Okay sorry this took so long but you know best I can just get on a roll with a story, sadly this time it was not THIS story so you were sadly ignored while I worked on my Sherlock Holmes story. Which is done now, so there's just this and my other one so I promise you won't go so neglected again!
Minor note, Hemingway has become a minor character. The things I have him say and do and the comments I make are in relation to how I need him to be and what I need him to say in this story, I'll admit I haven't actually read much Hemingway at all, I prefer a different time-period of writing. Anyway just didn't want a Hemingway fan to read this and get mad at me for whatever reason.
Anyway, other'n that I give you what I think was a terribly fun chapter to write!
"Are you going to try to clean?" He said the word like it was something foul, with the same intonation someone might use to talk about a child molester or a serial rapist. She wasn't certain what that meant about him, beyond the fact that he was a filthy monster that even serial rapists would probably look down on, but it was another piece to the puzzle and he hadn't ever answered her question about the pillow.
She wasn't certain how to answer the question he had asked though. She had no intention of living long in the filth of this place, but at the same time everything—absolutely everything—was so filthy she wasn't certain she could bring herself to touch it even to clean.
"Would you let me if I wanted to?" She finally settled on a question right back. They had fallen into a sort of shaky truce that rested on feeling the other out with veiled insults and flickers of pure stubborn will. He rolled his eyes and his feet clattered to the floor while he pitched forward. For a moment she was certain he would fall, but with a grace that surprised her he caught himself on the edge of the table and cupped his chin in his hands, resting his elbows on the table. She didn't like to admit it but it had been graceful in an odd sort of way.
"Come on babes I told you I'm not going to touch you and honest I meant it. I just need a mortal bride and you happened to be the only mortal in need of my services. That's all I want. Yeah sure you've gotta stay here, but beyond that I don't give a rat's ass what you do." He told her, and there was a tired resignation hidden behind the words. She believed him in spite of herself.
"Can I at least go see my parents, you got into Adam's model right?" She asked, her voice turning soft and tentitive, he was being kind, and he hadn't hurt her or even made a move like he would hurt her since he'd grabbed her arms, and she could even understand why he had done that. It was terrible and mean but he was uncouth and and rude and she wasn't listening so he had resorted to what he knew. Maybe if she was calm and quiet and didn't pester him too much she could talk him into letting her go home, and if she could get home for just a few minutes surely Barbara and Adam would know how to help her.
At the very least she could get their copy of the Handbook and maybe find her own way out of this hell she'd subjected herself to—had it really only been a few hours ago? She didn't know, she had worn a watch, but somewhere between the wedding dress and this new outfit of dust and mothballs she had lost it.
"Nope. Sorry babes you can't leave here, I told you that rule already." She glanced down at the ring on her finger. It had become a habit, she'd glance at it every few minutes, just to see if it was really still there and she was really here. A small, childish part of her prayed quietly that she would wake up any moment.
Sun would be pouring in through a crack in her blinds. No matter how tightly she shut them sunlight always found a way in and illuminated the dust-moats that swirled about her room. She was on the second floor but she was right above the kitchen and she could always smell the strong scent of Delia's gourmet coffee, and on especially quiet mornings she could strain her ears and hear the gurgling growl of the machine.
In the room next to her—Delia had plans to turn the attic into a master suite but Adam and Barbara had ruined that—she could hear her father already shifting, changing out of his pajamas and soon he'd traipse down the hall to his study. Delia would never fetch him coffee so when Lydia went down for her small breakfast of toast and eggs she'd be asked to take it up to him.
She hated that more than anything and yet here in this dark and dusty hole she found herself longing for those little moments.
"I just want to tell them I'm alright." She pleaded, wondering if he was the sort to fall for puppy-dog eyes and crocodile tears.
"Babes, as long as you're wearin' my ring yer not leavin' this place." He told her, standing in a smooth motion and stretching as though he'd been still too long. "Other'n not screeching like a banshee and not leavin' I really don't care what you do with yerself but I've actually got a job you know." He tugged his lapels like that was something truly spectacular. "So I'm off." And like that he was gone.
And back again.
"You need a room or something right? You'll not clean nothin' so long as you've something to yourself so here." He walked to a recliner that sat in a corner surrounded but stubs of candles and piles of newspapers. Pushing some of the older papers aside he revealed a box of doorknobs. Sifting through them as though which one he picked was of great importance he finally selected a plain oval knob of a dark brushed metal and slammed it hard into the wall, twisting it roughly and then pulling open the wall. A door appeared, with rough edges mind you but a door all the same, and beyond that was a small closet of a room, with a cot in one corner that had aged white sheets and a green blanket. It looked like something out of an old Military movie. There was a small desk that bore a little oil lamp and a window that was much too grimy to see out of beyond a few shadowy smudges.
"There you go." He said it like he'd just presented her with the keys to a castle and was gone again. With a shaking sigh Lydia entered the small room and pulled the door shut behind her. There was a lock on her side, not that it would really do much good. It still felt rewarding to hear the soft snick as the deadbolt slid into place.
She climbed onto the bed slowly, disheartened by the load creaking, terrified that her tiny bed—the only one she had—would break under the strain.
Miraculously it held and she stretched out slowly, finally settling in, burying her face in the pillow and crying despite her promise not to, surprisingly enough she missed her family, Delia included.
He looked around the smoke-filled bar. It had been ages since Hemingway had gotten away from all his work long enough to share a drink with anyone, let alone someone like Betelgeuse who was considered bad news—unfairly!
Finally he caught sight of his old friend and moved through the thick crowd to the small table Hemingway had procured for them. They were an odd pair and many around this side did not understand their friendship. It was true that Betelgeuse didn't entirely understand it. But in his final days, when Hemingway began to loose his mind and more importantly his ability to write there were few who really understood, and still more people could not face his death, nor understand why it had been necessary.
Betelgeuse may not be so intelligent and he might curse more often than not, but there was an equal amount of passion in the two men, and they could see it—it did not matter than no one else could.
And with Picasso passed on Betelgeuse was the only friend of the writer who could drink to match him.
The night passed as their stolen moments often did, with much drinking and much laughing and the sharing of stories. Hemingway had a better vocabulary but he was locked in an office more often than not so the better stories usually belonged to the rebellious ghost.
"Any advice about marriage?" Betelgeuse asked. He was always careful not to mention the divorce, or any of the man's wives specifically.
"You stole your bride from her family at the threat that people she cared about would die if she didn't marry you." The older man said after another gulp of whiskey.
"Hey! I'm not the one that tried to exorcise 'em." Betelgeuse was offended.
"No but you threatened not to save them." The ghost with the supposed most had nothing to say to that. "She is nothing to you but a bauble that ensures you have more power than anyone else. Do you even see a woman at all when you look at her?"
"She's a mortal, and a kid at that." He admitted darkly. Hemingway moved for a moment and looked startled even.
"A child?"
"Well, compared to me." And Hemingway laughed.
"I'm a child compared to you." He pointed out, truthfully. "Has anyone ever taken a mortal bride before. A mortal lover even?" He asked after a moment.
"I dunnow," Betelgeuse murmured into his glass. "But don't think I'll be the first to try that lover shit. Too many strings." He downed the golden liquid in a single gulp, it was the only time he ever felt warmth since he died. " 'm tired just lookin' at her." He joked. He liked women without strings, no expectations. Furthermore he liked 'em experienced. His doting bride was neither. He couldn't have a woman, mortal or dead without voiding the marriage but for the power he had now he could remain abstinent for a few decades. A drop in the bucket! Even for one such as him that was a fair trade.