How dare she come to him like this?! And leave him locked up as well? Inexcusable! His forgiving, pretty trouble-magnet wife whom he waited with fierce impatience for had finally returned to him… but with drops of blood dried on the collar of her little school blouse. That highly biteable bottom lips of hers was darker, swollen, and split right off the center. These were the first things he noticed and alone they were enough to enrage, but then he looked more closely saw how the flesh near her eyes was just as pink and puffy as it was sallow with exhaustion. Lydia had been crying. A lot. Someone hit her and made her cry. His wife?! The sheer audacity of it sank in, flooding him with so much prideful masculine rage that he couldn't see straight.

"Lemme out," he growled, low and serious, with unquestionable authority. He wasn't asking, he was telling— and he expected her to listen. It almost worked.

"No," she denied after several beats dragged on, staring in amaze at his pluck. "You might hurt someone. I need to know you won't hurt anyone."

"Hurt?" He spat, glaring down at his doe-eyed wife while drawing up to his full height in the silvery glass, "m'gonna fuckin' kill someone. Real slow." His volume never rose from that gritty snarl. A cigarette was pulled from the ether, placed between, mossy lips, and lit with a snap, motions easy and smooth as anything. "Disembowel. Chop off a thumb r'two. Dust off the ol' iron maiden—"

"This isn't helping your case."

"Who hit you?"

Lydia was so shocked by the source of his upset that she was struck dumb for a moment, before uttering an incredulous, "… what? No one! It doesn't matter. Why are you even here? Why do you need me to let you out? Isn't that the entire reason we got married? So you could come and go as you like without the whole Bloody Mary deal?"

Betelgeuse scowled, displeased with this setup. She denies him answers, then demands the same from him? That's just not how this was going to work. Who did she think she was? Cruelly dismissive, he snorted and somehow managed to tap his ash directly onto her desk through the glass. Lydia was not amused.

"Next thing I know yer gonna tell me y'walked into a wall. S'bad enough comin' home n' learnin' m'wife ain't been faithful t'me, but the limp-dicked, homewreckin' sonuvabitch's been smackin' her around too?" He chuckled in an obscenely light-hearted fashion that didn't betray a bit of malice. "Now, quit pullin' m'dick n' gimme the lil shit's name, honey."

There were so many things wrong with everything he just said that Lydia didn't quite know where to begin. After blinking slowly with something a little less flattering than awe, mouth agape, she found the proper words to lay into him. The dead man seemed hellbent on earning her ire and so she let him have it, flinging the very last of whatever remained of her depleted emotional well.

"I don't have a boyfriend—!"

It seemed fitting to disillusion her husband of this first, though she flustered that he was forcing her to admit the embarrassing truth this early on.

"I go to an all-girls school because of you! Even if I didhave a boyfriend, it wouldn't be any of your business because this is not that kind of marriage! There will be no kissing, no dates, no hand holding, nothing of the sort. I will date whoever I want—" not that anyone wants to date me "—and you're free to do the same. Marriage of inconvenience, remember? You do know what that means, right? It means…"

Disinterested in her set of rules— it was cute, really— Betelgeuse's fickle attention span drifted from the adorable girl to her room, analyzing little details here and there as she babbled on. It was a relief that he didn't have a pimply faced teenage rival to squash, but the question of which breathing vermin had dared strike his wife still burned at the back of his skull.

"— and for that matter… are you even listening to me?"

"Ain't you a lil old t'be playin' with dolls?" Not that Betelgeuse would begrudge her for keeping such an infantile, darling hobby, but something about the baby doll sized version of his wife— peeking out from the open zipper of her backpack, staring right through him with those creepy button eyes— made him uneasy.

"Aren't you a little old to be hanging out in my mirror?" Immediately on the defensive, Lydia snapped back, scrambled to gather her backpack, and shut the zipper. Where did he get off making fun of Little Lydia like that? Jerk.

"Ain't ever gonna be too old for that," he returned with a sleazy wink and grin, "doll."

No, he had very clearly not been listening, or else he would have heard her explicitly forbid cutesy nicknames like that. Or, he heard and he just didn't care. Letting out a groan of frustration, her pallid face dropped down to her palms, and the persistent headache she had been battling all day throbbed at full force. "This conversation isn't going anywhere."

Something like guilt plucked at Betelgeuse's long-dead conscience, which was beyond unfair considering he hadn't even done anything. She was just so miserable and defeated, beat up and sick, a truly piteous sight. Prickling people while they were down was usually fun… but not this time. Grimacing, the ghoul proceeded to offer up a compromise. She could have her answers first. Maybe that would get rid of that nagging discomfort in the center of his chest.

"Aaalright, alright, alright… here's the deal, babes—" as effectively as she was currently garnering his sympathy, the pet names were non-negotiable. "I ain't goin' anywhere. Literally. M'stuck right here in this mirror. Been here all day waitin' for ya. Wasn't even due for release for another couple years or so, but eh… extenuating circumstances cut through that band o' red tape."

A couple years? Extenuating circumstances? Lydia blinked, having risen up to listen intently to what he had to say. This was inevitable, then. He was always going to come back. Leaving her behind was never in the books. That he was trapped in her vanity until he was called upon was additionally horrifying to conceive, but she shelved those thoughts in order to soak in whatever information he had for her.

"Nobody can lemme out or put me back but you. You're th'only one. The whole 'Bloody Mary' deal is finito, over, done. Even if y'did lemme out, can't haunt too far from ya or this lil buddy—" he waggled his fingers, showing off a gleaming wedding band that Lydia couldn't recall placing on him "— will drag me all the way back t'yer side. N' that's how this works."

Wow. If Lydia understood the way he was explaining this to her correctly, that gave her an awful lot of power over him.

"What if I just smashed the mirror? What would happen then?" She wouldn't. The antique once belonged to her mother, but curiosity couldn't be helped.

"C'mon, honey, why y'gotta bust m'balls like that?" The vulgar not-answer only thinly disguised his ignorance. He didn't know and wasn't sure he wanted to. Powerful as he was, he would probably fare alright. Probably.

"Just curious. I'm not gonna do it… I still don't understand. Why marry me if that's all you're getting out of it? Seems like a shit deal. I mean, what if I just never let you out? What if I sold my vanity on craigslist or something? There's a lot of room for error here on your end of things."

All of these possibilities and then some had already occurred to the poltergeist, but sheer hubris convinced him that they were non-issues. It was true that he didn't know his wife as well as he would have liked to, but he was intimately familiar with her bleeding heart. It wasn't in her to keep prisoners. He was well aware before taking the plunge that all he would need is some pretty words and reassurances, and she would let him out. She was already softening to him, the edge leaking out of her voice to make room for less volatile emotions the longer they kept talking. It was only a matter of time.

"Cookie, when ya've been dead as long as I have, the deal we've got goin' on starts lookin' real fuckin' sweet. 'Sides," he threw on his charming face and granted her a genuine grin, "I like ya." Heat flooded those pale cheeks and Betelgeuse picked up the change with sharp interest. "Y'wouldn't do none o' that shit. Not t'me. Would ya, kitten?" He cajoled gently, playing on her sympathies. After several long silent beats where Lydia avoided meeting his gaze, brows knitted in consideration, she shook her head. No. His grin expanded. "That's what I thought. Any more questions?"

So many, but they all blanked upon him asking. No, she shook her head again, at a momentary loss for words.

"Good! Now s'my turn. Who hit you?"

With her curiosity sated, though not in a way that was at all satisfactory, Lydia could find no more excuses to ignore the subject.

"A girl at school," she admitted, eyes downcast. "I got into a fight. I'm suspended."

"Schoolgirl catfight, huh? Hot stuff. Pics or it didn't happen."

"Oh my God." She broke into a string of absurd giggles despite herself, and Betelgeuse beamed that he was able to get a laugh out of her, even if it did come off a little deranged. A tuft of soft, raven hair shook loose as her head turned side to side in disagreement for a third time, laughter dying, as if to saying No to everything.

"Today has been a fever dream." Maybe that's what the surreal vision of her mother was; a vivid hallucination brought upon by sickness. Dwelling on it made her sad, until whatever remained of the unlikely smile Betelgeuse gave her dimmed to nothing.

"I am sorry." Large guilty eyes flickered back up to meet his and there was no need for further clarification as to what she was apologizing for. "I didn't mean to back out. It was an accident. Gut reaction kind of thing. Everything happened so fast and— I don't know, I just… I didn't think it was going to be like that… and then Barb… and the—" sandworm.

"Ehhh forget about it, babe. S'old news. No skin off my nose."

This wasn't always the case. In truth, he had spent many months following the incident fantasizing about how he might get his revenge on the little woman. They started off violent, then turned sexual in accordance with his nature. Eventually, much of that initial animosity was shelved and forgotten, leaving a well of unsatisfied curiosity and lust. Not to mention the implied possession of her that lied behind all these more passionate emotions.

Clearly, Lydia wasn't ready to accept any of that, and Betelgeuse was smart enough to know when to play which cards. For now, he would just have to toe the line of her pathetic, half-hearted "rules." Get her used to the idea of it. It's not like he was going anywhere, and he wasn't about to let any inbred redneck fuck hone in on his territory. However, he wouldn't be able to do anything about any potential suitors if she didn't hurry up and free him from his reflective snare.

"Tell y'what; lemme outta here n' we can forget all about it. Wipe th'slate clean, start from scratch, begin anew n' all that sappy shit. Deal?"

Suspicion flared up at the use of that word, and it showed in her hesitation. They didn't have the greatest history when it came to making deals.

"You killed Sarah and Maxie Dean," she stated simply after a while and was horrified with herself that this alone wasn't enough to completely dissuade her from the idea of freeing him. Never really liked them anyway, a conspiratory voice whispered in the darker part of her conscience. That doesn't mean they deserved to die, she argued uselessly, only for the voice to hissback; semantics.

"Got a secret for ya, babe," he chuckled darkly and clenched the butt of his cigarette between his teeth until the cherry tilted up. "One-hundred percent o' people die. All I did was speed along th'process. 'Sides, they didn't seem t'have no qualms with offin' four-eyes n' hot-tits, in a much more eh… permanent sense."

"It's not the same. They didn't know what they were doing."

Then again, her father's not-so-dearly departed boss hadn't been disturbed enough by the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Maitland's deteriorating spirit stuff to bother speaking up and putting a stop to it. They were just a show to the apathetic businessman and his spoiled trophy wife, little more than a cheap thrill on a Saturday night. Wasn't it fair of Betelgeuse to turn them into a show in turn? Lydia's rigid moral compass was wavering, conflicting emotions reading clear as day across her pallor. Betelgeuse was quick to capitalize on it.

"If yer lookin' for an apology, sweetcheeks, y'ain't gonna get one. Ain't sorry n' I'd do it all again if I had ta. But— I can give ya this if it'll keep that pretty lil conscience clear." What he said next took a great deal of effort, despite the crossed fingers on the outside of his edge of the mirror marking it as a lie. "I," he swallowed, then let out a deep, unnecessary breath, "will not… hurt… anyone."

"Or kill?" She added quickly, wary of loopholes.

"Or kill," he agreed, eyes rolling.

"Promise?"

She seemed so bright and hopeful, despite the shroud of misery carried along with it. The foolish little vixen really, truly, honestly believed that his word alone was enough. That if he made this promise he would keep it. She wanted it to be true, which meant that some part of her, tiny as it may be, wanted to let him out. His grimace deepened and the sneaky fingers beyond her sight uncrossed.

"Promise."

Relief smoothed over her pinched, stressed features, and Betelgeuse— more than ready for his impending release— cracked his neck in one direction, then the other, limbering up.

"One more thing," she rushed out before he could get too excited, chastising herself for forgetting such an important detail in the midst of all the negotiating. "My parents. They can't know you're here. It's— it's just too much."

"Sure," he agreed readily, smug and curt, much as he had the first and only time she had ever summoned him. This rule, at least, was easy enough compared to all of his wife's other binding stipulations— but they were gonna work on that. Maybe a little marriage counseling would do them some good.

"Betelgeuse… Betelgeuse…" There was a hesitation. Searching, she spared one last deep gaze into those dark, sunken eyes before daring to actually go through with it. Whatever she saw must have satisfied. With a shuddering breath, the last incantation of his name was released. "… Betelgeuse."

A ferocious grin cracked across his moss-dappled complexion, giving Lydia the sinking impression that she had just made a terrible mistake. His image faded out to be replaced by her own anxiety-ridden, sickly visage and the vanity began to tremble violently, knocking various items to the ground as it shook. Electric green light, identical to what peeked out at her from beneath the attic's door those years ago, burst forth from the glassy surface in a blinding flash. It was time to move. Clumsily, she rushed out of the way just in time for the striped vagabond to come somersaulting through the mirror. He stuck the landing effortlessly, but with a heavy thump that denoted his significant weight and lack of grace.

"WHOO!" He shouted out into the room upon gathering his bearings, seemingly having already forgotten the promise to keep his presence a secret from her parents. "Does it feel goooood t'get outta there, I tell ya. Goddamn, Jesus, Mary n' Joseph, could I use a fuckin' drink."

He found Lydia then; shy and wide-eyed, observing from the opposite end of the room as though he were a venomous snake that had slithered in under her notice, and she now had to figure out how to take care of the infestation. It was much easier to remain lax in his company when there was an impenetrable barrier of glass and magic keeping them apart. Or when when he was bug sized. Now, with his powerful aura choking the atmosphere, filling up every inch of her space, things were very different.

But he liked her, right? There was nothing to be worried about. This is what Lydia told herself as he rapidly closed the distance between them, but the vague reassurances did nothing to stop her tensing and shrinking further against the wall— almost like she expected to be hit.

If Betelgeuse weren't so elated to be out and about in the realm of the living, he might have been somewhat insulted. Didn't the past few minutes mean anything to her? He would be good. To an extent.

"Babes," he purred gleefully, half caging her in with one palm plastered to the wall above her head, the other angling her petite chin up so that he could get a better look at that pretty face. He'd forgotten how much of a pipsqueak she was, not even meeting his shoulders in height. Precious. "You… are a sight for sore eyes if I've ever seen one."

Very desperately, he wanted to kiss her; knot his striped tongue around her cute pink human one, suck the oxygen from her lungs, maybe bite that split on her lip open until he could taste her life-blood. Instead, knowing better than to push his astronomical luck, a firm, lingering kiss was planted on her searing forehead— his own perverse way of showing appreciation. However, the unusual heat radiating from the pale, clammy flesh there made him frown severely as he pulled back, then draw his hand up to more thoroughly assess the situation.

The large limb easily encompassed half her face and was cool to the touch, just like Barbara's used to feel when she would check Lydia's temperature. This one was rougher, boasting ragged claws at the tip of each filthy, calloused digit. Still, unable to help herself, she sighed in scant relief at the pleasant sensation and let her eyes drift shut. It was nice.

"Oh, honey," he murmured with something like sympathy, dragging his thumb along her inflamed cheek, "yer burnin' up. Told ya y'shoulda stayed in today. Whaddya think yer doin? Runnin' 'round with a fever, gettin' in t'fights?" Tangling with supernatural entities that absolutely meant you harm?

"I would have stayed home."

In the wake of his gentle handling and blatant show of concern, Lydia felt safe enough to indulge the creeping exhaustion that had been weighing her down all day. His attention was still entirely too affectionate and intrusive, but nothing worth expending energy on. Weight crumpling against the wall, she allowed him to continue fussing, but made sure to deal a pointed barb just in case he was getting the wrong idea.

"But there was a creepy old dead guy hanging out in my mirror."

Naughty, feisty kitten. He couldn't interrogate her when she was like this; half-dead, doing crazy stuff like insulting him to his face, letting him touch her and get away with it. Though he certainly wasn't going to complain about that part.

"Ain't Red or Babs around t'make y'some chicken noodle soup or somethin'?" He questioned, ignoring her cute little jab and linking his arm around her shoulders to pull her away from the wall and toward her bed. That she didn't even bother resisting a move like this was additionally worrying. "That's what you breathers slurp down when yer hackin' up chunks, right?"

"Barb is gone," she explained, simple and dour, and flopped back on her unmade sheets with little instruction from him. "And Delia's a bitch. It doesn't matter. It's just a cold, it'll go away. I can eat tomorrow. It's not like I have to go to school. Or anywhere."

Granted the ghoul was long out of touch with humanity, but that didn't sound right. Eating was like… a daily thing, right? Skinbags were supposed to take care of their sick younglings, weren't they? Somebody had to take care of her. Seeing as Barb was gone, Delia was a bitch, and Chuck wasn't present enough to even be worth mentioning, Betelgeuse was all too keen to appoint himself to the task. With a wave, her school uniform, as well as everything else she was wearing, melted away to be replaced by a surprisingly modest and lightweight cotton nightgown— black, in line with her tastes.

"Hey," she objected weakly at first, before sparing a glance down. Not bad, and definitely less restrictive. He still earned a sour look as she dragged her de-shoed feet onto the bed into a more comfortable position. That he hadn't replaced her underwear was not beyond her notice. "Why are you being all…?"

"Can't have ya dyin' on me," he explained brusquely and shot a finger at the ceiling fan to turn it on full blast. Such a blunt answer only inspired more questions in his wife, but she remained silent and watched on with dampened spirit as he pulled a loose sheet over her up to the hips, where she could reach it if she wanted to cover more.

Unable to keep from taking advantage a little, he allowed his knuckles to drag very lightly across her thigh as he did so. She was too damn hot, and not just in the obvious visual way. Bringing down that temperature was priority number one. That sickness had taken her at all was solid confirmation that their connection was indeed tampered with, which constituted a clear violation of the marriage contract. Lydia wasn't supposed to get sick, or age past a certain point, or any of that fatal human shit.

"T'tell ya th'truth, honey, I dunno how t'do this, so I'mma need ya t'quit actin' so tough n' tell me whatcha need. I get it, message received, yer a strong independent woman who don't need no man. Now c'mon, help me out here."

Pouting at the unfairness, the outrageousness that Betelgeuse was actually here in her bedroom babying her like this, she conceded bitterly. What other option did she have?

"A glass of ice water and a couple ibuprofen."

"That's a good girl," he praised when she accepted the requested items after he conjured them, making her glare narrow further. Nevertheless, the chilly water ran deliciously down her parched throat and again, she forgave his trespass.

"Why not just take off and go do… whatever?" This question came once both husband and wife had settled into a comfortable silence; her suffering sated momentarily beneath the whirling fan, and he throned up in the cozy reading chair parallel to her bed. "What do you want from me?"

"Too much fer you t'handle talkin' 'bout right now, little girl." That certainly worked to silence her, until a click echoed from his side of the room and an acrid scent drifted through the air, signaling that a cigarette had been lit.

"Please open a window." Without a word, the polite request was obeyed. The silence wasn't comfortable anymore. At least, not for Lydia. Betelgeuse seemed happy enough lounging across from her; staring, smoking, not saying anything. "You should probably lock the door. In case Delia or my father come barging in… but… I guess they usually knock."

"S'already done."

Lydia kicked herself for not noticing. Conniving poltergeist.

"You were pretty loud earlier…" She commented, squirming several minutes later, the idea of it only just now hitting her. "What if they heard you?"

"Soundproofed th'room."

Well, then. He just had everything figured out, didn't he? "I don't have to worry about… I mean… you're not going to do anything bad are you…?"

A heavy sigh fell ragged from his smoke-harshened throat. "Babe. Lyds. Honey. Already told'y I ain't goin' anywhere. Ain't gonna do nothin'. M'stayin' riiiighht here. Now chill th'fuck out n' go t'sleep."

Knowing she shouldn't, Lydia derived a bizarre comfort from this. Right when he thought she was out for the count, she troubled him for one more thing, just because she could.

"Would you hand me the doll… please?"

"… sure."