"Fathers, be good to your daughters,
Daughters will love like you do,
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers,
So mothers be good to your daughters, too."

—Daughters
John Mayer

Charles Deetz was a man in shambles. Months had passed since his daughter's disappearance— and subsequent reappearance— and his life had been a nonstop living Hell. Every second since he found her bed empty that dreadful morning had been spent analyzing the last conversation they had.

"You're going to end up just like your mother."

He cringed at the memory, tossing back another mouthful of whiskey straight from the bottle. It was more expensive than the swill he had taken to drinking recently, in an exquisitely crafted bottle with a golden label, meant to be drunk on the eve of his daughter's wedding. What a laugh.

Delia would probably be leaving him soon. She had never wanted a child but stepped up to the role of "Mother" as best she could despite Lydia's refusal to accept her. Was it ironic that the child that once drew them together in the early days of their marriage would now be driving them apart with her absence? Or had he just had too much to drink? Did it matter anymore?

A sudden chill washed over the study, rousing the graying hairs at the nape of his neck. He wasn't alone.

"Wh-who's 'ere?" He slurred, holding his fancy bottle closer protectively as he searched through the unforgiving shadows.

Betelgeuse has been called many, many things in his existence. Bastard, whore's son, demon. But never in his life, before or after death, had anyone confused him for forgiving. In the wee hours of the morning, after his beautiful wife had fallen asleep he pressed his lips to her forehead, using his magic to ensure that she would sleep until woken.

He had business to attend to. Climbing through the mirror in her bedroom he sunk his way through the floor and into her father's office. The man was pathetic. He knew that, but he couldn't have imagined just how pathetic he really was.

Drunk off his ass at… what… ten o'clock in the morning? Disgusting.

His father in law was slumped in his chair, drinking an extremely expensive-looking whiskey. He looked as though he hadn't showered or shaved in weeks. How had this human disaster raised someone as perfect as Lydia?

Wh-who's 'ere?

He chuckled low in his throat, making himself visible in increments. His eyes came first, hooded and vengeful, followed by the rest of his face, on and on until he was standing in front of Charles, hands in his pockets.

"We gotta have a talk, Chuck…"

A cold surge of fear paralyzed Charles first as the dastardly ghoul made his appearance, strutting casually to the center of the room like he opened the place. It was quickly outshined by rage; just as cold and just as ugly, unfurling in his gut like a blizzard.

We gotta have a talk, Chuck…

Was this even real? How drunk was he? The bottle was full, untouched when he began. Now, a little less than half was gone. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Whatever. He could still take him.

"You—" Charles choked, staggering to his feet and clumsily making his way to the other side of his desk. "You— sonuvabitch!"

He aimed a sloppy right hook at the poltergeist's jaw, only for his target to smoothly sidestep out of the way, leaving Charles to go flailing into a bookshelf. A hardback copy of The Birds of America fell on top of his head with a heavy thud, and he lost his grip of the bottle, leading a generous amount of pungent-smelling liquor to leak onto his robe.

"No!" He cried out at the loss, bumbling through turning the bottle upright so as to save every drop he could. "This— this is all your fault!" The vile apparition had the drunk's hazy attention again. "Bring her back!" He half begged, half demanded, still sprawled in a wet, pathetic, stinking heap on the floor. "She's not yours," he insisted, near sobbing. "Bring her back."

Betelgeuse rolled his eyes as Chuck took a swing at him. Pathetic. If he hadn't smelled like booze before he certainly did now.

"Oh. Bring her back. Right, o' course. Because she'd really wanna see you like this. Sit the fuck down, Charles."

With a wave of his hand, his father-in-law was flying across the room and back into his chair. His hands gripping the armrests and unable to move. He scooped up the liquor, taking his own deep swig before finding the label. For Punkin's wedding. How sweet. He shook it, leaning against the wall and nodding at Charles as though deciding something.

"You know, Deetz. Can I call ya Deetz? Don't matter, I'm gonna do it anyway. You know Deetz…your little girl came to me awful fucked up. My little Lydia…. she's seen some shit. I can't help but wonder who's fault that is."

He took another swig, never breaking eye contact.

"Our weddin' night‒ best night o'my life, I tell ya… she did her damnedest to just… float away. Like it weren't happenin'. Now not only does that hurt a guys feelin's… which you gotta know… but it made me wonder… just where the fuck she learned she had ta do that."

If the rough, supernatural manhandling that got him into his seat wasn't enough to roil his stomach, what the nightmarish apparition had to say about his daughter absolutely did the trick. The foul implications of what had happened there brought a burning trail of acidic bile and hot alcohol up his throat. He wasn't able to miss retching some of it onto his robe, but most of it made it to the floor as he strained to turn his head against the ghoul's magic.

"Monster—" he coughed, red face wet with tears and upchuck. "You're sick. She's just a baby, she's just—"

When there was nothing left to expel, he fell into dry heaving until eventually he was left a wheezing pile of old, miserable man in his desk chair. He wasn't there to save her the first time a monster came for her, and he wasn't there this time either. Hell, he'd pushed her right into his arms, hadn't he? Who was the real monster here?

"Fuck you… you're not… you're not better than me… You're not better than him… You're just like any other kid-diddling, low-life, shit-stain scum of the Earth—"

"Open your fucking eyes, Charles. She's sixteen. She hasn't been your baby in a long time. Maybe never was. God knows she's had to practically raise herself."

Him. Now they were getting somewhere.

"Ah. So you know about the asswipe that was raping her, then. Good. I need some information, Chuck. And you're gonna give it to me. Or I'm gonna walk you through everything I'm doin' to your daughter. And how much she loves it. I mean just last night we…"

He trailed off with a cackle, lighting a cigarette. Waving a hand to clear away the vomit, a cigar appeared in Charles' right hand, now free to move from the arm of his chair.

He snickered softly. "You know… you're not her Daddy anymore. I am. And as her loving husband and daddy, I'm only gonna ask you once before your life gets real hard. I need a name. And where I can find the bastard."

I need a name.

It appeared they had more in common than either was willing to admit. Charles' tears dried, a hard glint freezing over his blue eyes. He would find him. He would kill him. He would dole out the justice that was so rightly deserved.

The cigar was a small mercy, one which Chuck found no comfort in. He would sooner have put its quarter-sized cherry out on his apparent son-in-law's mossy cheek until the flesh there sizzled than take any enjoyment in smoking it. But, his options were few and this looked like a Cuban. Grimacing deeply, he inhaled, savoring the burn on his still-stinging throat.

Then, Charles Deetz sang like a canary.

"Gregory Green," he spat without beating around the bush. "Dunno where he is, haven't seen him in damn near a decade. Used his dirty drug money to get himself a good, slimy lawyer, one that convinced the judge Lydia wasn't mentally competent enough to provide reliable testimony. Just let him walk. Last I heard he was still pushing product in the Bronx, but that was years ago. He could be anywhere."

Stray ash was tapped into the tray at the corner of his desk, an ugly sneer revealing the middle-aged man's coffee-stained teeth. If there was anything honorable or righteous to come of his daughter's sinful union with this beast, this was it.

"I want it slow. I want it painful. You owe my daughter that much."

Finally.

He nodded, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. "The Bronx, huh? Haven't been there in a while. They fuck shit up well enough without me."

He looked over the man who'd reared his wife. He really couldn't see any of her in him. This man was selfish, self-centered and turned to addiction to fix his problems. He made a mental note to watch Lydia for signs. Addiction on both sides didn't bode well.

You owe my daughter that much.

"Are you done pissing me off or you wanna say somethin' else about what you think Lydia feels? I owe her way more than killing this fuckwad. If I really wanted her free I'd kill you too."

He made no motion toward him, just leaning on the wall and smoking his cigarette. It was enough to watch him squirm at the knowledge that Lydia was his now.

"Too bad, she loves ya. Despite everythin' you did to fuck her up."

He tapped his ash onto the lush carpet. "Now her mom. Natalya. Tell me about her."

Too bad, she loves ya. Despite everythin' you did to fuck her up.

Charles couldn't even argue, didn't bother trying to feed him the same weak excuses he'd been telling himself for years just to get a good night's sleep; that he was too young to be a father, that it never would have worked out anyway, that his family would not have allowed someone like Natalya to wear his grandmother's wedding ring. Instead, he stuck to simple facts. The faster he gave the ghoul what he wanted, the faster he would be gone. Charles was eager to get back to wallowing in his misery sans the offensive, cruel company.

"She was wild. One of those religious girls who gets a taste of city life and can't get enough. Doesn't know when to stop. Parents never should've sent her here alone…"

As if Charles was in any position to be judging anyone else's parenting. Silently, he proceeded to dig through one of the drawers in his desk until he found what he was looking for. It was one of Lydia's photo albums. He'd taken it from her room after her disappearance, clinging to whatever was left of her. If it could help her now, he would give up what he could. A photo was slid across polished oak.

"That's her. Before the drugs got to her."

It featured a woman who could have been Lydia's twin holding up a raven-haired toddler with big honey-colored eye. Little Lydia's hair was in pigtails and she did not smile for the camera, gaze frozen in the flash. A black teddy bear was held tightly in her arms. The woman who was obviously Lydia's mother was a stone-cold fox; midnight hair styled like Veronica Lake's, almond-shaped hazel eyes, and a devilish smile framed with full, crimson lips. Despite her tangible joy as she held her daughter, there was no doubting she looked far too young to be taking on motherhood all alone. They were at the movies, some theater in New York. Night of the Living Dead read the marquee.

"There's more in here," he offered up the album grimly, sliding it the ghoul's way. "Lydia should have it. She's always idealized Natalya. Only seems to want to remember the good stuff. Can't blame her."

He took the picture, looking it over with an unreadable expression. Somewhere in his chest, his long-dead heart clenched. She was so small. Too small for how old she had to be here. Her mother looked just like her, or the other way around. He looked over the edge of the photo at Chuck.

"You know she's dead, doncha? Lyds is real eaten up about it. Thinks it's her fault. Now here's where I'm confused."

The photo was tucked into his pocket, the rest of the album disappearing into nothingness. It would appear next to the bed back in their home.

"You had two… almost three weeks to help her snap outta that. But where were you? Huh? Where were you when she got so low… so depressed…. so fucked up… that she thought callin' me was her only option?"

He sneered. "You're pathetic, Chuck. And I hope that ginger bitch of yours never gets knocked up. Because you clearly aren't cut out for fatherhood. Now I'm gonna go clean up the mess that you failed to address. N' don't you think for a second that I'll forget I had to do your dirty work. You coulda had this Green guy dead years ago. But ya failed. Ya failed Lydia. Failed Natalya. Failed your whole fuckin' family, Deetz. How's that feel?"

Charles Deetz's last conversation with his daughter had not gone well. Lydia was deteriorating after the news of her mother's death, he knew, especially so soon after Barbara and Adam took their leave. She started skipping school, her spats with classmates escalating to physical violence when she was usually so meek. Charles didn't know how to handle it. Really, he'd never known how to handle anything she threw at him. Lydia was a puzzle he was never quite able to crack. Maybe he just didn't try hard enough.

It was his responsibility to be the emotionally mature adult. It was his responsibility to step back and let her rage, stay calm and collected, not let his own feelings get the better of him. Maybe if he hadn't been drinking that day, he wouldn't have spouted those unforgivable words. Maybe if he had just put in a little more effort… Given her the love she was so clearly crying out for…

"How's it feel?" He parroted without intonation, numb, his hazy gaze focused on a framed photo of a garden spider hanging on his office wall. The photographer's identity was clear without saying. "If you really love my daughter… I hope you never find out."

He fixed him with a confused look. For all that Chuck seemed like he didn't care about Lydia, there was a deep-seated love there that Betel knew he could never touch. He nodded, placing the bottle of whiskey on the desk, now empty.

"Enjoy your cigar, Chuckie. I got a wife to get home to."

Just like that, he was transported back to their home. He set about making a pot of tea and pulling out the things to make breakfast. He knew that she'd kill him if he actually tried to cook but he could help. Back in the bedroom, he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, lifting the magic that kept her asleep. He slipped the photo of her and her mother into her sleeping hand, emblazoned with one word on the back.

Soon.

"Mmm…" Lydia hummed as the haze of sleep wore off, dreams bleeding into reality. She was sore in places from their rutting, but mostly content and well-rested. He was the first thing she saw; bedecked in signature stripes and hovering over her as he sat on her edge of the bed. Usually, he just wore his robe and boxers when they were home. Had he gone on an adventure without her?

"Beej…" She murmured whispishly in greeting, pulling him back down by the tie with a weak grip so that she could have a sweet, sleepy good morning kiss. There wasn't any resistance to be found, the grimy ghost immediately bending to her half-conscious whims.

"G'morning… did you go somewhere?"

Only just then did she realize she was holding something. Soon. She saw the word— the promise— before she saw the picture. The sight of the familiar photo made her gasp and sit up, a torrent of emotion sweeping over her; love, pain, heartbreak, and hope. Too many for any one person to process at once.

"Where did you get this?" This belonged to an album she hadn't been able to find among her belongings, the ones Betelgeuse moved for her. "Did you see her? What's— I'm confused."

He chuckled when she pulled him down for a sweet, languid kiss, his hand coming up to cup her jaw gently.

"Good mornin', sleepin' beauty…"

He sat at the edge of the bed when she bolted up, chuckling at the clear excitement on her face. "I've been doin' some research. I think I know how to find your mom, but it might take me a bit."

He reached out for the album, pulling it onto his lap before pulling her flush into his side.

"I want you to show me, Greg."

He watched her carefully, wondering how she'd react to the request.

Lydia flinched at the sound of that name falling off her husband's lips so casually, so easily, as if he had any right whatsoever to even know who that was.

"… what?"

It took her several moments to respond, going tense and slapping the album shut, practically tossing it over the side of the bed just to get it away from her. She didn't mean to throw it so far, but the shock of what Betelgeuse was asking of her was too great.

"I don't— I don't know what you're talking about," she lied. Poorly. Whether the deceit was meant for him or herself was unclear. "I don't even know any… anyone who goes by that name. So just— stop."

She slipped out from under his heavy arm, taking the sheet with her so she could wrap it around herself like an overly large dress. She still wasn't accustomed to just waltzing about in the nude the way he was. Stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze or acknowledge her ridiculous lie, she retired to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. Normality. Routine. These were the things that kept her sane.

Fine. He could find him himself. He stalked after her, leaning against the doorway and summoning the album to him. "Let's see."

The first few were Natalya. He could tell from the quality and clothing in the pictures. In most, she was holding Lydia. Starting out as a bundle of pink blankets and transforming into a toddler. The one in the photo he'd given her. Then… the photos all but stopped. He frowned. This must have been the start of her addiction. When she showed up again she was a sickly, thin thing. Lydia too was skinny and tired looking. There was a man. Finally.

He snapped the book shut and tossed it aside.

"Right. Well, I pulled out the stuff for waffles and I started coffee. Breakfast time."

The air was tense. Lydia hadn't said a word since Betelgeuse pulled that album out on her, spoke the boogeyman's name so easily. How did he know? She couldn't remember saying anything. He wasn't supposed to know about that. It wasn't any of his goddamn business. No one but hers. Stiffly, she just went through the motions, whisking eggs and milk into the batter, cutting strawberries into aesthetically pleasing slices and warming the maple syrup.

Silently, she placed his plate in front of him before preparing her own, still following the routine. The quiet was awful and thick, but she would be damned if she broke it first. As soon as she was done eating, the library would be her home for the rest of the day. Just sitting there eating with him watching her, him knowing what had been done to her… it made her skin crawl.

The quiet was deafening. It wasn't until breakfast was nearly gone from both of their plates that he finally spoke up. He reached across the table to take her hand.

"Lyds. Look at me a minute. I'm gonna remind you that none of the shit that happened to you was your fault. You didn't do it. It was done to you. And that's royally fucked up." He squeezed her hand. His eyes were dark and intense where they were looking into hers.

"I'm gonna take care o' this for ya. Gonna take care of him, n' then go find your mom. You're safe with me. I don't want you to forget that." He brought her hand up to his lips, kissing over her knuckles firmly.

"I told ya I'm gonna take care of you. This is part of that. Understand?"

Lydia wasn't aware she was crying until little hot droplets plopped down from her jawline to her collarbone. She was carrying so much shame, so much misplaced guilt. Maybe if she had been better, he wouldn't have had to touch her like that. If she wasn't so weird… so creepy… so strange…

Logically, she knew thoughts like this didn't make any sense, but that didn't stop them from hammering their way into her psyche, her ravaged mind trying its damnedest to make sense of the abuse.

The hand he held shook limply within his grasp, Lydia unable to summon the wherewithal to return the comforting pressure and intertwine her fingers with his. She knew that her father and Delia were aware of her sordid past, but it was never a topic of conversation. Not once did they ever acknowledge aloud that it had happened, preferring to sweep it under the rug for the sake of remaining... comfortable. To her knowledge, Adam and Barbara were never made aware of it and it wasn't as though she was about to tell them. The events of her childhood were a looming shadow hanging over her life, a symbol of impending doom that threatened to tear her apart in the wake of its turbulence.

This wasn't the case for Betelgeuse. He wasn't uncomfortable. He was perfectly at ease dragging it all out to the forefront without any hesitation to lay everything on the line. He was bearing witness. He was acknowledging that yes, this happened and it was royally fucked up. At this point, how he came to garner this knowledge was irrelevant. The heaviness was almost too much for her to bear.

"I— I—" she choked, slapping a palm over her mouth to cover the sob that wanted to escape. "I understand," she eventually got it out, stifled behind her palm. Then, their fingers intertwined.

There was a long, painful moment where she said and did nothing. There was an expression on her face that he hadn't seen before. One that he barely understood. He didn't like it. Finally, finally… she spoke. A stuttering, heartwrenching confirmation that she understood. That she saw what he was doing and why it was necessary. That she understood that she'd been hurt. Badly. And that there was nothing she had done to instigate it. She'd been attacked.

Her tiny, trembling fingers finally tangled with his own long, filthy digits. He squeezed her hand firmly, sliding out of his seat and pulling her with him until he could wrap his arms around her and just hold her. He didn't know if it was what she needed, but it was what he needed. He hated the hurt that was evident on her face.

After a moment he ran his thumb over her cheek, wiping away a stray tear. The silence was still hanging in the air, threatening to take over them again. It felt as though if he didn't speak now, the silence would last forever.

"I'm gonna find him, Lyds. He's gonna pay for putting you through this. I promise. I can't… I can't fix it. But I can make sure you never gotta think about him again."

The moment he took her up into his arms, she collapsed, sobbing and choking, hot tears seeping through the material of his suit until they met frigid flesh, burning like acid. The sturdy wall she had spent the last decade carefully constructing was crumbling and she fell with it. How could a person possibly feel so much at one time?

"It's— not— fair—" she muffled into his shoulder at one point without any further context, letting the statement carry itself as her husband hushed her, coursing ragged nails through her hair. Only once her hysterics subsided did he speak again, promising vengeance on her behalf. He was a proud, vindictive creature. She knew this. She also knew that he loved her, legitimately, and that his motivations in doing such a thing were equal parts selfish and altruistic. Nevertheless, Lydia was everything he was not, and the idea of Betelgeuse fulfilling such a promise didn't spark any lights of sadistic joy within her. Quite the opposite in fact.

"I don't want that," she whispered back, still holding him tight. "I know you're going to do what you want, and I won't try to stop you… but I don't want any more pain. I don't want anyone else to hurt."

He felt like he was dying anew. His lovely, sweet wife was crumbling in his hold, weeping and choking on vile, corrupt memories. Words came through, though muddled, and he kissed her temple, tightening his hold.

"I know… I know, baby. It's not fair. None o' this is fair."

She whispered to him about his plans. Nearly pleading for mercy. How could she be so… good? Pure? Forgiving? It was too late. The course was already charted. He didn't answer her request for the pain to stop with her. That was what was unfair. This man.. this Gregory Green… had taken something from her. Had stolen it, with force and left her broken behind him. He had to pay for that offense.

"Hey. I'm here… just breathe, beautiful."

He tucked her under his chin, one hand abandoning her hair to rub large, slow circles into her back. He was going to fix this. The only way he knew how.

They stood swaying in the kitchen until her tears stopped flowing and her cheeks dried. There was still a sniffle in her voice and blotchiness to her complexion when she finally pulled back to address him, embarrassed. Why did she have to be so dreadfully emotional? Maybe her period was coming up. She was about due. Maybe. Time was difficult to keep track of on this side.

"I still don't understand…" she began, not quite meeting his gaze. Her knees shook, and the arm on her back banded around her waist to make up for it. "How… how did you know?"

She had been searching her memory bank, scouring through each moment spent in the attic during the time he was haunting the Deetz house, and every second since that had been spent in his company. Nothing was sticking out, and she was certain the mention of something this imperative would be imprinted in her mind like a brand. Suddenly, an alarming possibility occurred to her and watery eyes finally lifted high enough to meet his.

"Did… did you talk to my father?"

Damn. Caught red-handed.

He ran a hand through his hair, not wanting to meet her gaze. He was sure she'd be disappointed. And he hated disappointing her.

"Uh… yeah. I paid ol' Chuck a visit. Just to check in, ya know? See how he was doin'. Ask about your mom… It was good. Healthy. We had a smoke and talked…'bout you mostly." It wasn't exactly a lie. He pulled her chin up so he could kiss her gently.

"He adores you. Just shit at showin' it. I see that now. He'd do anythin' for ya kitten. Like I would."

Lydia scoffed, shrugging to wipe her cheek off on her shoulder.

"No, he doesn't. He just tolerated me. He thinks I'm just as weird as everybody else does. He'd be happier if I was never born."

Given time and distance from the situation, Lydia was able to admit that she may have reacted… rashly to her spat with her father, but the deed was done. It was too late to ponder on useless things like regret. She was married and gone and there was no looking back, even if she wanted to. But, that was all beside the point. She couldn't help but doubt the validity of Betelgeuse's claims. The idea of he and her father having a rational discussion over a smoke like a couple of business partners was ridiculous.

"… promise you didn't hurt him?"

Well, she saw right through him, didn't she? He chuckled.

"Not a hair on his head, kitten." He ran his hand back up her back, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Now… I'm gonna be gone a while startin' tomorrow… so we gotta talk about that. I don't wanna come home to you floatin' in the pool again." He looked down at her, studying her tear-stained, slightly puffy cheeks.

"You gotta promise me you're gonna be okay while I go look for Natalya. I can't take you with me and I dunno how long I'll be away…"

"I told you I wasn't trying to kill myself," she blustered, rightly embarrassed. "I was just being dramatic."

She pouted then, unaware that she was even doing it, and raised puppy dog eyes to meet her husband's. With her red cheeks and bloodshot eyes, she made for a truly pitiable sight.

"You were really mad. And you took your hat. And I thought you were going to come back with divorce papers for me to sign. I wanted to use the pool before you kicked me out."

Well shit.

If that didn't make him feel like shit nothing could. He nipped at her cute, pouted lower lip, pulling at it playfully.

"Aw, kitten… I'm not gonna divorce ya over a stupid fight. You're stuck with me." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, pulling her closer.

"I got a bad temper. You know that… but I wasn't even mad at you, baby. I was mad at me." He sighed. "Ya make me feel a lot of shit I ain't ever felt before. I'm still figuring out how to deal with it all."

Eager for closeness in the wake of the emotional rollercoaster their morning was turning out to be, Lydia wrapped her arms around his neck tight as he pulled her close, until he was forced to just lift her off the ground rather than continue bending to meet her height.

"I won't do anything bad," she promised after he so sweetly confessed the complexity of his feelings, legs wrapping around his waist as she was elevated. "I'll probably just stick to the hot tub. Maybe read some more…" She trailed off, head laid on his shoulder like a sleepy child. "Can we watch a movie?"

They'd yet to break in the home theater, and Lydia was more than ready to see if their tastes aligned. Spending the rest of the day cuddling and watching movies sounded absolutely divine.

He chuckled at the soft request, leaning his cheek against her head as he headed for the theatre. "Of course. Whatcha in the mood for? I saw your shelf back at your dad's. We could do It… or Chucky. Maybe Phantom if you're feelin' romantic.."

He easily settled on the plush couch in front of the large screen, keeping her wrapped around him as he summoned their bedding with a crook of his finger. The blankets set to work wrapping around them, tucking them into a cozy nest of fluff. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his hand coming to cup the back of her neck.

"I'm all yours today. Promise."

"Oh, can we watch Phantom? Please, please, please!" She begged, knowing she didn't have to.

Without anyone having to lift a hand, the screen came to before them. It was as big as any theater screen, with a tiny light at the back of the room denoting the existence of a projector. Lydia hadn't found any projection rooms anywhere in the house in her days living here. She had, however, come across several suspiciously locked rooms.

"Beej," she whispered as the opening scene began to play, as if she had never seen this movie before and didn't want to miss anything. "What's in the locked rooms?"

He chuckled at how she begged him to watch the opera. She really didn't have to. He'd give her anything, even if it meant having to sit through hours of singing. He pulled her somehow even closer as the first notes of the opening played, leaning into the couch contentedly. Then she asked the question. He frowned slightly, glancing at her.

The locked rooms contained all kinds of things. A torture chamber. An armory. A sex dungeon. He'd thought he'd hidden them away rather well. She was better than he'd expected at sneaking around.

"Which one, kitten?"

His inconspicuous not-answer made her nose crinkle in faux annoyance.

"All of them!"

He knew what she meant.

"It's my house too, right? I should know what's in the rooms— and for that matter, I should have a key. Don't think I didn't notice you pocketing both of the ones Paul gave you. What, do we have a dungeon?" There was a giggle in her voice, but he wasn't laughing. Her smile vanished. "Oh my God. Betelgeuse, I was kidding!"

"I know you were. But you asked…" He sighed softly. "Look, there are some things in this house that I don't think ya wanna see. Stuff I need for work… that kinda thing."

He pressed his lips to her temple, running his hand up her side. "I'll take ya on the full tour when I get back from findin' your mom. Deal?"

He could only hope that by then she'd forget to worry about what was behind closed doors. On the screen, the chandelier fell. He nodded to it.

"Watch your movie, baby."