A/N : First and foremost…Listen2Juno…this is not intentional. And you will get your smut soon. I'm just having such a trail with it that I gave up after week of continually working on it and decided to post a bit so no one thought I had abandoned this fic. Trust me, I'm far from abandoning it. I can't remember the last time I put so much work into a fic…which you'll see in this chapter. I did a lot of research to make sure my dates add up and things make sense sooo…thank you Google. You rock! And thank you Mikell for looking over the history of this and giving me an impromptu beta.

The rest of you vwvanloer, inulover, Mamma Lici, badkidoh and Rogue…thanks for the reviews guys! You keep me going on this and amped up to keep giving you more! Love to all!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of BJ and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

Deal Breaker

After what seemed like hours of doing nothing but throwing shit in boxes and hauling them up to the attic when, in his opinion, half the crap really belonged in the garbage anyway, Beetlejuice and Lydia were finally done taking everything that held a trace of Adam and Barbara out of the room.

"Well…that really emptied the place out."

Beside him, leaning against the archway, Lydia smiled sadly. They'd finished cleaning out the rooms just as the sun had started to sink and now the dark shadows crept over the bare floor and worn couch, as if searching for a trace of what had once been there.

"Now I really am out of things to do," she murmured quietly, casting her gaze to the floor and intentionally hiding her face behind the curtain of her thick hair.

Sympathy slithered through him and he grimaced, rubbing at his chest as if the simple movement would ease away the uncomfortable feeling. When it didn't he sighed and gave into it, reaching over and gently tugging on her hand to gain her attention.

Those luminous eyes lifted to his, a silent plea in their depths. In that moment, he would give her anything she could possibly ask for. If it meant he could hold her, if it meant he could drown in the intoxicating aroma of honey and brandy that seemed to be her signature scent…if it would erase that lonely, pained look on her gorgeous face…he would give her anything. And for once, he didn't give a shit how emotionally sappy it seemed.

"Come on," he said, tugging gently and spinning her away from the room with a dramatic flair that eased the sadness of her smile. "I think I remember some hot babe promising me pizza and beer." He slung an arm around her shoulders and although she jumped a little, the idea must not have been that appalling because not even a second later she was sagging against him, her head falling to his shoulder.

"I thought food didn't 'do much for you'," she muttered, making quotation marks in the air with her fingers and grinning up at him.

He shrugged. "I like the pretense. Besides, ain't it some time-honored tradition to eat pizza and get shitfaced after moving a bunch of boxes or some crap like that?"

"I think I've heard something along those lines once or twice. Want me to ask if they can scare up a few beetles to put on yours?"

"Now you're speakin' my language, Babes."

After the pizza was ordered and there was nothing left to do but wait for it, he put as much effort as he could stomach into making polite conversation, digging for little tidbits of the life of a woman he once thought he knew. Luckily for him, she provided enough of the information on her own, keeping a constant flow of nearly one-sided conversation in an attempt to shrug off the lingering sentiment that had plagued her throughout the day. She kept it up through pizza, opting for wine instead of beer and relaxing enough to agree to an old-age horror flick. Which is where they found themselves now – two somewhat friends if you could call it that – sitting in the darkness of a poorly decorated living room with nothing but the flickering glow from the hearth skipping weakly over them and watching The Shinning on an impressive flat screen.

"See now this…is the way you need to be enjoyin' shit like this," Beetlejuice said, saluting the television with his beer. "Chuckie's pick?"

"No," Lydia cast him a sidelong smile and shifted her weight, settling closer to him. "This was actually Delia's."

"What? No way! You're tellin' me Miss. Stick-up-her ass picked out a big screen that clashes with her horrible taste in décor? I don't believe it."

Lydia laughed softly, relaxing even further. He could feel the tension drain slowly away from her. It might have been the wine but he didn't mind thinking it had something to do with her being comfortable around him. A little closer and maybe he'd test the waters a bit, put an arm around her shoulders, let himself enjoy the simplicity of having a warm, willing body beside him – a warm body drenched in the scent of something intoxicating and far too arousing.

"I think dad kind of picked a time when she'd be in some drug-induced state of mind, then sprung the idea and she just went with it. By the time it was paid for and in the house, there wasn't much she could do."

"What's up with Del's and all those pills anyway? I get that she's an addict but…even I'm not stupid enough to think that mixin' all those things up with a cocktail is the best freakin' idea."

Lydia lifted her shoulders in a non-committal shrug, then raised her glass to her lips and held it there for a moment, her gaze far off and reflective. "Guess that's just the way she is," she muttered, taking a long sip.

"And your pop's is alright with that? The guy ain't much to look at, no offense…but he aint so bad that he'd have to be scrapin' the bottom of the pill poppin' lunatic barrel, if ya know what I mean."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Dad's a caretaker, if you weren't able to figure that out. Not that he's all that great at it but that's kind of his thing. Find some attractive woman with a spark of insanity and an unstoppable addiction and he's in love. Delia's a bitch…but she didn't take first place."

There was a darkness in her tone that hinted ever-so-slightly of that fourteen-year-old emotional wreck. "Your mom was the reigning champ then?" he ventured cautiously.

A nod, another deep sip from a nearly empty glass. When she brought it away from her mouth, he reached over and gently flicked the rim. Instantly, the glass was refilled.

"Mom…had more than just some addiction to pills. She had an addiction to booze, to heroine, to other men who had booze and heroine. It wasn't like that at first but…" she paused to take a deep breath, close her eyes and compose herself before continuing. "At first it was just the booze. Dad was working with the city at the time and checking out a block of old buildings they were planning to restore and turn into a shelter for abused and abandoned teens. He was on his way out of the buildings one night after having met with a city inspector to check the stability of the place when he found her, puking into a gutter." She shook her head, shame clearly written on her face. "Got her into AA, and although dad says they fell in love, I have a feeling she was more in love with his money and protective nature. They were never married but started planning when she got pregnant with me. Then I was born and things kind of changed. I came first in my dad's eyes. His little Pumpkin. Mom didn't like that. She got jealous, she turned hateful…and then she started the hardcore stuff. Maybe she wanted the attention back, maybe she wanted out…I really could care less. When it became obvious that there wasn't a damn thing he could do for her, when he finally caught on to what she was doing with other men and when her addiction started making her violent, he filed for full custody. Got the papers signed and she took off."

The sullen teen was suddenly justified in her depression. Beetlejuice stared at her, unnerved by not only the story, but the detached nature with which she told it. Two mother figures…and she didn't seem to care one iota for either. "Guess you made your peace with it, huh?"

"Didn't have much of a choice. Dad did his best raising me and his best was good enough to make up for the lack of a mother. When Delia came along I was old enough to see how lonely my dad was and although I didn't like her much, I sucked it up for him. She had her issues. So did he. But he was happy."

"Issues? The woman's addicted to valium and shitty art. Her issues have issues."

It was an idiotic thing to say and he knew it, but she was starting to tense again and he liked her calm. The words worked and she laughed, nudging him with her shoulder. "Yes…her issues have issues. So, what about you, Beej?" She shifted around to face him, tucking her leg under her. Her knee was pressed to his hip and he could feel the warmth from her body sweep over him, even through the threadbare cloth of his pants.

"What about me?" He rolled his head on his shoulder, giving her a bland look before taking a sip of his drink.

She seemed to stall, almost as if she were weighing the choice to ask her next question or not. Whatever it was, it was making her nervous as hell. That tension was starting to come back with company in tow. She lifted her glass to her lips and drained it of every drop. He watched her throat work as she swallowed, imagined what it would be like to run his tongue over the pale expanse of flesh, to feel her tremble beneath his hands. He'd long since given up trying to hate her. Helping her move Adam and Barb's things, making unnatural attempts to get to know her better, sitting there watching some psychological thriller and drinking like college dorm buddies…it was relatively pointless to hate her after all of that. Now…it seemed almost natural to just want her. It was simple, it was basic. It was a hell of a lot easier than arguing with himself all day. Getting her to go with it though, to forget about the shit contract…that might take some work.

"How did you die?"

And suddenly…every lusty, carnivorous thought vanished. Left in its place was a cold, empty void. He looked away, down at his drink, anywhere but at her.

"Just happened," he muttered, lifting his glass to his lips and swallowing deeply. He felt pain. And when the dead felt pain…it hurt in ways a breather could never comprehend. Pain to a breather – blinding, consuming pain – it wasn't something the human body could tolerate. A normal human body would shut down to keep it out. When you were dead though…there was no way to stop it. Your body couldn't just stop functioning. It already had. So the pain just kept going, whether you could handle it or not.

"Just happened?" she prompted softly.

"Yeah…."

The sound of dry retching filled the small room. She was vomiting…again. Or trying to. There would be nothing left in her to come up at this point. And that very thought sent a terrifying chill straight to his heart. He watched her small body convulse as she leaned over the chamber pot, her frail fingers grasping the aged porcelain. There was nothing he could do for her. He'd tried, countless times. When she had started talking to him, referring to him as the priest from her childhood…he'd known there would never be a single thing he could do to help her. Not her…not their unborn child. She was in fate's hands and the cruel specter held his heart as well. Her life…his heart….both in the palm of its hand…waiting to destroy both in one, sudden, vicious moment. He almost wished it would be quick. He wished fate would take him as well but he remained untouched by the blackness consuming the small village.

Hot tears trailed over his face as he bent his head, folded his hands and prayed feverishly. Words spilled from his lips, soft and desperate. He wanted to be heard…he needed to be heard. He doubted he would be.

"Joseph-."

He looked up over the steeple of his fingers. She was watching him, sprawled over bed with one arm outstretched. Her brown eyes were bright and unfocused. And Joseph…was not his name.

"Joseph…father has returned, has he not? You should go to the fields and see if he is in need of help."

"He has as much help as he needs, dear sister," he found it in him to mutter. Was there a point to arguing with her over his true name? Over who he was? In her mind…she was no longer married. She did not carry a child. She knew nothing more than whom she was and the world that now existed inside her delirious mind. "Father will be home shortly."

She smiled, a blinding smile that still had the power to effortlessly steal his breath. "Perhaps we will tell us a story of his travels before bed?"

"Perhaps," he said, emotion thickening his voice.

"That would be wonderful." She sighed and her eyes slid closed, the lids so very pale now that he could see make out the deep brown color through them. "Do you not think so, Joseph?"

"Yes." He moved to the bed and took her hand, clasping it between his. He stared down at the bony fingers laying limp in his grasp. He could see the veins, see the blood pulsing weakly through them. It wouldn't be long now. He bent his head to her hand, his heart twisting and tears spilling furiously, splattering over her paper-thin flesh. "Wonderful…" he whispered.

Lydia was watching him now, her full lips parted in stunned horror. "You had a wife?" she whispered. There was no offense, no jealousy. He almost wished there was. The emotions on her face shifted – pity, curiosity, sadness – they were all emotions he hated. They were weakness. And weakness was just another thing that was pointless as far as he was concerned. He reminded himself of this as he went on. Though why he went on, he couldn't quite understand.

"Yeah…had."

"The plague-?"

"The plague," he repeated, his voice cold and detached in comparison to her compassion filled whisper.

"Soup's cold," he muttered, his slurred voice in complete accordance with the slurred reality inhabiting his mind. The fire snapped in the hearth, a cast iron pot hanging uselessly above it. Useless…because there was nothing within.

"That should matter not one bit to you though, right my dear?" He stood awkwardly, pitching to the right and landing heavily against the wall. With a harsh laugh, he lifted the bottle clasped in his hand and drank deeply from its contents, savoring the painful scorch of strong liquor sliding over his raw throat. "Soup's soup and all that. Even if it was scalding hot, would it make a damn bit of difference?"

Shoving away from the wall, he stumbled drunkenly to the bed. She lay there, still as the day she had died. The days had blurred together, the weeks passed without notice. When he did start to notice the time that had passed, he simply found another bottle and drown out reality. He dulled the pain, his last conscious thought always the same – Please…please take me away from this. This time…let me die.

"Awaken fair maid," he shouted, slinging the bottle in a high arch, the contents splashing over the soiled bedspread. "Awaken for your Prince!"

He fell to his knees beside her and held the bottle to her rotting lips. The liquor splashed over her sunken face.

"Come…enjoy that which I have provided for you. It may not be the King's stock…but believe me, darling – it is fit for the King."

When she didn't answer, he frowned. "What is this? My wares are not good enough for you? Well, that is simply unacceptable! If my drink is not good enough for you…what must you think of our humble home? What must you think of your humble husband?"

In some sane part of his mind, he knew that he could no longer continue on like this. He could not stay in this home with a rotting corpse, listening to the voices that followed him, declared him in hushed whispers a "Plague Spreader." He could not stay in this place while everyone around him died. He could not carelessly tempt the oblivion of death the way he was – swinging violently back and forth between bleak depression and bouts of insane, hallucination, remaining in a constant state of drunkenness. The rational part tried to reason, though its fight against the inebriated, delusional man was a losing one.

It made one last effort at that very moment which resulted in forcing the man from the bed. It brought him to the fireplace….to the simple wooden furniture that gave beneath his abusive touch, splintering roughly and clattering in the hearth where the dying fire feasted upon it. Higher and higher the flames rose. He stared at it, his pained gaze one of defeat. The liquor would not kill him…the plague would not kill him….there was no release from this torment, no relief from the constant, gripping heart ache.

"She cannot rot here," he muttered. "She deserves better."

He tilted the bottle once more to his lips. Then, glaring into the flames now licking at the walls, at the smoldering kindling scattered over the floor, he wiped the filthy sleeve of his shirt over his mouth, drew his arm back and threw the bottle into the flames.

It exploded against the wall, shattered glass spilling over the inferno and doing nothing to calm it. He moved as quickly as his addled mind would allow then, throwing anything that would catch fire against the heated stones. When he was finished, a pile of clothing, bed clothes, furniture – it all lay over the floor, flames moving over it like a torturous, hungry caress. And he stood there watching…waiting for the end – no longer caring whether or not it was painful. All he knew was pain. It was fitting that the end would be filled with nothing but.

"Course, I wasn't lucky. Woulda rather passed out and just burned. Can't have it be that simple though, now can we," Beetlejuice mused sardonically.

Lydia was still beside him. She'd shifted, now facing the low glow of the banked fire, her face hidden by the fall of her raven tresses. One knee was drawn up, the foot of the other tucked between her thigh and heel. She lowered her forehead to her knee, wrapping her arm around her leg.

"You didn't die in a fire….so how?" she asked, though he got the distinct impression she hadn't wanted to. The words had been forced, her tone distant and injured.

How indeed? The simple thought of the how was enough to make him see red, to feed the constant violence stirring deep within him.

"The Black Plague wasn't the only thing killing people around that time. Self-righteous fucks took matters into their own hands and did their fair share of homicidal shit, too."

The man beside him trembled violently, his accented voice indiscernible through the sobbing. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him to be silent but at the same time…he could not blame him. Standing in the growing darkness, soaked and chilled to the bone by the freezing drizzle pouring mercilessly down on them, surrounded by women and two other men all either praying or sobbing, facing a secular court who held the fate of their lives in their unsympathetic hands…no, he could not blame the man for being afraid.

His gaze moved past the man, over the panicked crowd, and stopped on one woman. She stood apart from the flock, her shoulders back, her unwavering gaze fixed on the man who would judge them. She, like him, did not know fear. She stood defiant, daring them to judge her. And he admired her for that.

"Do you not have an answer for us, then?"

He turned slowly to the voice that addressed him, his eyes flashing with ill concealed hostility. A Bishop stood before him, hawk-like noise lifted, dull brown eyes watching him. The Bishop was tall and gaunt. For one brief moment, he entertained the thought that the man may have been death himself. Had it not been for the starched collar, seemingly holding the man's head up, he just might have been.

He glanced once more to the woman who now watched him, grimacing when the thick ropes binding his wrists together bit into his flesh. The woman may have valued her life but unlike her, he did not. His life was no more and as far as he was concerned, he had ceased to exist when his wife had slipped away, taking with her their child and any hope he'd so desperately clung to. What was left was a shell of a man who feared death, yet welcomed it as well. He had nothing left here – no reason to care, no reason to fight. And that is why he remained silent. Let them judge him, let them decide that they had a right to condemn him to the abyss. The only thing that he could force himself to care about…was the thought of coming back for them – and making every one of them pay…slowly…painfully. For his suffering, for her suffering…for the fact that they considered themselves so far above everyone else, spouting their hypocrisy on the blackness of witchcraft. He would find a way…and he would come back for them.

"Your silence speaks for you sir. We, however, are a fair court. If you will not attest to your innocence, we shall test it for you."

The Bishop lifted his frail hand and beckoned to a small group of followers behind him with the twitch of one long finger. The men surged forward, bringing with them a large stone tied to a length of rope. They neared him and, as if he were the plague himself, the crowd moved away from. He would face death alone, carried by hands that did not know him, nor care for what his life had been.

He was escorted to the center of a bridge that overlooked the dark, churning river.

"The accused," started the Bishop, his strong, pious voice carrying over the hushed crowd, "Will not speak for himself. His innocence remains undecided and therefore will be tested! If the accused floats, he shall be burned at the stake for the offense of witchcraft!"

He would not float. He knew this. He would sink…and he would drown. Icy water would fill his lungs and the world would slip slowly away. Through the haze of hatred, he could feel the unfamiliar fear closed around his heart.

Several men fell back, leaving four to tie his ankles to the boulder. With that task done, they hoisted the stone, grunting under its weight. He felt a hand press impatiently against his back, pushing him forward.

"This would be a good time to start praying, witch," a voice hissed hatefully in his ear.

He was far past prayer though. It would not save him. And when the time came…it would not save them.

"They…drown you?"

"Yup."

Lydia shook her head; her wide eyes filled with a mixture of horror and profound sadness. "Beej…I'm so…I'm so sorry. That's…I don't know." Her voice fell to a bare whisper. "Awful seems like an understatement."

"That was life," he muttered harshly. "That's just how things happened back then. Ain't no point in feelin' bad about it. Not like we were the only ones who went through that shit, ya know?"

"I just…I can't imagine how-."

"Then don't," he snapped, slamming his empty glass down on the coffee table and standing. He didn't want to be near her right now. He didn't want to feel the pity. He didn't want to remember how much of a nightmare his living life had been. When he remembered, he could still feel the pain…

"Don't try to think about what it was like. No fuckin' point in that. I've had time. Shit…I've had more than enough time to get over it. Got my revenge on every single one of those pathetic pieces of shit and moved on."

She was staring at him, her eyes glassed over with tears, and he could feel her looking past his detached façade. It gave him a squirming feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like it one bit. "Don't feel sorry for me," he warned in a cold, threatening voice.

It had no affect on her. She stood, setting her glass of wine aside. She faced him unafraid, reminding him of the woman in the crowd. "I won't feel sorry for you," she murmured. "I will feel remorse though. What happened to you…losing your wife, losing your child, condemned by people who were just afraid of every damn thing going on back then…it wasn't fair. That's a horrible way to die and it shouldn't have happened."

"Well, it did," he gritted out between his clenched teeth. "Happened over 600 years ago babe. You wanna cry, go right the fuck ahead. Ain't gonna change a damn thing. All it's gonna do is show me what a weak little breather you really are."

The atmosphere shifted dramatically. One moment her tearful gaze was sympathetic. Now…it was hard…and furious.

"Weak?"

"Yeah, that's right," he challenged. "Weak. That's all human emotions are. Nothin' but disgusting weakness."

She laughed harshly, lifting a hand to brush at the one tear that had managed to escape and trail slowly over her cheek. "That's rich. You know, you're the last person who can really sit here and preach about weakness to me. After all, I'm not the one who got all panicked over a kiss and nearly begged me to send you back."

He stilled, shock washing over him. "What?"

Lydia's eyes went wide and she took a hasty step back, the hand that had brushed away the tear now planted firmly over her mouth. She shook her head, jerking it back and forth. But no amount of denial could take back what she had carelessly admitted to. He advanced on her, feeling particularly bloodthirsty. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing," she choked, her feet frantically working to keep her away from him. Her back hit the wall of the living room and she gasped, the sound strangled off by a startled scream when he closed the distance between them, took her wrists roughly in his hands and pinned them to the wall above her head.

"That wasn't nothin', Babes," he murmured, grinning crazily. "You were awake." The words, when said, sparked a certainty that was impossible to ignore. "You were awake. And that…my darling Lydia…was a deal breaker."

A/N: Yup, that's how I see his past. Always thought he looked like a victim to drowning. When this particular past was applied to his character…his animosity towards people and his crude, uncaring nature towards women just seemed to make sense.