AN: To Wanda: Hope this tides you over till i can get together an epilogue. :grins: . Oh, and occasionally, it is possible that our thoughts intersect in storyspace and two different stories might have similar thoughts/ideas/themes and such, you know? It is purely coincidence. This is just a gentle, general disclaimer. Right then. On with the show.

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Chapter 12: Cutpurse

She left him in a quiet mood. When he emerged from the bathroom half and hour later, dressed only in the jeans she had bought for him, she was sitting on her bed with a determined look in her eye. "Come and lay down, B"

He looked a little taken aback, but was ready with a show of bravado. "Geez, Lyds, usually I get dinner and a movie first, but hey, if you're in a hurry…" He winked at her.

"Keep dreaming, Beetlejuice. Now come here before I change my mind." He looked at her curiously, and chewed at his bottom lip.

"Why?"

She met his challenge with a wry quirk of her eyebrows. "If you don't come, you'll never know." He frowned, sizing her up.

"You're not tryin' to get me back for wakin' up before you this mornin', eh?"

"Now why would you ever think that, B?" He flicked his eyes to the bedroom door, as if sizing up possible escape routes. She exhaled loudly. "Please. Come here. I'm not going to hurt you."

"You keep sayin' that," he pointed out.

"It keeps being true," she rejoined. He nodded, eyebrows raised, not able to deny that. And then he walked the two steps to the bed and stretched out on his back, his wrist behind his head and the graceful line of his abdomen outlined in gentle morning shadow. She could see his ribs clearly above the sloping hollow of his stomach, and realized that she was staring at the same time he did. He smirked at her.

"Turn over." Her voice betrayed her embarrassment.

"What?" The smirk vanished. Definitely nervous. She was feeling a little nervous herself. She swallowed.

"Lay on your stomach. I'm going to rub some ointment on your back. If that's okay?" she added, wondering if he was going to refuse her. But he complied, slowly rolling over while giving her a wary eyebrow. She realized, suddenly, that this was a great show of faith from him. That even though he was physically stronger than she, he believed himself at risk. And with his back to her, he was essentially ceding her control of the situation. He was trusting her. That was heavy. But he still turned his head so that he could watch her.

"Can I touch you?" He nodded, but all bravado had vanished, and his jade-colored eyes were intent and solemn. She lifted a hand and brought her fingertips down on the nape of his neck, gliding over his scarred shoulders slowly. She could feel his muscles tensing under her touch. "You can tell me to stop."

"No." His voice was a gruff whisper. "Don't stop." She traced the delicate lines of his shoulder blades, which were overlaid with the violent map of his pain, and tears sprang to her eyes. How had he gotten so deep inside her? But that was not the question she asked.

"How did this happen?" She opened the cap on the muscle rub and squeezed some out into her palm. It smelled of tea tree oil and oranges, a strange combination that tickled her nostrils. She smoothed the palmful of ointment across his shoulders with both hands, and began very gently to massage it into his skin. His eyes fluttered closed, and she was wholly aware of what she had just gained.

For a long time he lay silent under her hands, breathing unevenly, lips slightly parted. And then, just as she had suspected he had fallen asleep, he began to speak, drowsily, as if from very far away.

"You've read about the plague. Times were hard. Infrastructure fell apart. You know, if the apothecary died, you were just screwed, 'cuz nobody knew what cured which, and shit like that. Next town was more than a day's ride. Roads were crap. Travel was next to impossible. Things just… fell apart, ya know?" She nodded, working down the middle of his back now. As he spoke, his knotted muscles eased. "So I was apprenticed to a blacksmith, and he kicked the bucket one sunny day, and I was at my leisure. Except that I was a slave, and anyone could come an' force me to work for them. So I had to make my own way, as it were. Stole a horse, and his best coat, the rotten bastard, and became a cutpurse on the roads from London. Wealthy would leave the city, thinkin' the country was safer, or somethin'. We relieved them of the weight of their gold, and the plague relieved them the weight of their souls. Good life, while it lasted." Her hands pressed into the small of his back, and he grunted. "Hey, careful. M'ticklish."

"That's good to know…" she smiled, and he peered up at her suspiciously. "So did you die of the plague?"

"Nah, I already told you I lived through it. 'Sides… had I died of the plague you would know it… I died after, when the magistrate caught up with me." He paused for a long time, and then the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Justice. That's what they called it. But he used his own horsewhip. Took a long time." Lydia's hands were still, her mouth open. He fell silent for a moment, and then turned halfway to look at her. "You still there?" She nodded numbly. He rolled over on his side, and his knee slid up to prop against her back.

"Like I said, it was a long time ago."

Her voice was very small. "When you first got here, B… I was making you a bed on the floor, and I… I must have slipped and elbowed you in the ribs accidentally." His mouth twitched in a dismissive gesture, but she continued on. "And then you… cried out, and covered your face with your hands." He looked away, and then at her hands, which were on her lap. "You were asleep," she murmured in apology.

"The magistrate committed suicide less than a month after." He said it in a rush, his voice bleak and rough. "After the urn that held the ashes of his dearly beloved mum shattered into a billion pieces during supper one night." He looked up at her, a benediction in his eyes. "Less than he deserved."

"You drove him to suicide?" Her heart clutched in her chest.

"He saw the error of his ways right at the very end, Lydia." Fierce heat flared in his eyes. "You gonna leave me now?"

"No." Her voice was gentle. Her hand, without her express permission, slid across his breastbone and ribs. He caught her wrist in his hand, a little roughly, and she jumped, trembling.

"You're torturin' me, Lyds. This is worse than any punishment they coulda thought of… to put me here and then have you… for you to touch me like you do and I can't… you won't let me…gods." He stumbled to a halt, his eyes squeezed shut. She had stopped breathing, and had to take a deep breath to fill her lungs before she could speak.

"I'm sorry, B." He nodded, and his grip on her wrist relaxed. He threw his arms wide, one leg pulled slightly up, his thigh against her hip. But she had more to say. "You know, when I first met you, you scared the hell out of me." His lips twitched slightly in amusement. "And that was kind of a new thing for me. I don't scare; I never really did. Until you." His eyes were open now, but he was staring at the ceiling. "But the thing that really mattered… is that you were never scared of me." She swallowed, looking down at her hands, and feeling him looking intently at her, now. "All my life, people have been scared of me. My parents, my friends, my neighbors… all but you." She turned to look at him, then, and the fire blossomed in her belly, and she couldn't deny any more that she wanted him, that she loved him, that she had missed him desperately all these years, and now he was in her bed, dear God, and within her reach.

"You've been waitin' for me?" His voice was barely a whisper, like he didn't dare say it aloud.

"I've been waiting for you." The realization was like a beam of sunlight. It answered everything—why she had never been invested in anyone that she dated; why she was always looking over her shoulder… everything. And she smiled at the same time the tears came. He was up in an instant, his hand warm against her cheek, and she clutched her arms around him, her face pressed into his shoulder, and wept, her tears running down his back. And then he was kissing her, but this time she kissed him back, fiercely, her hands in his wild hair.

Lydia felt the wiry muscle of his chest flex easily as he reached around her and slid her shirt over her head. The cool air of the room was replaced by his warm hands, as he tugged her against him, heat soft soaking through her, and the gentle brush of his skin against hers, flower petals, orange blossom flowers. He held her easily, and she felt his strength now, blacksmith's arms, horseman's thighs, as he pulled her down on the bed.

Willingness makes all the difference. When he first kissed her against her will, he only glimpsed what she had carried in her heart. Now she flooded over him, arching over him, taking in as much as she could. Gods, was this the same woman that had dropped him without mercy to the kitchen floor? Her knees were tucked under his thighs, and his hands cupped her hip and her shoulder blade. He rolled gently with her, and she folded against the bed, her legs twining with his as he kissed her jaw, her throat, and then nipped at her collarbone until she dug her nails into his back, heedless of old wounds and making new ones, except that he couldn't feel any pain, didn't care.

The phone rang until the answering machine picked up. It rang again. Beetlejuice flicked out his fingers, completely absorbed in the sensation of Lydia's small teeth against the curve of his shoulder and neck, and the ringing stopped abruptly. A tiny curl of smoke issued from the receiver. And the phone did not ring again. The memory of it was gone from his mind before it even had a chance to register.

And quite a few hours passed before Lydia realized that her phone was no longer working.