The longer Lydia spent in her bedroom alone in the dark, the worse she felt for the way she wrote off Betelgeuse. She didn't know hardly anything about him. Frustration at her parents blaming his actions on her led her to take it out on him‒ which was fair, but couldn't she afford to give him the benefit of the doubt here?

After all, he didn't lay a hand on anything of hers. Her parents were the sole target of his ire, and didn't she tell him they were the ones to consult if he wanted them to leave? Yes, Sir. He only did what she suggested, badmouthing her parents as often as she did in their handful of interactions. It stung a little when she realized he did, in fact, want her and her family to leave and was hoping to force them out with his actions. Still...

He noticed her. He liked her. That was worth looking into.

Having talked herself into guilt late in the night the next day‒ his destruction had been on an eerie hiatus since their little tiff‒ Lydia found herself tip-toeing up the attic stairs, hoping beyond hope that he would be willing to hear her.

Knock, knock, knock.

Once he calmed down, he stole one of the heavy bottles of scotch from the mortal man's study and retreated back to the attic. With a wave of his hand, he put the room back into as much order as it was before his tantrum, boxes back in their corner, furniture all in one piece. His favorite chair was moved over to where he could prop his feet up on the windowsill.

On evenings like this, he would ordinarily have started the record player but the thought of listening to that song, or anything that sounded like it, made something painful inside him clench. In the dark and quiet, he sat sucking down cigarettes and taking pulls off the brown liquor in his hand.

He could feel her outside the door before she knocked. She stood out there for a long while before finally plucking up the courage. Before she even finished the third knock, the lock clicked and the door popped open. He didn't get up, or move, or make any noise to make it easier for her to find him. He only sat and stared up at the night sky through the window, blowing smoke rings and waiting.

It didn't feel like he was there, but she knew he must have been. The lack of his heavy aura felt colder and more distant than his occasional anger.

"I'm sorry I called you names," she conceded sheepishly without crossing the threshold into his space. She had disrespected him and their tenuous "friendship" and therefore felt she didn't have the right to traipse through his domain again until he said so.

"I was just mad they blamed me for what you did so I took it out on you. That was wrong."

This was really hard. Her knees felt weak. If he didn't forgive her, she didn't know what she was going to do. It took him just a beat too long to respond and her heart sunk.

"Can you still talk or…? Just‒ Nevermind. I'll just go."

She could feel a plucking at her wrist, and it was pulling her into the room.

"Yeah, I can still talk," his voice was low and there was a hint of a growl there but more from lack of use than any kind of emotion. "Might as well come in. Careful. The floor's a mess."

The other chair moved across the room to sit next to the one already stationed in front of the window, and the invisible force around her wrist escorted her to the newly moved chair.

"I'm...I ain't mad at ya," he sighed, sitting up in his chair and setting the bottle on the floor before scrubbing his face with his hands.

"I can get the shit they took back for ya. If ya want that…"

A sweet smile blossomed on her lips at the offer after he gently guided her across the room and into a comfy armchair. The breeze coming through the window was pleasant, the smell of his smoke comforting and inoffensive, and the moon was brilliant enough to let her make out a vague shape of him and some of his color.

"You're blond, too," she remarked, bypassing his offer for a moment.

Lydia never got in trouble. This wasn't something her parents would forget any time soon. To steal her trinkets back would only get her further on their bad side. The clink of a bottle did not go beyond her notice. He had the same kind of airs about him as her father when he was drinking too much; sad, exhausted, and emotionally dead all at once.

"Why do you need me to say your name? What will happen if I do?"

He grunted his agreement to her commenting on his hair color, not that he could legitimately remember what he looked like. Blond felt right. He turned in his chair so he could comfortably lean on the armrest, his chin resting on his folded arms. Like this he was virtually at eye level with her.

"You let me out. I'm solid. Everyone would be able to see me, hear me. When I said ya were given' me blue balls, it wasn't really too far off the mark. Ya' said it twice now n' it feels like I'm a string wound up too tight..."

He sighed and shifted in his seat a little. Reaching out with one hand he caught a lock of her hair and twirled it with his finger.

"... but this ainn't too bad. Least ya can hear me now."

Lydia felt compelled to lean against the arm closest to him as well when he tugged on her hair like that. The more he talked, the more she realized she was happy to hear him too. His voice was sinful; dark and gruff, a sound that had the capacity to strike fear into hearts or melt them to putty if it wished. At the moment, he seemed to be going for the latter with Lydia.

"You wouldn't… you wouldn't hurt anyone, right?"

It seemed a fair question to ask considering his destructive tendencies.

"Why are you bound by your name, anyway? I've never met any ghosts like that. Are you even a ghost? Are you… something else?"

The first question had him dropping her hair and sitting back in his chair with another defeated sigh, slumped down low. A frown started to pull at his maw. He knew she wasn't going to like the answer but he didn't understand why that made him want to squirm.

"Ain't in the habit o' makin' promises I can't keep, baby doll." He conjured up another cigarette and took a long drag before continuing, "I fucked up a lot a long time ago, n' that was the punishment."

"Are you… something else?"

That made him chuckle.

"'Course I'm a ghost. I'm the Ghost with the Most, sweet cheeks." He sat up again, picked the bottle up off the floor, and took a swig before offering it to her.

Lydia had never drunk a drop of alcohol a day in her life. Naturally, when she tipped the bottom of the bottle toward the ceiling to take a brave and ambitious gulp‒ impress the "Ghost with the Most" who liked her apparently‒ it led to a wet, messy, dizzy coughing fit. Her eyes were watering for a different reason this time.

"That was dumb," she moaned miserably once she had the wherewithal to speak, deeply embarrassed by the entire display. The effects of alcohol were immediate. She melted back into the armchair, slumped just as lazily as him, face tilted up to the sky.

"They're probably going to blame me for this bottle going missing, too," she pondered with an arched brow minutes later, then took a more appropriate and lady-like sip now that she knew what to expect. Another sip and it was passed back to Betelgeuse.

Now that she was drunk, because this must be what "drunk" was, she understood why her father was an alcoholic. Everything felt wonderful. She was so happy to be there with Betelgeuse, so flattered that this powerful dead man was enjoying her company and trying to please her. It made her strangely open and affectionate, her tongue loose.

"I like those nicknames," she giggled, cheeks flush from drink, and slumped over the arm nearest him in shameless hopes he would touch her again. No one ever wanted to touch her unless it was out of piteous obligation.

"Baby doll and sweet cheeks... It's like you like-like me. I should call you something since your name is‒ it's complicated. Lemme think..."

His hand was in her hair again the way she was non verbally begging for, and she practically purred.

"BJ. Beejies. Heebie Jeebies. Beeeej."

It was clear from the way she swung the bottle bottoms up that she didn't really know what she was doing but it pleased him that she was willing to try new things. When the coughing started so did his laughter. It was a low sound rattling around his chest, making a concerning noise.

"Here, babes, sit up," he helped her lean up, laughter still coloring his voice. "I wouldn't worry about them noticin'. They ain't noticed with any o' the other bottles. 'Parently if I put the empties back, Chuck thinks he drank it."

Grinning, he took the bottle back from her and took a long pull before setting it back on the floor. He shifted so he could run his long-nailed fingers along her scalp and down through her hair. Her pink cheeks and warm skin had him hypnotized, her sweet scent dancing on the night breeze, the hint of lilac and vanilla.

"BJ. Beejies. Heebie Jeebies. Beeeej."

He had just taken a long drag off his cigarette when she offered up her nicknames. Though he didn't need to breathe, he choked on the smoke.

"Jesus fuck, Heebie Jeebies?" He coughed some more, his chest rattling. "Beej is fine, I like that."

He flicked his spent smoke out the window and reached over to pull her into his lap, her warm soft skin like silk under his large hands.

For just a few seconds, Lydia had the decency to stiffen when he presumptuously‒ skillfully, strongly, possessively‒ manhandled her into his lap. Then, she surrendered. He was solid, more than any ghost she had met. Big and sturdy, just like his presence denoted. He had the build of someone who could do some real damage even without supernatural ability.

God, when was the last time someone hugged her and meant it, wasn't cringing to get away from her and stop touching the invalid? What could she do but go limp and boneless, allow herself this guilty pleasure?

"I've never been drunk before," she confessed in a wobbly voice that spoke to the truth of what she said, "... or sat in a man's lap. Other than my father when I was little."

Betelgeuse felt so familiar even though they had known each other for this short period. While she couldn't trust his motivations, she had complete faith that he couldn't possibly mean her any harm.

"This is nice…"

Her eyes drifted shut, a thick layer of blonde lashes fanned against her rosy cheeks as mortal breaths deepened signifying coming sleep.

"I think… I'll say it tomorrow… maybe…"

He felt her tense after he pulled her onto his lap, but once he got her settled she melted, his large cool hand running along her legs slipping up under her skirt. Her warmth, the scent of her, and all that soft skin were far more intoxicating to him than the scotch.

"I've never been drunk before,"

"I'd have never guessed babe," he chuckled into her hair, his hand traveling farther up her leg and kneadingall the way.

"... or sat in a man's lap. Other than my father when I was little."

"He doesn't seem like much of a man in the first place, sweetheart."

He shifted in his chair enough that he could prop his feet back up on the windowsill and pull her in closer to his chest. A soft contented rumble erupted from his chest. He could feel her starting to drift off to sleep and realized he hadn't felt this content since before he died, and maybe not even then.

"I think… I'll say it tomorrow… maybe…"

"I wouldn't worry too much about that, babes..."

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Once he was sure she was asleep he pushed to his feet and carried her down to her room. He was loath to leave her there, not when he didn't have to. Therefore, he carefully placed her in the bed before laying down next to her, cradling her to him as much as he was able.

The next morning, Lydia awoke with a fuzzy mind and mouth, pinned hopelessly to her bed beneath a deadweight of limbs, thick arms around her waist and a heavy leg slung over her hips for good measure. Head pounding, she suffered a pained moan once the pulsing ache in her temples hit her, struggling weakly beneath him to free herself.

"Bee," she croaked, throat dry. "Beej!"

He was snoring loudly. What happened last night that he felt at ease sleeping in bed with her? At least they were both clothed still. It took some work, but she was eventually able to wriggle enough to sit up, his arm still vice-like around her hips, a face smushing into her thigh.

In truth, she didn't drink all that much, but it was strong liquor and she was a tiny thing.

"Betelgeuse," she whined thoughtlessly, then gasped. That was three. Her breath was held in anticipation, but nothing happened. He kept sleeping and she kept needing to use the bathroom. Scowling, her thigh jerked against his cheek, forcing him awake.

"Hey. Get up."

Betelgeuse didn't sleep often but when he did, he slept like the dead. It wasn't that he couldn't feel her moving around trying to get out of his grasp. It was more that when he slept it seemed like rigor would set it and it took a little bit to get shit working again.

"Betelgeuse."

The divine pain from the summoning ripping through his ribcage, making him groan. He felt her jerk again and was finally able to get his eyes open and loosen his grip on the warm little treasure.

He had never been summoned while asleep before, not that he slept with any regularity. Now fully pulled into the land of the living, the girl, his girl was even more enticing. The smell of her was everywhere. He could really feel how soft the bedding was and how fucking good she felt.

Slowly, he tipped onto his back in the bed and grunted "mornin' babes" before he felt her slip from away. His eternally stiff neck and shoulders were even more rigid as he tried to get his limbs working again.

The girl stumbled a bit on her way to and from the bathroom. Her new bedroom may have been small and windowless, but she at least had her own bathroom and closet. Far too trustingly, she proceeded to collapse back in bed beside him upon her return, unwilling to give it up just because she had a few reservations over his being there.

"Why are you in my bed?"

She didn't sound angry. Tired and groggy, certainly confused, but not angry.

"Did I…?"

Oh God, the more clarity returned to her, the more she realized how very bad this was. What might she have done in a drunken state? Last she remembered, she was happier than she had been in a long time, secure in his arms, feeling wanted… that was dangerous. What if she felt too good? What if she did something brave that she now couldn't remember? Searching, she ran her hands along her body as if she might be able to feel a fading touch, but nothing seemed different.

Would she even be able to tell?

She didn't take as long as expected, back before the sheets even had time to cool. He propped himself up against the headboard of her bed and stretched lit a cigarette when she crawled back in snuggling against his hip.

"Why are you in my bed?"

"Do ya' not want me here, sweets?" He blew a few smoke rings, his free hand playing in her hair. He rolled his shoulders a little to try and loosen up, his senses in overload. Everything was just a little too loud, too colorful, too much. He wasn't sure how long it had been since he was summoned last, but it obviously had been far, far too long.

"Did I…?"

That made him frown as he regarded at her, his hand still kneading her scalp.

"Did ya' what?"

The line of her mouth squirmed. His question was more uncomfortable than hers.

"Nevermind."

No, they hadn't done anything. He would say something if they did. He would. Unconvinced, but unwilling to clarify further, Lydia groaned as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and mentally preparing for the day.

"My first day at the new school is tomorrow," she informed, dilly-dallying on the bed next to him and not immediately getting up to brush her hair or teeth. She would in a moment, but her head was still throbbing… and she did enjoy his presence there. Talking to him was easy. Or maybe it was just that after going so long without anyone to talk to about anything, she hadn't developed any sort of filter.

"I don't want to go."

"Ya' mean yer gonna have ta' leave?"

It wasn't quite a whisper. Clearing his throat, he did away with his cigarette. He didn't like that. She was so delicate, vulnerable… his head shook. He hadn't even considered her having to leave and not just stay there and haunt with him. When had he started thinking about her like that, and not as someone to scare? That irritated him but he pushed it away. Now wasn't the time to think like that with her snuggled into his side.

"I don't want to go."

"I don't really want ya' ta go either," he squeezed her, "but we got today though. That's somethin', right? So, babycakes, whatcha wanna do with yer last free day?"

Just saying that made his chest clench again, no different from when he was bound.

She was up and moving now, a hesitant grace about her actions as she hadn't fully grown accustomed to the room yet. As soon as her feet touched the ground all the candles blazed to life with a single motion from the ghost, allowing her a semblance of vision.

"I don't know… My plans are kind of shot. I was thinking about going into town to take photos since the forecast said it would be cloudy today, but I don't have my camera‒ and before you offer, just don't. It's not worth it. I'll do the time until they give it back."

Nevermind that it really wasn't her time to be doing, but Lydia would rather not complicate things. For a few minutes, she disappeared into the bathroom to scrub her face and brush her teeth before reemerging to settle at the vanity and begin brushing a long, wavy swathe of ultra platinum hair.

"You could help me set up my darkroom and develop my photos from yesterday," she suggested, staring blankly at the vague shape of her own reflection as she worked out knots. A shapeless white blur was all she saw, poking out from a sea of black.

"Or I could go through the junk in the attic. By the way, if this isn't your house, how come you're haunting it?"

Watching her move around the room was fascinating knowing her sight was as poor as it was and watching her moving so easily, even though she wasn't completely sure where everything was. If she could see him clearly, would she be so comfortable in his presence? That thought also made him feel. Again, he pushed it away. She was talking again as she brushed out her long silky hair.

"You could help me set up my darkroom and develop my photos from yesterday,"

"Ya' can see enough ta do all that?" That surprised him, and he moved to set his feet on the floor, still feeling stiff.

"Or I could go through the junk in the attic."

"If ya' wanna dig through all the shit up there, yer more than welcome," he stood and stretched, then moved behind her. His fingers danced along her shoulder.

"By the way, if this isn't your house, how come you're haunting it?"

Squeezing her shoulder softly, he cleared his throat before answering the last question.

"I….eh...it's, well...fuck, babes. It's a punishment."

"Hmm..."

She was done brushing now but lingered on the stool to search for the fuzzy shape of his reflection behind hers. He either didn't have one, or she really was going crazy.

"I can see well enough to do lots of things," she brushed off emotionlessly. "And that's what you said about your name problem. You sure do get in trouble a lot. Did you do something bad? Really bad? Worse than breaking stuff? Wait‒" Standing abruptly, she made for the closet to pick an outfit.

"I'll meet you in the attic, tell me about it there. I need a shower."

Concerned he might say something lewd and make her entire face turn pink again, she disappeared into the bathroom swift as a spooked hare, confident in where it was now. The shower didn't take too much work to navigate, and the hot water helped beat away what was left of her hangover. When she was done, she gave her hair a quick once over with a towel, arranged it into a messy damp braid, then pulled on her carefully picked underthings.

They were lacier than her usual bland affair, an impulse buy she made on a romantic whim when Delia forced her out shopping once. Breasts too small to bother with a bra, there was nothing to match the panties as she pulled on a dark peasant blouse that slid just so to reveal a scandalizing flash of her shoulders. That was paired off with a waist-cinching skirt that ended midcalf and a simple pair of ballet flats. Lastly, a different veil than the one she wore the previous day was pulled across the top half of her face. This one was more sheer and forgiving, marking her faith that there wouldn't be any unnecessary strain on her eyes that day.

Some coffee would have been nice, but she didn't want to keep Betelgeuse waiting any longer. Without further ado, she made good time to the attic, veil pinned back for the time being in trust that the space would be appropriately lit. It meant so much to her that he went to those efforts for her comfort.

Flushed from her shower, thoughts, and climbing the stairs, she came breathlessly into the attic, turning around until she sensed him, then flashing a grin.

"Sorry I took so long. Now, which of these boxes has the coolest stuff in it?"