Title: Charity and Grace
Fandom: Original/Greek and Roman Mythology, modern AU
Length: 500
Rating: PG-13
Content notes: implied past exploitative/abusive relationship
Author note: this falls somewhere between a variation on a Greek myth and a piece of original fiction
Summary: Bar H is no place for an innocent



Bar H is no place for an innocent, and this one looks about as street-smart as the Babes in the Wood.

“Name?”

“Charity,” she says. “Charity Hope Ballantyne.”

My pen stutters on the form. “Real name?”

She flashes her passport. Fuck me sideways, she wasn’t kidding.

“It’s after Sweet Charity,” she says, unnecessarily. “My mum and dad’s favourite musical.”

I just about manage not to roll my eyes. Seriously, what parent looks at their brand-new baby daughter and thinks I know, I’ll call her after a woman famous for being fucked over by men? I swear to god if I live to be a hundred I will never understand straight people.

“I’m Grace,” I say. “My mothers were Jefferson Airplane fans.”

The plural’s a test; she doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“Nice to meet you, Grace. I love that band.”

She sings a few bars of White Rabbit in her small clear voice. “One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small, and the ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all…” It’s a million miles from the edge Grace Slick puts on that song, and it couldn’t be loucher if it tried. Christ, the punters’ll eat her up with a spoon.

“Don’t let H catch you singing that,” I say. “He’s touchy about drugs.”

We’ve never been busted yet; not successfully, at least.

“OK,” she says, meek as you like. “Thanks, Grace.”

Sweet Charity. What the actual fuck.



She’s been on the books for a week when Jay breezes in. Takes one look at Charity and goes into full-on Baby I Can Make You A Star mode, talking screentests and recording contracts. The routine’s as old as the hills but it sweeps them off their feet every time, and Charity’s no different. Her lips are redder, eyes dark with excitement. She’s twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers. All the signs.

I know how this one ends. Been there, done that, ripped up the t-shirt and used it for dusters. Fallen for the swagger, the bluster, the honey of words. Then one day you wake up in the departure lounge nursing your bruises, patching yourself together again. Knowing you were had, like a pint or a kebab.

I don’t want that to happen to her. Not that it’s any of my fucking business, but I like the kid, OK?

No point trying to warn her off. She’s dazed and starry-eyed already, she’s not going to listen. She’s living up to her name, God help her. Hopefully Ever After.

Instead, I offer to help draw up the agreement with Jay. Like I tell them both, if there’s one thing I know by now, it’s how to draft a contract. And I put in a clause that gives Charity an out. One tiny, dull, easily overlooked sentence, buried in the small print. She reads straight past it, but it’ll be there for when she needs it. And if she wants to come back, I’ll be here.