated erotic poetry starring my body in epical type battles with every sort of mythical beast and thug. Lots of thrusting of swords and tensing of muscles. I look at her confused. “But you spent most of the day naggin’ at me.”

She blows out a frustrated breath. “You were being an annoying git half the time. Hogging the morning workout, getting sulky in that village and flirting with the barmaid. Besides, I can’t be beaming lust at you every minute of the workday. We’d never get anything done.”

“What about the horse thing?”

“I’m not in the mood for that tonight.”

“I meant me draggin’ you behind my...”

She puts her hand over my lips to halt my words. “It’s in the past. Let’s be in the present... And if you so much as caress me lightly in anger again, I’ll slice you into pieces and feed you to the Horde.”

“Works for me.”

“Well then do some work for me here will ya? I don’t put up with all of your crap for your cooking skills.”

We both know this to be true. So I lower myself to her and begin the kind of communication we do best.

The End.

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