GREEKS, GODS AND GIFTS
by WorstWitch
CRETE, GREECE, 14 April 1999.
Iolaus sits on the golden sand, his chin cupped in one hand, a well worn paperback copy of The Hobbit open in the other. He wears blue bathing shorts, and a layer of bronzing oil; immune to the dangers of prolonged exposure to the rays of the sun. Legs folded, posture relaxed, he lets the busy tourist hustle pass him by. Within effortless reach is a cooler full of beer, shaded by a parasol.
He politely smiles at the women who coo as they wander past; once or twice he glances up and checks out a bronzed thigh, or the latest in string swim wear, but his eyes are always drawn back to the pages of his book. Just for once, the sun seems too warm, the day too perfect, to bother with the chase. Maybe tomorrow ...
"There you are." An irritated, female voice makes him look up. Expecting well oiled, well browned female flesh and the usual hopeful, flirtatious smile, Iolaus looks rather daunted as his eyes travel up a pair of size 20 denim jeans, up over an ample (but amply concealed) bosom, to a face half hidden by sun hat and dark glasses. "You know, I've been looking all over the damned world for you. You're trying to escape your destiny, and you come to *Greece*?"
"Uh ..." Lost for words, Iolaus shrugs his bare shoulders, and tries a winning smile. The woman is noticeably unimpressed.
"Up and at 'em, blue eyes."
"Sorry. I'm on vacation." He cautiously tries to check out the face under that hat. She might be pretty under there, he supposes .... but she's way too scary. He spreads his hands, his expression becoming animated. "You're blocking my rays, lady."
"One well done Golden Hunter, basted in olive oil," the woman mutters, gazing briefly skyward.
"What?" Iolaus scrambles to his feet, staring at the woman. He is relieved to discover that he is several inches taller than she is. "What did you call me?"
The woman gives a cool smile.
"I know who you are, Hero. And I know you won't be able to say 'no' once you hear why I'm here ..."
***
R.D's PLACE USA, 25 April 1999
R.D.: Lemme get this straight. Hercules. You want me to tape *Hercules*?
IOLAUS: Yup.
R.D.: And give *you* the tape?
IOLAUS: Yup.
R.D.: And then you'll leave?
IOLAUS: Yup. It's a mission of mercy. Very important. WorstWitch sent me.
R.D.: Why didn't Helen come herself?
IOLAUS: The tape's for her ... but I gotta take it somewhere else first. Fast.
R.D.: So ... why send you?
IOLAUS: Because I can do this ...
IOLAUS snaps his fingers and vanishes in a blaze of warm golden light; reappearing a moment later holding one slightly bedraggled looking OLIVER SAMPSON under one arm, and a large bunch of flowers under the other. He grins the kind of grin that could stop traffic, and probably has.
IOLAUS: ... and speed is of the essence, here. Do we have a trade?
R.D.: *gleep*
OLIVER: Um ....
IOLAUS: Tonight. VCR on standby. Have fun.
IOLAUS drops OLIVER, throws R.D. the flowers, and vanishes. Not knowing where to stare first, at the miserable looking English spy, or at the space where a minor Greek god just stood, R.D. looks down at the flowers, instead. She notices that they're cunningly wrapped in a copy of TV Guide.
***
THE ESTATE, 29 April 1999
It's raining. Iolaus remembers now why he never comes to England: it's always raining. In short sleeves and jeans, he's hardly dressed for the unusually cool April morning. He shivers.
Iolaus has never has felt at ease in the concrete jungle, and the patchy grey and green of the Estate is distinctly uninspiring, after the glory of Crete and the snappy New England air. He looks around him, the parcel tucked carefully under his arm, and checks the paper in his hand. WorstWitch has warned him to get the house number right, or else. Most people, she has warned him, could not handle the sudden arrival of a mythical hero in their living room. Does that imply that the woman he is visiting is *not* most people?
Pausing for a second to ask himself what the hell he's doing there, Iolaus winks out of existence in one place, and reappears ...
***
GHAREDSU'S PLACE, 29 April 1999
"Don't wake her. Don't *touch* her. And *don't* read her stories."
WorstWitch's words echo in his mind, as Iolaus stands over the bed. The room is too small to keep a safe distance away, and he is afraid that footsteps will wake the sleeper. He frowns, and looks around for somewhere to leave the gift. He has to move his feet, just a little, to look over his shoulder. His foot catches against the wooden bed leg, and he curses silently as the sleeper is jolted awake. Summoning one skill that he has seldom needed to use, he renders himself invisible to mortal eyes.
Damn.
The woman rolls out of bed and stumbles to the kitchen in search of coffee; pausing and shivering as she walks right through him. Iolaus turns and stares after her, his mouth hanging open in shock. That is *definitely* not supposed to happen.
//Witch!?// he bellows across the ether; seeking out the sleeping mind with another rusty talent. //Witch!//
//*What?*// WorstWitch answers, testily. //Guest spots in my dreams - that's more Zeus' style, isn't it?//
//Sorry. But I think your friend knows I'm here. I'm invisible ...//
Yup. The woman, still sleepy, is gazing right at the spot where Iolaus is invisibly standing. Her expression is curious, a little confused, but unafraid.
//So? Get out of there before she figures it out!//
The Witch's advice is sound, but Iolaus feels rooted to the spot. There are energies at work here - strange ... the kind he's only felt when in the company of ...
//You bitch!// Iolaus howls into WorstWitch's dream. //She's a *fanfic* writer!//
A sleepy giggle fills his mind.
//Did I forget to mention that part? She won't hurt you. Well ... okay, she *has* hurt you ... and you *so* don't want to know what she's doing to Herc at the moment. Just leave the tape and get out. If she thinks about it hard enough, invisibility won't hide you.//
Iolaus nods, feeling his eyes drawn towards the computer which squats, ominously, in one corner of the bed sit. Fanfic writers. What, he wonders, is the world coming to, when the power of stories equalls the power of the Immortals themselves?
Another giggle.
//You think you'd *have* any power, here and now, if it weren't for the stories we tell? You'd be five thousand year old *dust*, Hero.//
Iolaus scowls. She has a point. He hears a rattle to his left - the front door. Mail. He hurries to add his parcel to the small pile of letters which crash to the mat; watches the woman shiver again as she walks right through him a second time, on her way to collect her mail. He ducks into the bathroom, out of her way, while she makes the return trip along the narrow passage.
//Hercules is going to hear about this,// he complains, bitterly, but WorstWitch is already awake, far away, and she cannot hear him.
Curious, he follows the woman back to the bed sit, and watches her unwrap her parcel. Iolaus smiles with more warmth than the sun, as she examines her gifts, and rakes his azure blue eyes over her, appreciatively. She seems happy.
//Okay, maybe it was worth it,// he concedes, melting. Anything to make a person happy. Even a damned fanfic writer.
He wonders which of his adventures is on the tape; wonders if the woman will turn on her computer, later, so that he can look at those stories the Witch told him not to read.
Iolaus takes a seat by the computer, stretching his body languidly as the woman shoves the tape into her VCR, and lets it run. He decides to watch her reactions for a while, and enjoy the show. //It's about time I catch up with what Herc's doing, anyway ....//
Iolaus stares, as he watches the story unfold on the small screen before him. By Hercules' side, there's a man who wears Iolaus' face but who, very patently, is *not* him.
The words 'fifth season' and 'killed off' suddenly spring to mind, and, somewhere, Iolaus thinks he can hear Discord and Ares laughing their divine, leather clad behinds off.
This time, asleep or awake, WorstWitch hears his silent, indignant yell.
//WITCH! I'm not even *in* this damned episode!//
:-)
END
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