DISCLAIMER: [insert standard fanfiction disclaimer here]

A/N: I can apologize all I want, it won't change the fact it took me a damn long time to write this…but I wrote it! No matter how hard it was to keep going, when at times I could only write maybe one sentence a day that didn't suck monkies. This is for all my readers, and especially my best friend whom I force to beta my work. So feel special! At least it's extra long. Oh, and the thing about chicken noodle soup? Totally true in the middle ages.

PREVIOUSLY:

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.

AND NOW, ON WITH THE STORY!

Chapter Six: The Date

Against her better judgment, Lydia was wearing the dress. The strappy shoes, however, were another story (in which the heroine twists her ankle). So when the sun sank below the horizon she set out barefoot, cleaned up as best she could with water and fingers for a comb. She'd tucked a purple peony over her ear because…well, you only got one chance at having your first date ever. Even if it didn't count because he was an absolute jerk (and dead).

There was a trail of rose petals leading around back, black and soft as sin as she dared to walk on them. It ended as she rounded the corner of the shack, where she paused, shocked by the complete transformation of barren sand and ramshackle wall into a little Italian outdoor café, lit with fairy lights and candles. It was as if someone had ripped a chunk out of Rome and transplanted it, street, façade, and all.

Stepping cautiously onto the cobblestones, she was greeted by a tall, thin waiter with a penciled on mustache, his eyes darting back and forth, wide and disbelieving. He gabbled at her in what she presumed was also Italian, but it was clear enough that she was supposed to allow him to seat her at one of the charming little tables. He pulled out the chair for her and was about place a napkin on her lap when it was snatched away.

"Watch the hands, garcon – that's my wife!" And then Beetlejuice proceeded to lay out the napkin, being very careful to smooth it down and feel up her thighs.

Scowling, she slapped his hands away. For a second there, she had thought she might, maybe, a tiny bit, end up enjoying her date. But no.

He retreated as far as the other side of the table, where he sat and immediately latched onto her hands, pulling her forward over the table ostensibly so they could gaze into each other's eyes. He didn't bother with a napkin.

The waiter hovered uncertainly in the background, toying with a pad and pencil.

"Beetlejuice," Lydia gritted out, unsuccessfully trying to disengage their hands.

"Yes, my lovely, luscious schnookums? And, if I do say so myself, that dress makes your ass look fan-fu-"

"Beetlejuice!" She gave up trying to free herself and settled for kicking his shin while regretting not wearing the shoes, if only so she could have stomped on his feet with the very high heels.

He seemed to think that meant she wanted to play footsie. "Say my name again, ya know I love it! It's got no power over me, and all thanks to you, honey. Go on, say it!" He grinned fiendishly, his eyes glittering with some kind of greed.

She squeezed her knees together to prevent his suddenly bare foot from going any higher, the combination of his callused sole scratching along her skin and the soft tickling of what had to be mold making her shiver. But she wouldn't say it because it pleased him, even if his own name was the best curse word coming to mind right now.

The sound of a violin began drifting through the air, and a swarthy Romany in brightly embroidered finery with a gold hoop in his ear strolled out playing to serenade them. He, also, looked somewhat confused as to what he was doing there, but shrugged and lost himself in the music.

"This kidnapping spree of yours has got to stop!" Lydia was unsure if three people constituted a spree, but liked the sound of it.

"But, sweetie, I haven't kidnapped any –"

"And don't you 'sweetie' me! Put everyone back where you found them. Including me! I want to go home!" As she shouted rather petulantly at him, she realized it wasn't even true. At least, about wanting to go home. If yanking somebody away from everything they knew without even asking first wasn't kidnapping, she didn't know what was. But for all that, she didn't particularly want to go back. Back meant starting a new school and dealing with reality and parents (of which she seemed to have managed to acquire two more). She missed them, sure, but in a way it was easier to miss them than actually have to deal with them.

He'd finally let go and she'd lunged out of her chair in the passion of the moment, but she was too surprised to fight when red silk scarves appeared, as sinuous as snakes, and yanked her back down before trussing her up like a turkey. Her heart pounded in her throat. Looking anywhere but at Beetlejuice, her eyes lit on the waiter and the fiddler. "Help me! This guy's a psycho who kidnapped me! And you. He kidnapped you too!" She knew the words didn't mean anything to them, and what could they do anyway, but damn it she had to try! She tugged on her restraints, nearly tipping over.

"Pookie. Muffin. Cupcake. Angel-puss." Beetlejuice steepled his fingers together, putting on an absurdly serious expression.

"Angel-p…?" Her brow crumpled in disgusted confusion. How could that be angelic?

He placed a grimy finger over her lips. "Shh, shh. Ever hear the phrase, 'pass day-vant lay dome's ticks'?" A beret perched jauntily on top of his out of control hair, and his suit had changed into dark pants and a horizontally striped shirt, with a short red scarf tied around his neck. He twirled a little mustache with his free hand and laughed. "Onhonhon!"

She immediately threw off his finger by ducking her head, keeping her mouth firmly shut until she managed to wipe it off on her shoulder. She sputtered a while before she spit out, "What's that supposed to mean? Is that some kind of French?"

But he was already off and chatting in a low voice (was that English either?) to those two oblivious idiots who didn't even seem to realize anything was abnormal. He had his arms around their shoulders (much to their distaste) and was leading them a little distance away and…was he tipping them?! And then they disappeared, and she was alone once more with Beetlejuice.

Well, that meant he was listening to her, right? Sort of.

-SCENE BREAK-

Elsewhere in Rome, Gianni found himself standing in a crater where the café he worked at should have been. There was some kind of gypsy a few feet away, and he didn't remember anything much since that weird guy with greenish blonde hair had swept into the kitchen and refused to get out until the owner Carlotta agreed to let him rent the whole place for a date.

There was a wad of cash in his hand and if he concentrated really hard he could almost remember that same weird guy way too close and smelling like flooding catacombs and looking like he'd crawled out of one shoving it at him under some palm trees, and there was moonlit sand and a girl who looked way too young to be that guy's wife like he said and dio santo! This just wasn't happening!

The gypsy clapped him on the shoulder and offered him a smoke, and as he leaned against one of the exposed pipes that occasionally spurted water like a giant, careless invisible thumb was holding the broken top shut, he tried desperately not to think any more. The cash in any case went into his pocket, which he made sure to watch carefully around a gypsy's light fingers.

There must have been some kind of…gas leak, or something, hallucination-inducing gas that blew up the café and was it safe to be smoking? Eh. He hadn't blown up yet.

-SCENE BREAK-

She made a pretty picture from way over here, where he'd booted those two useless schmucks outta his island. All pale skin and lace and tight red scarves highlighting her slight curves. He swiped a hand over his stubble and stared at her until she squirmed.

The plan had gone to shit practically the second she showed up. How did she keep doing this to him? He was gonna wait to show himself and make the jewelry box appear on her place setting to soften her up a little first, then in a completely suave and debonair fashion he was gonna appear with some more flowers, which she'd see before him and go 'ooo' and she'd want him so bad but he'd make her wait until dessert.

Then that lousy waiter just had to go and violate her personal space, and dammit, that was his prerogative! Then the romantic music had backfired – that damn gypsy had no sense 'a timing.

"Y'know, if ya want ta have me all ta yourself, all ya gotta do is ask," he finally said, tossing off a devil-may-care grin.

She pulled in a deep breath, getting ready to yell at him…. Any minute now, she'd let him have it again. Any minute. But the seconds ticked by and she didn't, her cheeks puffed out and her face scrunched up like she couldn't even wrap her pretty little head around the enormity of what he'd done wrong. Then she let all that air out in a long sigh and wriggled around so her back was facing him. And it took him minute to recover from the wriggling before he realized what she was doing now.

She was ignoring him! No. Uh-uh. This could not be allowed to continue. He started forward. It was time to bring out the Big Guns. He might even have to say…It. His stride faltered. Was he really going to go through with this?

One look at Lydia decided it. Yes. He was going to do anything it took to do his wife.

He ripped off the beret and tossed it aside. Marching to her side, he fell gracelessly to his knees and spun the chair around so they were face to face. She turned the other way, he grabbed her knees and rotated her back. Struggling against her bonds, she stubbornly glared at a point about a foot above and two to the left of his ear.

"Lydia-baby," he said, voice thick. His thumbs drifted over her knees as he concentrated on sounding good and sorry. They were pretty damn sexy knees.

She stiffened and her eyes flickered in his direction.

Yes! He knew she couldn't stay mad at him. He was the most eligible bachelor since Valentino crossed over, and only the fact that he was all hitched up and saving all his loving for Lydia now changed that. "I know I ain't been the kinda man ya want me ta be, but I can change! Just gimme a chance!"

"I was beginning to think you didn't even know my name," she said frostily, face still averted.

"What? Honey, of course I know your name! Got it written on my heart, see?" He pulled down the neck of his striped shirt to thump the grimy, arrow-struck heart tattoo a little to the right of his sternum, emblazoned with a banner reading 'Lydia.'

She tried to sneak a look, but he caught her at it and returned the favor ten-fold. Her breath caught but she huffed and tilted her head to stare at the stars, pink dusting her cheeks. "Since you know it, use it! Quit calling me ridiculous things!"

"Hell, Lyds, okay, alright?" He threw his hands up. Crazy broad! He was trying to be sweet to her, and all she did was throw it back in his face!

"That's better. I guess," she muttered.

It was now or never. He had to strike fast while she in a good mood (relatively speaking)! "I got you a little something…." He pulled up a bouquet, only to frown in dismayed surprise at it. The flowers had come out kind of twisted, just like his whole goddamn plan had bent out of shape for her. The red roses were dead and dry and blackened. Great.

Her eyes lit up and she actually sort of smiled.

Great! Yeah, he'd done that on purpose. He knew she liked that dark shit.

Her hands twitched towards the bouquet but couldn't move far. Then she gave an exasperated huff and said, "Do you mind?" She thrust her chest out and nodded towards it meaningfully.

No, he didn't mind, not at all, he'd be happy to oblige…then he realized, a hand halfway to its target, that she was probably talking about the scarves he'd tied her up with to keep her from causing a scene (he had a reputation as a ladies' man to uphold, here). In retrospect…yes, that had probably been his best idea ever. She was much more agreeable this way, all wrapped up in red like a present. His hand changed direction completely unnoticeably (she noticed) to pull on the red silk bindings. They fell off into nothing and he took a moment of silence to mourn their passing. Maybe she'd agree to let him tie her up again later…

-SCENE BREAK-

Shaking off the last wisps of her restraints, Lydia eagerly reached for the dead roses. The stems crackled under her fingers as she carefully brought them to her nose, smelling the delicate, dusty musk that still clung to the petals. She smiled up at him bent over the flowers and said, "They're lovely." But the breath of her voice was too much for them, and half the petals blew free. Her little gasp of dismay scattered the rest.

"I'll get ya some more," Beetlejuice hurriedly said. "Armfuls. So many you'll need four sets of arms! I'll-"

She laughed and set the stems on the table, brushing off her dress. "Are you planning on giving me four sets of arms, too? Or are you just going to bury me in a mound of roses?"

He set back a little and pursed his lips. He coughed into his fist, as if to clear his throat, followed up by terrible wet hacking noises. "Ahem. Nah. I'm not going to bury ya. Anyway, I got ya something else, too." He reached for something at his side that wasn't there, and frantically patted his sides for a minute until his face cleared and he snapped his fingers, suddenly wearing his suit coat again. He pulled a large jewelry box out of one pocket a corner at a time until it popped out of the smaller opening.

Lydia took it with some trepidation. Half-expecting some Mardi Gras beads and a request that she flash him, and half-hoping for something that matched the dress, she cracked it open. The rusty hinges groaned.

She blinked. It was a necklace. Or neck armor. One of the two. Huge gold links were studded with brown to orange gems, topaz maybe, with a gigantic centerpiece of amber. There was a big, hairy, tiger-striped spider caught inside the stone.

Well, it had a spider in it? That was – interesting. She had to forcefully stop her brain from injecting 'gaudy gaudy gaudy godawful gaudy' into everything she thought about it. "It's nice," she finally said, looking up at him.

"Nice?" he parroted, as if uncomprehendingly. "Nice?"

Whoops. It was probably godawful expensive, too. Tackiness knew no price range. She was about to try to make it up to him, when she wondered why she was bothering. For that matter, why was he bothering?

She stared down at the necklace, frowning. Lydia had a lot of practice accepting expensive, poorly thought out gifts, for instance when her dad promised to come see her photography displayed in a school art show but never made it because of work. That reason alone had netted her terrible French perfume, a tennis bracelet, horse-riding lessons, and a fluffy pink dress two sizes too large. Her father tried. She knew he picked out all the gifts himself, and never just gave her gift cards (which would arguably be more useful). He really, really tried.

She shut the lid and firmly said, "It's nice." She looked up again, prepared to deal with any fallout. Only, there wasn't any. Beetlejuice looked sort…bemused, if anything. "I like the spider," she tried.

"O-kay," he said.

They sat there for a moment.

"Aren't your knees going numb, kneeling on the floor like that?"

"Nope! Ghost, remember?"

How could she forget? His green eyes literally glowed in the dark. "Sit on a chair anyway, would you?" She wanted to add, and stop looking at me like that, but she felt reluctant to break the sort of unspoken truce they'd reached, wherein she didn't shout and call him names, and he didn't abandon her for days or tie her up.

"Whatever." He sat on his chair.

Her stomach gurgled emptily. "Are we actually going to eat dinner? 'Cause you kind of got rid of the waiter."

"That's right!" He slapped his thigh. "You bet I did, that no good…" He trailed off muttering about 'trying to lay hands on MY wife' and 'lucky to have all his limbs'. "Don't need that jerkwad, anyway. I already told the cook to prepare a very special menu."

She raised an eyebrow. "Then why…?"

"For the ambiance! Ya think you'd appreciate it more, being a chick." He saw her eyebrow and raised her a sardonic stare.

"Don't be a sexist pig," she retorted dryly.

"Hey, I just call it like I see it. Can't fault me for having a goddamned opinion."

"Can too. But how is this 'very special menu' supposed to get from there to here?" She pointed out these important things in her most ennui-filled voice. It had never failed in annoying those whom she used it on. If he wasn't going to abide by the unspoken rules of their unspoken truce, neither was she.

"Why don't you put that sass-talking mouth of yours to better use?" He leered at her.

She gasped. "You-!"

"Grub's up." He nodded down at the table, where there were now two bowls of chicken noodle soup, and grinned. "What did you think I was talking about? Although it's not grubs, it'll warm you up if you catch my drift," he said, eyebrows waggling.

"It's soup," she said flatly.

He grabbed his spoon and started slurping it down, smacking his lips and making appreciative noises. "Yeah, and? Are you going to eat or not?" He stopped spooning it up for a second to point the spoon at her bowl.

After a moment, she picked up her spoon and started eating in a manner that might horrify teachers of etiquette but otherwise was the very picture of demure manners, at least compared to him. "It's just, the way you were talking I expected oysters or something."

He made a questioning noise, his mouth full of noodles.

"Like an aphrodisiac?"

He gulped down the noodles and said, "Whaddaya talking about – chicken noodle soup is one a those!"

She dropped her spoon. "Are you serious? You've gotta be kidding me! In what freaking century?"

"I guess it would've been around the…15th? 16th? Or something like that." He scratched his stubble thoughtfully then went back to draining his soup bowl.

"Oh." She shrugged and picked up her bowl and drank the broth (but daintily!). It was good. Especially after nothing but fruit for two days. But now she was curious about what other weird facts might be haphazardly stuffed in her companion's brain, in the tiny nooks and crannies between all the porn.

Then there was pasta and wine, and veal and wine, and more terrible table manners. Dessert was chocolate fondue – and wine. Lydia had just the one strawberry which she kept licking the chocolate off of (she was pretty sick of fruit), but Beetlejuice really didn't seem to mind. There was conversation and laughter, as she asked him about the places he'd been and the people he'd terrified and he told her outrageous stories. And there was the wine, which Lydia had no qualms about drinking (even though she was underage) for several reasons (ridiculous reasons, but reasons). She never got to at home, and the more she drank, the less repulsive Beetlejuice seemed. At the moment, he was verging on 'average,' which was had taken nearly a whole bottle to herself.

But, in the end, the drink and the late hour overcame her. She nodded off with her chin propped up on her fist, listening to a tall tale about impersonating a bishop to foil the exorcism of a haunted outhouse. A bit of chocolate was smeared on her chin.