DISCLAIMER REMIX: 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 give up. Srsly.

AliceWHatter, Hinata245, welcome to the fold! Darbanville, Heidi should be showing up in the next chapter or so ;D badkidoh, the big reveal is also scheduled to happen soon! (when and if the next chapter ever gets written) roolsilver, duct tape is like the force – there's a light side, a dark side, and it holds the universe together. TheBlackxRabbit, I hope your finals go well!

PREVIOUSLY:

"Or," she sat up straight and half turned to look at him, "we could go back to my…um, haunt for a while. I've got a lot of unpacking to do…"

She took his contemplative silence for a 'no' and tried to sweeten the pot. "We could order take-out!"

"You can talk over a phone line?" he asked, a little impressed.

Shit! She'd forgotten about that. Think, think! "Nooo…but you can, right?" She smiled widely and hoped he bought it.

He smirked. "Damn straight! Ghost with the most here, babes! Let's get the hell outta Dodge!"

So they did.

AND NOW, ON WITH THE STORY!

Chapter Six: In Which Not All Her Base Are Belong To Him, And Other Mixed Metaphors

Tossing the magazine on the werewolf's head and throwing Lydia over his shoulder, Beetlejuice kicked off and backstroked to the nearest door, a janitor's closet. Before she had time to protest the hurl-worthy indignity of being treated like a sack, he shoved the door inwards when it was clearly supposed to open outwards and then they were through and he was slamming shut the beige door of her beige dormitory.

The flood of un-air-conditioned August heat prickling over her frozen skin was an exquisite torture. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut as he slid her off his shoulder, letting her body drag down his until her toes brushed the floor and their mouths were level. Without the heels, she was much shorter than him. Where they touched there was no pain, only the numbing chill.

"Alright, Lyds?" he rumbled.

"Yeah." Her head lolled back and she opened her eyes. "I'm great." She smiled punch-drunkenly as she started to shiver again – she hadn't realized when it had stopped, and what a bad sign that was, but now it was back and that meant she would be fine, right? A little longer, though, and he really would have a ghost fiancée stuck in a Halloween costume! She laughed at her own morbid humor, even though it wasn't funny. It was startling to know, deep in her iced over gut, that she had come so close to death and hadn't really noticed until it was nearly too late. Would she have only felt that she was suddenly so much less tired, that the cold wasn't so terrible, when she died and took a step forward, leaving her body behind to fall to the floor? "Did I forget my shoes there?"

"Dunno," he said and shrugged, jostling her against his paunch. Her feet dangled helplessly off the ground, his arm firmly clasping her hips to his with an unreal strength, one hand splayed on her backside. "Ya don't wanna go back now, do ya?"

He moved in to kiss her, but she twisted to look around the room, thankfully still full of all her boxes. She said, "I suppose I can find them when we go back later." If she could go back – that was doubtful at the moment.

His lips hit her jaw line instead of her mouth but he decided to go with it.

"Put me down already so I can find the take-out menus." She shoved weakly at his shoulders. She didn't actually think her legs would support her.

He mumbled around her earlobe, "Howzabout – no." If she thought she was going to wriggle out of this, after being such a fucking tease…she had another thing coming! But she could wriggle her sweet ass all she wanted.

A tendril of warmth uncurled in her beneath the breaking ice as he laid open-mouthed kisses on her neck. When he reached the high collar of her dress and moved away she made a little disappointed noise.

He bent her back, supporting her with a hand between her shoulder blades, and chuckled against her sternum. "Like that, do ya, babes?" His gruff voice vibrated deliciously through her chest.

"Hm…?" As he nuzzled into the cleavage exposed by her torn bodice she realized she was letting him take liberties she would have hit him for not even ten minutes before, and here she was clutching at his shoulders! And she didn't care, not as long as he fed the warmth pooling low in her stomach. A warmth that came with a little voice which said, 'You're not dying of ghostly plane hypothermia anymore! Might as well live a little, wink wink nudge nudge.' She didn't normally listen to that voice, but it seemed to have the right idea at the moment. He didn't have any body heat to share, but there were ways to raise your core temperature…it was for her own health and well-being.

He sat her down on a ledge of nothing, insinuating himself between her knees, the hand on her ass getting in one last squeeze before running down her thigh to start gathering up her skirt. Meanwhile his questing mouth had sought out a nipple and he curled his tongue around the rosy pebble and groaned, making her tremble. She really did have the most perfect breasts he'd ever seen; he'd almost swear they were warm and alive (which reminded him that he was vaguely pissed that she had tried to marry some other guy and gotten killed, but he'd get over it). Then he tugged with his teeth, only enough to make her breath hitch and her hips twitch.

He turned to the other breast to repeat the process, his enjoyment marred (only somewhat) by the fact that her skin had the chill of death on it, and not from his icy touch (if that Maitland bitch hadn't fed him to a sandworm, if he'd managed to finagle his way out of the waiting room early, if he had just BEEN THERE . . .). Okay, so he'd enjoy making time with a living Lydia, that didn't mean his dead Lydia was lacking – because she wasn't. Oh, no, he still wanted her a million ways from Sunday.

As he concentrated on giving her a hickey (lamenting the fact that it wouldn't last very long before the unblemished skin of her last living memory re-asserted itself), sliding his hand lower down her arching back, his fingers encountered a small, ragged indentation. As he absently fingered it, he realized it was the entrance wound to match the bloody splatter on her stomach. And it hit him again, viscerally, that she had been shot in the back while wearing her wedding dress. Lydia. Shot in back. Wedding dress. HIS fiancée. And that…bothered him.

Her eyes fluttered open as he abruptly paused, but when she touched his face inquisitively he gave himself a shake and went back to work with a will, only to stop again a moment later. She groaned at losing the heating caress of his mouth. He suddenly straightened, dragging her upright as she stiffened her arm in surprise and grabbed onto the back of his neck. Quirking an eyebrow and trying not to pant, she asked, "What is it?"

"Who did it?" he demanded.

She frowned, narrowing her eyes. Trying to focus on what he was saying was surprisingly difficult. What the hell was he talking about? "Did what?" she finally asked.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, one hand still holding the edge of her skirt. "Shot you! Killed you! …Tried to marry you."

Her head rattling and the pleasant haze her thoughts had fallen into evaporated, she karate-chopped his elbows and broke his grip.

He let go of her skirt.

"I don't want to talk about it." She could tell him the back story she'd written for her costume, but it would require heavy modification to fit her life, and each detail (to get technical, each lie) which she told him would be one more thing to remember. It was difficult enough keeping ghost can and can not's straight. Also…she would feel bad about it. It wasn't her fault that he'd assumed she was dead, and she hadn't dispelled that particular delusion, but it wasn't quite the same thing as deliberately lying to him.

"But-!" He knew it was probably a painful subject, but he had to know!

"But nothing! Do you see these?" She cupped her own breasts dramatically.

His eyes zeroed in. "Yeah…what's your points – I mean, nipple – I mean point!"

"These will be going away and you won't see them again if you don't drop it!" Part of her, a very small part she reassured herself, was violently protesting the thought of never having that talented mouth finish what it started.

He covered her potent distraction with his hands so he couldn't see, only to realize that wasn't working out so well when he was unable to resist massaging them with his palms. Trying to ignore while at the same time savoring the sensation, he fixed her with a glare. What wasn't she telling him? Why didn't she want to talk about it? A lot of ghosts wouldn't shut up about how they died! "Why are you protecting him? Do you love him?!"

She gaped at Beetlejuice. Honestly, what a time for his one-track mind to skip onto anything but lechery! Where did he come up with this stuff?! Hadn't he ever heard that to assume makes an ass out of 'u,' never mind me?

Fuck. She did, didn't she? He couldn't breathe. He didn't need to breathe, but he usually liked to, in order to smoke or talk or whatever, but he couldn't breathe. He'd find the asshole and get rid of 'em. Permanently. He wasn't a bio-exorcist for nothing.

"Him WHO?" Grabbing Beetlejuice by the shoulders, she tried to shake him, but he was rigidly locked in place.

And suddenly the world was the right way up again and the mysterious constriction around his non-corporeal lungs was gone. Because she obviously didn't love someone else, she couldn't, not with the way she was carrying on. What the hell was wrong with him, cornering the hottest bird he'd ever laid eyes on and then wasting time talking?

He kissed her madly, but she refused to participate no matter how his tongue cajoled hers. But she couldn't budge his crushing embrace as she shoved and struggled. She couldn't even knee him like this. That stupid little voice had terrible ideas. If she'd been in her right mind she would never have encouraged him. She didn't want to marry him! She didn't want anything to do with him! No matter how good he was at kissing. He could just run off with one of those bimbos he'd been 'practicing' with, for all she cared. They could have his moldy ass.

But as his mold tickled her cheek and his chapped lips plied her own, the Everclear taste of him (like nothing so much as spirits that burned enough to freeze) fell on the banked warmth in her belly and ignited, like Everclear does. That stuff's dangerous, you know.

It was easy, far too easy to let him have what he wanted, when being wanted (and she could tell he wanted it so bad) was going straight to her head. This was not casual, 'oh look she has boobs' groping, but a serious study of what made her gasp or tilt her hips or pull his tangled hair. She'd spent her most hormonal teenage years being shunned by boys for being a dark, freaky witch-lookalike, and here was a man who wasn't frightened of that at all. He seemed to like it. For the moment, the fact that he'd probably make out with a real witch, with warts and twenty cats, slipped from her mind.

Then his zealous hands were fondling her knees and he was kneeling before her with her massive skirt bundled out of the way and when had that happened? He was staring at the scrap of white fabric that no one was ever meant to see with something like fanaticism in his flashing green eyes, licking his lips. She snapped her legs shut, catching his nose as he leaned in.

"Goddammit!" He rubbed the injury with a surly indignation at being so, so close…and having her clam up! It was enough to make him tear his hair out!

That was too much! Too far, too fast, what was she thinking?! She pulled her bra back into place, straightening the layers of her dress in an effort to compose herself, looking anywhere but at him.

He let his hands slide down her smooth legs, shaking with the effort of keeping his touch light and unthreatening, and not prying her thighs open and kissing her until she gave in. Making her resent him would hardly get him any in the long run. She didn't kick him off like he feared she would, although her foot twitched as he ran his thumb over her instep. His hand encircled her entire ankle easily – she was small and fragile compared to him. She was just being shy and virginal rather than trying to drive him over the edge, 'round the bend or worse. Although how anyone could resist his good looks was a mystery…

Somewhat surprised to find out that she was sitting in midair (He was such a liar! Have to sit on his lap, did she?), nevertheless she managed to scoot off the invisible ledge and drop to the floor, dislodging his hands from her ticklish feet.

He let her go, plotting and scheming at sweet talking and offers of back rubs to get her to loosen up. Maybe large amounts of alcohol. He rubbed a hand down his face, stretching out his jaw. He cursed himself for giving her any time at all to think, to decide so far and no further. He damned the overwhelming desire to not only touch but see and smell and taste her all over that left her mouth unoccupied and able to say no…not that she actually did. Hm. But the worst part, the absolute kicker, was that now he'd caught a glimpse, he wanted it all so much more! If his balls got any bluer, he…well, he didn't know what would happen, but it was damned uncomfortable!

Going briskly to the desk, she dug around in the top drawer where she'd stuck all the paperwork involved in occupying a dorm, like the room inspection checklist and a packet of rules an inch thick. They'd also given her take-out menus, as if she couldn't be a college student without the number of the local pizza joint. She could feel his gaze like tar pouring over her back and it made her squirmingly uncomfortable.

At last she found what she was looking for and turned around, holding up the assortment of pamphlets as a makeshift shield. He was still kneeling there where she'd left him, not touching the ground, and um…she glossed over a certain portion of his anatomy even though it was hard – difficult! to ignore. And she was looking at him with newly opened eyes. She saw the pallid translucency of his skin and the dirt encrusting his uncut fingernails, his unshaven dishabille and the mold, the way he could probably stand to lose a few pounds but the fact that he never, ever would because he was DEAD. How sunken in and dark his eyes were when at the same time they glowed acid green.

This – this is what she had allowed to touch her. Not really what you'd call a man at all, anymore – a ghost, a poltergeist. He wasn't nice, and he wasn't clean cut, and her parents (all five of them) would never approve. Somehow, that made it all the more satisfying – she'd have to search far and wide to find another guy that upset everybody that much, and if she was going to do this rebellion thing (if he was going to stick around, and it seemed like…maybe he would), she might as well do it right.

She gestured with the left hand, fanning out the stack of coupons and glossy ads. "Pizza, pizza, pizza, pizza," she ticked off the options, "or Italian?" She gestured with the single folded piece of paper in her right hand.

"Lyyyyydiaaaaa…" he crooned, and it was a truly terrible thing to hear. "Come over here."

"None of those?" she said lightly. She thought there was another…oh, right! She'd left it taped to the door, intending to bring it in later. Now was later. Taking the long way around, detouring around piles of boxes and ignoring his irritated snort, she unlocked the door and pulled it open far enough to grab the menu.

The girls across the hallway were still moving in. Her hand stilled, grabbing onto the painted metal of the door. They had just started moving in when she had finished bringing up all her stuff. Holy shit! They couldn't have been in the Neitherworld for more than an hour! (Somehow, her godparents had gotten it all wrong – they must have actually been waiting for three whole months in that room instead of what seemed like forever but was probably a day or two.)

The redhead noticed she was gawking and spared her a harassed wave. Lydia pasted a smile on her face and waved back mechanically.

Snatching down the take out menu, she pushed the door closed, locked it again, and sank back against it. Her mind was racing a million miles a minute. Which may be why it seemed like she didn't notice Beetlejuice sneaking up behind her, but as he moved in for the kill, she shoved the folded paper up between them, blocking his lip access. "Chinese?"

"Fine!" He threw up his arms and rolled his eyes. "That's fucking great! I like egg rolls, dammit!"

Through half-mast eyelashes she considered him. Her toes were still kind of cold. And if he hadn't noticed her heartbeat pounding practically right under his ear…. "'Allow 45 minutes for delivery,'" she read off the back of the menu. "I wonder what we could possibly do to pass the time?"

He paused. Blinked. "Got a phone around here, babes?" He leered at her from where he was suddenly lounging against the door next to her.

The hand set was duly extracted from the depths of a cardboard box and plugged in, her new address looked up –

"Ya don't even know your own damn address?"

"Oh, shut up. I was in the middle of moving in, as you can see."

"So…this all your stuff?"

– Beetlejuice prevented from dumping everything on the floor, but not before he found the contents of her underwear drawer –

"What couldn't ya've been wearing this?"

"It's black!"

"So?"

"It would show through!"

"So?"

– the actual order haggled over –

"You can't get Szechuan Chicken, I'm getting Szechuan Chicken!"

"We can both get Szechuan Chicken!"

"How will we tell whose is whose?!"

"The one you're holding in your hand is yours!"

– and the call made.

He slammed the phone back in its cradle and turned to her expectantly. Before he could say anything or arrange things to his liking (which wouldn't necessarily include her liking), she tripped him over the room's only chair and plunked herself on his lap when he fell into the seat, careful to avoid his not-so-little problem. "I just have this one rule…" she said.

A silly grin overtaking his shock, he nodded and said, "Yeah!" without really listening.

"Nothing below the waist." She redirected his grasping hands, aimed towards the horizontal tango, to positions more suitable to a waltz.

"Wait, what?! Come on!"

"What was that? You'd rather watch me unpack?"

"…Is this rule, by any chance, gravity-oriented?"

"NO. It is me-oriented. You can't flip me upside down and claim that that's not below the waist anymore."

"Dammit!"