Did he… really have to act so predatorial? What was it about her that was so glaringly unintimidating?

Her heart sank She could feel her heart sink lower and lower into her chest as he circled her. It was just like those animals that she'd seen on the discovery channel... And he had the least scared face she'd ever seen in her life – a jolt of fear shot down her spine instead when she caught sight of his grin. He was grinning. Like she was some sort of amusing spectacle and not a terrifying – if not terrifying, at least creepy – fully visualized ghost floating before him. Lydia tried incredibly hard to stand her ground (or, as it were, air), barely even moving back when he comes to a stop far too close before her, only flinching a little when he touches her hair.

Lydia hadn't been prepared for these feelings whatsoever. Nobody had touched her at all for over a decade. Nobody had looked at her at all for over a decade. If being addressed by him wasn't enough fuel for her to be scared even without his alarmingly calm demeanor, those words – and then, far too quickly, that knife – would've been enough to drive Lydia to cry for mama in life. But mama was gone.

"I-I-!" She begins to start, determination rushing back with the reminder of why she'd revealed herself in the first place – though her words don't make it out. Instead, her eyes flood and her throat constricts and blossoms into singing pain following the minimal force of his hand. Panic and shock flood her system alongside it and she drops clumsily to the floor the moment the pressure is gone, Alice clattering to the floor.

Her hand encloses around her throat fast enough to feel the wound sew itself shut under her fingers.

Despite the unnecessary and horrifying pain, watching him carve his initials carelessly into the very foundation of her home – her sanctuary – and listening to him threaten and completely disregard the last of her worldly possessions hurt so much more. There would've been the same outcome if he had just lodged that knife into her belly and twisted it around until it fell out.

Her jaw wobbles, her fists grip so hard in her dress that her knuckles turn white, her eyes squeeze shut, and she sucks on her bottom lip, but even after these efforts, Lydia begins to sob. She pulls Alice back into her arms and childishly curls up around her, crying up at BJ, tiny and defenseless.

The first actual interaction she has with anyone since she died, and he demolishes her entire world within minutes. What was the point of threatening her dolls if he was to uproot them anyway? There was no other place for them, nor her, besides here. It was all only to be mean and cruel… just like mama had said the rest of the world would be like.

"Whuh.. where are we… – where am I … going to go?" Lydia blubs, in between sobs, "These are all I have … I-I won't choose..." She wipes her eyes uselessly and clambers shakily to her feet, clearly not understanding the implication that he was willing to generously share his lodgings with her and two of her heaped collection. Tears continue to roll down her cheeks as she backs away from him and to the table in the middle of the room.

"I died here. This is everything left of m..my life … and mama... I c-can't leave this house."

Lydia bends down, and pulls out a small, ornate box out from under it, clutching it to her chest alongside Alice. Sniffling, she looks back to him.

"Please, is there… I'll do anything to be able to… I can't stay in the.." She swallows, looking at him desperately. "I don't want to go back there."


That was much better.

No more threats or facades or bullshit to feed him when she was choking on tears. It was simultaneously thrilling and uncomfortable to watch her crumpled and broken at his feet, begging and pleading for mercy. She started this fuckery, after all, trying to intimidate him and get away with it. That she was an actual ghost made the victory all the sweeter and more novel.

But. There was no honor in making little girls cry. By no means could BJ be considered a beacon of truth and righteousness, but he had lines. A code. What man didn't? Heckling little girls to tears was something he would beat the shit out of somebody else for, and therefore below the standard of acceptable behavior for himself.

With a heavy sigh, he crouched down to where she was near tucking herself under the table to get away from him, terrified.

"S'okay, Princess," he rumbled, not having to work that hard at forcing his face and voice gentle for her. A meaty, calloused thumb the size of her nose presumptuously caressed her cheek, rubbing icy tears over the silken flesh.

"You can stay up here with me. Told ya I ain't kickin' you out. Just yer stuff, n' it can stay in the basement where you can switch out dollies whenever ya want. Just ain't stayin' up here. Hey, I'll even move it for ya. Ya ain't gotta do nothin' but sit back n' let me do my thing. S'not so bad, see?"

She was still crying, and something in his chest was still panging uncomfortably, so he huffed again and sat down fully, teacups clinking on the table as his weight dropped.

"What's in the box, sweetness?" He was tempted to just yank it away from her, as she was so thoroughly huddled up he wasn't sure she would share, but it seemed unwise to push her. "Ya ain't gotta go nowhere. You can stay right here. S'not like yer gonna take up any space, short stack."

His hand never left her cheek. Ever so gently, it continued to brush tears away, often straying to pet the short, impossibly soft baby hairs near her tiny, cold little ear.

"Y'gonna lemme see what's in yer pretty lil box? I'll give it back. Promise."


"N-No, please...!" The moment BJ crouches down she starts to scramble backward. Her back hits the table and she squeaks, folding herself to fit underneath its tiny wooden frame, anything to get away from him and that knife she knew was hiding in his pocket, eyes screwed shut and tears spilling out faster and faster – He touches her cheek.

If it had been a regular situation – for example, if Lydia had been alive - she would have screamed. But she's dead, and he's alive, and she hasn't interacted with any other sentient being for a decade, let alone felt the live, purposeful touch of a human on her cheek, wiping away her tears… Unable to help herself, Lydia presses her cheek back into his hand, bawling like a baby now. Her throat wells painfully with the overwhelming sadness that his touch reminded her of.

Her life had been lost.

She was dead. She'd never grow old, or travel the world, or get better, or make new friends. Again, just like when she was alive… she was bound to this house.

"Y-you… you'll luh-let me … stay...?"

Her voice is pinched and wet, and she looks up at him with her slightly milky, tearful eyes. It really wasn't so bad, was it? Her dolls and clothes wouldn't be thrown away or anything… just downstairs. This guy, who'd threatened her so violently … was being nice to her? Maybe it was just self-defense before. He'd been scared of her, right? Those sweet tones, that sudden kindness in his face, the gentle touch – well, really, it was the touch. His human, living warmth was so shockingly comforting that Lydia wanted to crawl inside his arms and stay there forever. She'd never realized just how horribly cold she'd been until now.

Wiping the snot from her nose, she sniffles, and nods jarringly, still wracked with sobs. When he sits down, she flinches violently, thinking this had just been a ploy to get close enough to stab her again with that knife – but the hand on her cheek keeps her from vanishing. His words surprise her, too, and Lydia looks down into her arms to see the box, having forgotten it was there.

"Oh, um…" She starts, voice quiet and a little raspy from her tears, "This is… These are all I have of my mama, a-and me, from when… uh. A couple of photos of my daddy are in here, too."

The touch allows her to manage a watery smile, and she unfolds herself slightly in order to retrieve the box – but doesn't hand it over, instead opening it herself and gently picking up the envelope inside. She gives him a desperate, apprehensively trusting look before offering it to him with both hands, box resting on her knees.

"Here, y-you can look if you'd like. P...please be careful, though, BJ."


Imbuing as much gentility as he could into his big, clumsy hands, BJ very, very carefully accepted and unfolded the aged, delicate envelope. It wouldn't do to accidentally tear it open and tarnish the hesitant trust they were establishing.

The first photo was a family portrait featuring a man, a woman, and the dead child sans her pallor of death. The couple's state of dress denoted wealth and class, even more so when looking at the way they kept their daughter; pristine and perfect, not a frill out of place. The mother held her tight and close while the father stood aloof, looking into the camera as though he wished he could've been anywhere else.

Prick.

BJ immediately, inexplicably hated him.

"Yer mom's hot," he admitted crudely, either unaware or uncaring that this was lewd and rude, then moved on to the rest of the photos in the bunch. They were all taken here in this house, he recognized the wallpaper from some of the rooms in passing. In many of them, the girl was bedridden, appearing nearly as dead as she did now. The father barely made an appearance after that first portrait.

"That how you died, huh? You were sick?"

Curiosity sated, he gathered them back into a neat pile, slotted them into the loose, delicate envelope, and returned them to the girl's possession. She was much calmer now given his reassurances, and that alone made him smile. He had a little stepsister once upon a time, when he was younger and Ruth was on husband number three. Calming little girls' temper tantrums was something he found himself quite gifted at. Hopefully, Ashley was doing okay out there, wherever she was.

"They look like they loved you a lot…" This couldn't be a smart train of conversation to keep riding. She would start getting all girly and emotional again, and then he'd never get his stuff moved in… and hers out.

"What's yer name, Princess?" Once he had it, he wasted no time in trying it out on his tongue. "Lydia? That's a pretty name. I gotta get to work now, kitten, but here…"

He couldn't just leave her sitting in the middle of the floor like this, half shoved under the table he would be moving. Without asking or really expelling much effort at all, he took her into his arms, box and little porcelain dolly and all, and stood. Then, he settled her out of the way into the corner nearest the window, right in the lap of a giant teddy bear.

"You stay right here n' outta my way n' things'll move a lot faster. You play Pokémon?"

Of course she did. What kid didn't? Without waiting for an answer, a Gameboy was produced from his jean pocket and handed to her, a yellow cartridge stuck in the back.

"Knock yourself out, kid. Just don't save, and don't delete my game."

Satisfied that his new pet ghost was entertained and no longer a problem, for the time being anyway, BJ stood, popped his knuckles, hefted two boxes full of her belongings onto his shoulders, and began the process. Every time he came back it was to bring in more of his own things and remove more of hers, but she seemed happy enough to bury her face in his Gameboy and click click away as he took over the attic.

It was dark out by the time he was done. Having ripped off his stinking, sweat-soaked shirt halfway through the process, he was a mass of sticky, sweaty male when he trudged back upstairs with the last item; his mattress. It was King-sized and lacked a frame or box spring of any kind. He was happy to let it fall loudly to the dusty floor with a thump that rattled the room. There was another heavy thump as he dropped back onto it, exhausted.

"Done," he sighed, eyes closed, arms folded behind his head, and a cigarette between his lips. "You still playin'? That thing don't need a charge yet?"


Lydia watched BJ handle her most prized possessions with a care she could see wasn't natural to him. Though still plenty tearful and apprehensive, she feels her shoulders relax a little. It wouldn't be good to keep crying her ghostly tears all evening - and then he makes that comment, and she frowns deeply, moving almost to pull the pictures from his hands, but doesn't. Instead, she closes her eyes, wipes her nose, and nods to his comment, accepting the photos and putting them away when he returns them.

The way his smile warmed her was enough to stop the tears from coming back. Mama had loved her - so, so much. After giving him her name and flustering over the Gameboy suddenly plopped into her lap so quickly following his unceremonious movement of her, she settles fairly easily.

What a ridiculously odd situation to find herself in... Slightly mournfully, she watches him carry her worldly possessions down to the basement.

"Um... BJ... I really like your name too," she remarks quietly after the first couple of boxes have made their way downstairs. Though Lydia had never used a Gameboy before, she figures it out fairly quickly - making sure not to save just like he'd asked. She starts a new game, though. That's how it works, right? There are multiple save files or something? She saw that in an ad for a video game once...

"Mama used to call me princess, too. She said I was like Rapunzel, stuck here because I was so sick. The attic's kind of like a castle, right?"

Absently, Lydia beings playing with her hair along with the Gameboy as she watches him begin to bring his own things upstairs. The shirt coming off makes her pallid cheeks darken somehow, extremities tingling with something she doesn't really recognize - she loses three battles in a row. When he's done, she jolts at the two thumps in succession - floating into the air and facing him, leaving the box and Alice rested carefully on the bear, Gameboy in hand. Not really sure what to do, she floats closer, offering the small device and smiling tentatively - happy from being able to play.

"Thank you, BJ..." Her voice is a small whisper, and she's staying just shy of a safe distance from him - a little close. "Mama never let me play games, ever. There wasn't that much to play when I was … a kid, though." She floats to her knees beside his mattress, ruffles settling around her.

"Don't you have a bed frame?"


The attic's kind of like a castle, right?

Huffing and puffing as he single-handedly pushed his heavy dresser up to the attic, this question hit his ears, and it took a great deal of concentration not to snap and say something he'd regret.

"Sure thing, baby," he rasped instead with an indiscernible bite of frustration. "Yer a princess in a tower…"

He would have to watch out for signs of spoiling. She really was a little princess and he'd be damned if he was going to play the footman to her proverbial carriage.

"Guess that makes me King."

A fangy grin was flashed her way before he kept on keeping on, pleased with himself for making that analogy. As he lay there, smoking his cigarette and basking in the post-move glow, he almost forgot she was there until she spoke up again, settling in on the dusty floor at the edge of his mattress and thanking him for use of his Gameboy.

"Huh?" He blinked, forgetting he'd even given it to her, before swiping the device back up possessively, clicking through to make sure she followed his orders. "No problem… wait a minute… hey!"

Cerulean?! He wasn't in fucking Cerulean City, he was in Lavender Town! With a sour face, he shut it off and turned it back on, only to growl at the name of the saved game in place of his: Lydia.

"You brat!" He shouted, sitting up weightily and throwing the Gameboy down onto his bed so hard it bounced off and onto the floor. "You deleted my game! I told you not to! You—!"

She was shrinking, big beautiful eyes welling up with tears again. Goddamnit. A deep breath flared his nostrils as he attempted to put a leash on his bad temper. It's just a game. She's just a kid. It's no big deal.

"It's fine," he forced a tight smile that only lasted about two seconds before a sneer replaced it, and lit himself another cigarette. The first was flicked carelessly to places unknown, the irresponsible teenage boy not even bothering to snuff out the burning cherry first.

"Played it a hundred times. Consider it yours for now. No point in me playin' it anymore."

Besides, watching her play Pokémon would be infinitely less annoying than watching her host tea parties.

"I got loads o' games. All sorts. Mostly violent and gory. Moms can be bitches, but mine don't get to say what I can and can't play. Not that she would ever give a shit…"

Don't you have a bed frame?

This made him smirk around his cigarette as he continued to side-eye her skirting around his bed.

"Nope. Always break em. Usually when I've got a girl over…"

Fuck, how was he supposed to have chicks over with this little bit crawling all over his shit? How was he supposed to even meet chicks going to this faggoty sausage fest school? They didn't even carry a blazer that fit him. He'd had to get one custom made and was not excited to wear it for his first day at Mister Butterfield's School For Boys. Could they have come up with a more homoerotic name than that?

Oh great. Being a teenager sucked. The mere thought of his past sexual encounters had inspired an erection in him, the material at the crotch of his jeans growing tight against his will. He groaned, rolling over onto his belly to hide it before the annoyance could notice. But maybe…

Maybe this setup could be turned in his favor.

"How old're you, kid?"


BJ's 'Guess that makes me king' echoes in Lydia's mind loudly when he starts to yell at her. She wilts like a flower set aflame, looking up at him and soaking in every word with big, wide eyes, glossy with tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I won't touch it again!" Comes tumbling out of her mouth when he sits up so abruptly and throws the Gameboy so violently, little arms thrown up and eyes screwed shut in anticipation for the crescendo. It doesn't come.

Lydia doesn't open her eyes or let her hands down until she hears the lighter click, eyes blinking open to the discovery that her lower lids were wet again. The careless flick of his previous cigarette butt irks her immensely, but she had no intention to aggravate him further, keeping her mouth shut and muscles tense.

Despite her anger at his disregard for their now shared living space, she can't help but bounce a little in excitement at the prospect of owning the game – even temporarily.

"Really?" She chirps, fervently listening to him talk about the other games he had, mood dampening when he mentions his mother. Not really meaning to, she speaks, tracing her cold fingers cautiously on his forearm. If her allowing and actively encouraging his smoking was any form of evidence, it might've been true, but Lydia says it anyway.

"She's still here, though." Lydia wasn't stupid. She knew why her dad wasn't ever home. Though she realizes the moment she just had and pulls her hand away, cocking her head to the side at his comments.

"Like on sleepovers?" Of course – BJ was, not to be rude, a large guy (the largest she'd ever seen), so it'd make sense that the extra weight could break the bed. Why just girls, though?

She can't help but smile at his sudden trivial question, wondering if he was wanting to get to know her now.

"I'm fourte…" Her eyes go hard when she speaks, voice trailing off. Correction – she died when she was fourteen. Was there… that big of a difference? "I guess I was fourteen, but, well… Time is… odd, after. I think it's been maybe ten years since my last birthday." She laughs with little humor and smiles sheepishly. "Um, what about you, BJ?"


"Uhhh…" He stared at her dumbly for a long moment, jaw slack and cigarette in danger of falling to burn yet another hole in his raggedy mattress. "Yeah. Sure. Sleepovers."

Was she really that… naïve? Obviously, she was incredibly sheltered judging by those photos and her mannerisms alone, but by the time he was fourteen, he was getting head from high school girls and shoplifting condoms.

Fourteen wasn't so bad. She wasn't his usual type. He generally preferred a bitch with a nice big set of tits to fill his meaty palms, and an ass to match. But… Lydia was awfully cute. In a different sort of way than he was used to. Her hair was soft, and long, and felt good between his fingers. Her face was pretty, that smooth, pale skin pure and unblemished as though it had never seen a single burn.

"M' seventeen," he grunted, still scrutinizing her head to toe, weighing the pros and cons of the deplorable ideas running through his rat-like mind. "Gonna be eighteen in a couple months. Say… Lyds…"

He pulled himself up some until he was resting on his elbows, then army crawled closer to her. Very close. Enough for her to be offended by the acrid scent of burning tobacco wafting from his smoke.

"I been thinkin'. Where're you gonna sleep? My bed's big enough, I s'pose…" His tone was all sorts of casual and innocent, none of the foul intentions lurking in the back of his mind present on his carefully schooled countenance. "But I get it if ya don't wanna snuggle up with me. I prolly got cooties. You even need sleep? Bein' dead n' all..."

She seemed confused. Rightly so. BJ didn't blame her. With an amused chuckle, he pushed himself up, peeling his sweaty torso off the groaning, beaten up mattress.

"Imma go take a shower. I stink. You just think about it, sweetheart. No answer is wrong."