Disclaimer: Not mine. But I do take full responsibility for saying his name three times.

AN: The other half of the 3am insomnia writing session, buttressed by a few cups of coffee and the deliciously lovely soundtrack to A Scanner Darkly. I hope that you like it. With fondest wishes to you all…the last visitation.

Age 19: A Cold Day in Hell

Lydia sat quietly on her bed, an opal pendant clutched in her hand. She had returned from college just a few hours before, and had shared a wonderful dinner with her dad and stepmom before begging fatigue and climbing the two sets of stairs to her room. Now she was crosslegged on the bed, her heart pounding, wondering fretfully whether he would answer her summons.

Not a peep had she heard from him all the long year. She found herself listening in dark rooms, and had even taken to playing with EVP with her old tape recorder, but beyond a few strains on a devilish violin, she had picked up nothing. And so she had waited until this night, determined that she wasn't going to let it pass without attempting to contact him.

"Beetlejuice?" Her voice was swallowed up in the quiet of the room. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Beetlejuice, if you ever cared at all about me, please come." She licked her lips. "Beetlejuice." She waited, but if anything, the silence got heavier. She scowled slightly, and then sighed. "Okay. I'm sorry. Happy now?"

For a moment, nothing continued to happen. And then, a tiny flicker of shadow detached itself from a dark corner and spun to the center of the room, soon joined by other shadows, until a small tornado of darkness coalesced into a figure, and stepped out into the dim light of her desk lamp.

Lydia's jaw dropped. He was in the same clothes as she had seen him in last, but the aura of neglect was severe and unmistakable. If a ghost could look hung over and unshaven, he did. In one hand he clutched an old bottle half full of an oily amber liquid that could have been gasoline as likely as whiskey.

"What?"

She swallowed. His voice, even one single irritated word, had coursed through her like home. "I… um, it's… our anniversary. I thought maybe that you had forgotten?"

"Oh, really?" He studied her for a moment, and then deliberately took a long pull from the bottle. "I had, actually. So many other things to remember." He scowled nastily. "Leave me alone. Never come back. That sort of thing." Lydia gazed sadly at her crossed ankles. He shifted impatiently. "Was there anything else, because I have anywhere else really important to be right now."

Her voice was unsteady, and she couldn't look at him. "Just one thing. You were right."

He snorted. "Lucifer might need to borrow my coat." But in spite of his bitter vitriol, he drifted over and sprawled languidly on her bed, and waited.

"You were right about leaving the boys alone." she began haltingly. He stared morosely at his bottle, but she pressed on. "It's just that… I'm not that all interested in men, either."

He twitched an amazed eyebrow at her. "Did you bring me all the way out here to confess that you're gay?" In spite of the weight in her stomach, she quirked a tiny smile.

"No, Beej. I don't think there's a word for what I am. You see…" She took a deep, calming breath. "You see, I'm in love with a ghost. A poltergeist, actually."

His viridian eyes narrowed intently on her for a moment, and then he rocked back, carefully guarded. "Anyone I know?"

"Maybe." She tugged the bottle from his now-motionless fingers and tipped her head back, taking a long swallow. The foul searing liquid burned away some of her tension.

His eyebrow twitched. "I think that's called necrophilia." She shot a wry glance at him, but he was the picture of innocence, his face blank and eyebrows slightly raised.

Another deep breath. "The problem is, I don't have the slightest idea as to how it might work, or whether it's even possible, or if this poltergeist would even have me, and be willing to work out the details…" She trailed off, her courage spent in the face of his silence. Beetlejuice looked speculatively at her. And then he began, incongruously, to empty his pockets.

As Lydia watched in slightly horrified fascination, her bed became littered with all sorts of strange artifacts. The skull of a huge lizard, a few empty blue bottles, a pink pipe cleaner twisted in the shape of a dog, assorted rocks, bottle caps, a gold thimble, a dusty pair of old fashioned glasses, several bronze keys, a small leather book with a red cover and the word 'diary' written neatly in ink on the cover, a piece of cracked violin rosin, the shell of a huge black scarab, a shabti made of blue faience, several dozen bits of string, a huge gold medallion, and an ATM receipt. Her eyes got wider and wider as he dug deeper and deeper, until finally, out of the shallow watch pocket of his trousers, he tugged a bright object and held it out to her without ceremony. It was his gold ring.

"S'not a contract. This time," he muttered gruffly. She flushed, and he took her hand gently, his palm cool against her wrist. As he slipped it on her finger, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an incantation.

"What did you just do, Beej?" she asked suspiciously. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Do you trust me or not, Lyds?"

"Emphatically not!" She looked at him with a sweet challenge in her eyes. He stared back at her for a moment, and then broke into a toothy smile. She giggled a little, and the tension between them snapped like an overstressed rubber band.

"It's so I can find you," he shrugged. "Since I don't have time to follow you around everywhere. Busy tour schedule, meetin's with the Queen, state business, all that celebrity stuff."

She smiled gently at him, and then at the ring, and was silent for a moment. "So am I condemning myself to a lonely relationship that ends up with me talking to the mirror a lot?"

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "You were willin' to commit to me without even knowin' if I was gonna be there for you?"

She looked soberly up at him. "B, I've been… alone… since that night last year. And before that, since ever. I haven't been able to look at boy or man without seeing your face. I know it's pathetic, but—"

He stopped her with a finger to her lips. She had a flashback to the first moment of their intimacy, all those years ago. But this time, she didn't shrink from his touch. His gaze drifted to her lips, and she let her eyes close slowly.

Suddenly, the details didn't seem all that complex, after all.

:fin: