"You sway when you walk,
Yeah, you move as smooth as you talk,
but you ain't got no soul;
A slave to the show."

—Keep it Coming
The Letters

Watching his wife doze in his arms, he found, was one of the few things in his afterlife that made him feel warm and fuzzy all over. The others including watching new arrivals get sucked into random sinkholes and that thing Trixie did with her tongue.

When he was sure she was asleep, he slid out from under her carefully, settling her against the multitude of pillows and pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Sleep well, kitten… daddy's got a to-do list." He snapped at his signature stripes returned as he slipped out the door to go and take care of a few of Lydia's tormentors.

But first, he was hitting up the jeweler he'd seen up the street on the way into the hotel. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten a ring of all things. Serious oversight on his part.

He moseyed in, shooting the shopkeeper a look and watching him scramble back against the wall. He loved that. He wandered the cases, jumping over to let himself in when he found the one he wanted. He pocketed the ring after tucking it into a box and saluted the terrified jeweler on his way out of the door.

"Thanks, hermano! She's gonna love it."

Now, topside. In a flash, he was standing back where Lydia had summoned him. He grinned, feeling the familiar rush of power that he hadn't in years. Fuck Juno and her limitations. This was gonna be great.

His first stop was Miss Shannon's. He strolled in casual as he could be, much to the matron's shock and disgust. He ignored her sputtering in favor of letting himself into the hallway— really. Locks couldn't do anything these days— and whistling as he walked past baffled girls, all hastily stepping away from him. Bimbos. There was only one Miss Shannon's girl for him.

"Oh, say Shannon." He turned to her, enjoying the color she was starting to turn as she realized that her fingers wouldn't move to call the police. "Ya know where I can find Claire Brewster?"

Lydia dozed on for an indeterminable amount of time, ignorant of her husband's nefarious dealings in the living realm. She awoke tucked gently with care beneath the blankets she'd passed out on top of, the area between her legs raw and slick with remnants of the previous night's activities. Betelgeuse was gone. There weren't any windows, and even if there were the bizarre melting shades of the Neitherworld sky would keep her from being able to discern the time.

"Betel…?"

Remembering she still had the ability to do so, she began to call out for him before stopping herself. He would come back eventually. Besides, this was an excellent opportunity to take advantage of that jacuzzi she'd been eyeing. Mistreated muscles screamed in protest as she crawled from bed and made her way next door to explore with careful baby steps. There weren't any mirrors that she could see, so there would be no fully assessing the damage until later. However, she could feel that the vicious bite on her neck was inflamed, hot to the touch, and looking down she saw a trail of hickeys along her chest and bruises around her hips and inner thighs, the latter smeared with drying crusts of blood and cum.

Red light flooded the bathroom, similar to her darkroom. The familiarity was comforting in such an alien environment. She made quick work of filling the deep, porcelain tub with steaming water as hot as she could stand it, a generous glob of soap that smelled like vanilla bean, and a handful of rose petals from a glass bowl on the counter— the same kind that had been spread so disgustingly romantically across their honeymoon bed. This might be her last bath as a living girl, so it seemed appropriate to make it an indulgent, decadent one.

She hissed slipping into the tub, before eventually settling and sighing in contentment as the milky waters worked at easing her ache away. Playing with the little knobs that ran along the edge of the tub turned the jets on full blast, and then Lydia was truly in bliss. The only thing that could possibly improve her morning is some food. Maybe a joint. Was there even food safe for her consumption down here?

Confident that she was alone, Lydia allowed herself to hum idly as she played in the bubbles until the notes creeping up her throat solidified, taking shape and forming words.

"Cold, dark sea,
Wrapping its arms around me,
Pulling me down to the deep.
All eyes on me.

I pushed you away,
Although, I wished you could stay.
So many words left unsaid,
But I'm all out of breath.

So, go, go, go,
Get out of here.
Go away,
Get out of here."

Well, that was easy. Beetlegeuse straightened the sleeves of his jacket, giving one last look to the blonde passed out in the middle of the school's hallway. That bleeding from her skull probably wasn't a good sign, but who gave a shit. Certainly not him.

He checked one of his many watches, deciding he'd been away long enough. He could deal with Charles and Delia another day. He snapped his way back into the hotel room, momentarily worried to find the bed empty before he heard his wife's soft voice coming from the bathroom.

He smiled, walking silently until he could lean against the doorframe and listen. She really did have a beautiful voice, though he was hard-pressed to find anything about his wife that wasn't absolutely gorgeous.

"Hope you're not tellin' me to go, babes. I broughtcha a present and everything." He smiled, holding up a polaroid between his fingers. The photo depicted Claire Brewster, eyes rolled back in terror as she fell to the ground. "Well. Two presents. But start here."

The next verse was abruptly cut off by Betelgeuse making his presence known. Consequently, she squeaked, jumped, and splashed in an embarrassing display of humility. Neck craned all the way back to meet his much taller form, her eyes were wide and cheeks rosy for reasons other than the steam wafting from the bath. He wasn't supposed to hear that!

"No," she flustered indignantly, sinking deep into the tub in mortification, hoping that it might just swallow her whole. "It's just a song… presents?"

This worked to draw her back up just a bit, wet fingers reaching for the polaroid he was flourishing. Everyone liked presents. However, what she saw depicted in the photo inspired equal part feelings of horror and validation. Claire Brewster. A scared Claire Brewster.

"This is Claire…"

She stated the obvious, still piecing the scene together. Oh no. He went back without her. He went back because of her. He thought she wanted this. Struck with dread once everything clicked, Lydia regarded him with sudden alarm. He was a killer, she knew. Their wedding night, part I, saw him shoot Sarah and Maxie Dean through the living room ceiling. Their bodies were found washed up on the banks of the Winter River the next day, bloated and broken.

"What did you do?" There was a facet of heartbreak in her panicked query, crushing guilt already beginning to seep in. This was all her fault. Betelgeuse couldn't be blamed. She should have known better than to leave him unattended. "Betelgeuse, what did you do?! Oh, tell me you didn't hurt her, please tell me you didn't hurt her—!"

He settled himself comfortably at the edge of the tub beside her. There was no way in hell he'd actually get in, but this was close enough. He passed her the picture with a self-satisfied smirk.

This is Claire…

"Sure is, kitten. I went and paid her a little visit. Reminded her that it's not nice to make fun of people. Or run them off the road."

He frowned slightly as her face paled. He thought for sure this would be a good thing. Everyone liked a little revenge. Everyone except, it seemed, his wife.

"She'll be fine. Prob'ly have nightmares for a while, but she's fine." He didn't know that for sure, of course, but what were the chances of Lydia really finding out her fate. "Baby, I did this for you. I need you to understand that nobody gets to hurt you now. Well. 'Cept me. But still… Bitch got what was coming to her."

He reached out to run a hand through her damp hair. "Why are you upset? You didn't scare her, I did. My choice. My problem. Not yours, princess."

Ah. That was a relief. As long as the bottle-blonde bully wasn't injured or dead, everything else was fair game.

"I thought… I thought you might have killed her. Like the Deans," she added in explanation for her sudden upset, calming under his gentle petting. "Be—" Again, she found herself cutting off his name. It had already been said it once, and she didn't want to send him back— to where? She wasn't sure— by accident.

"Living people don't like me. I don't have any friends. Claire? She's just a dime a dozen. Before her, it was Stacy taking pictures of me in the locker room and spreading them around to everyone in school. Before her, it was Brock telling everyone that I torture small animals and sell blowjobs under the bleachers for ten bucks a pop. Before him, it was my freshman English teacher making me read my poems in front of the entire class and then letting them all pick apart everything wrong with them. And that's just in the last three years. This… isn't anything new to me. I can't have you going after everyone who gives me a hard time. It's impossible. You'll never get them all, it doesn't solve anything, and I don't like it."

She passed the polaroid back off to him, having finished garnering all the pleasure it could possibly give her.

"I appreciate the thought, I guess, but you'd be better off just killing me now. Save yourself the work."

The more he heard the angrier he got. How dare they all go after Lydia? She hadn't done anything wrong in her life, except maybe marrying him.

He took the picture and banished it in a flash of flame. "You're underestimating me, baby. I could go round up every one of 'me right now." He leaned down to pull her into a rough kiss, tugging on her hair.

"I'm not done with you… you know the deal, kitten. It's how I want, when I want. You don't get to go makin' me feel guilty for keeping you alive. You got a lot of life left in ya. Might as well live it."

He sighed and released her, sitting up and pulling the small velvet box out of his pants pocket and set it on the edge of the tub near her.

"Just…. here. This is your their present."

"I'm not trying to make you feel guilty," she argued as he pulled away from such a harsh kiss, the reminder that it was his way or nothing rushed out against her lips in an angry whisper. "Just being logical."

What was her life when stacked up against everyone's who had ever hurt her? Worthless, that's what. She watched with increasing curiosity as he settled that ring-shaped velvet box at the edge of the tub.

He didn't.

After drying her hands on a nearby towel, she carefully cracked the box open to peek, already knowing what she would find before she did so. He did— and then some. It was beautiful. It had a slim silver band with intricate, stylized twists around the gem inset. The stone wasn't terribly large but would appear so on a hand as small as hers. It appeared black at first glance, but when she twisted it this way and that she could see shocks of vibrant emerald green splintered throughout, pulsating, almost alive.

"Oh, B," she sighed in adoration of the trinket, eyes glazing over with warmth as she took in every exquisite detail. It still lay in the box, the girl not quite bold enough to go ahead and put it on the right finger. "I can't— You didn't have to— This looks expensive. You can take it back if you want, after—" you put me out of my misery "—… after."

He relaxed a bit as she admired the ring. "Looks even better on, or so I'm told. You want me to do it?"

He laid on the edge of the tub, stretched out on his side and supporting his head on one hand to watch her.

At the objection on price, he scoffed, waving her off with a grimace. "After what? You can take the ethereal copy with you." He reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss over her fingers. "Besides, that's a real special stone. Probably won't let ya take it off once it's on. It's got a little extra juice on it if you know what I mean. Couldn't pawn it even if I wanted to."

He took the ring from her, gently slipping it onto her left-hand ring finger before she could protest. "Wouldn't want it back anyway… it's yours, Lyds. All yours. Okay?"

"Okay…"

Feeling very small and overwhelmed, she curled the ring-bearing hand up against her collarbone, shrinking in on herself just so. Accepting gifts never came easily to her, and this was no exception. This crush of his was more serious than she thought. A little extra juice.

"Does it do anything?" She didn't even try to take it off and test his theory, and she wouldn't— not while he was watching, anyway. The bubbles in her bath were beginning to clear, the water cooling. Suddenly, her stomach lurched unpleasantly, reminding her that she wasn't dead yet and still needed mortal sustenance.

"Uhm," she began to inform him of her needs, embarrassed by her human deficiencies, "if you want to keep me alive, I need living people stuff; food, water."

The temptation to add clothes to her list of requirements was strong, but she knew he'd probably see right through it. There wasn't anything in the beautiful hotel room for her to wear, aside from the discarded thong that had landed obscenely around the door handle when he slipped it off her last night. Knowing Betelgeuse, he'd probably just prefer to keep her naked.

Does it do anything?

"Well, I can't exactly be right beside ya, babes. This'll just let me know if you need me without you havin' to call me." He shrugged nonchalantly, as if the gesture was something he'd do for anyone. It absolutely wasn't, but he'd pretend. He had a rep to maintain.

"It's got a little bit of protection in there too… to keep the assholes off of ya. Shouldn't let anyone touch ya that you don't want touchin' ya." Except me of course.

He chuckled at her growling stomach, snapping his fingers. On the table across the room was suddenly filled with all kinds of delicious smelling breakfast foods that he remembered her eating back in Winter River. As for the nakedness… as tempted as he was to leave her that way, he decided she'd be more comfortable with at least something covering her up. He shrugged out of his striped jacket, laying it over a chair and grabbing a fluffy towel from the stack on the bathroom counter.

"Here, baby… Dry off and get some food. You're not goin' out that way. Starvin's too nasty even for me."

Starving did sound like a pretty awful way to go, but that hadn't stopped Lydia from musing about whether or not a prolonged hunger strike would count as suicide. He would probably just force feed her if she tried, and that food smelled entirely too good to pass up. After pulling the plug, she carefully stood from the lukewarm water and stepped out into the towel and his open arms, feeling very much like a child at the closing of bath time. The heat had dulled most of the residual ache from the night before, but she still limped slightly on her way to the little table, the towel wrapped about her shoulders like a blanket.

She drew her legs up to sit Indian style on the chair that held his jacket, then dug in. There was a variety of fruit, pancakes, warm syrup and bacon, as well as a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. Betelgeuse, lacking an appetite for mortal fares of this nature, kicked off his boots, loosened his tie, and got comfortable in the very center of the bed before turning the yet-to-be-used television onto a random channel; Neitherworld's Funniest Home Fatalities.

This whole scenario was surreal. It was almost like they had run away together and were now hiding out from the authorities— i.e. anyone who would not like to see them married.

"Adam and Barbara live here now," she offered up without any provocation, swirling a strawberry in a pool of syrup and watching with hesitant hilarity as a young man slipped on the rubber ducky in his shower stall and flailed comedically all over his bathroom— right before falling and cracking his skull open on the counter. That killed the ghost of a smile starting to form on her lips.

"Their caseworker gave them the option a couple of months ago. Called it a reward for… uhm… the whole you situation."

The swiftness with which they accepted Juno's proposal stung, but Lydia understood. She didn't want to be stuck in that house any more than they did.

He was happy to wrap her up in his arms a moment before pressing a kiss to her forehead and sending her off to eat. He climbed into the bed with a grunt, flopping onto his back and scratching his belly leisurely. He was starting to get into the show– he loved watching idiots die doing idiot things– when she spoke up from the table.

He narrowed his eyes at the mention of the Maitlands. "Do they. Huh." He was far from pleased with them. The fact that they'd left Lydia alone to deal with everything her life had entailed didn't endear them to him at all. Maybe they should be next on his visitations list.

Called it a reward for… uhm… the whole you situation.

"Oooh. I'm a situation now. That's a promotion from incident. Guess I'll take it." He watched her for a moment, seeing the pain that flashed across her face as some moron on TV ate shit. He flipped it off, sitting up a bit and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "You wanna go see 'em, huh? I'll take ya. But I ain't stickin' around to play happy family. Sorry, kitten."

"No," she denied his offer to visit Mr. and Mrs. Maitland bluntly, mouth pulled in a dour frown. "Not with you, anyway. Maybe after…"

Aside from the obvious reasons she didn't want to see them with the despised poltergeist in tow, the memory of their departure was still too raw. Lydia only knew it was Juno who had come to retrieve them because of second-hand briefing. She was at school when the decrepit spirit showed up to offer her deceased guardians the generous pardon from their probationary haunting period. It was a limited time offer. They were gone before she even had the chance to say goodbye.

"How long are we going to stay here?" She asked, pushing her plate away to signify that she was done. For the first time since their deal had been struck, a possibility occurred to her that hadn't before. If he was willing to take her to visit the Maitlands… maybe he would be willing to do something else.

"I want to die… because I need to check on someone." There were other more serious aspects that had led to this decision as well, but this had been the nail in the coffin. "It just seemed more likely you would kill me than do me a favor, so that's why I didn't ask. But… if you take me to check on this person… then I guess I don't need to die. Unless you want to kill me. Deal's a deal."

Ah, so that was it. He sat up, beckoning to her. "If that's all you're waitin' on, then come here and ask me, sweetness. Don't know until you ask." One eyebrow raised, he patted his lap.

"We're gonna stay here for another night, I think. I got somethin' in the works for after that, but I'm gonna need some input. But for now, why don't you tell me who it's so important for you to see that you wanted me to off you…" He pulled her into him as she approached, careful in the way he settled her on his thigh that he wouldn't jostle her too much.

"Sorry about the soreness, princess… is it too bad? I could try to find somethin' but I gotta say… I kinda like seein' what I did to ya." He pressed a kiss to the sore, red bite mark he'd left, gently rubbing his hand up her thigh.

Hesitantly, cautious of further ravaging to her already thoroughly abused body, she tip-toed his way on wobbly legs until she was within grabbing distance. Without preamble, he settled her on his lap with a sense of ownership and entitlement, kissing and pawing and making false apologies about the state of things, as it were.

"I'm fine," she denied his offer to balm her lingering pain, unsure what he could do other than score her some painkillers, and she wasn't in bad enough shape to need something like that.

"It's… my mom." Her voice cracked at the confession, and she ducked her head down until her chin kissed her collar bone, pulling the plush towel tighter around her. "She OD'd a couple of weeks ago. Right after Adam and Barb took off. Heroin. The mortuary report was inconclusive. They think it was an accident, but— but she was an experienced user."

Lydia was struggling desperately not to release any more tears— they were so dreadfully embarrassing, an intolerable sign of weakness to display such a thing to a being this powerful— but the fight was hopeless.

"I need to know if it was on purpose. If she's… in that office." The Maitlands may have denied her any other information about the Neitherworld, but they were cautious enough to warn her about the Waiting Room and its system of caseworkers. "I need to."

Well shit. He frowned, shaking his head. "Lemme get this clear… you want me to take you to the waiting room to see if your mom overdid it on purpose? Lyds… I ain't gonna do that."

He sighed, his hold on her tightening just a little. "Listen, some people spend years waiting to be seen, and even after that the ones who… if it wasn't an accident she'll be up to her ass in training. Now's not the time to seek her out. Okay?"

He could tell already that his answer wasn't going to be good enough. He'd had no idea that her biological mother was even still around. He'd never as much as heard about her.

"What's her name, maybe I can look her up for ya. Without you goin' to the waiting room." He shuddered at the thought. His wife was too good, too pure to be stuck in there with the likes of them. If he could help it she'd never end up there.

I ain't gonna do that.

Suddenly, all that bashfulness and crippling embarrassment she was harboring over exposing such a private part of herself to him twisted and burned into something else entirely. Her head snapped up, honey eyes wild and alight with rage. If his arm hadn't tightened so heavily around her middle, she would have been on her feet already.

"Let go!"

He did not. She couldn't struggle too hard or she'd loosen the towel, and he didn't deserve to touch her or see any of her, not one fucking bit. The thigh he was caressing jolted in protest, her knee jutting out to kick off his hand. Unfortunately, the motion only made her cringe and squeal in sudden pain as she upset something inside of her, forcing a tear or two down her cheek. His hand remained in place on her thigh, undeterred.

"You promised!" She cried out childishly, knowing it wasn't true. "If you won't do it, then kill me already so I can do it myself! If you're lying about that too, then I'll just wait until you leave me alone and slit my wrists! I don't care!" She brawled uselessly, damp raven hair slapping him in the face as she attempted to break free of his iron grasp. "Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betel—!"

Shit. He held onto her as she started to squirm, a deep scowl coming over him. "Lyds… baby come on, think about it. Be reasonable with me a second!

As she jerked away from him and clearly twisted something inside of herself he sighed. "Kitten you're gonna hurt yourself… It'll be okay."

This clearly wasn't working. She started screaming about ending herself when he wasn't looking and he started to get angry, but the nail in her coffin was the gratuitous B words she started to spout.

He growled and clapped a hand over her mouth firmly. "God damn, Lydia! Listen for a second. You're acting like a fuckin' child!" He turned them, hauling her all the way onto the bed and pressing her down.

"The waiting room isn't a good place, Princess. It's where souls go when they don't know what to do. You know exactly what you're doin'… obviously. Y'know it's actually painful when ya try to banish me like that." He was panting, stubborn pain settling in his ribs like a heart attack. "Jesus. Don't you get it? You're too good for that place. Just wait a few weeks until I can find out where she's assigned. Then I'll take ya to see her if I think ya both deserve it. Deal?"

For a brief moment, he was able to calm her furious bucking and wrestling— that was only hurting her and wasn't getting her anywhere— with the knowledge that banishing him was painful. Lydia may have been on the suicidal side of things, but she wasn't a sadist. Then, he kept talking, going on to explain that he would be the decider on whether or not she and her mother deserved to see one another. Fire and brimstone burned through her molten gaze, liquid rage flowing rapidly through her veins in a hot rush. Viciously, she took a bite out of the palm covering her mouth, harder even than he had bit her, only spitting out the coarse flesh once he made a move to stop muffling her speech.

"Fuck you!" How dare he! She was incensed by his pure pluck, his sheer hubris. Who the fuck did he think he was? "I'm not your kitten. I'm not your princess. I'm not your baby. I'm not yours. I wish I'd never met you! I hate you!"

Maybe if she pissed him off enough he would lose his temper and take her out in a fit of passion— the original plan. Aside from her mother-related woes, her heart hurt for reasons beyond her comprehension. She had made a whore of herself, all for nothing. He was never going to help her.

"Take me back to that street," she demanded through coursing tears and gritted teeth, pulling stubbornly at a ring that refused to come off, just like he said it wouldn't. "And take your stupid ring back. I want a divorce."

"OW! You little bitch!" He shook his hand where she'd bit him, thankful that he didn't have to deal with blood which would surely be running from the wound if he were alive. He was seeing red. The more she spoke the deeper she dug herself into his rage. He growled viciously, gripping her arms and pressing her into the bed roughly.

"Take you back, huh? What're you gonna do there, Lydia? Huh? Gonna go join Trixie and the other whores?" He was in her face now. "I'm not takin' shit back, little girl! You're mine. Thought I proved that to ya last night. Need a review?"

His hand came to her throat, pressing her into the pillows. "You can hate me all you want, Lyds because guess what?" He leaned down until he could hiss his words directly into her ear. "I love ya to bits, Lydia... you're all mine as of last night. And I don't fuckin' share." His hand wandered her body, her towel having come loose in their struggle.

He pressed his fingers into the bruises on her hip where he'd gripped her the night before. "If you really wanna be a whore that bad, Lyds… I can treat ya like one. But you're not leavin' this room without me." He tugged off his tie, setting it over her throat as he moved to straddle her. "You just try those B words, babes and see what happens."

"Why not?!" She wailed back in response to his suggestions she join the other whores, still fighting a useless fight. He was bigger and stronger, and even if she was in peak physical condition she never stood a chance. Her flushed, aching body arched and contended beneath his every step of the way, blunt, white teeth gnashing out whenever he made the mistake of coming within biting distance.

"Might as well—" kick, buck, scratch "I'd rather fuck a thousand—" Her knee jutted toward his crotch, but he was able to pin it down before it could make any kind of painful contact, "Gross— dead— old men— every single day for the REST OF MY LIFE than spend another fucking second married to YOU!"

She was feral, a wounded viper reduced to little more than pure, unfiltered rage and pain. However, it wasn't long until all the vitriol and hostility burned out. Without anywhere to go or any targets willing to take it, it fizzled, leaving only soul-crushing despair behind. Lydia eventually went limp beneath him, sobbing brokenly.

"Let me go," she begged in an awful way, voice quivering, body trembling and sweating from over-exertion. Whether she was requesting he release her literally or figuratively was unclear. Probably both. Physical ache plagued her as well, but it paled in comparison to the unbearable pangs in her chest.

"You don't love me." Nobody loved her, not even Adam and Barbara, though they certainly put up a convincing act. "You don't know what love is. You're a liar."

All he could do was let her work out her rage. He refused to do her actual harm, in spite of the way she was lashing out and biting at him. He winced as her knee came for his bits, but easily pinned it with his own before she could take him out.

I'd rather fuck a thousand gross dead old men every day for the REST OF MY LIFE than spend another fucking second married to YOU!

Ouch. He glowered down at her, still silent as she tossed and bucked under him. He had a strange ache in his chest that he couldn't quite place.

He was panting, the actual effort of holding her had been next to nothing, but he hated seeing her like this. He'd seen this anger before, released on anything she could get her hands on in the attic back at the Maitland's. He knew how long she could kick and scream, how long it would take her seething, vengeful anger to leave her. It was one of the many things that drew him to her in the first place.

Finally after several minutes of raging and tossing she went limp, collapsing into the bed beneath them.

As she spat out a line about him not knowing what love is, he lowered himself to press his body weight onto her, his hands gentling where they held her.

"You're right. I'm a liar and a cheat and a bastard and whatever else you wanna call me right now… But Lyds… come on. I get it… you're pissed at me. You're not even gonna hear me out? That's not like you." He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then her neck, keeping her pressed beneath him. "You aren't a whore, Lydia. And you're not a junkie or a lawyer or any of the other horrible people that wanna get their hands on a breather like you just to spite death. I'm not walkin' you into a lion's den like the waiting room. I won't do it."

The sweet words and gentle touches only confused her further, making tears fall fatter down her cheeks and onto the bedding. No matter what she said or how badly she wanted it to be true or how much he deserved it, she couldn't hate him. Not really. Lydia wasn't capable of hate.

"But— but—" she hiccuped and sniffled, speech catching on her grief, "I have to."

No one cared about Mother except her. She didn't have anyone, not down here and definitely not up above. This was all Lydia's fault. Would it have been that hard to give her a call every once in a while? Take the effort to visit? Why didn't Betelgeuse understand?

"Her name is N-Natalya," she eventually stuttered out, turned away from his affectionate attention as best she could. It was too nice, too comforting. She didn't deserve it. "Natalya Volkov. She's in her thirties, and she has hair like mine."

Hopefully, that was enough. Slowly but surely calming, Lydia was able to recognize that this was likely the only route to go for the information she wanted. Thanks to that stupid, emotional outburst, Betelgeuse probably wasn't going to leave her alone with anything sharp until she could prove her sanity.

"You don't have to do anything, babes…" He sighed as she turned away from him. He settled for wrapping his arm around her waist, spooned in behind her.

"I'll put out some feelers. See if I can find her… okay?" He rubbed his hand over her arm, silky smooth fabric seemingly flowing from his fingers until she was wrapped in a soft silk robe, the same deep red as her wedding gown.

"I'm sorry I blew up atcha…. You know I don't wanna hurt you… doncha?" He kissed her shoulder gently, tugging her closer still. "I just… I don't want someone to get too big for their britches and try to take ya from me. That's all."

"Okay," she agreed, drained, as if she had any other choice than the one he offered— the one he didn't have to offer. Then, he went on to apologize so softly in that whiskey-stained baritone, using his magic to lovingly wrap her shivering form up in soft, red silk.

You know I don't wanna hurt you…

"Liar," she huffed without malice at his insistence that he 'didn't want to hurt her.' "You bit me."

She was aware that she was being nit-picky, but her foul mood had yet to completely fade. There was a difference and she knew it. This was what she wanted, right? And she didn't even have to die. Why then, did she still feel an overwhelming urge to just curl up and die?

"I'm sorry."

She was being crazy, making suicide threats and lashing out at him like that when he was just trying to help her. Then again, he was being equally crazy making bold declarations of love and acting like anyone out there would ever be interested in her. Hadn't he been paying attention?

"I'm just… going through a lot."

You bit me.

"Well, heat of the moment is a little different, Lyds. You should see my back. You got me as good as I did you."

He continued his slow petting, hoping to soothe her at least a bit. He pressed a kiss to her neck gently, his hand sliding from her arm to her thigh.

I'm just… I'm going through a lot.

"I know… I know, princess. Well. I know some, at least." He nuzzled into her, his mind filing through everything he knew about his bride. It was a lot for anyone. Even more for a teenager. "Tell me how to help. Other than find your mom. It's on my to-do list. Promise. What else?"

"Bring her back to life," she suggested numbly, well aware that this was a skill beyond even his reach. "Turn back time. Keep her away from the needle. Maybe talk my dad into marrying her. Stop her from meeting—"

The last was cut off abruptly. Betelgeuse didn't need to know everything. Suddenly, an idea occurred to her and she turned in his arms to meet him head-on.

"I've never been drunk before. I've had a drink or two, but not like that. I want to get drunk. Can we get drunk?"

His heart panged painfully in his chest. He couldn't do any of that. He wished he could, but there wasn't a way.

Instead of voicing his inability he simply continued his gentle touches to her thigh, approaching her hip and carefully avoiding the places he knew would only make her angry again.

He was startled when she suddenly turned in his hold, chuckling softly at her request. "Well. I can't get drunk. But I'll drink with ya until you are." She was a funny girl, his wife.

He knew logically that he shouldn't encourage her working through her problems with alcohol but he was beyond caring. If she wanted it and he could achieve it, it was hers. "What do you like? You wanna go out or drink here?"

"I don't know… I've only ever had whiskey and beer." Stolen from her father and Adam, a cure for boredom and an outlet for teenage rebellion. Her face pinched at the memory of the foul taste. "But it was gross. Wine seems like it would taste good. Maybe a margarita? Bloody Mary's sound cool. What's in a Bloody Mary?"

The prospect of exploring the Neitherworld further was certainly attractive, but Lydia wasn't in any condition to be walking up and down streets or navigating clubs and bars. Not to mention she felt safe here— obscenely so— in this cozy hotel room with her husband who "loved" her and wanted to help her. The outside world wasn't so kind. Betelgeuse was charismatic enough, he probably would have preferred to go out gallivanting, so Lydia went on to very meekly make her stance known.

"Is it okay if we just stay here? I don't want to be around people… but we can go out... if you want."

"Beer and Whiskey? Strange choices, baby." He waved a hand and the nightstand was suddenly littered with glasses of all shapes and sizes. He sat up to be able to reach.

He handed her the first glass, filled with a soft pink liquid. "Here. It's rosé. Sweeter than some other wines… I think you'll like it."

He settled in, tucking in one leg and snagging himself a short round glass. "Scotch is my drink of choice. Closest to the stuff I drank way back. Know what I mean?"

"I'm happy to stay in. Get some rest, hang out in our underwear." Keep all the dead assholes down here from seeing you and getting any ideas. He snapped again and his clothes disappeared save his ratty green and black striped boxers. He gave her a wink before turning to their array of drinks and started naming them.

"Here's your margarita, this is a daiquiri. Same thing but rum, not tequila. We got a red and a white wine, a Cosmopolitan, and this is a Bee's Knees. Lemonade, honey, and gin. Good shit."