AN: Actually part one, but this was more thought than action. Next part, action! Thank you for your patience!
Chapter Five: The Break-In
When Lydia woke, her apartment was sunk into shadows, and she was alone. She had thought to wake and find him waiting, but his familiar shape was missing from her window seat, where he often gazed out the window for hours at a time. Funny, but she had never thought to ask him what he was looking at, always grateful that it wasn't her.
With a scowl, she climbed awkwardly off the bed and ran to the bathroom to grab a shower before he returned.
As the hot water washed over her, she had a flash of the time he had invaded her shower. Her mind remembered the unalloyed embarrassment, but her body remembered differently. How his touch seemed to lessen the pain of her scrapes and scars, and his careful, steady hold of her cut wrist. When she was hurt, he always took extra care with her, and then as soon as she recovered, it was back to abnormal. He certainly cared for her, in his way. And he had made no secret of his wolfish yen to be in her bed, however the hell that was supposed to work, not that she ever ever wanted to know. Still, there was that one kiss, his first kiss, that she tried to profoundly stamp out of her memory; especially the traitorous response of a body that was fooled into thinking he was real. He had certainly felt real…
And the water was now cold. Shit.
She dressed comfortably, uncertain what to wear for walking a ghost road under the influence of a deeply disturbed poltergeist. It was well after nine, and she was hungry and nervous, and didn't know whether to eat or to pace when she felt a cool breeze at her back, and the soft touch of his hands on her arms.
"Miss me?" he whispered gruffly in her ear. Chills trickled icily down her back, and she felt for a moment what it would be like to have Beetlejuice as an enemy. Not a pleasant thought.
"Yes. Immensly. I've been weeping." His fingers tightened on her shoulders with every word she spoke.
"Weeping?" His tone told her exactly what he thought of that, and it wasn't particularly flattering. She slid her hands up her arms and over his hands, cool and invisible in the darkness. His hands felt real. As did the rest of him, pressed lightly against her back.
"Copiously." She nodded for emphasis, but couldn't prevent herself from grinning just a little.
"Uh huh," he countered dubiously.
"It means, 'a lot'."
"I know what it means, girlchild." His voice was halfway between dangerous and teasing now, and she could hear his smile. Such a rare thing—she heard it even less often than she saw it. Beetlejuice almost never smiled. He smirked, and grinned his wicked, feral grin, and showed his teeth in anger or disgust, but genuine smiles were few and far between. Unable to resist the temptation of seeing it, she turned her head, trying to peer back at him, only to realize, too late, that his chin was resting on her shoulder. Her cheekbone bumped his nose, and he pulled instinctively back, and the moment was lost.
"Sorry." She looked down, a rueful grin on her lips. His hands slid down her arms and crossed around her waist, pulling her close against him, and for once, tangled in her confused thoughts, she didn't protest. It felt good to be close. She had frequently been this close to him, in the last two months. But she had never been this uncertain of her own thoughts on the matter before. How could one simple trial possession make things so complicated? And now she was gearing up for another.
His voice, a tickle in her ear, brought her back. "No need for sorry. You ready?"
"Not really. What should I expect?"
"Somethin' you gotta see. Can't explain it." She felt a rustle of fabric, and he brought a hood over her head. "Just don't let anyone see your face. Might be a bit hard to account for you bein' there."
"What?" Panic made her voice squeak, but she didn't care. "Hard to account?"
"Um. Yeah, forget I said that. Ready?" He sounded a bit rushed now.
"No! Not till you explain what you mean by 'hard to account for'!" She shook herself loose and twisted to turn to face him, and he only resisted a little. She only belatedly realized that she was still that close, and the cloak he had draped over her was a thin layer between them. Startled, she tried to step back, but he didn't loosen his hold. His eyes dropped lazily to her mouth, and that dark, feral grin surfaced like a monster from the deep.
"Hard." His voice was low enough to make her stomach thrum. She flushed hot, whether from embarrassment or something…else. He enjoyed her discomfort immensely for a moment, his eyes gleaming, and then continued. "Explaining your presence. You being a breather, an' all. Since you're not technically allowed in the Netherworld."
"Technically?" she managed, having to swallow first.
"Technically," he agreed. "But a few possessed have been known to walk the halls. Quietly. When no one is around to watch." He flavored his words with delighted menace, and she shivered. "So are you ready, or not?"
Lydia knew he was trying to intimidate her. And it was definitely working—her mind was a jumble. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the vanished distance in between them, and all the disturbing thoughts that entailed. They were going traveling. It was an opportunity that she could not pass up, no matter how frightening or intimidating or whatever he was. She still knew his true name. That gave her the upper hand. Didn't it? Of course it did. She straightened her shoulders. "I'm ready." And just to remind him, "Gabriel."
He flinched. "I know you know it. No need to flaunt it. Lydia." And then he reached up and took her head in his hands, and pressed his cool forehead to hers. She closed her eyes on the darkness.
When she opened them again, she was back in the theater. On the large screen was her room, and a pale girl in the mirror, adjusting the hood so it covered her face. The mirror loomed larger, until all she could see were her own dark eyes, lit now with a manic glow that she could immediately identify as the gleam of her poltergeist.
"Just think about the place you work at, Lyds." His voice sounded like it was projected through surround sound. A pause. "You still with me?"
"Yeah." Her voice sounded shaky and flat. He had displaced her consciousness entirely this time, just like Clara had. She felt more than shaky; she felt like screaming. But she swallowed, and gripped the arms of the plush chair that wasn't real none of this was real he was in her body… breathe. Her eyes on the screen crinkled in laughter. He knew she could see. Bastard. She was going to beat the hell out of him when she next got the chance, poltergeist or no. She just needed a big enough stick.
