I figured that I was never going to get Logic anyway so why bother studying? So here's a new chapter instead. I'm not sure it came out precisely how I wanted, but I needed to set the foundation for a future events and some of the information just flowed well. Llew's the one who pointed out he's got a pillow stuffed into his clothing, I only noticed it when she said it.

I also took on the scary task of explaining his watches, which may or may not come back in later chapters. As I was complaining to Llew, I know the ending and part of the middle, but the rest is kind of up in the air.

Also I do respond to all of your reviews via the respond feature, but it seems Fanfiction is refusing to notify people of things like that...so if you've a really pressing question or something, you're always free to email me.

And Shameless plug! Llew on her webpage made me the F-ing coolest icon ever out of love of the line "There were sparks" so yeah.

I don't want to fail Logic, it's like being told you think bad. (and I do mean "Bad", not "badly". "badly" doesn't get across the point I wish to make.)

Being dead he had little concept of time passing, and watches, like mirrors wouldn't work on this side. You could bring them over, but mirrors turned to tarnished glass and watches stopped. He kept hoping that one day Breathers would find a watch that could work over here, and he was always on the look out for a newer watch to bring over.

They all just stopped.

And so he had no way to tell for certain how long it had been since he abandoned his less-than-reluctant bride in the other room, but it had seemed like for-goddamn-ever when she finally emerged, one hand cupped around the opposite elbow and her eyes trained on the floor. She looked like she felt as uncomfortable in her own skin as she was in her dress.

After all it had been through it now hung crooked on her frame, and a few of the hoops were bent making it look like an oval—he got an image of Marie Antoinette. She was good enough in bed but it was absolute hell tryin' to get her out of those stupid dresses she insisted on wearing.

Fuckin' harder than Chinese Algebra.

His fingers twitched, and she wore something a little more normal. He wasn't precisely up on fashion so a pair of trousers that sagged on her tiny hips and a flannel shirt that hung past her knees. It was from his closet, which was just as well, besides she should be damned grateful he was letting her change at all.

She yelped sharply enough to hurt his ears when the dress vanished and her hands shot to the waist of the pants. "I said no more shouting." He growled, staring at her. He could practically hear her knees knocking together.

"I'm sorry." She whimpered.

"I also said stop acting like I'm going to kill you."

"I'm not afraid of you killing me. I'm afraid of the things worse than death." It took him a moment to realize what she meant and when he did he made a face.

"Hey! Even if I did go for Breathers I like my women more experienced than you girlie!" He told her. Relishing the combined look of relief and disgust on her small features. "So what do you want?" He asked, watching her alternate between pulling the pants up and twisting her tiny hands into the rough fabric.

"Besides a belt?" He had to admit he was surprised that she could find the courage to snap at him like that, and after a moment he realized she was just as surprised. "I was hungry." She whispered. And just to make her squirm he pretended that he couldn't hear it, making her repeat it twice more.

"So you came crawling to me, ready to beg for food?" He asked, one eyebrow rising high against his pale face.

"You told me you would force me to live. You told me you wanted to try and get along. I am just doing what you requested so kindly of me." She shifted the pants to one hand and rolled up one sleeve, showing off dark purple bruises against the creamy flesh of her upper arms.

He had forgotten you could bruise people. That was the curse of blood coursing through your veins though. Live people were so squishy and vulnerable, he didn't even remember how to be so pathetic. "So what do you want?" He asked, leaning back so far in the chair it squeaked in protest.

"Pardon me?" She asked, more as a reflex in response to her surprised. Still he got a kick out of it. Dead or Alive no one had been polite to him in centuries.

"How'm I to know what you eat? I don't exactly have a kitchen and it's easier for me if you tell me what you want instead of me tryin' to figure something you can eat." He told her, recalling finally that he was supposed to be nice to her. The point of this was to get her to care for him, at least enough for the Lawyerly types who would review his case if she did happen to free him.

Well asking her what she wanted was nice...right?

Lydia struggled for a long moment. What she wanted to eat was possibly the furthest thing from her mind at the moment and he was giving her that bored and expectant look that always proceeded him yelling at her or hurting her. At least that much she had learned already. "Cantonese." She wasn't particularly found of the food, but it was the first thing that had popped into her mind and she'd blurted it out without much consideration beyond "say something before he changes his mind and feeds you gruel".

For some reason the memory of her family's first meal in the Maitland's house burst into the forefront of her mind.

At the time she had only said it to annoy Delia, what should it really matter if Lydia wanted to be dark and arty, but now...?

Her life really was just one big dark room now.

"Done." A table appeared with place-settings, candles, withered roses and several cartons of food. That couldn't do much to surprise her though, mostly because at it's appearance she also felt a belt cinch about her waist and that was terribly surprising. A quick glance down showed it was little more than a rope, but she could finally cease worrying her pants would fall down.

That proved to be a mixed blessing; it cleared up her worry of the pants falling off, but it made room for her to worry just where the dirt that covered them had come from. Images of graves and moaning zombies shambled through her head as she took a seat and lifted the box nearest to her.

Every muscle in her body was coiled, ready to run. It might not do much good but should he decide to change his mind about any of his assurances she wasn't going to just let it happen without a fight of some sort. The box contained a generous portion of noodles and chicken. She was further surprised at the fact it tasted rather good. Certainly better than what Delia had ordered that night so very long ago. A few mouthfuls of the food and she glanced up at the empty glass in front of her, and then up to the ghost across from her.

"I don't suppose you drink whiskey do you girlie."

"My name is Lydia." She ground out. She was torn between refusing to admit that she didn't drink whiskey and the chance that she would drink too much and lose what little edge she had with this terrible man—could he be called a man?

"Not like I'd waste my supply on you anyway." He grumbled, propping his chair back on two legs and dropping his feet onto his empty plate. It cracked but did not break beneath his boot heels. His fingers twitched through the air, pulling invisible strings, and her glass filled with dark red liquid. For a moment she feared it was blood, but upon closer inspection it was merely wine.

She tasted it tentatively and was surprised how good it was. Prior to this she had only had a few glasses, on New Years or other special occasions with her Father and Delia. It was odd to know that this beast in front of her could easily bring forth a better vintage and she wondered about that for a brief second.

Quiet fell over the dining room for a few moments and Lydia felt herself calm, at least a little. She took this rare moment to study her husband. Bile rose in her throat for a moment and she had to fight to keep her newly won food down. The idea that she was married to a ghost so terrible as the one sitting across from her. From the tips of the odd boots he wore to the knots in his hair he was filthy.

She spun her tarnished and bent fork lazily in the noodles and watched him. His eyes were closed and his features softened, and if he weren't rocking slightly she might even think him asleep. It was a rare chance to study him, not that she wouldn't have an eternity to do that.

A few tears burned trails down her cheeks.

At least, like this, he wasn't too terrifying. His features were softened in this moment, his high cheekbones and sloping forehead were more pronounced, making him look almost attractive other than the – was it mold? -- growing over the side of his neck and part of his face.

Her eyes followed the sharp line of his jaw and along his neck, trying to figure out just what was growing on him. His button-down shirt hung open slightly, revealing the hallow of his throat and creating an odd shadow in the flickering light of the candles.

He could almost be considered attractive in a rumpled sort of way. If you ignored the filthy fingernails, and the knots in his wild blond hair...and the green substance that seemed intent on eating his flesh...and the belly on him—she paused.

That...that wasn't fat...through the gaps between buttons on his shirt it looked almost like an old pillow. She squinted, leaning forward unconsciously trying to descern if it really was a pillow stuffed into his shirt.

His face and hands were all thin, and it was odd to see a large gut on him, but...why would a ghost tuck a pillow into his pants like a child? It seemed ridiculous.

"If you want I could take of my shirt and strut about." His voice startled her and she stood with a squeak, sending her chair toppling over and noodles spilling onto the floor. "You were staring at me." He told her, waggling his eyebrows and eyeing her. She had a startling revelation as to how a beef shank must feel.

Her blatant denial of this fact died on her lips. "Do you have a pillow tucked under your shirt?" She asked, hoping that whether true or not it would embarrass him. He seemed awfully concerned with image and it might work. It would certainly feel good to get the upper hand on him at least once. She doubted it would ever happen again.

"Women. Give'em an' inch and they wanna know everything about you. Next think you know she's gonna be asking me when I'm coming home." His jade eyes narrowed suddenly. "You're not going to start cooking pot roast and vacuuming are you?"

"Do you even have a kitchen?"

"Yes...no...I...maybe." He announced firmly. "You're gonna ask for one?"

"No. I hate pot roast." Why not admit that? The conversation couldn't get any more surreal...at least he didn't seem about to hurt her again.