The fence Iolaus and Hercules had put up
the year before was mostly half-burnt kindling now; one of Ares’
fireballs had taken it out early on. The North side of the house was
more than a little singed and the edge of the roof still smoldered
beneath the steadily falling rain. The barn had a gaping hole in one
side where Ares had gone flying through it, and another where
he’d
kicked his way back out. The stone wall was missing an entire six
inches off the top where Hercules had gone flying clear across it. The
path of destruction wound its way from one side of Alcmene’s
place to
the other and back again, and if the fighting had gone on much longer,
there might not have been anything left standing.
But there hadn’t been a single show of godly power for some time.
The
air was filled with strained grunts of exertion, the meaty sound of
flesh impacting flesh. The full-out brawl had turned into something
that resembled a wrestling match more than an actual fight.
They rolled across the rain-slicked grass, hands sliding across wet
skin, grappling for leverage. Leather ripped under grasping fingers;
Hercules had already lost his vest and Ares’ was rent straight
down the
back. He shoved away, out of Hercules’ grasp just long enough to
shrug
off the ruined leather, then balled up his fist and swung at Hercules
-- who caught it, yanked him forward. They rolled again and this time
Hercules came out on top, soaked hair plastered to his face as he
leaned in close, pressing his arm down across Ares’ throat.
Choking, Ares bared his teeth, hands clawing at Hercules’ arm,
gripping
his gauntlets, ripping them away but failing to move Hercules’
arm even
an inch. Hercules smile was triumphant -- but it disappeared with a
grunt of pain when Ares’ knee caught him in the side and flipped
them
over. Sprawled beneath Ares now, the weight of him pressing Hercules
down into the rain softened ground, he had to use that arm to push him
back, keep him from closing too much. Ares’ hair, heavy with
water,
fell across his upper arm, stuck to his chest as Ares forced himself
closer with a toothy grin, hands sliding around Hercules’ neck.
Not letting Ares get that grip, Hercules rolled them again, grabbed at
Ares’ hands as they moved, yanked at his dripping hair because it
was
close, grinned at the breathy curse that got him. Ares tried to stop
their movement, feet kicking out, heels scrambling at the increasingly
muddy ground, but they picked up speed, rolling faster down the
rain-slicked incline. His boots caught on something, yanking free with
a wet popping sound. There was a squelching splash as they hit the
large mud puddle at the bottom of the incline.
Mud covered everything, sliding into everything. Hercules’ boots
slipped in the mess and finding no traction, he struggled to kick them
off, grunting as the left stuck and Ares’ elbow slammed into his
side.
Finally kicking free of the boot, he dug into the mud with his toes and
found leverage enough to swing his fist into Ares’ stomach. But
the
swing cost him his his leverage and he slid down hard on top of Ares,
nose to muddy chest. Gasping for air at the impact, Ares still made a
grab for him, found his hair, and used it to flip him over. Mud
splattered high around them.
Hercules couldn’t get a knee up in time before Ares landed on
him,
knocking the breath out of him, but not stopping all movement. Things
were too wet, too slick with rain and mud for Ares to keep him pinned
like that. He wiggled half way out from under him despite Ares’
hand,
sliding over his arm and chest, trying to grip and hold. But Hercules
did find something to grip. One hand sliding down Ares’ back, his
fingers bumped up against Ares’ belt, and he worked his fingers
beneath
it, grabbed it, and yanked hard.
It pulled Ares right off of him, sent him sprawling to the side --
minus his belt and half the back of his pants. Pushing himself up onto
his elbows, rain and mud dripping down his face, Ares snarled
wordlessly, then launched himself right back at Hercules. There
wasn’t
enough time to do more than drop the belt and get his hands up, mud
dripping between his fingers, and then Ares was on him again. Hercules
grunted at the impact but managed to hold him off. He tried to use his
own weight to roll them over, but Ares’ leg slid between his,
trapped
him, stopped him mid-roll, locked them chest-to-chest, hands grasping
and sliding as they strained and writhed against each other.
Iolaus, standing at the top of the incline, barely felt the rain, or
the chill of the breeze that worked its way through his soaked clothes.
He couldn’t seem to spare much attention for anything
except...that.
Logically, he knew he should go down there and help, do...something to
distract Ares, give Hercules a chance to get the upper hand --
hand...like that hand that was slipping in the mud, plunging down what
was left of the back of Ares’ pants. Logic...really wasn’t
working.
Ripping, the sound of more leather tearing, and it was Hercules’
pants
that gave way this time, the leather splitting down the back as Ares
yanked at the waist, trying to pull Hercules away.
A high-pitched whimper and Iolaus blinked, frowning. That hadn’t
come
from him. Somehow he forced his eyes away, just enough to glance to the
side where Strife stood next to him. Strife. Oh, right. He’d
forgotten.
There actually had been a second part to this fight. At some point.
Back in the distant past. Iolaus had taken on Strife, kept him out of
Hercules’ way, until...until.... He didn’t remember when
that had
stopped, only rain and skin and more skin, and he hoped he didn’t
look
too much like Strife, standing there, eyes wide, mouth hanging open
even wider.
“Hey, um,” somehow Iolaus managed to get the words out
through a throat
that felt dryer than a desert. “Shouldn’t we....”
More ripping leather,
another whimper from Strife. “Aren’t we supposed to be
fighting?”
Strife said nothing, didn’t take his eyes away from the scene
below
them. But he did reach out, one finger extended, and poke Iolaus in the
arm.
Iolaus looked at his arm a moment, looked at the hand that had dropped
back to Strife’s side, then reached out himself and poked Strife
in the
neck, one of the few places actual skin was showing.
“Oh. Ouch. The pain. The pain,” Strife said tonelessly,
gaze never once
leaving the men below them. “You’re too strong, Iolaus. You
win.”
More ripping, rending, and a loud
splat
as something landed at their feet, mud splattering on both their boots.
Iolaus’ hand fell limply to his side as he realized he was
staring down
at both Ares’ and Hercules’ pants.
“Works for me,” he said, breathlessly.
Strife’s only response was another whimper, even higher-pitched
this
time.
Iolaus could only nod in agreement.
Fin
__________________________________________