AN: I'm glad to see the IM system at least puttering along again—that was a long stretch of quiet. And sorry this took so long—I've had to be thoughtful, and sometimes that doesn't come easily. This is one of those balance things-- just so you know it's not just the boys that screw things up sometimes.
ST: Written to William Orbit's Barber's Adagio for Strings. Yes, still!
Chapter Four: Rhetorical
Lydia let out a little screech as she hit the bed, and when she looked up at him he was grinning again, that disconcerting uncertainty gone now. For a moment there… but no. Certainly not. She shook her head and scowled up at him.
"And here I was just going to tell you how surprised I was that you didn't act like an asshole…"
His lips twitched very slightly in what might have been annoyance. "Hey, I got a reputation here, girlchild."
"Oh, and so many people are watching this."
"You never know," he said with an enigmatic glance around the room, as he drifted down to settle beside her on her bed. He tilted his head back and gave her a piercing and thorough inspection, and she responded by lifting her chin defiantly. "So you nearly panicked on me there, Lyds. Any mental hang-ups or childhood trauma I need to know about? Any… sexual experiences with inexperienced young men…need to be rectified?" He gave her a look of extreme curiosity, and she made a face at him, her stomach rolling over at that last bit.
But something didn't feel quite right to her. "Beetlejuice, if I knew you well, I would say that something was bothering you rather than the other way around. Why so touchy?" She reached out and plucked at his shirtsleeve, and he twitched away from her, and then belatedly scowled at his own reaction.
"Not touchy. Just concerned that in the middle of walkin' a line you're gonna freak and try to take control of your body back and, well…" He shrugged casually, his head dipping down even as his arms flapped up. "…that just wouldn't be good for either of us."
Despite his obvious misdirection away from his previous discomfort, she was curious. She pulled her legs up and propped her chin on her knees. "What would happen?"
"You ever driven with your eyes closed down the wrong side of the Autobahn?" His eyes got misty. "Ah, that was a good day." He was definitely in full distraction mode now, his jade eyes glinting with mischief as he cocked his head slightly at her, mimicking her posture.
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
He grinned. "Is that a rhetorical question?" She lifted an expressive eyebrow at him, and he lifted two back at her. Another challenge. Another wall.
She flopped down on the bed, the weariness from the aftermath of his carefully executed possession coupled with their war of wills creeping up on her. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that the possession had been so carefully done that, now that he was back in full Irritating Poltergeist mode, it seemed entirely out of character. It made her wonder if all this bluster was just a shield, but if so, what was he protecting himself from? He had been nice for less than a minute. Not exactly a world record. She eyed him speculatively. Well, maybe it was, for him. "Why is everything always a battle with you?"
"Does it bother you, Lyds?" Voice gone soft and rough around the edges, he lay down next to her, head propped on his hand, and eyed her hungrily. She smiled gently at him, and he lost a little of his leer, as if startled out of an act. Something was definitely bothering him.
"I just don't like fighting all the time, Beej. We've been through a lot. It's okay, every now and again, to not act like an asshole. That's all I'm saying."
"Yeah, but then you'd expect me to be nice all the time. Where's that get fun?"
"Hardly. But occasionally, just to remind me what a prick you usually are, you could be nice. Just for something to compare with."
He paused for a moment, and then peered back at her through close-lidded eyes. "You think I'm a prick?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
He scowled darkly and curled up a little defensively. "No need to get nasty, Lyds."
For a moment, she really looked at him. His knees were pulled up so high they were pressed against her thighs, and his arms were crossed over his chest. Classic self-protecting posture, obvious even if she had never taken psychology class in school. His face was creased with frowns and his jade-colored eyes, which she always had thought were incongruously lovely in such a scoundrel's face, were focused on the middle distance between them. Which was not all that much, now that she realized. If she reached out just a few inches, she could have stroked his cheek and attempted to put him at ease, as he had done for her…
Suddenly she was flooded with remorse. Psychology 101. He had been gentle with her, for whatever reason, and she was still treating him like she always did. Something had changed in their dynamic, and to her uncomprehending surprise, it had been on his end.
"I'm sorry, Beetlejuice." And she crossed those few inches, and stroked the cool skin of his cheek. His eyes closed reflexively, making her feel, if possible, worse. "I'm a bitch sometimes."
"Is that a rhetorical statement?" he murmured, but with a quirk to his lips that indicated he was teasing her now. Her fingers traced softly over his high cheekbones and jaw, intimacy disregarded for a moment in curiosity. His skin was the color of white opals, and her fingers tingled with something that felt a little like static electricity—more of a hum of energy that jumped between his skin and hers. He was completely still under her touch, and she allowed her hand to trace under his chin and down the corded muscle of his neck, to cross the soft juncture at his shoulder, just where his shirt didn't cover.
And then she realized what she was doing, and she jerked her hand away, but not before a single thought bloomed in her mind, one that she had never allowed herself to think. Through all of this terror and then the annoyance of having him constantly under (or over) foot, she had never seen him respond so profoundly to her touch, simply because she had never touched him with anything but necessity in mind. As the implications processed like molasses through her mind, she realized that his eyes were open now, jewel green and solemn. As her slow thoughts caught up to her actions, she had time to realize that his eyes were the same iridescent green as the tiger beetles that invaded her stepmother's garden.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Why?" And as before, that single word conveyed a great deal more than what a syllable should be able to hold. He was not simply responding. He was asking. She swallowed, and her courage deserted her.
"I'm just tired. If we're going to do this tonight, I'll need some rest." She attempted a smile, but it faded a bit when she saw the disappointment in his eyes.
"Yeah. Well, okay. Sure. I got things to do anyway."
And he flickered and was gone, before she could prevent him. As if she would have known what to do with him. Lydia found herself curled tightly up now, and her jumbled thoughts were entirely too intimate and strange to examine too closely. She tried to sleep, and eventually she did, but both waking thoughts and dreams were invaded by uncertainly. Just what, exactly, had happened?
