DISCLAIMER: Right, I don't make any money from this, I do it for the lulz. I don't own them, I'm just playing with them for a while.

A/N: I had some writer's block. I guess I got over it. To those who reviewed, you know who you are ;D, this chapter would probably not exist if it wasn't for your encouragement!

PREVIOUSLY:

The door was slamming behind them before he could type a reply. Picking up the contract left behind on his desk, he read the penalty clause again and made the strangled noise that passed for chuckling for him. He tucked the paper safely away so he could take it out and read it for laughter therapy whenever he had to deal with that poltergeist again. If anyone was going to be wearing the pants in that relationship, it wasn't going to be Beetlejuice. Despite the fact that he was the one actually wearing pants.

--SCENE BREAK--

And then they were out another door into a linoleum-tiled corridor the likes of which are seen in institutions the world over and even under, where Beetlejuice finally slowed to a saunter. Catching her breath, Lydia wondered why it felt like she was forgetting something.

AND NOW, ON WITH THE STORY!

Chapter Three: In Which There Is A Very Long Corridor

As they strolled along, he started whistling and swinging their conjoined hands back and forth. Maybe that was what she had momentarily forgotten? She contemplated trying to break his clammy clasp, but decided it wasn't worth the bother. Soap was invented for a reason. It was just her hand, after all.

After five minutes of walking down the never-ending corridor of endless doors of all descriptions, the whistling had gone from 'passable' to 'irritating' and she was heartily regretting her decision.

"Why aren't we there yet?"

He stopped whistling. "Huh? You say somethin'?"

She silently thanked whatever powers might control Beetlejuice for the end of 'The Song that Never Ends.' "I mean, why are we walking there?"

"I didn't think you had the hang of floating yet, babes. But, hell, if you insist!" His next step was taken into the air, the next was faster, then he was taking a running leap and they were zooming down the corridor. A scream caught in her throat, she was dangling by the one hand with her dress flapping behind like a banner. His grin grew to insane proportions in a parody of g-force, while she barely caught her veil as it flew off.

"This isn't what I meant, either!" she eventually managed to gasp out.

"Whaaaaat?" he shouted back. "I can't hear ya!"

She took as deep a breath as she could and belted, "Just stop for a minute, will you?" They whipped past some innocent bystanders, scattering paperwork and leaving wind-tunnel hair in their wake.

"Louder! I still can't hear ya!"

"STOOOOOOOOOOOP!" She collided with his stock still form blocking the corridor, sending them both crashing to the linoleum. "Oof!"

A few of the doors were opening and curious heads were peeking out, but when they saw who was out there they quickly retreated. Some locked their doors.

He was smirking at her. "Y'know, ya want a piece of me all ya gotta do is ask." He ran his hands over her thighs where she was straddling him, bunching up her skirt as he went.

She huffed and struggled to her feet, and if she accidentally-on-purpose stomped on him on the way up, well…he deserved it.

"Argh!"

She pulled her zombie bridal gown straight and smoothed it down, inwardly approving of the wear and tear that was beginning to make it look really authentic, although it was apparently good enough to fool a certain ghost with the most in the first place. In fact, she wondered a little bit about that – but if it gave her the opportunity to lay down a few stipulations in their marriage vows, she wasn't complaining. If it got her out of marrying him at all, she might frame it and hang it on her wall. It could be that he simply doesn't pay attention to anything that doesn't start with a T or an A.

He was still groaning in pain, curled up on the floor.

Daintily lifting her hem, she nudged him with a pointy, high heel toe. "Come on, get up. I think you're overreacting."

"I think you broke something," he whimpered in a way that someone who has only heard whimpering described before might whimper. In other words, he merely sounded sort of whiny and completely unbelievable.

"I did not!"

"You stabbed me with your shoe!" He uncurled enough to dramatically fling his arms to the side in order to reveal a gaping wound remarkably like the one painted on her dress, much too big to have been hidden behind his hands. He stared at her expectantly.

She was clearly unimpressed. "You can't really expect me to believe my shoe did that. Look, it doesn't even have any blood on it." She showed him the heel, which had mysteriously developed a case of dripping with blood in the last five seconds. She frowned and tried to shake the excess red off.

He smirked, but when her gaze lanced over he clutched at the wound and groaned, trying to look pitiful. "Oh, I'm dyin' here!" He stopped to think for a second – that had to be one of his worst lies ever. "…Again!"

"Stop being so ridiculous. You're a ghost, you can't die again. I bet it doesn't even hurt." Having said this, she leant down and poked it, expecting a workup as superficial as her own faux gory hole.

Imagine her surprise when her whole arm fell through with a squish.

"OHMIGOD! Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!" She fell to her knees and tried to gently extricate her arm from his stomach, but her hand slipped on the wet linoleum under him and she had to stop, fearful of hurting him. Her eyes flew to his. He was shaking! Was that real pain in his eyes? "Bee-" She barely stopped herself from saying his name. Who knows what would happen if he was put Back in this condition! "Beej, talk to me! What can I do?!"

"There's only one thing that you can do…" he said weakly, a muscle in his jaw spasming.

She leaned in closer as he trailed off. "What? What is it?"

"You can kiss it better!" He squeezed his eyes closed and puckered up.

Staring at the moss-encrusted lips he fully expected her to kiss, she steeled her nerves, took a deep breath…and actually thought about what she was doing. She sat back on her heels, nonplussed. That wasn't pain in his eyes. He was not shaking in shock, but in laughter. He was a poltergeist that did not need to use any internal organs he might possess. But she was going to find some way of killing him. Again.

"You jerk!" She ripped her arm free of the squelchy mess and scrambled to her feet, fighting down nausea but determined to stomp on him even harder than before. "You're such a jackass!"

Correctly inferring from the tone of her voice that she was not going to be complying with his simple request, he hurriedly opened his eyes and managed to roll out of the way just in time to avoid her descending high heel. "Hey!" He leapt up, before she could try again.

"I actually thought for one minute that you were – I don't know what!" She really wanted to throw something at him, but doubted the veil she was clutching in a white-knuckled grip would make the sort of impression she wanted.

"That was stupid," he said.

She lifted haunted eyes from contemplating her veil and asked, "Can't you stop being an asshole for five minutes?" Then she calmly bent down and took off her shoes.

Some instinct for self-preservation arose, long dormant and unused in his existence as a ghost because there were so few things that could actually harm him, which made him think twice about replying with a flippant no. At a loss, he said, "No?"

She chucked a blue, spiky high heel at his head.

He ducked, cursing. It was obviously not a very good self-preservation instinct, seeing as he was dead as a doornail.

"Stand still, damn it!" She threw the other heel at him. It clonked him square in the forehead, leaving a neat shoe print.

"What the fuck-!" He rubbed at the marks. They did not go away, and were in fact bruising.

Bereft of high heeled ammunition, but still in the grip of rage, she threw her veil at him too. As she watched the veil she had borrowed from Barbara flutter halfway towards him and then land in the puddle of blood, she wished she hadn't.

Beetlejuice's rotten self-preservation instinct, sensing a reprieve, urged him to – say something? Fix it? Do the hula? Figuring anything had to be better than what he thought she'd do next (which was to animate her shoes to hit him over and over, and by the way she was staring fixedly she wasn't far off from figuring out how), he got rid of all the blood and the wound he'd juiced. "Look, I'm cured, it's a goddamned miracle."

She examined her arm, her sleeve as white as if it was never stuck in anybody's stomach, though the cuff was tattered.

"Lyds?" The veil floated into his hands, drifting through the air like a pale, unblemished phantom. He cautiously advanced and plopped it on her head. Suddenly she was sporting the same riotous updo he'd stuck her in four years ago. She didn't know where he'd learned about ratting, but if she ever found out there would be well-deserved bloodshed.

She pressed her lips together. "The last time you did my hair I was picking tangles out for weeks. You'd better not have just tied all my hair in knots."

"Ahaha…would I do that?" Her riotous hair fell into her normal softer, but still wild, style. "Seriously, babes, you wound me. Heh. Get it? Wound me?" Cackling, he pointed to the hole in his suit which he had forgotten to fix, through which molding fish belly white skin flashed the universe.

Gritting her teeth and casting about for the remains of her anger to throw at him and coming up nearly empty-handed, she said, "Yeah, I get it. Hilarious. Now shut up about it and fix your shirt already." She just didn't have the resources to be mad at him ALL THE TIME. Her own biology was conspiring against her, running out of adrenaline and other vital anger ingredients. She envied him for a moment for not having any stupid biology, being dead and all, as he smoothed down his suit and it was like new (that is to say, like he'd been buried in it, not ripped but certainly wrinkled and in need of a wash or three). If she had ghostly powers, he'd be in a world of trouble!

Her shoes nudged her feet. He was looking at her as if he expected her to yell at him for fetching them, too. She contemplated it, if only because it was still easier than thanking him for anything. In the end she just stepped into her high heels, holding her train out of the way.

"You know, you can still change your mind," she said, and whether it was more to him or to herself, she didn't know.

"Nah, babes." He grinned, latching onto her waist. It wasn't everyday that a hot chick demanded he marry her before they got to it – in fact, that had never happened before. (Before threatening Lydia as a giant snake, he'd given little thought to marriage, despite the interesting benefits to marrying the living. He just wasn't the kinda guy who settled down, and it's a damn sight easier to get schmucks to say a name three times than 'I do.') The throwing stuff at him part, though, that had happened more than he liked to admit over the centuries. "I like a good scare!" And he didn't want to be pummeled with shoes for breaking up with her – he didn't trust this strangely accepting mood she'd fallen into.

His hand started creeping down and she sighed, grabbing on and holding it out of sheer self-defense. "You just don't quit, do you."

He laughed and stole a kiss, his tongue darting in for a taste before she could even blink and then gone. She hadn't had time to feel much of anything in the second or two it took, but afterwards her lips tingled like a limb that had fallen asleep. She bit her lower lip, chewing on it. Was it supposed to be like that?

"So, um…how far's this marriage counselor, anyway?" She started walking again to get some distance, but he wasn't moving and she had to turn and take a step backwards because he wouldn't let go of her hand. She finally looked up again and he was just as irritatingly smug as she'd thought he would be.

"We're there, babes. Didn't you notice the fucking huge sign? It's kind of hard to miss." He forked his thumb at a pair of institutional doors with a metal sign overhead that read, 'Department of Marital Relations,' in letters a foot high.

"That's not suggestive at all, is it?" she remarked.

He snorted, reeling her back in by the arm. "I could suggest some…marital relations to ya…."

Before he could wrap himself around her again, though, she twined her fingers through his and stationed their joined hands at her side. Merely so that he could not grope her anymore, and not at all because she liked holding his clammy, fuzzy with mold, hand. Because she didn't. The deceptive strength of his grip was in no way reassuring in the sterile confines of the otherworldly bureaucracy, where a pervasive, numbing malaise was soaking into her bones. It was no place for the living.

He was pulling on the push handle of the door when she remembered what she had wanted to ask in the first place. "Hey."

"Goddamned doors – this is bullshit! They can't ban me from an entire fuckin' division-"

She squeezed his hand. "Hey!"

"What?!" He let go of the push bar with one final yank that bent it with a groan of tortured metal.

She dug her nails in his palm, narrowing her eyes at him as he winced. "You're supposed to push, moron."

"I knew that." He straightened his tie, rolling his shoulders while he surreptitiously tried to free his hand.

She held on tighter. "Anyway. Why did we have to take the long way when you can just open a door and make it go where you want?"

"This here's a government building. Ya think the administrative assholes would make it that easy to get around?" He gave up on tugging his hand free and shoved their joined hands in his pocket.

Unidentifiable squirming things made her let go and her hand beat a hasty retreat. "EW!" She shook her hand frantically but the little snake that had hitched a ride on her clung like a vine. "Get it off!"

"It's JUST a garden snake. It ain't gonna hurt ya none." He did not lift a finger to help her, as that would mean removing his hands from his pockets to where she might grab one again. Her girly nails were sharp. But he did add, "Moron."

"I hate snakes!" She attempted to pry the slender creature off while touching it as little as possible. It was dry and smooth and the skin gave until she could feel the pencil-thin ribcage wriggling. "Mice, rats, moths, bats, spiders…I like them! Why did it have to be a snake?!"

Now he was just plain offended. "I was a snake when you met me!"

"Yeah, and I hated you then, too. It was not what I'd call 'meeting'!" The green menace gave up on being her bracelet and slithered up her sleeve and down her bra, where it curled up and made itself at home, making her flesh crawl. She poked at it insistently but it wasn't budging, and there was no way to move the interloper without removing the lace that was obscuring her décolleté.

"Looks like ya've got a problem there, babes. I wouldn't be much of a gentleman, if I didn't help my gorgeous fiancée out, now, would I?" His grin was so wide, she could've sworn he had more teeth than nature gave man.

"If only I had known at the tender age of fifteen that the barest hint of possibly getting to touch my breasts would make you so helpful, I would have bargained more instead of agreeing to your first damned demand." As unappealing as the notion of partially undressing in front of Beetlejuice was, she wasn't quite sure which slithery fiend was worse – the one already in her underwear, or the one that wanted to get in her underwear.

"Oh ho, is that so?" Impossibly, the grin grew wider and more teeth appeared. "Well, maybe I want to actually get a lil' somthin' for my trouble this time, ya know what I mean?" He waggled his crazy eyebrows.

"Don't push your luck – I'm honoring that deal, even if it is four years later, you opportunistic ass. You can keep your trouble to yourself, as far as I'm concerned." The garden snake twitched its tail and settled deeper, making up her mind as she shuddered at the unpleasantly cool tickle. Screw the slightly taller bastard, the little one had to go! She backed out of range and reached for the zipper hidden behind the faux buttons at the mandarin collar.

"Sure 'bout that, babes?" He flipped out a switchblade, monogrammed and inlaid with black and white striped mother of pearl.

Her brow furrowed. "The hell?"

"Cut a hole," he gestured at the collar of her dress with the knife while she leaned away instinctively, "and ya don't gotta take it all off. But if ya really wanna, don't mind me. I'll just kick back and enjoy the free show." He held out the handle to her, smirking.

She put out her hand to take it but he snatched it back out of reach. Her tentative smile flatlined.

"Ah-ah! What'll ya gimme for it? I got a few ideas if ya can't think of anything…." His eyes traced a lecherous path over her figure, lingering on her chest.

Her fists clenched. Reasoning with him got nowhere fast. The snake in her bra hissed, jostled by her strident breaths. "Hm." She put on the innocently thoughtful expression which had fooled many an authority figure and tapped a finger against her mouth, circling behind him. He started to turn, watching her skeptically but stilled as she trailed her fingers over his shoulders and stood close enough behind him to lean in a little and whisper in his ear, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stagnant water and cigarette. "How about," her fingers walked down his chest to where he was clutching the switchblade slackly, "nothing?" She tugged the blade free, dancing away.

By the time he snapped his hanging jaw shut and turned around scowling, it was done. In fact, his jaw dropped back open. Lydia'd just plucked the lace away from her skin and started sawing delicately when the aging material had ripped off, leaving a hanky sized hole that revealed the plunging neckline of the bustier underneath. Eying the snippet of fabric dispassionately, she used it to scoop out the garden snake and bundle it up unhappily in one efficient move. Finally, she could breathe easy.

Or not. There were other things to consider.

Meanwhile, Beetlejuice had sidled up to her, and now he plucked the fabric wrapped snake and his switchblade out of her grasp, flipping the knife shut, and pocketed both. Damn, he knew a hole big enough to fit a hand through would be big enough to peek, but damn!

"I was going to sew that back on," she pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest to try and block his view.

"Sew what now?" He craned his neck to the right and continued staring.

"The lace. Back on."

"I have NO idea what you're yammering about, babes," he said airily, patting his pocket contentedly. Yes, he decided, it was much better to be able to look anytime he wanted rather than a one-time thing. "But, y'know, seeing as you did, in fact, use my property in a manner consistent with our deal, vis-à-vis, help for certain rewards…I think ya owe me." He reached for her cleavage.

She shoved his hand away. She hadn't got rid of one intruder in her bra just to gain another! "And I think I offered you nothing."

He grabbed his lapels and rocked back on his heels to pontificate. "However, being that I didn't accept 'nothing' as a counter-offer, I repeat – ya owe me." He made another move for his chosen prize.

Successfully blocking, she refuted his argument, saying, "By that logic, there was no deal because I didn't agree to your proposed bargain in the first place."

"But! Ya proposed a counter-offer, which implies an unspoken agreement. Therefore, ya have to lemme touch 'em!" He threw down his arms in a huff.

"No!"

"Aww, c'mon! Why the hell not?!" He tried to slide his hand in under her arms from the side.

Her elbow put an end to that idea, cutting off entry. "This is a public corridor!"

"So?! Nobody'll bother us! ...Not if they know what's good for 'em." He had the bright idea of putting her in a headlock and had wormed his other hand through her defenses when the door they were fighting in front of opened and an elderly couple came out.

Lydia froze, hunched over protectively under Beetlejuice, who took the opportunity to cup one breast and loosened the headlock to stroke her neck. Lydia mutely bit her lip, yanking on his hand and straightening up.

He said, "Hi. How ya doin'?"

The old woman, wearing a hospital gown draped around her worn, skeletal frame, tittered and hid a smile. The old man looked like he was about to run a marathon except for the purpling of his skin like lividity. He winked at them and said, "Come on dear, let's leave these two kids to themselves." The elderly couple walked off, holding hands and smiling. The old woman sighed something about young love.

"Hey!" Beetlejuice said. "I'm older'n both of ya combined."

Either they didn't hear, or they just laughed it off.

Lydia found her voice. "You…PERVERT! Leering, ANCIENT, grabby, DEMENTED PERVERT!"

He gave one last gentle squeeze and let go, his hand trailing up to her shoulder where he rubbed his thumb over her collarbone. He growled, "Cocktease," in her ear.

She ducked out of the circle of his arms and shoved him as hard as she dared. "Argh!"

Stumbling back a few feet, he went on as if uninterrupted. "Ya can't just offer a guy, y'know an everyday joe like myself, the moon…luminous, full moons," he had his hands cupped in front of him like he was weighing something, "and then tell 'em he can't touch! He only gets ta look at it, so tantalizingly close…it's inhumane!"

"Besides the fact that I didn't offer you ANYTHING, that's what the moon is for! Looking and not touching! If you hadn't noticed, its way far off in the sky!" She just wanted to lay down and beat her forehead on the floor until her brain felt not as broken.

"So it ain't a perfect simile, call it poetic license." He took a drag on a cig that he pulled lit out of nowhere.

She took the cigarette and dropped it on the ground, where she proceeded to viciously grind it under her heel. "That's." Stomp. "A." Stomp. "Metaphor!" Stomp. "And NO smoking." Feeling unutterably drained, she hooked her arm through his to make him support some of her weight and said, "Let's just get this over with."

He quirked a brow at the sad remains of his smoke. "Yes m'm." He saluted, then kicked open the door.

They went through.