Lydia's P.O.V.

"Just…take care of…that. Okay? That's the one thing I can't fix. I don't want you joining me like this too soon, you have a world out there that needs you and a life that you need to live first."

She stood at the threshold between their worlds, facing him with her back to the door, basket in arm and charm in hand. The miniature headstone would fit in well with the other knick-knacks on her bookshelf, and the food- if it proved edible- was certain to be better than the below-average pizza waiting for her at home. Lydia almost implored him to pass the bottle back her way so she could take a quick swig before departing. It had been a hell of a day. As it was, she wasn't quite that comfortable with him yet.

"Will do," she promised simply in regards to both tending to her knee and calling on him through the mirror. There was a strained moment where they both stood completely still, maintaining intense eye contact. It felt like something was supposed to be happening there- a kiss, a hug, a handshake, something. Instead of any of those things, her lips quirked into a barely-there smile and she murmured a hesitant goodbye before slipping through the door- refusing her ears whatever parting he might have for her.

It felt like it had been years since her last bath. The scalding heat encompassing her completely, the cloying scent of her favorite brand of African black soap, the way she was able to drift beneath the surface and forget about the world outside of the water; it was bliss. Neither her father nor Delia seemed to notice she was even gone. They were asleep upon her return, her door still locked, bedroom undisturbed.

The scream tarts were her favorite of the haul- the spaghetti and eyeballs went straight to the garbage, she wasn't even chancing it with that one- but they had to be eaten with haste. As soon as she unwrapped them from their wax paper, the blood and puss colored pastries released ear-splitting shrieks into the house, forcing her to cram the sweets down her gullet to shut them up. Her parents would have to have been truly inebriated to miss the ruckus, which they did.

Absentmindedly, Lydia hummed while she bathed until eventually, her notes found words.

"Old death, where are you now?
You've left me behind somehow,
Drank deeply from your cup,
Now see what I've become,"

The girl had always liked her voice, but she was never one for singing in front of people. This was something that was uniquely hers, like her photographs. No one could speak with her voice, just like no one could see what she saw.

"What's left but ash and burn?
No last pale light to follow,
Along here, to find my way.
I'll catch up with you one day..."

Was it too soon to call him? This was the question on Lydia's mind all throughout school the next day. She knew the answer; yes. It had only been a day, but already the monotony of the living realm was beginning to wear on her. How could she sit there and try to read a clinical analysis about the philosophies of Aristotle and Socrates for some humdrum school assignment when she could just go meet them if she wanted to, couldn't she? This was added to her mental list of questions and concerns she would have to bring to Betelgeuse's attention.

But… it was definitely too soon to call him. She couldn't let herself look that clingy. He was probably off enjoying his freedom. It would be wrong of her to hinder that.

"Like, oh-em-gee."

Lydia flinched at the sound of the voice and buried her nose deeper into her book. Her lunch tray sat pushed off and forgotten to the side, macaroni n' cheese barely picked at. A quick glance to the clock at the head of the cafeteria confirmed that there were only five minutes left in the lunch period. Just five minutes. Lydia could handle five minutes.

"I cannot believe it. Stacy, I owe you fifty bucks. I thought she'd at least break a bone. Like, get a frickin' doctor's note so we wouldn't have to look at her for a couple weeks. Geez." Claire sounded immensely put out, as though Lydia had somehow inconvenienced her by not being seriously injured.

"Pay up, bitch," Lydia heard an equally nasty voice reply and began rereading the same sentence a tenth time. "I told you it would take more than that. Like, we would probably need some holy water, a cross, garlic, a priest- scratch that- an exorcist. To be safe."

Just five minutes.

Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

Wellp.

The ghost checked his watch(es, multiple) approximately ten minutes after the door closed behind Lydia. The hurricane was continuing its course across the Neitherworld, though probably the Storm Chasers had gotten it controlled by now. Yep, there was a department for that, too.

Anyway, it had been about ten minutes, and that's about ten minutes the ghost has been perfectly bored – so, it was time to see what his wifey-poo was up to. This was better than the best television show. She seemed to have forgiven him his most recent trespasses, and that's the perfect time to accrue more of them.

With a snap of his fingers, he was back at the Roadhouse, in his own room, plush moldering coffin bed and all. Pulling a chipped hand mirror out of one of the sides, he settles in and twists imaginary knobs on the side of it to "tune in" to her activities.

Ten minutes in Neitherworld time, of course, is quite different than living time. By the time he checks in, she's already in the tub, and the ghost blinks his dark-rimmed eyes and squints. "Oh-" he mumbles to himself and adds an entirely too-pleased-with-the-view chuckle, "Hellllllo~." Sure, this was a gross invasion of her privacy and he knows she'd absolutely have an attack if she ever found out, but this way….she can't, really. Betelgeuse kicks his legs up, picks his nose absently, grunts, and vaguely fondles the mirror, twisting it here and there to get some really nice angles on poor unaware Lydia.

In the pale light of that small but surprisingly pleasantly renovated bathroom, she looks like a siren; her thick locks falling like a black waterfall over gently sloped shoulders. In places, she is sweetly soft, and others she is deliciously angular. Her back curves gracefully as she moves to wash those long limbs of hers, and in the back of his mind the ghost considers turning himself into her sponge. Instead, he just growls to himself, happily.

It takes him a moment of oogling to realize she's making a noise of some sort. Her lilting, dulcet tones eventually shiver through the mirror's surface as if from far away, and the ghost smacks the edges with a frustrated grunt until it comes in clearer.

"This old death is crooked and untrue,
I played your game but now I think I'm through.
I know what you look like,
And I'll see you before long..."

The ghost puts the mirror closer to his ear, resting his chin on a palm and actually giving up her beautiful visage to close his eyes briefly. Perhaps, in some inner fantasy, he's off dreaming that she's singing to him. It is like this that he actually falls asleep – despite not needing any, it is her voice that soothes him thus into slumber, musica delicias habet ad pectum ferum mansuefaciendum – music soothes the savage breast.

The ghost wakes with a start in the wee hours of the morning. Flailing and struggling, he grabs up the mirror again, shaking it until it shows a clear picture of Lydia just waking up herself. "Man, she goes to school early," he remarks to himself, sourly, and promptly scrambles out of his coffin awkwardly. He goes through some sort of strange businessman routine, throwing coffee down his throat he doesn't need to consume, straightening his tie, and promptly readying himself for some form of commute. With a wave of his arm, he disappears from the Roadhouse and enters the world of the living.

He reappears exactly on his intended target, the branch of a tree outside Lydia's weirdly shaped Victorian-moderna house. He's an oddly colored scraggly cat, mostly black but with a striped tail and overly yellow eyes, teeth crookedly sticking out from feline muzzle. His whiskers twitch. It's peculiar being this….outdoors. He's not accustomed to traveling the human plane in a non-haunt situation, but it's important to him that…for some reason…he keeps an eye on her. Today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe forever. It isn't logical, but the ghost is going with his feelings it seems versus any kind of sense-making. Also, this is vastly entertaining – more so than destruction or mayhem.

For now.

He follows her to school, minding being seen, marveling at various things, smells, sights. It's a bit grand, and novel, and he even forgets to cause trouble as he sticks close to Lydia's trail but just enough out of sight to be ordinary.

Once she hits the school building, another tactic was surely needed. As a ghost, he couldn't be seen by most living people – but Lydia was different and he needed to hide from her. So, like any common specter, he went the safe route: invisibility.

God school was boring.

Agonizingly, he sat through class after class, taking up empty room, hiding in corners as different insects. Finally, lunch rolled around. He almost…. almost changed the lunch food into something disgusting after Lydia finished being served, but instead, he just sent a few mice into the kitchen to cause some nuisance to the women working there. It gave him mild satisfaction of a kind – the ghost did not deal well with boredom. Boredom grew in him vicious things.

And then, towards the end of the lunch period, slumped invisibly on one of the lunchroom benches, Betelgeuse can't help but overhear a voice. It's a voice that drips with malice and some form of edgy irony, which is generally considered the worst kind. It takes him a minute to understand quite what they're talking about….but it seems as though….they ….were Lydia's bike trouble.

They were the ones that hurt her. And made her late to the wedding.

And it becomes perfectly clear, crystalline, that they had intention of hurting her again. His wife. The girl who has eyes like sadly melting honey when she cries. This, this was his. She needed to be safe, and these …. foul representations of humanity were not inclined to be on the same page, it seemed. The sensation that builds in his chest is one that he'd never felt, exactly. It feels like a hundred fires have lit all across his limbs at once. Red rage clouds his vision as she continues to speak. The last words he processes are these: "Like, we would probably need some holy water, a cross, garlic, a priest- scratch that- an exorcist. To be safe."

He knows an exorcist. A bio-exorcist, to be exact.

Out of seemingly nowhere, the shape of something horrific begins to grow in the middle of the cafeteria. It grows quickly, striped, ghoulish. Scales, arms, legs, parts, insectine, voracious. Colossal coils slam forth, tearing a few tables in two as if they were made from balsa wood. Everyone was going to see THIS and it raised the feeling of pleasure deep in his heart. Lydia's classmates shriek, wail, and run – he'd show these tiny, impudent souls who they're really messing with.

Three heads pull outwards from one neck, hissing and rattling, groaning as they expand upwards, hampered only by the ceiling. Eyes, so many eyes, spread bulging across their monstrous visage. Rows of teeth line each mouth – so much worse than the snake he made so many years ago, jagged, almost clogging each maw. All three of them open so wide, gurgling, drooling. Almost everyone has escaped the cafeteria. Everyone, that is, except Claire and her group of friends….he's trapped them with an enormous coil. The heads rear back, seeing them as open prey.

He's going to eat them and send them to a world so much worse than death. He's going to eat them all whole.

Lydia's P.O.V.

The smell hit her first. It was singularly foul; sulfur and raw sewage and the worst kind of rancid, stagnant rot. It almost made her lose the meager bit of cafeteria food she'd managed stomaching. Next came the screaming. They were the kind of shrill, blood-curdling screams that could only come from adolescent girls, the kind actresses in horror movies couldn't be paid enough to replicate. Then, she saw him. There wasn't a single moment where Lydia had any illusions about who- what- the creature was.

He was a monster. And he was out for blood.

Lydia stood frozen with paralysis as the grotesque, striped hydra decimated the lunch room, destroying everything in its path. There was no mistaking its destination; a gaggle of tan, blonde, screaming teenagers sequestered in the corner. Rapidly, each of them were snapped up by tentacles and suspended in the air above the monster's gaping maws- it had three. The gleam of the cafeteria's fluorescent lighting on uncharacteristically white, razor-sharp teeth knocked Lydia out of it. She had to do something and she had to do it now.

"Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse!"

In less than a split-second, he was gone. There were several sickening cracks as Claire, Stacy, and a third girl whose name Lydia had never bothered learning fell nearly twenty feet to the ground. Fearing for their lives, Lydia quickly closed the distance between she and her bullies. Stacy was shrieking incomprehensibly, sitting up and clutching her leg which was bent at a horribly unnatural angle. She would be fine, then.

The nameless girl was eerily silent. Blood pooled beneath her unmoving head. Lydia struggled through her panic to search for what little practical first aid knowledge she had. She ripped off her blazer, bundled it beneath her head to elevate it, and lowered her ear to the girl's mouth. A warm puff of breath hit her skin. She was alive. Thank God.

Claire was moaning low, writhing on the tile. One arm was wrapped around her middle while the other sat limp to the side, snapped like a twig. "Claire- Claire," Lydia urged, lifting a head of platinum blonde to rest in her lap in case she also sustained some kind of cranial trauma. Icy blue eyes fluttered, never settling on anything for more than a second. "Come on, can you hear me? What year is it? Who's the president of the United States? Goddamnit, answer me, you stupid bitch!" This insult lacked the venom it usually carried when Lydia simply thought it. Instead, it was entrenched with desperation.

The sound of it must have struck a chord with Claire. Finally, glacial orbs found her. A cold fear filled them, so foreign to Lydia when compared to the biting malice they usually held. The blonde began to shake with terror, looking up at the girl who held her as though she were in the arms of the devil incarnate.

"Witch." The conviction in her declaration was absolute. With that, Claire Brewster fell into unconsciousness.

In the end, the entire incident was written off as the result of a collective hallucination brought on by spoiled lunch food. School was let out early that day and the administration called off Friday as well, giving the students a three-day weekend in reparation for "lack of judgment on behalf of staff." Nary a suspicious eye turned her way- none but Claire's. Lydia would worry about her another time. For now, Betelgeuse would have to be seen to.

Why did he do that? He was going to be furious when she saw him again, she just knew it. Lydia was tempted to call him as soon as she left school, but nervousness prevented her. What if he was still on a rampage? No, it would be much safer to reach out to him through her mirror. Delia and her father received hastened half-hearted greetings while she scrambled up the steps, eager to speak with her husband. They didn't seem to notice she when she came home earlier than usual either.

She cringed, hesitating before knocking on the glass. This wasn't going to be fun. Knock. Knock. Knock. "Betelgeuse…?" Almost immediately, his sneering countenance came into view. She spoke first in a breathless rush, hoping to end his rant before it could begin. "Please don't be mad at me."

Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

With a hissing scream like a deflating balloon, the ghost is summarily banished back to the Neitherworld just as his fangs of one of his heads were touching Stacy's pretty face.

Being banished was probably one of the more frustrating parts of Betelgeuses' miserable existence, but even more frustrating was the idea that he was stuck here, unable to follow through and protect Lydia. It was a confusing, new sensation, a new source of rage that he hadn't considered prior to re-entering her life just a day prior. But, what is time, to the dead?

Anger came so easily to the poltergeist, and he was infuriated upon his return. He almost stormed down the entire roadhouse in his initial explosive anger at being unable to go back to the human world. How long would he be here? What line was it now that he had crossed? Most of his anger stemmed from confusion – the living had such an attachment to staying alive. It was so…..incomprehensible. And yet, who would want to be dead anyway? Certainly not he.

And anyway, she was just like the Maitlands.

How dare she interrupt a professional while he's workin?!

It seemed like an eternity that he stormed, haunting his own damn house like a bad fever dream. He was about to take it out on the rest of the Neitherworld too, but eventually, he ran out of steam something like a child throwing a tantrum. And just like any child throwing a tantrum, it ended in frustrated tears, pounding the floor of his bedroom exhaustedly in his striped suit. Not many could imagine him crying, but this was a deal he had worked almost his entire afterlife for. And it was an angry sort of crying, involving punching, and kicking, and destruction. No one would see him like this but his empty, half-destroyed room now. To be thwarted in some manner again was wrenching, especially when, yet again, he was trying in his own misconceived way to do something ….good?…. for someone else.

Time dragged on. Betelgeuse was now in a full-blown sulk in the corner, utterly convinced he would never leave this place again. Why would she even try and call him back? He almost didn't notice the knocking sound coming from his hand-mirror. It rattled and shook, and finally floated over to him, seemingly opening up the channel on its own. So, Lydia gets a really good face full of a sulky, sneering visage before she gets anything else, and he slowly turns towards the mirror with dark, almost black eyes that glitter as she speaks. Creepy.

"Lyds," the ghost murmurs, after she rushes out her plea, his voice clearly hoarse. He struggles with what to tell her, no rant forming, clearly hesitating on a few things before settling with a genuinely worried, "You're not gonna leave me in here, are ya?…..sweetheart…..?" he pauses, "I just…thought…them chicks were serious, see." As if pleading to a higher deity and trying to convince it that his sins were small ones, insignificant ones, he speaks to his wife in this way. Please.

Lydia's P.O.V.

Oh, thank all that was good and holy. He wasn't mad at her. Yet. The desperation in his plea tugged at her heartstrings and made her hate herself for what she now had to do.

"Mm-mm," she reassured immediately, shaking her head no and biting her lip, yet still neglected to say his name. "I just… Debbie's skull is fractured." It did not take Lydia long to learn the unconscious girl's name. People began screaming it, as well as Claire's and Stacy's, as soon as it became clear that the "hallucination" had dissipated and the cafeteria was safe again. "And Claire and Stacy are pretty messed up, too. They're going to be okay, but… I can't…"

How could she honestly expect this to work? Betelgeuse was a ruthlessly savage being, prone to rapid mood swings that had the potential to turn lethal when gone unchecked, and… and… he was her husband, not her prisoner. She would be his keeper, but she would not be his jailer. Lydia only hoped he was able to recognize the distinction.

"I can't… let you… hurt anyone, Betelgeuse."

She ended with his name. That was twice. Maybe that would ease the sting. He didn't do rules, and here she was taking it upon herself to impose the grandaddy of all stipulations. This was not a part of their deal. This was an infraction of their bargain; he saves her friends, she marries him, he's granted his freedom. That's that, end of story.

But… that wasn't that, was it? He kissed her. He had made it abundantly clear that he had every intention of pursuing her romantically- and she implied that she would let him. That was a big infraction in Lydia's book. It seemed fair to allow herself this breach in contract. Regardless of either of their desires, Lydia didn't see herself as having much of a choice. He had stolen that from her She must do this.

"Primum non nocere," she quoted softly in latin with closed eyes, before repeating in English and settling resolute honey orbs on his reflection. "'First, do no harm.' I need you to promise me that you won't hurt anyone again, B. Promise me, and I'll never send you back again- that's my promise in return. No matter how badly you fuck up or how mad I am at you, I will never take advantage of that power."

In contrast to many of their previous conversations, Lydia kept her gaze level with his through most of her speech, willing him to please be reasonable just this once. "Deal?"

Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

The ghost is weirdly quiet as she explains herself, those eyes still dark. Despite his bargaining plea, his begging doesn't match the expression on his face. He's about to reply to that "let you" – who is she to let him do anything? He twists and picks at his fingers, though, his mind turning over and over, clearly thinking. She is, despite everything, in charge of his freedom at this point, and so his only bargaining chip is to reason with her. Just like in the cave, just like before he married her. She remains his control vector, and he shifts uncomfortably, frowning at the thought. Despite that, too, he does have a tugging, pulling need to protect her in a way beyond his obligation towards his freedom which he isn't sure how to vocalize either. And he doesn't like it. But he does like that those girls will never insomuch look at Lydia, nevermind talk that way to her again, despite her having a firm hand it seems on his proverbial leash.

She's already said his name twice as if teasing him – it's intended to take away the sting, but it only cements it. Like waving a treat in front of a dog, and he almost audibly sighs in impatience but somehow manages to stifle it. And it reaps a reward: she offers him a deal. Do no harm. He can't hurt anyone, can he? His nasty little brain already pokes holes in her feeble attempt to keep him from chaos. He pulls a cigarette box out of his jacket pocket, clearing his nose with a hard, sort of gross phlegmy snort as if considering her offer. He lights the cigarette and it burns, those eyes still glittering, that intensity similar to when she first called him back.

"Sure," he finally says, pulling himself into a more casual sitting position, "Sure, sure. I understand," he says, holding up his hands, submissively. "I promise."

His intonation is inscrutable and he agrees….fairly readily. Maybe too readily. But he did make the deal, and seems to be thusly waiting, adjusting his jacket in preparation to be re-released.

Lydia's P.O.V.

"Betelgeuse," she breathed out in a deep sigh of relief, freeing him. it was hard to believe that had actually gone as smoothly as it seemed. Lydia very highly doubted that this was the end of this particular issue, but the boundary had been set and terms were agreed to. That was enough for now.

Once he was back in her room, filling the entire space with his grandiose presence, Lydia found her demureness again. This was her husband who wanted to date and kiss her- and now he was standing in her bedroom with her. Alone. No plans, no expectations, no more deals to be made or fulfilled. Now what?

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you. I would've called earlier," she explained ramblingly, nervousness showing as she crossed to the window to open it and release his cigarette smoke. Just like before, she lit incense to help chase it away- sandalwood for serenity. Hopefully, this would help calm any residual unease between them. Distrustfully, she hovered over it for a moment to make sure he didn't put this one out either. "But I couldn't get out. There was an assembly, the police were called, parents are furious- it was all a really big thing."

Understandably so. Winter River's crown princesses were viciously attacked by a monstrous apparition that no one had a viable explanation for. There was a disturbance in the atmosphere that couldn't be ignored no matter how strange and unusual.

Just as Lydia was about to relay to him that he didn't have to bully her bullies, she could take care of herself just fine, thank you very much- something occurred to her that hadn't before. "Why… why were you there, anyway? I didn't call you, did I?"

The last question was rushed, her cheeks just barely pinking. He was all that was on her mind at the moment. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that his name had formed on her tongue without her permission. Too late, Lydia realized her mistake. If he looked carefully enough, he might catch her slip and recognize exactly how much of an impact he was having on her. That was dangerous.

Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

His entrance this time into her bedroom was much better organized. He wasn't catapulted like before, but he billows in like a dark mist from within her mirror before reforming to his old, horrible self, sitting on her bed like a petulant gargoyle. As she rushes around lighting incense and describing the chaos, he watches her, studiously.

As she describes what happened at school, the ghoul grins a ghastly little grin. It's the only thing that's given him satisfaction beyond their deal, which he is careful not to mention again. "Well," he says, smoothly, "Bygones be bygones."

Had she seen him just an hour ago, frantically clawing, howling, shaking the walls, the epitome of wrathful energy…she would have immediately tagged that as a blatant lie. But she hadn't, so he takes advantage of the opportunity to simply be reasonable. She did come to fetch him, after all. But, he's being overly easy, perhaps. Perhaps.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette. "No," he affirms, as she asks if she had called him to her school. In this way, he's honest. But his honesty carries with it something a little less innocent, and a little less nice, "You didn't have to. You let the cat out of the bag, remember?" he studies her some more, and does indeed get a very good idea about what kind of an impact he, and this, might be having on her. A dark part of him wriggles in pleasure, but there are many dark parts to him. And less dark, more impulsive parts. He's almost tempted to tell her she has a beautiful singing voice. There goes that wriggle again.

"Come here," he motions, his voice lowered, his eyes hooded, "And I'll tell you a secret."

Lydia's P.O.V.

Let the cat out of the bag? What did that even mean? Before she could get any further explanation out of him he said something that made her knees lock and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Come here, and I'll tell you a secret."

As if in protest at the mere suggestion, her feet turned to lead weights beneath her. Her senses sharpened and she became acutely aware of how very comfortable he looked on her bed. Oh, absolutely nothing good could come of this. Painfully aware of her trembling, sweaty palms, she clenched them in the material of her skirt and took that first step toward her doom. She stopped just before his knees; within arm's reach, but probably not as close as he wanted.

What was the worst that could happen?

Large, apprehensive eyes settled on the cherry of his cigarette rather than his own. How she wished she was bold enough to steal it from his hand and take a deep drag of her own. God knows she needed it more than he did. He was so sure of himself, knew exactly what he was doing. Lydia didn't have a clue. When he didn't immediately speak- instead sucking down more smoke, seemingly basking in her nerves- she released her abused lower lip, shuffled just slightly closer, and whispered a barely audible, "Well?"

Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

He can practically smell her past the stench of his cigarette smoke as she suddenly freezes up. There.

That was it. The moment he turned from something she thought she had control over into something else. And as she makes her way over slowly, somewhat stiffly, he waits. If she was considering dictating terms of their relationship, he was going to have to blur some lines. You can't tame a horse you haven't properly ridden, and while she may have the reigns it's quite clear she's not been instructed on how to use them. So you think you're very clever?

Her hands crumple into her skirt. Got you.

As she approaches his knees, and asks him, "Well?" he smiles like a cat and spreads them, and slowly encircles rough hands around her. One slips deftly around her middle, and the other entwines itself into that dark, luscious hair. It's gentle at first, but once they've found purchase, the fingers in her locks tighten into a firm, squeezing grip. He pulls her to him in a singular movement, slow but insistent and without asking. Perhaps he's expecting some resistance but not particularly worried about any, it seems. Because while his movements are slow and deliberate they are intensely strong and he leans in, almost curling over her small frame, to whisper into her ear.

"I know," he nearly purrs, "That there isn't a single part of you that was actually worried for them. You were worried for yourself, in that way, you and I are alike, little girl. But you thrilled at the idea they'd be snapped up, torn t' shreds, yer heart can't lie to me."

He removes the cigarette from his lips using the hand formerly wrapped around Lydia's waist and gently places the cigarette against her lips, knowingly, holding it there until she takes it. The ring on his broad dirt rubbed hand glitters in her low bedroom light while the other hand in her hair remains gripped. Just enough to keep her relatively in place and assert how strong he can be, her arms are free enough, as is the rest of her.

"I know there are thorns in the brush that have pricked you, and I can see it every time I look into your eyes. I know you can sing like a bird from yer pretty little cage. And I know you're no wilting, sad little flower waiting to be plucked," his lips curl back to reveal those dirt stained yellowing teeth. He takes a slow breath of her hair, "And between us, the hunger is strong. Soon, you'll grow tired of the unknowing."

He releases her, then, completely - returning the exchange of his cigarette and leaning back.

"That's what I know."

Lydia's P.O.V.

When he touched her, she turned to stone. Pliant, submissive stone- but stone all the same. Still sitting somewhat elevated on her bed, he was taller than her even while she stood. With slow, purposeful movements he drew her in- not quite as though he were concerned she might hit him, but prepared for it nonetheless. It was impossible to suppress the whimper that escaped when his long fingers curled and pulled at the base of her mane, only just so. Not a punishment so much as a reminder. Cold breath that stunk of bourbon and tobacco ghosted across her ear. Instinctively, she gasped at the icy sensation and turned her head, baring her throat in submission to the threat.

That voice of shadow and smoke grated across her eardrums, telling her his "secret." No! She wanted to cry out her dissent and shake his arms away- but couldn't. Not because his grip was too strong- and it was strong- but because something was burning inside of her and it wasn't quite ready to stop yet. You're wrong!

The gruesome images he painted for her with his cruel assumption of her character made her stomach turn, but not from squeamishness. She hated what he did to them. It absolutely killed her on the inside that Debbie- who had never once been outwardly cruel to her and was simply guilty by association- was now laying in a hospital bed because of her. The sound of the horrible agony in Stacy's screams would not be leaving her any time soon. Claire was so mentally scarred by the incident that she now truly believed in her heart of hearts that Lydia was a witch and had sicced her monster on them.

Hadn't she though? Wasn't she?

Struck with a fresh wave of guilt, her knees buckled and she sucked in the smoke he offered eagerly, eyes clenching shut and mystifying with all new tears. She would not give these to him. He didn't deserve them. More words came pouring out of his mouth, straight into her ear, but she couldn't ignore them even if she tried. They were more accurate than the others, to a degree she wasn't sure she was able to admit to herself.

"-I know you can sing like a bird from yer pretty little cage-"

At this, she stiffened again, not even realizing that over the course of his taunt she had gone from marble to putty in his arms- even when one of them ceased holding her. He watched her bathe- and thanks to their deal, there wasn't shit she could do about it. It took a substantial amount of self-control to keep from sending him back out of pure spite. Her hands reclenched- into tight fists of rage, this time- and when he finally released her she made no attempts to back away. The practical knowledge that he wouldn't even feel it was the only thing that kept her fist from crashing into his smug jaw.

Molten eyes burned, unshed tears forgotten. Nostrils flared. A goddess of rage stood before him, fearless of consequences.

"You don't know anything about me," she corrected. Not with the petulance of someone who had been called out, but with the arrogance an individual who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were right. "But I know something about you," she mocked, taunting. "I know that you're a selfish manipulative jerk who is so incredibly terrified of rejection that you couldn't even produce the testicles necessary to ask me on a real date like a real man."

Satisfied, she took a step back to let him ruminate on her accusation, somehow staring down at him despite the physical disadvantage. There. Her body language was taut, daring him to do something about it. Give her an excuse.

Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

Well, that made her angry. He wasn't particularly surprised this time, every attempt at making some sort of connection with her has insoforth worked out….half and half, at best. She liked it when he was honest with her, and so he was. Projecting his own savagery onto Lydia wasn't nice, however, although the ghost was really in no mood to be nice anyway. And, it seemed, neither was she. Fucking teenagers.

"I know more about you than you think," replies the ghost, slowly, his temper not matching hers, "I'm pretty dumb but I'm not that dumb, sweet'eart." He had his explosive fit earlier and now he had settled into something more subtly malicious and playful especially after the incredibly unwise deal she had just made with him. At her latter insult, he laughed, genuinely finding it quite funny. It was a full toss of his head, gleeful cackle, too. "Accurate, m'little spitfire," is all he says, as she stands defiantly between his knees. He takes a drag of his cigarette. His eyes gleam. He likes her at extremes, and this is probably not the healthiest thing…but it seems he can provoke her into a wide range of emotions, and none of them are predictable. It's immensely entertaining. He almost hopes she hits him just like she's threatening to do with that fisted hand clenched at her side.

He adds, cigarette clenched between his teeth, holding out his arms in self-effacing anger, "You wouldn't wanna go on a goddamn date with me, anyway. Who dates a guy like me?" the world has been an unkind stranger to this prowling, hurt beast, and he has subsequently lashed out for so many millennia – and it drips in his tone. He holds up his hands, "Fine. I'll humor you. Lydia Geuse-Deetz - you like that? I thought that was pretty good, y'know Geuse isn't really my last name, will you go on a date with me?"

Lydia's P.O.V.

"Yes," she snapped back without any hesitation, still full of passion. "I will! Was that so hard? Ugh!" Scowling, she turned her back on him to sit back down at her vanity and brush out her windblown hair, all the while grumbling under her breath. Something about stupid boys and their stupid pride and unfairness. His laughter only served to pour gasoline over her rage. "Shut up." There was still a simmering fury there, but it was markedly calmed.

An angry blush discolored her cheeks and she ran the brush through her locks roughly, glaring at her own reflection. How did he get to sit there all calm and nonchalant as though nothing had just occurred between them? Bastard. "Take my first kiss," she growled inaudibly, ripping the bristles through her hair viciously, "take my first date and don't have the balls to tell me it's a date," she separated her mass of raven hair into two equal portions hanging over either side of her shoulders, "spy on me in the bath," her fingers worked quickly and methodically, arranging the locks into twin braids, "lose your goddamn mind and attack a bunch of little girls, you coward," her volume rose here, rubbing it in that she wanted him to hear it. Lydia's tongue was loosening the more she worked herself up.

"You stay right there," she ordered with a glare as she made for the closet to change out of her uniform. She couldn't go on a date in that hideous thing. The blue plaid accentuated her pale complexion in a way that Lydia did not find at all flattering. She instead donned a simple black sundress, her favorite, most worn pair of combat boots, and an equally worn leather jacket that was much too big for her.

With all the contempt of cat that had recently had its first bath, she presented herself to him; arms crossed defiantly over her chest, black-painted lips still twisted into a scowl. "Now take me on a date and make it a good one. You owe me."