"Ya' want me to stick around all day too?"

"Mmmhm," she agreed on the verge of sleep, "All day, all the time. Stay with me always…"

Sleepiness made her tongue lose, endorphins sending her off into unconsciousness with a strong sense of attachment to the one that held her. Come morning, her alarm blaring jerked Lydia awake before her bedmate. All the candles were out but Lydia knew her bedroom like the back of her hand by now. No, something else was at fault to make her trip and knock her hip into the side of her vanity on the way to the bathroom.

Her balance was off. Her head pounded. Bracing herself against the wall, she slid to the floor, still entirely naked. It was cold and her temples throbbed. Her entire body ached, really. She thought she would feel better today after having slept in the arms of her lover but if anything she felt worse.

"Beej?" She panted, hoping it was loud enough to wake him if the items crashing to the ground from her vanity wasn't enough.

He felt her crawl over him on her way, he assumed, to the bathroom. Opening his eyes to stretch, he heard her bump into the vanity, something he had seen her glide past many times. She called his name, breathy and stilted, almost like she was in pain. He was kneeling next to her before she could breathe the last syllable, his hand braced on her shoulder. She was clammy and trembling.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

Scooping her up, he stepped into the bathroom and set her on the shut lid of the toilet, brushing her hair back from her face with a cool hand.

"Ya' ain't lookin' too good, sweets."

He started to check her over again like he hadn't personally bathed her by hand the evening before and analyzed every last inch to make sure the would-be rapist hadn't caused any damage. When he finished and she looked fine, he felt something start to bubble in his chest.

Not many memories were left from his mortal years but be could remember the plague, how people would go from healthy to dropping dead in a day or two. Was this feeling panic? Shit. He needed to hold himself together. It wouldn't do to make the bathroom explode around her when she wasn't well.

"I don't feel good."

It came out wobbly and breathy. She hated being sick. It knocked her off her equilibrium, made navigating that much more difficult. She held onto the counter with one hand and Betelgeuse's shoulder with the other, centering herself from these grounding points.

"It's really cold."

Her shivering was a testament to this, but he rectified this quickly with a blanket pulled around her shoulders from out of nowhere. Heat radiated from her skin while she complained of chills, giving him more to worry about.

"My head hurts. Everything hurts. I'm tired. I want to go back to bed."

The girl's tone had taken on a frustrated quality like she was on the verge of tears. Too much had happened in too short of a period of time. Betelgeuse came back, only for her to lose him again, and then everything last night, only to wake up feeling like this?

"It's not fair…"

A single tear escaped, but she refused to cry more than that, hating how useless she felt.

"We'll go back to bed, babe." A cool hand was kept pressed to her face as he frantically tried to think out how he could help her. "Let's see what we can do t'make ya feel better before we lay back down."

This was a fucking mess. He didn't know how to help her. So many things had changed in the centuries between his death and now. He knew her modern medicine was better than the snake oil he died believing in but he also didn't know where to start. When he wiped away her little tear, she was suddenly dressed in a comfortable and warm set of pajamas. She sounded so miserable and pathetic, it made him want to destroy things that he couldn't figure out a way to make her feel better. It made him feel helpless, something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

"What do ya need, Sweetheart? What can I get ya' ta help?"

The mantra this isn't the plague, she isn't going to die was chanting in his head on loop.

"Water," she croaked, and when a cool glass was pressed into her hands, she drank down eagerly. A little too quickly. It felt good on her throat but her stomach lurched at the introduction of too much after having so little for so long. After making a face and hugging herself tight, she managed to flip around and get the seat up, lose the several gulps of water she had just taken.

At the end of her heaving, she fell fully into tears again, begging, "please help me back to bed." Which he did without further argument. School clearly wasn't happening today, and she was already feeling ingrained anxiety over having to miss it.

"I don't know what to do," she was panicking just as much as her poor babysitter, lost and miserable in the sudden illness that had taken her. Laying back in bed calmed the symptoms, but only for short bursts at a time.

"I don't want to go to the doctor," she moaned. "They'll keep me in some cold, bright room all day long running stupid tests because they'll think it's something to do with my albinism when really it's just something normal and stupid."

Clearly, she was speaking from experience.

He watched her suck down the water and something clicked over in his head. When was the last time he saw her drink or eat anything? When she vomited last night, it hadn't smelled right… too acidic. On autopilot, he helped to get her tucked back into her bed among the pillows, before pressing another glass of water into her hand.

"Slowly this time, sweets." He listened to her panicky complaints about going to the doctor when something she said caught his attention, an alien-sounding term. "Wait, babe, what's that…? Al-bi-nis-m?"

His pronunciation was clunky. He watched her sip at the new glass, then clicked his tongue.

"When was the last time ya' ate anythin', Lyds?" His voice was soft and curious, "n' besides that water, when'd ya drink last?"

Dressed now in an ancient, dusty robe, he stretched out next to her making sure she drank slowly, his arm around her shoulders pulling her against him.

"Do ya need to talk to yer parents about not goin' to school?"

"Wait, babe, what's that…? Al-bi-nis-m?"

With a sigh that wasn't necessarily at his expense, Lydia repeated the symptoms of her condition, feeling very much like a lab rat as she did so. This was a speech she had given many times for doctors, teachers, friends of her parents, et cetera, et cetera.

"I have albinism. You might be familiar with the term 'albino'. It's a condition that blocks melanin production in my skin and causes ultra-light sensitivity and other vision problems b there isn't any melanin in my irises to reflect light."

Now that she was drinking it properly, the water was hitting her stomach and staying there.

"When was the last time ya' ate anything Lyds?... when did you drink anything last?"

As she thought about it and came to the answer, she turned sheepish.

"Before our fight. I think I had some coffee yesterday morning…" Saying it out loud, she knew it was unacceptable, but it was too late now. Her body was suffering the effects of neglect. "I didn't mean to. I was just… I was really sad."

"Do ya' need to talk to yer parents about not going to school?"

She grimaced, set the water aside, and slunk down into the blankets against his refreshingly cool form. Her body kept switching back and forth between hot and cold.

"Probably, yeah…"

When she started to explain her condition, he pulled a lit cigarette out of the air and sat puffing on it while she talked. So she wasn't just blind. The reason she looked like a faery was that she had a condition. Was this also why she was so fragile? So small and delicate? He pushed his curiosity aside. There were more pressing things to see to. When she mentioned how long it had been since she had sustenance, he frowned down at her severely, giving her a little shake.

"I'm dead. I dun remember everythin' the livin' need to stay livin', doll." He cleared his throat, forcing smoke out his nostrils. "I'll do a better job o' rememberin' but ya gotta tell me when ya need things."

Moving to get up, now dressed in his usual striped affair, he regarded the gore in the bathroom.

"I gotta take care o' the mess we left yesterday n' blood is one o' those things I can't just make go away." Licking his lips, he flicked his cigarette away. "Ya should call one o' yer parents n' let 'em know yer sick, babe."

A kiss was pressed to her forehead before he was off to clean. Him. Cleaning.

"They won't be up for hours."

Not until around noon or so. This was part of the reason Lydia walked by herself to school, aside from crippling embarrassment from having to have her father escort her as a teenager.

"It's not your responsibility to make sure I eat. This is my fault…"

It wasn't anyone's fault. Things were so fucked up lately.

"I'm just happy you're back."

She could feel his bouncing around, busy and chaotic, unsure of what to do as she breathed unevenly back toward sleep in the center of her comically large bed.

"It'll be okay, BJ. I'll sleep, and eat something, and I'll be just fine. Don't worry…"

He was angry again. There were a number of reasons, the first being how he could forget the living needed to eat and drink? It was simple incompetence and there was no excuse for it. He hadn't been watching Lydia at all to make sure she was doing those things with any regularity‒ for fuck's sake, he had even noticed how she was looking thinner and hadn't thought anything of it.

The second focus of his ire were her parents. He'd had just about enough of their neglect. That they acted as coldly toward her as they did, as if she wasn't even around, was a constant source of vitriol for him. Though he would gladly dispose of them both, he was pretty sure Lydia wouldn't like that.

"I'm just happy you're back."

"I'm happy ta be back too, sweets."

He gave her a genuine smile then pressed a quick kiss to her lips. When she said she was going back to sleep and then planned on eating, he decided he had better get to the bathroom to clean up all the blood they left behind, make sure there wasn't any left except for the few ounces he used for sigils the night before. Those he covered with a simple glamour so no one would ever stumble upon them.

That was another rule he was breaking. He wasn't supposed to use those old magics anymore. Not that he cared, and it wouldn't matter at all if Lydia agreed‒ no. When Lydia agreed to marry him.

Lydia awoke hours later not feeling much better. Betelgeuse was asleep beside her on top of the blankets, snoring loudly. She wasn't trapped in a prison of cuddles this time. Only one hand was kept on her, limp and gentle over her chest where her heart beat. He seemed tired, so she took pains not to wake him while slipping from the bed and very carefully and quietly exiting the room, the door whispering shut behind her.

It was bright out in the halls and on the ground floor, making her eyes ache on the way downstairs to where she could hear a commotion. She pulled the arm of her pajamas over the top half her face while carefully navigating toward the kitchen. Things had been moved since last she walked this floor, and her hip knocked into a serving table. There was a loud crash as something big and made of glass‒ or was that ice?‒ fell to the ground and shattered.

"LYDIA!" The intensity of Delia's shriek made her cringe and shrink back against the wall. "What are you even doing here?! Why aren't you at school?! Look at what you've done! A five-hundred-dollar ice sculpture! RUINED!"

The girl was at a loss for words. Of course, it was an accident but Delia was on the warpath and Lydia simply didn't have the tools or capacity to keep up.

"I‒ I'm sorry‒"

Charles Deetz made an appearance from within his study, unable to focus on his work call with all this racket.

"What's going on?"

"That daughter of yours is trying to ruin my dinner party, Charles! Look! Just look!"

"Calm down, darling, I'm sure it was an accident. Why aren't you in school, pumpkin?"

Relieved by her father's interference, Lydia found her voice.

"I'm sick."

"Oh, wonderful‒" Delia interjected once more, stomping around, and Lydia imagined her body language was quite dramatic. "We don't have time for this, Charles! Who's supposed to take her to the Doctor? Need I remind you that the woman who writes for Art in America will be arriving in one hour and she is expecting Mrs. AND Mr. Deetz to greet her at the door. No one that is dining in this house tonight has NOT been featured in Vanity Faire‒ except, of course, Lydia."

Something in her stepmother had snapped and was not going to calm without a pill or two.

"If it's not gas leaks making us hallucinate our entire home attacking us, it's something else! UGH! I can't DO this!"

Her heavy footsteps were leading off, up the stairs and toward the master bedroom, as if Delia had decided to give up on her family and her dinner party altogether. Charles took the bait, taking off to follow her. Lydia, considering her obligation in informing her parents of her illness and missing school done, several beats later made a much slower and despondent trek up the very same set of stairs.

Betelgeuse felt as soon as her little heart wasn't beating under his palm anymore. He hadn't slept this much in who knows how long but he was able to get his bearings and his body moving quicker this time around. He was up and out against the stair rail the moment he heard a crash. Spotting Lydia below, he noted that she was fine but whatever she knocked over sure the fuck wasn't. That made him smile. A bit of chaos and destruction was overdue.

The way that fucking harpy was screeching at his girl, however, had him seething. Lydia was only doing as he asked earlier, talking to her parents and then she would go eat. Well aware that she didn't want it, he had no intention of stepping in to 'help' her.

Betelgeuse was just as hopeful as Lydia when Chuck brushed past him on his way to the women, only to be horribly disappointed in his gross disregard for his daughter. As Delia stormed up the stairs, he lit a cigarette, puffed, and glared. When Chuck rushed by as well, trying to soothe the bitch, he yanked the rug and caused a minor tumble. He wasn't sure who he was angrier at; the bitch or the spineless piece of shit.

When Lydia slowly followed behind the two of them, he caught her by the shoulders and pulled her into a loose hug.

"Seems like yer old man would rather make sure the harpy is happy than if you're healthy." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Did ya eat anythin' yet, babe?"

"Oh!"

He caught her at the top of the stairs, making her heart jump when he pulled her backward before she calmed and relaxed back into the embrace.

"No… No, I forgot."

The house felt hostile now. There were going to be strangers there. Delia never explicitly said so because she knew it wouldn't fly with her father but she didn't like Lydia to be out and about when there were guests. Betelgeuse's little comment dug that knife in deeper.

The prospect of making it downstairs again, all the way to the kitchen, and putting a meal together amid all the bright, ugly chaos with her head pounding the way it was seemed like an impossible task. She didn't even really want to eat, having gone so long without doing so now that her appetite was shot.

"Would you just help me back to bed, please? I'll figure out something to eat later." If Delia was cooking for a party, that meant the kitchen was likely a warzone. "This is too much..."

Her spirit seemed broken by her father's indifference. Maybe it had been broken for awhile or at least fractured.

"Ya go to bed now, yer gonna feel worse when ya wake up." He turned her to go back down the stairs taking care to put her hand on the rail so she'd not lose where she was.

"Let's go down. Ya can tell me what t'do fer ya but ya ain't goin' back ta bed without eatin'."

He was being pushy but she needed to eat. He would have taken care of all of this earlier if he had any idea what he was doing but it had been centuries since he'd even gotten a hankering for food.

Nearing tears again but holding them back like a mature, responsible young lady, she allowed the poltergeist to guide her back downstairs, through the rearranged dining room, and into the kitchen. It sounded like one of Delia's abandoned pots was bubbling over.

"Uhm," she settled at the bar in an empty seat, keeping her hands to herself after placing them on the counter and finding a dirty knife and cutting board. "There should be some Ramen cups in the top cupboard over there. Is there an open burner on the stove? If not, I can just take some crackers?"

Her head was bowed the entire time, shielding her from the overhead light. It was clear she was uncomfortable asking for and accepting assistance like this.

Moving to the stove, he shut off all the burners before turning to frown down at her.

"The fuck is 'Ramen'? N' fuck no, ya gotta have more than crackers."

He stopped and tapped his long gritty fingernails on the counter in front of her in thought‒ only to growl and shake himself when he realized he could have just let her go back to her bed. She didn't have to be down here in this bright ugly room.

"What good are unimaginable comic powers if I can't even remember t'use 'em?"

What she needed was something hearty and filling but would be easy on her stomach. Betelgeuse tapped his finger on the counter top once more and a large bowl of chicken soup appeared in front of her. A spoon was placed in her hand.

"There ya go, babes. Eat up."

The scent of the soup in front of her instantly brought color to her cheeks. Roasted chicken in simmering stock with celery, carrots, and onion, fresh thyme and hints of ginger wafting on the fragrant steam.

"Mmm… thank you."

It was delicious but she could only stomach about a third of the bowl before her body started feeling heavy and full. Luckily, Delia chose to wait until then to make another appearance. She was calmer now, placated by her husband's diligent fawning, but still made a face at Lydia's presence in the kitchen, quickly shooing her out so she wouldn't "contaminate the dishes, get all of her guests sick, and ruin her reputation."

Quite frankly, Lydia was too beat to even take it personally. With Betelegeuse's invisble assistance, she once more made the arduous trek upstairs, collapsing in bed once she got there.

"Thank you," she offered again, beyond grateful for his help. If he wasn't there, dealing with all of this on her own would have been much more difficult. Then again, if he wasn't there, she wouldn't have neglected herself to the point of sickness at all.

"You can put on a movie if you want. I'm going to fall asleep soon… the background noise is nice…"

He allowed Lydia a bit of a head start for the stairs before he spat in one of Delia's bubbling pots, a nice big hacking green loogie. Take that "contamination". Once they made it up to the bedroom and he had her snuggly in bed again, he stretched out next to her as he liked before snapping his fingers and starting whatever movie she'd last had on, making sure the volume was low.

"Yer welcome, baby girl." He thought she already looked like she was feeling better. "Rest up, n' I'll come up with somethin' fun fer us to do t'night."

He pulled her in to lay against him and ran his hand along her back in a soothing way. Something had to be done about her parents. Any permanent damage Lydia would tarnish his relationship with Lydia irreparably. He needed her to not be angry with him. He needed‒ no, wanted her to say yes and marry him, and then he would have enough power to take her away from all this.

His consciousness drifted downstairs while his physical form stayed with her, and he listened to see if any of the dinner guests had started to arrive. Ruining the dinner party was always an option. He didn't have to hurt anyone, just scare them.

Imaginings of making the walls bleed and the food rot on the table made him giddy. It wouldn't take much. He probably wouldn't even have to leave Lydia's side to do it; Blowout all the lights, move the furniture. It was all effective newly-dead stuff. It shouldn't hurt anyone, but it would still put the Deetzes in a bad place.

Lydia slept, Betelgeuse plotted, guests began to arrive, and for the time being, the dinner party proceeded as planned. Charles and Delia Deetz cut attractive figures as a youngish, semi-successful couple bringing fashion and high art to the boonies. Their guests seemed charmed well enough, and the hostess thought everything was going well indeed.

Until suddenly it wasn't.

"‒ Wouldn't that be something."

"Come again, Dianne?" Delia let herself get distracted speaking with one of her less important guests and missed what the columnist for Art in America was saying.

"If this house were haunted! It's got that feel, you know? Separated off from the rest of town, up on top of a hill… All it's missing is that vintage airs. All this modern decor absolutely sabotages the gothic country charm a house like this demands. Too much edge. This is a house that cuts when, really, it should be offering you a hug and a mug of tea."

It was like a knife was shoved and twisted deep in Delia's chest with each word. Grasping at straws, struggling to save face, she recalled what Lydia had tried to tell them all those months ago; "This house is haunted. He stays in the attic. He's kind of cranky, so you should just leave him alone."

That last part seemed unimportant. Haunted or not, this was her house, and if she wanted to show off her haunted attic to her very important guests, she would Goddamnit.

"... and what if I told you that it was haunted?"

The party broke into giggles, all except Charles who leveled a dubious look at his wife. They both suspected that maybe Lydia was right, and something was very wrong with that house but until now Delia had been far more in denial about it than Charles. It was easier for him to just follow his wife's lead than go against it. For her to change her tune now was unsurprising but he feared what might happen to test the waters like this.

"Lydia told us all about it. You know Lydia? Charles' daughter from his late wife? She's… blind."

That was the common way of putting it to get their guests' attention. It worked. All eyes were on Delia.

"Charles and I believe that she has a third eye open to… other planes of reality."

Otho and another guest present at the party were aware of Lydia's existence but the rest who were not were suddenly fascinated and demanding to know where she was, why she didn't have a seat at the table. Questions, questions, questions, all of them about Lydia. Delia needed to bring it back to her.

"Poor thing is in bed with the sniffles right now but if we're extra quiet, we can sneak past her room up to the attic and go check out the haunt. She can be a little sensitive about people going up there."

That fucking woman's voice. It was enough to make him want to hang himself again. It's not like that wasn't an option if he really wanted to.

He could hear a number of people climbing the stairs. The way they were moving he could tell they were trying to be quiet and sneaky. It wasn't working. Carefully, he moved Lydia off of him and tucked her in to make sure she stayed cozy. Wouldn't do to have her waking up to an empty bed.

He phased the door to find the landing at the top of the stairs full of people. Delia was talking a mile a minute and it was giving him a fucking headache. Chuck lurked towards the back of the party. The Fatso from when the Deetzes first moved in was there too. There were new faces. One of them, he assumed, being the lady from the magazine Delia had screamed at Lydia about earlier in the day.

The group headed for the attic. He really didn't like that. That was his space and he didn't want to share it unless it was with Lydia. Since she didn't fully belong to him quite yet, even that was pushing his hospitality if he was being honest with himself, and he wasn't. He held back, giving them some space but he dropped the temperature between them and attic, making the lighting flicker. That got some excited squeals. He didn't smell any real fear, which was disappointing, but he would get his.

Disappearing and reappearing in the attic he made sure to leave the door open. He could feel them coming, their anticipation. His monster side was slipping out, excited by all this prey gathered in one area. It should be fine. Lydia was safe, tucked away in her bed. He could scare these shitheads and be back to her before she ever knew he was gone. The sensation of his fangs lengthening and his sight going hazy red had him cackling as the door creaked open.

One by one, the party of eight tip-toed up one flight of stairs and then another, tipsy and giggling and doing a shit job of "sneaking" past the sleeping sick girl's room. Nevertheless, Lydia slept on, speaking to how very worn out she was. A draft swept through the narrow staircase leading up to the attic, making several guests gasp and titter.

"Did you feel that?"

"It's a hoax, they planned this all ahead of time."

"We most assuredly did not," Delia spoke up firmly, irate at the insinuation. "You wouldn't believe what we've put up with in this house. Broken windows, power shortages, rearranged furniture, exploding lightbulbs, slamming doors and cabinets, everything! You name it, we've seen it!"

It wasn't the fact that Lydia saw ghosts and was vocal about it that irked Delia. It was that this peculiar gift made Lydia special. The ghost liked Lydia, clearly, or else it would have destroyed her things and terrorized her as well. It was easier to ignore the girl and pretend this wasn't all happening than embrace the paranormal. Now that Delia could capitalize on the girl's particular talents, she would.

Whether or not she was self-aware was debatable. Charles was of a different mind altogether.

He wanted his baby girl to be healthy and normal and she was everything but. He would know how to raise a healthy, normal daughter… probably. Who was he kidding? The only decent parent Lydia ever had died a long time ago, and it was all his fault. He couldn't even begin to make that up to Lydia, and Delia sapped up too much of his energy to begin trying. For Charles, it was easier to dissociate.

Tonight was a challenge for both of them. No ignoring Lydia's gifts tonight. No ignoring his wife's hypocritical double-standards as she continued to name drop the same daughter she had forbidden a seat at that table. Chuck was furious but it would wait until their guests had left. He would have his words then.

Mozart's Last Requiem began to play before the first person in their group could step foot in the room, freezing the crowd. Like a charm, it drew them in, just as it had drawn Lydia. Unlike Lydia, when the door slammed shut, everyone in the crowd jumped. The lock clicked.

"Okay, everyone," Dianne from Art in America giggled nervously, "I think that's enough."

"I agree," Charles Deetz spoke up firmly, earning a look from his wife.

"Not yet!" Delia urged, standing in front of the door to block it. As if any of them could get the lock opened if they tried. "Wait! He'll do something, I promise! You all wanted to see a ghost, right? You're standing in the most haunted house in Connecticut!"