AN: Sorry. I'm going to upload this before i edit that last bit out of guilt. If i don't upload, i'll never get the next part written. Flame me if it makes you feel better ;)

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Chapter 9: Truth

Over spaghetti and red sauce in her apartment, Lydia struggled several moments with which question she wanted Beetlejuice to answer most. He wolfed down two plates in quick succession, and then let out a resounding belch, got up, and filled his plate again. Watching him eat made her considerably less hungry than she had been before they had made spaghetti, but she chewed slowly through a bowlful and a few pieces of bread, just to have something to do. He didn't speak at all, but watched her with his disconcerting green eyes when he wasn't scraping the bottom of his plate. Finally, she settled on a question that seemed to cover all the bases.

"Why are you alive?"

"Don't you have any wine? Italian always goes better with wine." There was a distinct challenge in his eyes now, and she nodded, grinning a little.

"Yes. I do. Answer me, first, and then I'll pour you a glass."

"Pour us both one, and it's a deal." The corner of his mouth was upturned in a wicked half-grin, and she knew she had played well enough. She got up and reached into the cabinet above the fridge for the bottle of Chianti that her dad had brought her from Italy, and that she had been saving for a special occasion. That the 'occasion' was supposed to have been with Benji seemed a minor point. The world held a lot of wine. She could always get another bottle.

Before she could bring it to the table, he leapt up to take the bottle from her, and then fished around in her drawer for a corkscrew. "I haven't done this in ages." His voice shimmered with little-boy glee. With a careful and practiced hand, he cut the foil, screwed in the spiral, and with a quick tug he brandished the open bottle at her with proud grin. He nodded for her to take it, and she made him a little mock curtsey.

"You're too kind, good sir." Her voice was colored with amusement.

"My pleasure. Really." He even pulled out her seat for her before he sat back down and waggled his empty glass. She filled it, and then remembered that he was supposed to answer her question first. There was no denying his amusement now. She groaned at herself, and then went ahead and filled her own glass. He settled back in his chair and fixed her with a contemplative look.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "So, you were saying?"

"I already told you, I'm here because of you." He knocked back the glass in one swallow and held it out for her again. She only filled it halfway. His expression called her a miser. "Because of what I did, because you asked me, if you remember…" She merely lifted both eyebrows at him, inviting him to continue. He sighed loudly and hunched over his glass. "It's called a life sentence. Some desk jockey bein' clever. S'really rare, since it's not punishment for most in the Afterlife." He frowned, and she felt his mood change like the sun going behind the clouds. "But for someone like me…" He snorted. "I mean, who are we kiddin? There's no one like me. It's just hell. This is hell. No power, weak as a kitten, can't travel, can't scare… this is like the hell for people who don't think hell is scary."

Lydia had gone in feeling sorry for him, but came out the other side feeling a little angry. His behavior towards her had been directed to one end. And if this was hell for him, then what was she? "So why are you trying to seduce me?"

"What?" He looked around nervously, not meeting her dark stare, and emptied his glass again. She emptied hers as well, and refilled them both.

"I asked why you were trying to seduce me. Are you just trying to ruin my life temporarily, or were you going for permanent damage?"

"Lydia, I…" He swallowed, at a loss. Again. He seemed to be permanently adrift. "I mean, I didn't expect you to be…"

"Dating someone? Older? Grown up? Able to stand up for myself? Am I getting warm?" But her voice was icy. He shook his head.

"I didn't expect you to be so beautiful." He fell silent then, his lips pursed and eyes on the floor. Lydia's mouth went dry.

"I can't deal with this," she finally managed. "I have to go get ready for a date. I don't even know what to say to you." Her volume began to rise. "You waltz in to my life after eight years, B. Eight years. Did you know it had been that long? Eight years of me, wondering why you left. Eight years of calling your name in the dark, and you never came!" He was wide eyed, lips slightly parted, and she was standing over him, nearly shouting now. "I waited for you, and hoped that you would swoop down and save me from this life that I couldn't seem to make work. And then I lost hope." She lifted her hand to rub at her temple. "I gave up trying. And now, when I have a good thing going… now you drop in, helpless as a baby, and I'm right back where I started."

"I didn't ask for this!" He surged out of his chair, his voice rough with frustration, and Lydia felt her skin tingle with a strong electric charge. "I did what you wanted, Lyds! You made me a promise." That last word came out like a snarl. He slid his hands around the back of his neck and clutched his head as if he were in pain. "Gods…" His voice broke.

At the extremity of his weakness, her anger melted to sadness. "I was young. I was desperate for your help. I would have promised you anything."

"And it would have meant nothing to you, at all." He grimaced at her. "I don't mean anything to you. None of this…" He waved his hands, taking in his entire humiliation at once. "…means anything."

"That's not true, B." She reached out to him, but he growled like a wounded animal. "Stop this. It's not helping. Dammit, B, I'm sorry, okay? I did what I had to do."

Again, she felt his mood change, like the bottom had just fallen out. It scared her a little. Beetlejuice straightened slowly. His voice was dangerously low, his head tilted gently to one side, and his eyes focused unmercifully on hers. "And that makes it all better?" He took a step towards her, and she had to consciously hold her ground. Another step, and he was so close she could smell the wine he had drank, and the heated scent of him. He was too close, too close, too goddamn close.

She felt his arms tighten around her an instant before he kissed her, mouth open, deep and hot and terrifying, and her body betrayed her for a split instant, her hands clutching at his arms, yielding—and it was long enough for him to know.

And then the New York girl took over, and she kneed him hard in the groin.

He dropped like a stone to the floor.