DISCLAIMER: Do I really need to keep putting this on every chapter? Don't own it, don't sue please.

A/N: Right, finals are finally over! This chapter, while not exactly rollicking, is the best I can do at the moment. My admirable plan of updating something once a week is revealed to be nothing more than a pipe dream, blown away by the cold wind of reality.

If you don't see your name below, feel free to skip this part:

Darbanville, badkidoh, TheBlackxRabbit, Shiona Acitiu, xKayla xKatastrophe, Fyrefly, LDeetz, and Maddie – your reviews are the reason why I am posting another chapter. I would not have dragged my fingers over the keyboard without your encouragement! I wish I had the energy to write to all you individually and tell each of you how awesome I think you are, but I used up most of my brain power churning out a chapter! So, here it is.

PREVIOUSLY:

Mind made up, he decisively thumped his invisible fist on his invisible palm, ignoring the fact that they went through each other instead of colliding when he was like this. He vanished again, this time from vicinity of the island (and also the entire hemisphere the island was in). He did have some errands to run, after all.

-SCENE BREAK-

He would come back, right? You didn't stock up on bananas like that if you weren't coming back to eat them. Or maybe it was so that he didn't have to come back for weeks with new bananas! But then…you didn't give a girl a bouquet, and then abandon her to a hellish tropical paradise, right?

God, she really wished he'd come back. She was bored to tears! There was only so much to do alone on a small, deserted island, even with chocolate, incense, and a camera. Out loud, she said, "If Beetlejuice were here we'd make sweet, sweet," she paused for a moment, waiting morosely, then yawned, "pancakes."

AND NOW, ON WITH THE STORY!

Chapter Five: In Which There Are No Pancakes

Pancakes.

Huh.

He'd heard it called an awful lot of things in his long existence, but that was a new one.

Losing his floating intangibility, he thumped down on the bed and sprawled out over most of it, leaving Lydia her small slice. Her deep, rhythmic breathing didn't falter – she was out for the count (the living sure did need to sleep a lot). There would be no 'pancakes' tonight, but that was ok because his plan was working like a charm.

He hadn't died yesterday – he'd known with every fiber of his deceitful soul that if he'd gone visible and planted one on her that morning she'd have called him names and probably slapped him even if she had just claimed SHE wanted to kiss HIM. Whatta lie that was. It screamed "TRAP!" in flashing neon letters, especially after that stunt she'd pulled with the sheet. What kind of self-respecting woman changed under a bed sheet?! The boring kind, dammit. It had gotten more difficult (extremely hard, if y'know what I mean) to ignore her siren calls as the day wore on. Most of the time he was out and about, picking up odds and ends and getting ready for what was going to be the most romantic, most candle-lit dinner of her entire life. But when he'd pop back in to drop something off, more careful now to do that when she wasn't around, he just couldn't leave without at least seeing what she up to.

And, hot damn, what she was up to! Licking her fingers clean as she ate fruit, her little pink tongue lapping up the juice, wading in the waterfall pool with that damn black sack she was so fond of wearing tucked up around her hips – going skinny dipping! Ok, so he hadn't watched that part, knowing damn well his self-control only went so far. There was just no way he'd be able to keep his hands off Lydia dripping wet, emerging from the cold water like a nymph, her pert…. Here he divulged into the detailed fantasy that had kept him busy for at least…ten minutes earlier that day.

But, tomorrow night would be better than surprising her in the shower or the pool or on the beach or in the kitchen. He was going to sweep her off her feet so high that she'd never come down and it'd be 'pancakes' morning, noon, and night for him! He tucked his wandering hands, creeping unbidden towards her sleeping form, securely in his crossed arms and drifted off for the two or three hours of sleep he indulged in. He'd be gone long before she woke up.

-SCENE BREAK-

Lydia woke up and immediately yawned. Her head was fuzzy with more weird dreams and she'd slept so long she was tired again. There didn't seem to be any reason to get up and face another day of boiling hot boredom, so she turned on her side in preparation of going back to sleep. Something crinkled.

Her eyelids popped back open. She extracted a piece of crumpled paper from where she'd been laying on it. It was a note.

He'd left her a note! That bastard hadn't forgotten about her! Smoothing it out and skimming over the salutation in which he must have used every pet name in existence and then invented a few more, she reached the body which wasn't even half as long:

Wear this for dinner tonight.

Come out to the beach at dusk – until then,

STAY INSIDE.

She blinked. She raised an eyebrow. She frowned. She checked the back of the paper. Nope, that was it. She flopped back on the bed, tossing the note aside. Dinner? He was…asking her out? Without bothering to actually ASK. Why did she have to stay inside? And what did he mean, wear this? She'd only seen the note.

With an indignant huff she sat back up and began to poke around. There was nothing under the pillows, she hadn't bothered making the bed so there was no comforter for anything to hide under, but leaning over the side she saw a gift-wrapped box that must have fallen off. Warily picking it up by the squashed bow she set it down on the bed.

Sitting cross-legged, with her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists, she stared at it. The present was about the size of a large shoe box. It wasn't very heavy. The wrapping paper was shiny and black. The ribbon was shiny and silver. Not at all what, if she'd thought about it, she would have expected from him – which was that, if it was wrapped at all, it would be in newspaper or something and held together by massive wads of tape. Frankly, it looked like it came from a department store – it had that too-neat, too-perfect polish. She'd never seen any place that had black paper, though. Or that didn't put the name of the store on everything.

Did she really want to know what Beetlejuice thought was appropriate evening wear? (Visions of increasingly tiny, blindingly rainbow-hued cocktail dresses danced through her mind before she had the disconcerting notion pop in that he might think lingerie was ok.)

Hell yes, she wanted to know!

Her deft fingers stripped off the ribbon and the paper, taking care not to damage either because she wanted to save them. The wrapping was worth keeping even if the actual present turned out to be horrible.

She bit her lip as she lifted the black cardboard lid, her breath quickening. Wincing in anticipation of garish color as she peeled back the black tissue paper, her eyes widened upon seeing the dark contents of the box. Lifting out the folded garment on top, it was revealed to be a long dress made of the finest, flimsiest lace of a winding, fractal cobweb pattern that hurt the eyes when you examined it too closely. It was like holding a puff of air.

It would have taken a much stronger will than Lydia's to resist trying it on. Ascetics who had been voluntarily living in the desert and eating lizards and who disdained all earthly comforts would have tried that dress on. And then they would have twirled around, in exactly the same way Lydia was, delighting in the way the feather light fabric floated and swirled where the skirt of the dress flared out from the hips and where the sleeves belled into a draping sweep.

It fit like a dream – or a nightmare, the kind where you realize that everyone is pointing and staring at you because you're naked. The dress was gorgeous – and completely transparent. Reluctantly, she took it off and dragged her old nightgown back on over her head. After the gossamer lace the soft cotton was like sandpaper. She didn't even have something that she could layer under it.

Heaving a disappointed sigh as she reverently laid the indecent dress out, she turned back to the box. There was a pair of strappy black sandals with impossibly high heels tucked away. And as she pulled out all the tissue she found a bundle of fabric no bigger than her fist that had slithered under everything. Lifting it out, it unraveled into a long black silk slip and her eyes prickled with tears. Until she noticed that this, too, was somewhat see-through.

Gritting her teeth, she carefully put the slip down next to the dress. It was too nice to twist into knots while she imagined throttling a perverted poltergeist. She had half a mind to stomp straight out there (because he wanted her to stay inside, which meant he didn't want her to see something outside, which meant he was probably setting something up, which meant he was out there) and, well…yell at him a lot.

Her feet had, in fact, already taken her through the living room and she wavered indecisively in the doorway. It was nearly noon and the sun was blazing down on the white sand and heat waves distorted the weaving tide lines. The other half of her mind sensibly said that staying inside meant giving her sun burn a chance to recover before she turned as red as a lobster. It also pointed out that yelling at him made him leave her alone, which was all very well and good, but she didn't want to be left alone HERE on this godforsaken island with nothing more interesting than tropical fish to stare at. And she'd never been terribly intrigued by tropical fish.

She had nothing to lose by doing what he said this time, and with the reassurance that she could find him if she wanted to, she didn't really want to go confront him right now. Especially not in her pajamas with bed hair and a sun burn.

Backing away from the sun and the sand and the waves, she turned and went to the kitchen, shooting a longing glance at the dress laid out looking so deceptively innocent as she passed by the bedroom beaded curtain.