Disclaimer: I don't think I would dare claim ownership of Beetlejuice, even if i legally could. My house is enough of a mess!

AN: Okay, so this was supposed to be a oneshot, but blame WitchyWanda for planting an idea in my head. Her challenge: Four years, four visitations!

"White Flag" written to Violator by Depeche Mode.

"The things you do
Aren't good for my health
The moves you make
You make for yourself
The means you use
Aren't meant to confuse
Although they do
They're the one's that I would choose

I wouldn't want it any other way
You wouldn't let me any way..."

--"Dangerous"

White Flag: Age 17

Lydia stood moodily in the doorway to the attic, her new bedroom, since the Maitlands had moved the beautiful model to the second floor room she used to occupy. It had taken some convincing, since the events of the past year, but Barbara and Adam had assured Delia and Charles that there wasn't anything left of the mischievous poltergeist but bad memories and ceiling repairs. But still, Lydia thought of him sometimes. There on that wall, he had mocked her. There, by that column, he had frightened her with his cold touch. There… she had seen him as a man, and his unreadable expression seemed to her less obscure now than it had been then. Longing, darkness, frustration. She knew, because she had seen the same look in her own eyes many times since.

The attic was now her home. It was dark and four times the size of her own room, and she had set up a sewing corner and a drafting table by the two gabled windows. The darkroom was in the basement, where it was easier to shelter from the light. She sniffed and shook her head to clear the cobwebs. He was gone, and good riddance, right? He had shaken her much deeper than she had cared to admit, for all her lack of fear of the spirit world. So why did she keep thinking about him?

A light breeze stirred around her, and the door slammed shut. She jumped, but then twisted her lip at the door handle. The old house was drafty, but it seemed more drafty on some days than on others. As if on some days there were extra holes. Her eyes narrowed, a dark thought occurring to her. "Beetlejuice?"

A chuckle pricked over the back of her neck, and she shivered. But then the room fell silent, and she began to doubt that she had heard anything at all. Not one to back down from strange happenings, she shook her head again and walked to her closet, unbuttoning her school uniform and glancing over the clothes hanging in her closet for something comfortable and completely un-uniformlike. A dark red sweater that she had never seen before was tucked on the shelf. She unfolded it curiously, and smiled. Delia must have bought it for her, but it was much more Lydia's style than the usual buttondowns and girly frilly things that her stepmother usually got for her. The sweater was soft and fine. She tugged off her shirt and hung it up, and then pulled the sweater over her head. It was a little tight, but not in the arms, and it clung to her weightlessly. "Huh. Delia gets some taste." Lydia smiled at herself in the mirror.

After trading her skirt and knee socks for a pair of loose linen pants that she had put together for herself, she collapsed on the bed with geometry. But bed was no place for geometry, and she was soon asleep, the pencil still clutched in her fingers.

When Lydia woke, the room was dark. She struggled to her elbows, feeling groggy and slow, and squinted at the clock. It was after six, and the winter sun was long gone. Her father and stepmother would be home soon. She stretched and rolled on her back, and then stifled a yelp. Above her, floating in delicate eddys and swirls, was a huge aurora fog. As she stared, wide eyed, the curls of vibrant rainbow colored fog began to move in a very deliberate fashion, until she could make out a message. It read, "Miss me?"

"Beetlejuice." She curled her lip at the fog. "I should have recognized that creepy feeling."

"Nice threads, Lyds," the fog replied, not deigning to rise to her scorn. She cocked an eyebrow.

"Since when did you care about clothes? Your wardrobe could use a little… gasoline and matches."

"Did you check the tag?" The fog seemed to be grinning at her, and she suddenly felt her stomach plummet. Her hand curled under the hem of the sweater and found the tag stitched into the side. It read, "Netherworld LTD. 100 Spidersilk." Oh, crap. And she had actually liked it. She collapsed back on the bed, more irritated than scared now. The fog was rolling gently in brilliant colors, and she found herself a little mesmerized by it.

The swirls formed another message. "It suits you, Lydia."

"I don't think I can accept presents from strange ghosts, B."

"Peace offering." The fog was slowly drifting down closer to her, and she thought she could hear the whisper of his voice in the silence of the attic.

She shifted uncomfortably. "I thought you couldn't come out unless you were called." The fog curled an eddy out and flicked her nose, and she twitched. It was cool, and smelled of ozone. And faintly like cigarettes and brandy. But she held perfectly still as it sunk down to engulf her. The temperature dropped ten degrees at least. When she exhaled, she could see her breath. So beautiful, and yet such a bastard.

Then his gravelly whisper was in her ear. "You call my name in your sleep, Lyds."

"I do not!" She was horrified. Did she? "You're delirious, B! Get out!" But he just rumbled like thunder, and a breeze sprung up in the room. Her geometry book spun off the bed, and her notes, along with the clock and her paints, and dozens of books. A cyclone of her belongings raced wildly around the room." Her breath caught in her throat. "I do not…"

"Believe what you like, Lyds…" The tempest escalated until she covered her head, and screamed. Instantly, calm dropped like a curtain on the room, and she heard the front door open and close.

Her dad's voice drifted up from the first floor. "Lydia! We're home! Cantonese!" She sat up and shivered, but the room was warmer. Her hands tugged fitfully at the delicate sweater. This was not happening. She did not call his name in her sleep. He was lying. He hadn't been able to touch her. Lying bastard. She struggled out of bed and looked at the shambles of her room, sighing. Why couldn't she have regular bullies in her life? Why did it have to be him?

He watched her pick her way through the disaster to the door, and go downstairs, a bewildered look darkening her lovely features. She hadn't changed out of the sweater, which was immensely satisfying. He flicked his long fingers as if preparing to conduct a symphony, and gently tucked everything back on random shelves. That would take her a while to figure out. And hopefully, she would curse him enough to set him free.