Maleficent

"Woo! That was fun!"

I hop up on a bar stool, as Charon shakes his head.

He leans over to my ear and through clenched teeth, growls, "It'd be more fun if I could bend you over this bar and-"

"Well, hiya, sir – could I get a whiskey?" Charon retreats to the other side of the room, grumbling.

"Welcome, little lady! I'm Smilin' Jack – and this here is my little slice of heaven. " He slides the bottle over to me. "And who's your big friend here?"

"That's Charon. Charon, say hi."

He growls. "Charon, that's not nice."

More grumbling.

"He's feeling too much like himself today." I smile.

"Haha! Happens to the best of us. Is there anything else I can get for you? Liquor, chems? An ice-cold Nuka-Cola?" he flashes a wide grin. A born salesman. "No thanks, the whiskey will be fine. We'll be heading off shortly."

"Right! Well, if you ever need anything in this neck of the woods, just think of Smilin' Jack!" He slaps the bar with both hands for emphasis, then busies himself with organizing the items on the shelves behind the other end of the L-shaped bar.

"Charon, do you want me to drink this whole bottle on my own?"

"God, no. You just got off the bottle for Christ's sake."

"A nip or two won't hurt me none. Stop being a party pooper and get over here."

We dispensed with the glasses, and just passed it back and forth, chain-smoking. Nothing needed to be said. Well, at least on my part. Something's on his mind. If he's pissed off, he'll just have to come out and say what it is. I don't read minds.

He clears his throat. Here it comes.

"You've been thinking about ordering me away."

I jerk a little, surprised. Maybe HE reads minds.

My reaction was all he needed to continue. "If you want me to leave, I will go. Just give me the order."

"But, Charon, I don't want…"

" – me to go? Are you sure about that?" he interrupts.

"Yes."

"Oh, and how are you so sure? The Darkness calls, Mallie. Is it louder than your obligation to me?"

Fuck, that stings. I feel the rage fill my chest, and…I have to remember to keep it down. God only knows what information Smiling Jack passes on, and to whom.

"NO." This seemed to satisfy him. He takes a swig. A lazy drag on his cigarette.

"Do you like hurting me?" I ask, taking the bottle from him.

"I could ask you the same."

Oh! Twist that knife, babe. You're so good at it.

The whiskey burns down my throat, warmth blossoms in my stomach. "I suppose…we always hurt the ones we love."

It was his turn to react. "Is that a declaration I hear?"

I never told him in so many words. He told me he loved me, months ago. I hadn't reciprocated, so he backed off. God, that must have been painful. I've traveled with him, lived with him, killed with him – fucked him – for months, and never said it. Every day, he must have felt like I feel now – like a lead weight is in my stomach, and it feels like nothing can make it go away. How much strength must it take to nurse unrequited love for months – living with that very person? Touching them – close, but still so far away? Fuck it.

"Yes. I love you."

Still staring straight ahead, he reaches over and grasps my hand, which has been gripped in a tight fist on my knee ever since his first barb.

"Don't worry. I still love you."

I lean forward onto my elbow, and cry into my whiskey glass, a living cliché.