A/N: Based off a prompt from tumblr: "They're equal opponents, or very nearly so." I love sparring matches and I love shit-talking and I love pre-team dream team, so this is the best of all possible worlds tbh. ENJOY, people!

Though he stood the entire way across the long room, the bearded man's eyes were sharp as he watched the two figures a the far end. It did not take him long to see what he dreaded seeing. He pressed his lips together so forcefully in disapproval of the sight that his mouth seemed to disappeared behind his thick beard.

"I don't like the odds here," he announced to the group clustered around him. "I bet before I saw them train. I vote we have a do-over, take everything into account."

A blonde woman, sitting in a camping chair behind him, laughed. "Oh, please. Don't pull this shit now. You picked your loser, and you knew he was a loser when you picked him. Now you've gotta stick with him." She looked at the others for confirmation. "And we've already settled terms, haven't we?"

There was a murmuring of agreement, though one or two of the ten people clustered around looked anxiously at the pair warming up on the far end of the room. Now he'd set them all on edge.

"Bullshit," the bearded man muttered, returning to his pacing as he attempted to think a way out of this. He had five hundred dollars riding on this fight, and he'd just seen his pick massage his shoulder, again. For the third time in fifteen minutes. Not a good sign in hand-to-hand combat.

"He's a goddamn Marine," one of the men said, holding himself tall in confidence, saying the words the bearded man had been repeating like a prayer in his head for the last fifteen minutes. "He'll flatten her, no contest."

"Ex-Marine," the blonde woman in the chair corrected pointedly.

The man waved a hand. "Semantics." He gestured down the room. "He's kept up his training. Look at the size of him. She's like a twig. He'll snap her in two."

"If he can grab her. She's a fast one, remember. Look at those feet. Look how quick she moves."

"Yeah, but look at those arms! She's got no upper body strength, not compared to him," another one put in. "He'll crush her."

The blonde woman merely smiled, and settled into her chair with a self-assured sigh. "Ah, whatever you boys need to tell yourselves to make your money worth losing."

The tall man rolled his eyes, and walked over to put his hands on the blonde's shoulders, bending low to say, "Melanie, you always go with the girls, even when they've got no chance. And don't talk to me about losing money: you've lost about a thousand bucks in the last six months alone, betting on Kerry and Gina and Annie. Why not bet on a winner for once? C'mon—support our boy."

"I'm supporting my fellow woman, Michael. It's about more than money, but of course you wouldn't understand. Besides," she snorted, gesturing at the two on the far side of the room, "it isn't like he'll win, no matter if he's more physically capable. He always goes easy on her; that's why they can't train together anymore. He's got no backbone with her." A self-satisfied smile spread over her face. "He's a fucking pussy, and make no mistake."

"Hey!" the man from the far end called. "You know we can hear you, right? This isn't that big of a room, Mel!"

"Good!" she shouted. "I want you to know how little faith I have in you going into this, Brenton!"

"Oh, fuck off," he yelled back. "And shut up," he snapped at the dark-haired woman next to him when she started laughing. "I don't need you ganging up on me too."

"I mean, take it as a compliment: you're incapable of beating the shit out of your fiancée—that's a good sign for the future, Oscar!"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, right, I'm sure that's how you meant it, Hell Mel."

Melanie grinned, sticking her tongue out at him.

He shook his head, turning back to the warm-ups. Everyone noticed he hit the punching bag a little harder this time, but the bearded man hoped he was the only one who noticed the slight weakness in his left arm. That shoulder was bothering him, and it was only getting worse.

Seething, the bearded man broke away from the betting group and made his way quickly across the room to the contenders.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded of Oscar, once he was close enough for his furious whisper to be heard.

"Practicing," Oscar replied, not taking his eyes off the bag in front of him. "What do you want? Come here to take potshots, too? I wouldn't stand within reach of my fists if I were you. Mel only gets off because I'd have to walk over there to hit her."

"I've got money riding on this, remember. And I swear to God, Oscar, if I lose to Mel because of you—"

"Oh, calm down, Dad," Oscar complained, breaking away from his training. "Don't be Mel. Have a little faith in me; I know what I'm doing."

The bearded man's eyes narrowed. "I told you to stop calling me that."

"And I told you to stop treating me like I'm a kid. Believe me when I say I know what I'm doing. Especially with her."

The bearded man pursed his lips, glancing at his pick's opponent. She smiled benignly from a few feet away, but her niceties did not fool him. She was a killing machine, just like him, just like everyone in this room. He watched her and she held his eye. In a careful movement, while she was stretching, she reached a hand over to rub her left shoulder. Her smile widened as she did so, to almost Melanie-like proportions.

The bearded man scowled, and almost spit at her in fury. Instead, he turned away, and dragged a protesting Oscar with him.

"What?" he demanded when the bearded man finally let go. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you? Stop fucking touching your shoulder! Are you stupid? Do you want her to destroy you?"

"I'm—"

"Hey, Oscar," the dark-haired woman called languidly, interrupting them. "Remind me, was there a reason you stopped training with me?" The bearded man shut his eyes, blowing out a very controlled, very furious breath. "Oh, right," she continued a moment later, "you couldn't hit hard enough to make it worthwhile. I had to find someone that could actually beat me up."

"You." The bearded man turned, and jabbed a finger at her. "Shut your damn mouth. Go to the other side of the room."

"Aw…" She tilted her head her, her smile twisting up crookedly as she leaned back to stretch her legs. "This is adorable, you protecting him. So are you guys friends now? Are you best buds? Is the bromance finally blooming?"

"Other side of the room!" the bearded man bellowed.

She went, laughing as she left, and both men watched with displeasure as she made a beeline for Melanie and they started whispering to each other.

"The fuck did you do?" the bearded man demanded, shoving Oscar in the only good shoulder it seemed he had left. "Did you dislocate it again? Find yourself in another straightjacket?" He shook his head. "I swear to God, the things you do to impress that woman will get you killed."

Oscar rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. It's just sore from the other week. I'm good."

"Yeah, well, sore is as good as dead where you're concerned. She knows you're hurting. She's going to come after you hard."

Oscar laughed quietly. "When doesn't she?"

"Oi!" Michael yelled from the other side of the room. "We good to go yet? You two finished scheming, or would you like a few more hours?"

The bearded man opened his mouth to say more, but Oscar turned away. "Yeah! Good to go."

They met in the middle of the long room, at opposite edges of a wide circle that was painted in now-faded red on the wood floor.

"All right," Michael began. "You know the rules: goal is to incapacitate your opponent by whatever means possible. No weapons, but as always, take as many cheap shots as you like. You win when the other either passes out, or taps out willingly." He sighed, looking at the two contenders. "And with you two stubborn mules, I'm sure we won't be seeing the latter."

He looked around at the crowd assembled in chairs and on their feet at the outskirts of the circle. A few people more had filtered in since the start had been called; there were about eighteen to twenty onlookers now. Isaiah, sitting in a chair a few feet back from the crowd, was taking the last of the bets. Michael waited until he'd closed his cash box and given a thumbs-up.

He turned back to the contenders. "All right, lovebirds. Ready to beat the shit out of each other?"

"Ready."

"Okay, then—" He broke off, frowning at the crowd leaning closer to the edge of the ring. "Oh, come on, people! You know better, take a step back." The crowd shuffled a few inches backward, but nothing more. "I said back!" Michael ordered. He went around the ring, shoving onlookers back. "Don't be stupid now, people. You know these two. Someone's gonna lash out. Someone's gonna get thrown into the crowd. You wanna get dragged into this fight? No, I didn't think so. So—step back."

Obediently, the crowd receded, until there was a good six feet of space between the edge of the ring and the people watching. Melanie was smug in a front row seat, and off to the side, a few feet back, the bearded man stood tall above the shorter heads in the group. A few others—brave ones—had taken up chairs, but the majority stood, ready to move out of the way should the fight move outside the ring, which it almost always did with these two.

"Well…" Michael took one last look at the crowd, deemed it worthy, and then took one last look at the contenders. They seemed fit to go. "Have at it, then," he called, and stepped back into the crowd.

At first, nothing happened.

They circled around each other like boxers, getting closer, begging off, getting closer—

"Oh, come on!" Melanie shouted. "Let's get this show on the road! I want to make my money!"

At the encouragement, the dark-haired woman broke forward, lashing out quick—too quick, her opponent grinned, sidestepping her blow easy and hitting her in her exposed ribs.

"Always so aggressive," he taunted as she hissed at the blow and backed off. "Don't you have any patience? Where's your defensive side? Let me come to you; you'll have a better chance for success that way."

"Oh, now you want to be my trainer?"

She kicked out high with a leg, knocking one of his feet out from under him, and before he could straighten up, she slammed him hard in his left shoulder—once, then twice. He grunted, barely jerking himself out of the way before a third landed.

"Don't be a bitch," he bit out, rolling his left shoulder as he tried to put some distance between them.

"Don't be a pussy," she shot back. She watched with satisfaction as his eyes flashed with anger, and the crowd jeered. "Come on," she taunted. "Come at me, if you think you can take it."

"Oh, I can take it."

"Oh yeah?" Her eyebrows rose, her lips parting in a smile. "Prove it, then, tough guy."

She didn't have to say it twice—he lunged forward, catching her around the middle and tackling her to the ground. She gasped, the air bursting out of her lungs when her back hit the floor, but she reached up fast—years of training—and got him around the throat before he could do the same to her. He twisted beneath her grip, aiming a fist at her ribs, at her jaw, while her nails dug in deep around his throat.

He gasped for air, and finally managed to slam her choking hand away only to have her hit him hard in the stomach. Before she could roll them over and take the advantage, he stumbled to his feet, searching for his breath, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. The yelling around them intensified.

Despite the throbbing in her face, she grinned, pushing herself up after him. He lashed out when she got too close, but she ducked away from the blow, kicking out with a leg. He swore when he lost his balance and crashed to the ground on one knee. The smack reverberated through the room, and more than a couple people flinched.

She hit his shoulder, hard, again and again when he fell until he stopped her fist in his and twisted it until she cried out and jerked away.

"Stop it," he gasped, now openly massaging his shoulder. He could already feel a weeks-long bruise forming beneath his t-shirt. "Fuck this," he bit out, lashing out harder now, wanting to put her down for good before she landed another hit.

She grinned, ducking away from his blow, sensing his impatience. "Now who's getting impatient?" she hissed beneath the cheers of the crowd. "That shoulder seems like it hurts. Want me to knock you out real quick, put you out of your misery?"

"And only land me in more misery when that one comes to collect?" His eyes cut to the bearded man, watching carefully from the back. "No, thank you. He put five hundred bucks on me; he'll kill me if I drop out."

"Aw, come on," she teased, parrying his blow as he went for her ribs again. "You know he loves you."

"I know he treats me like I'm twelve years old," Oscar muttered, jumping out of the way of her kick. "Despite the fact that I've been in this longer than him. Despite the fact that I served longer than he ever did."

"Oh, you know him; he prefers the wise elder role." She grinned, striking out with a few quick blows he blocked, and then returned. "The illusion is kind of ruined when he has to take orders from a guy who's not even thirty."

Oscar smirked. "Yes, his ego is rather fragile, isn't it?"

She laughed, skipping out of the way of his punches. "Oh, don't let him hear you say that. He'll beat your ass worse than I am!"

"Oh, is that what you're doing?" He laughed aloud. "Please." He tipped his head at her feet. "With this little dance you've got going on? I'd hardly call it a fight."

Her lips pursed. "I think your shoulder would disagree."

The mirth left him. "My shoulder's none of your concern."

She grinned. "Isn't it, though?"

He watched her move forward—she was going for it again, god damn her—and he growled in fury, moving to block her. He took one punch meant for his shoulder in the jaw, managed to block the second going to his ribs, but then caught the third right in the head—and dropped to the floor like a rock.

For a moment after he went down, the room erupted in cheers, with no one shouting in victory louder than Melanie, no one looking more furious than the bearded man at the back of the crowd. The dark-haired woman grinned, triumphant, and then looked back down at her opponent. He was still on the ground; he hadn't bothered to get up. His eyes weren't even open.

"Oh, come on," she laughed, and kicked him lightly in the side. "Get up and face Dad. I'm sure he'll only break a couple of your limbs before calling it a day."

He said nothing in reply.

It took her a second to realize why he wasn't taunting her back. Why his eyes still weren't open. But once she did, she dropped to the floor, kneeling next to his unconscious body. It didn't take long for the others to take notice, for the joyful screaming to cease.

"Hey, hey, hey—" She bent close to him, taking his limp face in her hands. She tried to position it forward, tried to open his eyes. He didn't move a single muscle beneath her touch; he was limp like a corpse. "Open your eyes. C'mon, O, look at me. Look at me!" she demanded. "I didn't hit that hard; I know I didn't hit that hard, come on. Your head's fine, you're fine, you have to be—"

In a flash, he opened his eyes, and she hardly had time to register that he was still fully conscious, and always had been, before his hand was at her throat, and he was rolling them over. She tried to gasp in protest, but he tightened his grip, choking off her words as he knelt over her, trapping her legs beneath him and working to subdue her violent punches with his one free hand.

"You're right, you didn't hit that hard," he grinned, panting, as she struggled beneath him, landing blow after blow into his ribs, the one place she could reach. "Still don't," he bit out with a grimace as he weathered the hits, eventually managing to grab her fist as it tried to land another punch, and twisting it behind her head. He held her down with the full force of his weight driving into his hand against her throat; and with his free hand, he held her other one out to the side. He kept his grip tight at the wrist, anchoring her arm to the floor, but he left her hand move free.

She knew what he was doing, knew what he was offering, and he could see her lips forming the words, even though she didn't have breath to say them: Fuck you.

He grinned, bending close until their faces were inches away. "Go on. Tap out, baby. Give up. Everybody's watching."

She scowled at him, her nose scrunching in fury as she attempted to jerk her head up to head-butt him. But he stayed far enough away, and kept her pinned fully to the ground so she couldn't hit him.

"You know, I really don't want to choke you out here, in front of everybody like this, but I have been called a lot of names today. And a lot of shit has been said about my inability to take my heart out of this. So, if I have to choke you out to prove a point, to justify myself, I will. If that's what it fucking takes with you people." He tightened his grip on her throat, leaning down hard into her as she struggled for breath. It was pointless—she was good on her feet, great when it came to combat. But when it came to pure physical mass, she'd always be outnumbered. And with him holding her down by every limb…

"Go on," he murmured. He rubbed his thumb against the wrist he held against the floor, and kept his other hand firm around her throat. "Tap out and I won't make you black out."

He tightened his grip then, harder than ever before, and he watched her face while he did it—there—he saw the flash of fear in her eyes, behind the fury. She believed him now, that he wasn't going to back down. And as bad as giving up voluntarily was, at least she'd be doing it on her own terms…

With a look of utter hatred, she lifted her hand from the floor and then slammed her palm down hard against the wood, and then the entire room erupted in screams, half furious, half in awe. Oscar grinned in triumph, releasing her neck at once as he started to move off her, but not before she slugged him so hard in the jaw he spat blood and fell over. She rolled away, coughing some breath back into her lungs as the crowd surged forward.

"HA!" the bearded man shouted with glee, shoving his way to the front. "He wins!"

"Foul play!" Melanie screamed in protest, jumping up from her chair. "He fucking played her, that doesn't count! It's bullshit!"

"It absolutely counts!" the bearded man yelled back in triumph, grabbing his champion by the back of his shirt. "Good man, Brenton! Way to play to your strengths!" He slammed the ex-Marine with a pat on the back so enthusiastic it made him cough up blood, but the man smiled nonetheless.

He glanced up. "Finally proud of me, Dad?" he teased.

For once, the bearded man didn't even scowl at the nickname.

But it hardly mattered, for the dark-haired woman had enough fury to fill the entire room. She shoved herself to her feet, still panting, her entire body shaking with rage. Her gaze lowered to the man still on the ground.

"You and I will fucking talk about this later, you asshole," she snarled.

Oscar grinned, wiping the blood from his mouth as he looked up at her. "Oh, baby, I hope so," he called after her as she stalked away. "I love reliving my victories! Can we do a play-by-play after dinner?"

Her only response was to slam the door so hard it got stuck in its frame.

Melanie and the bearded man were still arguing over the legality of the fight, but it hardly mattered—the rest of the crowd was clustered around Isaiah, and he was moving cash hand over fist to the winners. Oscar groaned, rolling over to lie on his back and get some breath back. His head was pounding. While that hit hadn't been hard enough to knock him out, it had been hard enough to make him feel like he'd be better off unconscious. He groaned, pressing one hand to his head and another to his shoulder, weakly attempting to apply pressure to ease the bruising he knew would come soon.

Suddenly the bearded man was in front of him, bending close. "Oscar." He slapped his cheek. "Hey. Look at me."

He groaned, turning away. "I'm here, I'm here, what?"

"Tell me—how much of that was staged?"

He blinked, confused. The fight had been real. He hadn't talked with her about throwing it; neither of them would ever do that. "Huh? The whole thing was real. Who do you think we are? We wouldn't screw you guys over."

"No, no, your shoulder—" His mouth spread in a wide, knowing grin. "Tell me, was it even injured beforehand, or were you just fucking with her the whole time? God damn, even I bought it!"

Oscar would've smiled—the bearded man actually looked impressed for once—if only the pain hadn't started coming back. "Well, it wasn't before…" He groaned, doing his best to put pressure on it. "But it sure is now. Fuck, it hurts. God, she's ruthless." He closed his eyes, laying his head back on the floor with a groan. "It's gonna get worse. She's gonna murder me in my sleep tonight, isn't she?"

"Oh, definitely," the bearded man quipped, straightening back up. "But who cares? You won, and you don't ever have to let her live it down. Good job—I'll grab some ice."

Melanie came up by his side as he headed for the door. "So," she called, "we gonna bet on day-after injuries? 'Cause I'd bet my life savings on the fact that he shows up to breakfast tomorrow with a dozen cuts on his face the size of that diamond ring."

The bearded man laughed. "Only a moron would take that bet." He shook his head. "She's gonna break his face apart with those little diamonds. God, I'd pay to watch."

A/N: I had way too much fun with this. x) Hope you enjoyed! Leave your thoughts! :)