A/N: "& Other Stories" tacked on at the end there in the eventuality that more one-shots join this one. I have "Chess" in the works as we speak.

Inspired by the scene in the movie where Xibalba is clearly enjoying himself at La Muerte's table—in particular, the way he goes to town on that bunch of grapes. Yum, grapes. This fantastic movie belongs to Jorge Gutierrez and Guillermo del Toro, may the movie-gods forever bless their souls; also, the incredible artists who worked on this film, including the wonderfully talented Kate del Castillo and Ron Perlman whose voices I imagined while writing this scene. Soundtrack is "Besame Mucho" by Diana Krall.

Grapes

La Muerte was fuming.

Which, she realized with the vaguest sense of shock, was an emotion that she had not experienced in a long, long time. Centuries, in fact. Fuming, which she had once so perfected as to have practically made it an art form, now felt rusty on her face.

Not to say that she hadn't been on the receiving end of a healthy dose of irritation lately. Similarly, annoyed, exasperated, aggravated, and even—on one very unique occasion involving the always-rambunctious Beiza family, a yak, and a toothbrush—cheesed off.

But fuming, as she had just recently discovered, had always been reserved for one and only one being: the being that now sat across from her, contentedly lost in the sumptuous feast characteristic of her realm and therefore ever-present on her table.

She clutched the generous, gold-rimmed goblet in her hand with such ferocity that she was in danger of permanently damaging the stem's carved calacas.

Xibalba was, of course, oblivious, all of his present attention being absorbed by the steaming, savory slab of pork haunch on the gilded plate before him. As La Muerte watched, he attacked it ravenously with his fork and knife, reducing it to bone in mere minutes before helping himself to a substantial slice of dark bread—smeared with cheese so white it appeared to glow—and a fresh glass of wine. He laughed in delight as the pitcher of wine refilled itself to the brim, and he drained his glass and poured more just to watch the violet liquid well up again.

"There is nothing like this in the Land of the Forgotten," he stated unnecessarily, plucking the pitcher from the table and examining its bottom as though to check for a valve or hose. La Muerte barely resisted the urge to scoff. He knew she was perfectly well aware of what lay and did not lay in the barren wasteland of his kingdom. In their most recent adventure, he'd done his very best to relegate her to its endless, ashy plains for all eternity. She bristled and snapped the skull off the tallest skeleton on her goblet. It bounced across the tiled floor with small, pained pings, rolling past the hat stand where Xibalba's coiled, two-headed snake staff eyed it warily.

The goddess ignored the snake and the skull. "More bread?" she offered her husband as casually as she could manage.

"Please."

With a wave of La Muerte's sugar-spun hand, a loaf of pan de muerto floated from her end of the table to his, replacing its recently devoured brethren beside Xibalba's plate. He began to cut another slice, but was distracted halfway through by the lavish bowl of fruit to his left, which he slid closer within reach for ease of access. Barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes, La Muerte delicately sipped her wine.

"Certainly, there are feasts down there," her husband continued between mouthfuls of peach. "A table overflowing with food in the palace, all the wine you can drink. But it isn't the same. Everything tastes like ash and dust. And even when you're certain you can't eat another bite, you're still left feeling unsatisfied."

"How generous of you, that you would sacrifice so much sumptuousness for the sake of your wife," she said saccharinely, using her fork to chase a lonely pea across her plate. Switch realms with me. I hate it down there. She speared the hapless vegetable mercilessly.

For as much good as it did her, she might have been talking to a statue. Briskly finishing off the peach, Xibalba selected an apple from the bowl and idly rubbed it clean with his cloth napkin, carrying on as though no one had said a word. "Not like here. Here, everything is delicious. If I never have to leave this table again, it'll be too soon. I have centuries of dining to make up for, and I'm not letting a single second go to waste. Pass the picante, my sweet, if you please."

But La Muerte did not, pass the picante, my sweet. In fact, she didn't pass anything. She didn't say a word. She merely stared at her husband with the fire of a thousand suns blazing in her eyes until he finally looked up from his plate, casual confusion written across every angle of his sharp features.

It had been a very, very, very long time. But the Lord of the Underworld could still recognize his wife's fuming when he saw it. He narrowed his eyes, dropped his fork to his plate, and sat back in his chair, arms crossed, wings splayed like some sort of monstrous crow. "What? What is it now?"

She shot him a vicious glare that would have set lesser spirits aflame. "You really think it's that easy, don't you?"

He cocked an eyebrow. La Muerte seethed, elucidating further:

"Ask my forgiveness just once, just once, Xibalba, after everything you've done, and just assume that everything is back to normal? That we can sit here, making conversation over dinner like we did all those years ago? You lost," she reminded him with no small amount of relish.

The candles on his shoulders brightened in a very sinister fashion, and he glowered, squeezing the green apple in his fist so tightly that it made a protesting little squeak against his leather gloves.

"This is not one of the mortals' fairytales, Xibalba," she hissed. "A kiss under the moonlight does not in fact make centuries of heartache simply disappear." Though it certainly does help, she admitted, fighting the light blush rising to her cheeks at the memory. The shocked expression on his face, the way he glowed a little greener under her hands, the way his wings had popped out in surprise and delight when she'd pressed her own smile to his, the way his gloves had felt on her waist and in her hair after so many long years. "You lost."

Those words had been building inside of her since the moment Manolo and María's wedding party had ended and the gods had returned to their realms. And now that those words had been spoken, La Muerte found that she felt equal parts incredibly relieved and a trifle shocked at her own actions. Though she was definitely no stranger to wearing her sugar-coated heart on her sleeve, she had most assuredly not intended to launch into this decidedly tense topic all at once. They had centuries of unspoken words between them, and all eternity to say them and resolve their differences, not smash them out onto the banquet table all at once. But, as she stared at him over the cornucopia centerpiece, refusing to even blink lest he seize the opportunity to devour her, it was too late to turn back now.

Which wasn't exactly true. There were spells that could be done. But meddling with something as finicky as time always involved a ridiculous amount of extra paperwork, and rarely did the desired outcome of said meddling ever come to fruition.

And anyway, despite its arguably ungraceful delivery, La Muerte felt as though saying those words had lifted an enormous weight from her chest. Across the table, her husband looked less pleased.

In fact, he looked positively murderous. The apple in his fist burst into green flames.

Outwardly, La Muerte made sure to maintain her collected façade, but inside it was all she could do to keep from smirking. In all the goddess's otherwise immaculate repertoire, there were but three weaknesses to speak of: the first was her husband. The second was a good gamble. And the third was, without a doubt, goading said husband into a fiery fury to rival the flames of Hades. She couldn't help it; he was so cute when he was angry. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the smile from her face.

There was a brief, heavy silence in which Xibalba casually shook the apple ashes from his glove and La Muerte eyed him blithely over her wine goblet. Neither moved nor spoke. They simply stared at each other across the table, appraising each other, sizing each other up as though to do battle.

Which wasn't exactly an unusual situation for them. La Muerte could remember quite a few times in their married lives when they'd maintained this exact position for what might have been hours. She weakened, allowing a brief, fond smile to slip across her features. Maybe it's more like old times than I thought.

That smile was quickly wiped from her face when her husband's low, condescending chuckle began to rise from his chest and spill out into the enormous dining room, playing in the stone rafters above.

She narrowed her golden eyes, instantly suspicious. She would recognize that chuckle anywhere. That was his patented, I know something you don't chuckle.

Xibalba, still grinning his special sharp-toothed grin as though at an incredibly funny joke, merely plucked a bunch of grapes from the bowl. He liberated one from its stem, examined it, still chuckling, before popping the little fruit into his mouth and chewing with obvious relish.

"Lost. Now, that's adorable, my love, it really is."

La Muerte blinked, her mind beginning to race. "I fail to see the humor in this," she said, frowning, swirling the wine in her cup. "Unless something really has changed in that twisted heart of yours during your banishment to the ash pits of the underworld, I distinctly recall you taking the news that you'd lost a wager a little less humbly, Xibalba."

Another grape, and when her husband indolently wiped a stray drop of juice from his lips, La Muerte suddenly found it very difficult to remember what exactly they had been talking about. Why worry about idle conversation when there were so many more pressing thoughts to consider, like what exactly Xibalba's mouth might taste like when laced with wine and grape juice? Her heart's impeccable beat faltered and she unconsciously licked her lips, feeling the candle flames on the hem of her dress brighten cheekily. Had Xibalba been paying attention to his wife's reaction instead of the stray spot of sauce that had somehow found its way onto his cloak, this conversation probably wouldn't have continued. But somehow, most likely through the intervention of some god of feminine pride, La Muerte managed to reclaim a hold of her racing emotions, calm her pulse, and catch his next words.

"I suppose I did lose our little wager," he shrugged nonchalantly, swirling his wine. But the red skulls of his eyes met hers with a decidedly wicked smirk on their fleshless faces as he finished, "Technically."

La Muerte raised one impeccable eyebrow. "Technically," she echoed.

He placed his goblet next to the fruit bowl, straightened in his chair, and steepled his long, gloved fingers before him, appearing very much like a professor preparing to explain a new concept to a student. The bunch of grapes still dangled lazily from one of his hands. For some reason she couldn't fully comprehend, La Muerte found it very distracting. Her mouth watered, and she swiftly downed her wine, helping herself to another full glass.

"Let's look at it from a new perspective, mi amor," the Lord of the Underworld explained slowly. "You see, I had two goals in making that bet with you, the first and foremost being, of course, to have you back in my immortal life."

His wife froze, mid-pour, staring at him.

He smiled back guiltily, his eyes liquid pools of some exotic sort of green, molten lava. "Because Ancients help me, La Muerte, I do love you so."

The sound of liquid meeting cloth alerted her to the fact that her cup had overflowed and was creating rather an impressive purple stain on her dress. Cursing lightly, she replaced the pitcher on the table and scrubbed furiously at the spot with her magic even as her chest flushed with pride. Xibalba had never been one much for verbal affection before their split, after which point he took it upon himself to remind her as often as possible of his (quite literally) undying affection in hopes of regaining her attention. And while it had obviously not worked, she had enjoyed every minute of it. Hearing him admit such a thing again was a definite pleasure in her immortal life that she would not give up for anything.

Wisely choosing to ignore her blunder, but obviously recognizing it with a poorly hidden smirk, Xibabla continued. "The second goal was to, if possible, reign once more in the Land of the Remembered," he said, plucking yet another grape from its stem and chewing lazily. "Now, even if my particular method of attaining both those goals didn't quite work out the way that I'd planned—"

"You mean, at all," La Muerte smirked indulgently. Xibalba tensed.

"Planned," he repeated stubbornly, "I would like for you to take a look at where I am sitting at this moment."

Mid-scrub, the Queen of the Underworld paused, realization washing over her like a wave. Despite her best efforts to remain impassive, she felt her eyes widen. Why, that sneaky, good-for-nothing, conniving, mischievous old goat…

Smirking in a very smug way while watching the comprehension dawn on his wife's features, Xibalba settled back in his chair, his wings to either side of him like a great pair of black feathered curtains. He explained unnecessarily, "I'm sitting here, in the Land of the Remembered where I wanted to be, ensured of having a hand in its rule because I've been recently reconciled to its beautiful and incredible queen, whom I am most humbled to call my wife."

He popped another grape into his mouth. "I think, all in all, it worked out pretty well for me. Wouldn't you agree, mi amor?"

She could only stare at him, open-mouthed and incredulous.

He grinned.

Oh, he was full of it. So very full of it. How dare he try to pass off what could only be seen as her own good will—and inability to send him packing because, despite herself, she loved him irreversibly—as a victory? She seethed.

Xibalba, for his own part, was very satisfied watching the expressions play across his wife's face. He treated himself to another delicious grape, holding it whole in his mouth as he demurred, "But if it makes you feel any better, sweet, we can always tell the other gods that you were the one who won our little—"

In a puff of marigolds, La Muerte appeared in front of him, her face barely inches from his, and she slammed one small yet deceptively powerful sugar-spun palm into the wooden back of his chair right beside his head. Her other hand clasped the opposite arm of his chair in an iron grip, effectively trapping him beneath her as she hovered above, eyes burning low, lips smiling, hair surrounding him with the combined heady scent of marigolds and sugar in such a way that Xibalba's heart suddenly seemed to lose all sense of rhythm, turning clumsy cartwheels in his chest. He stared, wide-eyed, mouth open, wings trembling at attention.

"—wager," he finished weakly, in a voice that was much higher pitched than the one he'd been using just moments ago. La Muerte smirked.

"You'd do that," she whispered quietly, lowering her face towards his, "for me, Balbi?"

The candles on the god's pauldrons went out for the briefest of moments, as though he'd fleetingly forgotten to keep them burning, before flaming again more brightly than before, and she could count the painted dots that ran in a long stripe down the center of his face. She smiled, removed the hand from the side of his head, and walked two, delicate sugar fingers up his armored chest, sliding her palm up his glowing green neck and feeling the energy blazing underneath her touch. She stopped at his beard, playing with it languidly and savoring the way he trembled beneath her fingers, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching sporadically at his sides. One fist still clutched the bunch of grapes. La Muerte could hear her own heart beating in her ears and secretly wondered if he could hear it, too. The crystals in her skin caught his candlelight and reflected it into their faces, creating sparkling, multicolored patterns that hung between them like stars.

He valiantly tried to speak, but the only noises that emerged from his throat were incomprehensible stammers. She raised her eyebrows with a smile, leaning close enough to feel his hot breath, uneven and ragged, ghost across her lips.

"Speechless, mi corazón?" she teased lightly, tracing his mouth with the very tip of her finger. "That's a first."

His mouth was open, dumbstruck, and between his lips, La Muerte could barely make out the dark silhouette of a grape, still intact. Those infernal grapes! A sudden, wicked idea blossoming in her mind, she smiled, eyes never leaving his mouth, and without further ado she slid deftly into his lap and closed the distance between their lips.

Instantly, a smile lit her features; the kiss tasted distinctly of grape juice.

Xibalba gasped as though stabbed, and his wings snapped out and upward, stretching as far as physically possible to the heavens as if in silent praise. Beaming in a most satisfied manner, La Muerte moved closer, sliding her arms up and around her husband's neck, feeling his beard tickle the skin of her chest. They were joined at the seams, bodies flush against one another. She could feel him breathing, humming with magic, his gloves sliding up her back to nestle in her hair and cup her face. As harsh and cruel as he might seem, Xibalba was not all sharp angles and snow, and La Muerte knew her husband's two greatest weaknesses: his wife, and a good kiss.

But she was on a mission. Barely resisting the urge to smirk devilishly and therefore spoil her whole plan, she daintily parted her lips against his and, as softly as she could manage, touched his bottom lip with her tongue. He caught his breath in surprise, mouth opening automatically, and La Muerte seized her chance, sinfully deepening the kiss, rising against him and tilting her head for better access.

Xibalba was helpless and, as usual, he melted in her arms. Releasing a low, baritone sigh from the very depths of his chest, wings falling limp at his sides, candles blazing like stars, he reciprocated, clutching his wife as closely to him as was physically possible, and when that wasn't close enough, deciding that physics was horribly overrated.

Gods above and below…! La Muerte could not remember the last time she had kissed her husband like this, all raging warmth and vitality, with a complete opera being performed in her head that rose and fell with the patterns of his hands on her skin. She loved him, she did. She couldn't help herself. There was something about him that demanded her constant attention and affection, just like there was something inside her that was simply unable to resist. She nimbly nipped his lower lip, and he made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan that did wonderful things to La Muerte's temperature and pulse. She wondered if it was possible for a sugar skull to melt.

No! Focus. You have a duty! Show him whose boss. There'll be time enough for this amazing, delicious, glorious activity later.

Barely managing to snap back into reality, La Muerte recovered admirably and, with one last, swift, deep kiss that left Xibalba delightfully breathless, she released him, pulling back slowly to sit on his lap, eyes sparkling, lips smiling and swollen, her hands resting on his armored chest.

He gasped for air, dumbstruck, stunned, and decidedly dazed, barely managing to remain upright in his chair. "Wh-Wha. What w-was—"

She allowed herself to completely enjoy the expression on his face for a few moments, searing it into her mind for wonderful posterity's sake. No matter the day or the situation, almost any foul mood could be cured by simply recalling an image of her husband, thoroughly kissed and practically a puddle, staring up at her with blatant adoration in his eyes. She smiled lovingly.

And then she grinned, baring the small, round, purple fruit that she held gingerly between her teeth.

His eyes widened. She had stolen his grape.

La Muerte laughed, shaking her head, and chewing, relishing with abandon the burst of sweetness in her mouth that would, from this point forward, remind her so much of her husband's kiss. She swallowed, licked her lips in a most satisfied fashion, and smirked when he stiffened, eyes watching her tongue as though hypnotized.

Mission thus accomplished, she indulged herself with one last kiss of her husband's mouth. He liquefied in her hands. "Or could it be that I got what I wanted, Balbi?" she asked, grinning when she pulled away, leaving him once more gazing up at her with the goofiest of smiles and a light green flush darting across his cheeks. "And while you're thinking about that, I'm going to go change into my nightgown. The hour is late, and I would personally like to sleep well for a change tonight."

With one last playful tug of his white beard, La Muerte rose from his lap, stretched languorously, and began to leave the hall, swaying her hips a little more than was perhaps strictly necessary. She couldn't help it. Goading her husband was one of her favorite pastimes. She cast him a coy glance over her shoulder, catching him sitting gobsmacked as though paralyzed with his eyes glued to her hips.

"Coming?" she asked casually.

In the time it took him to pick his jaw back up off the floor, Xibalba decided that thinking about who exactly won their wager could wait. With his beautiful, incredible, irresistible wife around, there were so many better ways to spend one's time than thinking. He stood, almost upending the banquet table in his haste, and charged after her into the corridor, leaving the bunch of grapes forgotten on his plate.

A/N: Saw the movie for a second time last night, and loved it even more than the first time. I didn't think that was possible. As always, review!