It reminded him of a conversation long ago, a thing he'd tried to forget. A conversation that held hope in it was dangerous for Akheron, dangerous in every way that mattered for the way it could lead him down a path of despair that had disguised itself. That was the question, then - was she leading him toward despair? Was she leading him toward something else? She was demanding of him but giving nothing, as usual. The thought of it did make him smile. Even if Akheron's smile, disrupted by blood and pain, was not the prettiest sight to behold. Styx would never change no matter what he said to her. In the end, it was always the same. Admit his fault in destroying her life? And she wanted more. Admit his fault in breaking one of her glasses? And she wanted more. The pain was still there, but he had a feeling if he didn't answer this question, he was getting tossed out on his head.
What did he want.
Since he could remember he'd loved her. Wanted her, coveted her, but never... what she seemed to suggest, at least not that he could remember. Even when she'd been sitting on his lap in the middle of a bar-room brawl or mocking his discomfort in a thousand different ways, he'd never known himself to think he would have anything of her. What he'd had, thus far, he'd had because he was afraid. Afraid that he would die never knowing what it felt like to have her fingers on his naked flesh; not a feeling that any god or man should want to have. And now he didn't know; now he wasn't sure. What would he have of her? What did he expect of her? What did he want from her?
The same thing as ever.
The same thing he'd always wanted.
"Whatever you'll give," he croaked, his smile fading slowly. "As always."
At least he'd been truthful, even if it wasn't the answer that she had wanted. He should have been dead but he wasn't. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't want to be dead. Akheron had no immediate plans to become greedy.