AN: Okay, I'm afraid I'm going to offend someone in regards to a little part in this chapter. Look, I take suicide as a serious matter. Which is why the result of Nights' little temper tantrum is what it is. Thanks to Animekitty47 and AceLions for their reviews.

It was a week later, and Nightshade had smashed her head against various hard objects several times. She was convinced those "lovely visions" were the voice's fault.

The poltergeist was currently sitting on Derrick's couch, keeping her mind absolutely empty, since anything seemed to set an image off.

Why are you having such a huge issue with this?

"My is-ew--"

And now you're making fun of the way I talk. Just because you don't talk like a brit anymore, it doesn't mean you can do that.

"Do you want me to explain?"

Yes.

"Then shut up. My problem is I'm twenty-four--"

You're a little older than that, Nights.

"Would you stop?! I'm twenty-four, and he's seventeen. Even when I was alive, that wouldn't've been approved of."

So wait till he's twenty-four, twenty-five, and then marry him.

"Marriage?! I never said anything about marrying him! Where the hell you gettin' yer information?"

I'm your subconscious, Nights. Duh.

Nights opened her mouth to argue, but quickly closed it. She didn't want to marry the guy. Right? No way. She wanted her revenge. Yeah, so marriage was nowhere in the agenda.

Right?

She yelped when a can of Fanta Orange appeared in front of her face. The ghost took the offered soda, and glared at the breather when he sat next to her on the couch.

"What?" he asked, opening his own soda (Sprite, not made from real sprites). "I thought that was your favorite."

"It is," she mumbled, popping the tab, and taking a drink. The soda had quickly become her favorite when Derrick introduced it to her a few days after they met.

"So, doll, my parents are out of town, buying another horse, and they won't be back till tomorrow afternoon. That means, we got the whole house to ourselves. What're we gonna do?"

Nights was about to shrug in reply when an image flashed in her mind, yet again. This one involved finding out just how flexible he could be.

"'Scuse me a moment," she said, setting down her soda, and majiked herself outside. She didn't want him to see her blow her brains out. Since she was dead, it wouldn't cause any permanent damage (it'd probably take an hour or two to heal, though), but it was still messy.

She reached into her pocket, and pulled out an old six-shooter she had "borrowed" a while back. The ghost pointed the gun at her temple, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Confused, Nightshade popped open the chamber.

The voice snickered. You forgot to load it after you used it last.

"No fucking duh!"

Another image flashed, causing even her to blush.

Wrong word choice if you're trying to avoid these fantasies.

"Shut. UP!"

Not wanting another argument, Nightshade teleported back inside. She dropped on the couch, and refused to look at Derrick.

"Want me to brush your hair?" he asked after she was silent for a few minutes.

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll go grab a brush." He stood up, and went upstairs.

Why had she just agreed to that? Why the hell did he ask in the first place?! But it didn't really matter. It had been awhile since anyone had. And she loved when people did it.

When Derrick came back into the living room, he sat in the arm chair, and patted the space in front of him. Nights had always found that chair very odd. It was like the manufacturers were too lazy to make a separate foot stool, so they just put it all together. She walked over and sat in front of him, with her legs crossed.

He pulled the scrunchie out of her hip-length hair, and started running the brush through it.

They were silent for awhile, and it was driving Nights crazy! She wanted to talk, but what was she going to talk about? She wasn't one to fill the silence with idle chatter. She only spoke if there was a point to what she was saying.

Since Derrick wasn't offering anything for her to work off of, she really didn't have any clue what to say.

Then suddenly, "I had two younger sisters. Elizabeth and Estrelda."

"Really?"

"Yup." Then she told him all about her life. From her childhood in London, to her marriage she ran from, to her partnership with William. But she stopped when she got to the part about Blackthorn.

"If'n ya don't mind me askin', how did ya die?" Derrick asked after she had stopped talking.

Well, since he asked . . . .

"We had gotten sloppy," she had slipped into her british accent during her story, "and it cost us. At first I blamed William, because he had wanted to leave that day. I hadn't had time to see much of Lord Blackthorn's estate, so I didn't know what to steal. But the music box his mother had given him looked valuable enough, and I knew exactly where it was. Then I blamed myself, because I had gotten caught. I was stupid, and I didn't shut the door behind me. And I wasn't paying attention. That allowed his servant to come in without me knowing. Blackthorn had us thrown into the river. We drowned."

Derrick had stopped brushing when she had said Blackthorn's name.

"So," he said after a moment. "You're Amelia."

The fact it wasn't a question wasn't lost on her.

"Yes. Well, that was the name I told him. My name's Emily."

She started to panic when he didn't say anything. Nights twisted around to look at him.

"Ace? Please. Please, say something."

"Do you . . . ." He stopped, and Nights held her breath. "Did you sell it?"

She blinked a few times, not understanding. "Sell what?"

"The music box."

She smirked. "Are you kidding? I had been trying to find that thing since I died! It has a place of honor in my Music Box Room. My most prized possession, that one."

He gave her a half smile before his face became serious again.

"Oh, what now, Ace? Do you want me to panic?"

Now he looked confused. "Why are you panicking?"

"Because you seem like you want to hate me for all eternity!"

"What?! No, I don't hate you. I'm just tryin' to figure out if we'd still be friends if my some-odd-great grandfather hadn't killed you. And I'm tryin' to figure out why we're best friends, anyway."

Nights turned around so she was facing him, and she took his hands. "Darlin', I don't blame anyone for my death--now, that took a few hundred years. People die. That's what happens. If I had died some other way, for some other reason, I'm sure we'd still be best friends."

"Ya think so?"

"Dear heart, I know so."

~*~*~*~*~*

It took her a few hours to realize what she had told him, and the significance of it.

Her revenge was quickly unraveling, and if she didn't do anything to stop it, she would be loving him instead of ruining him.

And that scared her more than sandworms.

AN: Well? Is everybody okay? Nights is overreacting to all of this, so yeah.