AN: So this is actually the second part of what was supposed to be one chapter. That's what i get for having a plan. A free drabble, any subject, to the first person who knows the answer to this riddle!

t.h.e.r.e.i.s.a.t.h.i.n.g.t.h.a.t.n.o.t.h.i.n.g.i.s.a.n.d.y.e.t.i.t.h.a.s.a.n.a.m.e..

i.t.s.s.o.m.e.t.i.m.e.s.l.o.n.g.a.n.d.s.o.m.e.t.i.m.e.s.s.h.o.r.t.a.n.d.p.l.a.y.s.i.n.e.v.e.r.y.g.a.m.e

Chapter 8: Worth

True to her word, Lydia was washed and ready in less than ten minutes. She dressed hurriedly, and then grabbed Beetlejuice's shoulder and dragged him into the bathroom. He protested loudly. "Dammit, Lyds, I just had a bath. Unless you're getting' in with me, one a day is enough!" But she merely brandished one of the new toothbrushes at him.

"This too." He scowled, but took it from her. Living was so much frickin' trouble. She squeezed toothpaste on her toothbrush and then on his. And then brushed her teeth in front of him, her eyebrows raised in impertinent challenge.

His scowl got even darker. "This had better be worth it." He chewed gingerly on the toothbrush, and the bristles tickled his tongue. He mimicked her movements, and then spat with relish into the basin. She grinned at him and reached up to wipe the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

"Not so bad, huh?" But his lips parted slightly against her thumb, and his eyes turned a shade darker, and a wash of warmth traveled up her arm. She dropped her hand as if she had been scalded, and then wiped her own mouth with a damp washcloth. "Come on. I have to pack my bag."

"Sure." His voice rumbled down inside her belly. And not until that moment did Lydia feel that she was in way over her head. He followed after her, still shirtless, still wearing her clothes, and she could feel his eyes on her back, and she knew. He was trying to seduce her. And it was working.

But why?

Confused, she turned to him and gestured toward the bag of clothes. "Change? I need you to help me carry my equipment. And you can't show up at a crime scene looking like a Gap model." Gods, had she said that aloud? Flustered, she ducked back into her bedroom for her laptop and camera equipment, leaving him looking back at her curiously. He turned to the bag of clothes and tugged out a black t-shirt and jeans, looked peculiarly at the package of boxers, sneered, and then changed right there in the living room. Socks, and his favorite boots, which had thankfully traveled with him to the Land of the Breathers, and he was all ready to go out in public again. Everything fit really well. He felt a momentary twinge of what felt suspiciously like gratitude, and then it passed. Weird.

Lydia peered carefully through a crack in the door before walking back out into the room with a big shoulder bag. She handed it to him, looking him over and thinking that he still looked like a Gap model. Fellow was dead for six hundred years and looked that good in a pair of secondhand jeans. Where was the justice? Moodily, she shouldered her digital camera and walked out the door, with Beetlejuice trailing behind, wondering when he got voted to be the caddy. Maybe it was that bit in the living room when she totally drooled over him. He grinned toothily. That might have been it. And that made the whole toothbrush thing completely worth it.

"So where are we goin', babe? You said somethin' about a crime scene?"

"It's what I do, B. I take pictures of dead people. See what sort of an effect you had on my tender young mind?" She beamed sarcastically at him.

"Hey, don't blame me!" he protested. "You're the one who could see us. I didn't have nothin' to do with that. You were morbid way before I met you." Lydia hailed a cab, and effectively cut short their conversation. They rode most of the way in silence, Beetlejuice looking out at how much New York had changed, and Lydia just staring off into the middle distance. But once they crossed into SoHo, he couldn't contain himself. "What have they done to this place? It used to be great! And now it's all…"

"Clean? Safe? Trendy?" Lydia looked up at the tall lofts in the former warehouse district and smiled. "I can't afford to live here."

"Do you want to?" He asked her with perfect sincerity, as if he could somehow make it happen. And then, in the next moment, his face crumpled. "Nevermind. I forgot…"

She felt a bit of an ache for him, but didn't show it. "Nah, it's way too creepy here. I love my apartment."

"That's not an apartment, Lyds. That's a frickin' cracker box. I think my pockets might hold more!" He waggled his eyebrows, and she was pretty sure he wasn't talking about his back pockets. She giggled at him, and he grinned back at her, and suddenly she felt alright again. A world where the scary former poltergeist was flirting with her seemed infinitely more normal than the world where he was seducing her. And she had someone, already. Why did she keep having to remind herself? And then the cab pulled up outside the apartment house with all the flashing lights, and there was Benji, back in his rumpled oxford rolled up at the sleeves. He smiled at Lydia, and then his face turned thunderous.

"Why is he here?"

Beetlejuice beamed at him. "Because he couldn't stay away from ya, cowboy." He climbed out of the cab and shouldered Lydia's bag protectively. "And 'cause the lady asked him to come. Any more questions?" Benji stared at him, and then at Lydia, who was looking very stormily at them both.

"Where's the body?" Her voice was chilly.

"Upstairs."

"Diagnosis?"

"Suicide. Powder burns on the hand holding the gun, entry angle looks right. No note, no motive. Ready?" Lydia nodded, and they headed inside. Despite himself, Beetlejuice was curious. He followed the two up the stairs, not even really all that bothered that Lydia walked with Benji instead of with him. That would all change. He watched the gentle sway of her hips a few stairs above him. Very soon.

Inside the crime scene, a few plainclothes cops meandered around and got in the way while Lydia lifted her camera and sidled over to Beetlejuice to slide her hand into the bag he was holding. He was absorbed in looking around the room. "Did wonder-dog say this was a suicide?"

Lydia nodded, too absorbed to catch the rude nickname for her boyfriend. She fed her camera new batteries and a new card and began to circle the site, shooting every inch of it. The body of the man was sprawled on the carpet, a nasty entry wound eating up the side of his head. Beetlejuice knew the exit wound would be much nastier. The smell of blood and gunpowder permeated the room. He set the bag gently down on the table—Lydia would be furious if he broke her laptop—and then slowly roamed the edges of the room, absorbing the surroundings semi-consciously. Bright flashes from her camera blinded him like a strobe, and he had to repeatedly shake his head to clear his vision. He figured he looked more like a dog than Benji at the moment. But something wasn't quite right.

The hand that had held the gun was his right hand… he could see the powder marks. Old gun, from a collection. Ah, there it was, fallen away from the body. Old muzzleloader. Fine gun as long as you were two feet or less from your target. Distance had saved him more than once... Man was old, and surrounded by old things… inkwell, paper, quill pen. Books. Quill pen. Ah. That was what was wrong.

Lydia was coming back around, and he stepped into her path. "Not a suicide," he murmured in her ear. Not to protect Benji's rep or anything—just so he could get that close to her. She turned a quizzical eye to him.

"Why do you say that?" Oops. Benji had sharp hearing. Woof. "It's a typical suicide. Old guy gets depressed, ends it all. I've seen hundreds." His tone was annoyingly superior, and Beetlejuice decided to take him down a notch. Or several.

"Old guy's a lefty, Benj." Did he say that really loud? Goodness. Benji and Lydia both turned to stare at him, along with the rest of the occupants of the room. Well, except for the dead guy. He raised both eyebrows in perfect innocence. "You didn't notice the angle of the pen?" He ambled over to the desk, where the inkwell sat stumpily on the blotter, the pen resting in its holder. And he pulled out his best longsuffering teacher voice for the occasion. "If he was right handed, the inkwell would be on the left side of the blotter. It would get in the way, otherwise. But it's on the right. And the pen is tilted to the left, which means he set it in with his left hand." Lydia was staring at him, and then shot a few pictures of the blotter. She looked at the body carefully.

"But Beej, this guy doesn't have any ink stains on his left hand." She took another shot of the hand to be sure.

"He has ink stains on the inside thigh of his left trouser leg, tho. Damn hassle to get those out." Benji was staring at the streak of ink that he had discounted in the dark as a shadow. He shook his head.

"How do you know all of this?" His tone was mildly accusing, as if he wanted to blame something—anything—on his rival.

Beetlejuice just smiled pleasantly at him. "Because I'm left handed myself, and I have a pen just like that. Damn nuisance. So happy when they invented quick-drying ink. And ballpoint pens for that matter." Lydia elbowed him, but the look in her eyes was much more impressed than annoyed.

"So who killed him, Sherlock?" Lydia had mischief in her eyes.

Beetlejuice shrugged. "Not a dick. Oh, I mean, a detective. Sorry. Pardon my vernacular." Benji was turning an interesting shade of red. At the very least, Beetlejuice had just tripled his workload. And that meant a lot of time at the office. So sad. Lydia was finishing up her shoot. She found the bag where he had set it down and pulled out her laptop. Powering it up, she connected the camera, downloaded the pictures, and burned a disk. Sharpie marker, date, and little paper envelope. She handed it to Benji.

"Sorry. It looked simple." She gave him a gentle smile. He looked at her, chagrined.

"Will you still come out with me tonight?"

"Will you have time?"

"Yeah. It'll take a few hours for the crime labs to process all this. We still have to do fingerprinting, now that things have become more… complicated." He directed an irritated stare in Beetlejuice's direction. "I have your 'friend' to thank for that, I guess."

"Well, he was trying to help." She was beginning to look exasperated again.

"Help me, or help himself? Has he been… bothering you?"

"No more than usual. Look, when you want to pick me up tonight?" Lydia was seriously tired of this uncomfortable subject.

"Seven?"

She nodded. "I'll be ready."

Beetlejuice, who had heard the entire exchange, was caught between smug and irritated. Smug that he had made Benji the Wonder-dog's life a little bit harder, and irritated that Lydia was going out with said dog. His stomach rumbled, reminding everyone in the vicinity that he hadn't eaten, and Lydia swung out her hand to catch his wrist. She looked ruefully at him. "Sorry I'm not taking better care of you, B."

"I thought you said his name was Doug." Benji just sounded petulant now, and Beetlejuice swung all the way to the top of the smug meter.

"Lyds can call me whatever she likes." Lydia tugged him out the door before they could have another 'exchange', but he got off a good grin at the receding Benji. On the way out of the building, Lydia dropped his arm.

"Why can't you two get along?" Her voice was a bit petulant, too.

"You really don't know?" He looked at her a bit incredulously. Women could be so dense. She shook her head. He shrugged. "Then I won't be the one to tell you."

Lydia sighed. Men could be so cryptic.