Note: Fixed a continuity issue, my bad. Durn it

Update: Comma hunting.


He lost himself, in his head. The alcohol had made his head spin, and he had let his mind slip away. When he came back to himself he was on his knees, standing up on the mattress in her bedroom, naked from the waist up, and Emily was laying on her back underneath him.

She was almost entirely naked, and looking up at him with a strange look in her blue eyes. She was scared of him again?

Charon blinked hard and looked away. He focused on the wall, the holes with their dusky darkness bleeding into the room. He swallowed a lump that had had lodged itself in his throat, and shook off the last of the scotch.

He felt... strange. His pants hurt him. He knew he was erect, could feel the flesh pressing against the leather, and it was powerful. Everything about him was powerful, in one way or another.

"What is this?" he asked, in confusion.

"What?" she raised an eyebrow at him. "Seriously, Charon?" She scoffed, rolled her eyes and looked away. Her arms went across her chest, covering her breasts. "Jesus Christ, man."

Charon sat back on his heels and rubbed his eyes. They hurt, too. A lot of things on him hurt, his chin, his cheek―his erection, most of all.

"I do not recall what I did, when I was drunk," he said. "What is this?"

Emily sighed. She would not look at him. "Well!" She pursed her mouth.

"Were we... about to engage in sex?" he asked, awkwardly.

"You asked very nicely," she said, flippantly.

He jerked backward, horrified. "Why―" No, he did not want to, not that he would never, but she was... Emily. And he was sitting on the bed with her, in a very compromising position.

"It's alright, if you want to," she said. "I said yes." She still would not look at him.

"You do not want that," he growled. He pushed himself up, placing a hand on the wall to steady himself. He began to lift his leg to remove himself from the bed.

"I didn't want it earlier, and you still made me," she muttered. Charon froze.

What had he done, while he was inebriated? He would have been sweating, if he could. He could not remember anything. That might explain why he could not remember murdering his employer before Azhrukhal―if so, then Emily was extremely lucky that he had not murdered her. He pushed himself off of the mattress and looked for his shirt, his jacket, anything, to cover himself with.

"Fucking hell," she muttered, from the bed. "Steak to cook, but no fire." She scoffed. "I was actually looking forward to it, this time," she told him.

"I do not remember the last time," he said in response, "and I am sorry if you are disappointed, but you do not want this." He enunciated the last four words sharply. His jacket had been thrown halfway under the bed, along with the pink mass of cotton she had changed into. That, he did recall, right up to admiring her hair and climbing the stairs―

He had hurt her, grabbed her by the head. He grumbled to himself. That was not something he wanted. He wanted to leave, to get the hell out of the shack, to get away from the mostly naked and bruised smoothskin on the bed... bruised.

Bruised. His eyes swept up from the floor under the bed, to her body. There was a handprint on her stomach, bruises deepening around her neck, one wrist had fingerprints on it.

Maybe she was not so lucky, after all.

Her eyes met his and she was wearing an exhausted look, trails of tears down her face dried onto the skin. It was a pleading look, and he twitched painfully against the inside his pants. "Charon," she said, looking right at him. "What is it?"

He snorted, grumbling to himself under his breath. He pulled his jacket from under the bed, and disentangled his shirt from the inside. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, and a mound of bouncing flesh fell sideways. Charon averted his eyes and turned around.

"Well, you'd better tell me why," she said, huffily. The mattress creaked behind him as she rose from the bed. "Why I don't want it, as you said."

He exhaled and pulled his shirt over his head, catching it on the ratty hair on the back of his head. Emily placed a hand on his still-bare back, and he flinched.

"There are consequences," he muttered, trying to ignore her and pulling his shirt down. She did not remove her hand, but kept it on his muscles, soft against the remaining skin. It kept his shirt pushed up. He growled in annoyance.

"Consequences are a part of life, Charon, and if you think I honestly care, why would I ever say yes?" Her hand moved across his flesh, and he stiffened. She was smooth, her hand gliding unevenly across the torn muscle, moving to his side and coming to rest on his chest. She pulled herself into his back, and he breathed out in pleasure as her breasts came flush against his back.

"You are not particularly bright, Emily," he answered, and it felt good to be able to say that, even if it made her angry. He did not have to worry about being forced to withstand a beating anymore. That was a good feeling, too.

"Hey!" she protested, but there was no real anger behind the words. She ran her other hand from the middle of his back to his stomach, wrapping him into an embrace.

"You do not want this," he repeated, facing forward, his jacket hanging from one hand as she pushed her chest into his back.

"Yes I do," she said, and he felt himself nearly exploding at the sound of the words. He shuddered―one of her hands had dipped down to his pants and she fondled him through the leather. It was a dull sensation, but he could still feel it. "And you promised you would make it okay."

"Make what―" he said, and she squeezed. He gasped, bending forward. She released him in surprise, and he moved away from her but her arms stopped his movement.

"You damn near killed me," she said, angrily. "Drunk Charon choked me into near-unconsciousness. And you―" She pressed her lips together. "Well, you said you wanted to make it okay."

He could not remember that. A more rational part of his mind took over. Charon was not immune from sexual advances, under the contract; Azhrukhal had occasionally offered male or female patrons a free hit of jet to proposition Charon, for his own amusement. Every attempt was inevitably ended with violence, the patron would get nowhere with their words or actions. The more desperate of the junkies sometimes touched him through his armor, like she was doing. It was an unpleasant-enough analogue, he was able to stem his arousal from eating away at his resolve.

"I fail to see how having sex with you would make anything okay," he snarled.

Emily growled, and her hands twisted into his flesh but it was not painful. "Fuck you!" she yelled, and removed her hands, shoving him forward.

That made him angry . He swung around, his hand up, ready to hit her across the face. He stopped himself from striking her―another thing he did not want to be a part of―at the sight of her scared face. She knew he might hit her and she still aggravated him, still pushed him into trying.

Charon lowered his hand, staring down at her. "Please do not do that," he said, instead.

"O-kay," she said, in that petulant way that had annoyed him before. It annoyed him further, now.

"Do you expect me to cave to your whims? You broke the contract!" he yelled, his temper rising.

"No, I expect you to listen to me as a friend!" she shrilled.

"We are not friends!"

She pinched her mouth. "You hurt my feelings," she said. "I came back for you, like I said I would."

"You said you might," he seethed. "And you left me, after I explained―"

"Of all the things I've said in the past, how many have you believed?!" She curled her fingers up into fists. "I'm a goddamn liar, Charon!"

He stared at her for a moment. "Then I suppose you expect me not to believe what you implied I did, while drunk."

"Do you not see what you did?!" She reached out, grabbed his hand, and laid it onto the hand print on her stomach. "If that isn't proof―"

"It does not mean I have done anything beyond beat you," he said, jerking his hand away. "And I highly doubt that I would have done anything like what you―" What, expect? Did she expect him to have sex with her?

"I guess I'll just have to go across the way and hope Jericho is at home, then," she snapped, bending down and grabbing up her dress.

He grabbed her by the throat when she rose, and pushed her backward into the wall over the bed. The metal wall shuddered under the force. "If you think going to that dirty bastard is going to make me sympathetic," he hissed, "then you are sorely mistaken, Emily."

"Ch―" She gasped and choked for air. He dropped her, onto the bed.

"Stop acting like an annoying bitch," he told her. A loud knock at the door interrupted his next statement, probably a good thing―and he heard Jericho yelling through the metal, asking if Emily was okay. Sheriff Simms was down there yelling alongside him and the doorknob was rattling.

Charon snarled at her one last time, and pulled on his jacket. He walked downstairs to the door, picked up his foot, and booted the spot where the door knob would have been.

The door exploded outward and Jericho yelped in surprise. Charon smiled grimly. It was a good feeling, to do as he pleased. He stared at the men as the door hung on a hinge, swinging back until it caught on the railing. Jericho's hand stopped it from rebounding.

"What the fuck's going on?" Jericho yelled, staring down Charon.

"The knob came off the door," Charon said, in his best monotone.

"Where is Emily?" Simms asked him as Jericho tried to push past him, into the shack. Charon put a hand out and stopped the ex-raider.

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE, JERICHO!" she screeched, from the stairs. She had put on her leather pants and was shimmying into her shirt, and her leather jacket fell from her mouth as she yelled at the old man.

Jericho stopped for a moment, then turned a glare onto Charon. He knew exactly what the look meant. It meant trouble, which was what Charon had told Emily, before, which meant violence. He glared right back at the man. Bring it, he thought. I am ready for a test.

"Miss, you alright in here?" Simms asked, glancing between the men. "I heard there was some screaming, and a few thuds loud enough to shake the whole walk."

"This fucking moron broke my door," she growled, jerking a thumb at Charon. "I've been trying to open the damn thing all afternoon. He wasn't being exactly helpful about it, either." She crossed her arms and stared the black man down. Charon growled a little; he did not appreciate being made into an idiot in front of anyone, and now he could express his distaste.

"Alright," Simms said. "Just checking in on you. Holler if you need anything, miss." He turned and ambled away down the walk, around the corner. Smart man, Charon thought, getting the hell out of Dodge until the real shit starts.

Emily turned to Jericho. "Get the fuck out," she hissed at him, her face red. The marks on her throat stuck out like a sore thumb. Jericho's eyes dropped to her neck. Charon cracked his knuckles on one hand by making a fist.

"You sure about that," Jericho said, flicking watery red-rimmed eyes to the girl's face. "You look like you need some fuckin' help."

"What, help like the last time you were in my goddamn house?!" She strode forward, pushing Charon's arm down and got up into the man's face. "Coming in here, playing all nice-like, and fucking throwing me down like you did?!"

Jericho looked up and away as Emily was suddenly pulled backward. His eyes met Charon's fist, knocking him back and out, away from the shack. He fell in a lump of dirty old man onto the walk.

Charon growled and pulled the door shut again.