29::AN:: Chapter Edit: 9-27-17 (yeah, seriously.) Well, I'm editing this. I started it ten years ago. Edited it a bit in 2011, and now I'm back again. Chances of me finishing this ever are iffy – but apparently I get the itch to fix it every so often.
For any new people who happen to stumble upon this fic:
Basically, it's mostly movie-verse. f I ever get around to finishing it, you can expect a paced out, slowly evolving relationship to bud between Betel and Lydia. And yes, I spell the name "Betelgeuse" because he's named after a star and I'm the all-powerful fanfic author.
As far as plot is concerned: A rose is a rose is a rose, but was Betelgeuse always a 'Betelgeuse'? What started as a simple deal to get Lydia home safe might just result in the end of them both... Unless, of course, they can track down the truth before it's too late. Set 13 years after the movie.
Let the games begin.
Disclaimer: I do not own these things.
Title: The Name Game
Chapter One: Incognito
'Deep breath.'
Lydia Deetz desperately tried to calm herself down. She clenched her hands at her sides so tightly it almost felt as if she'd never be able to straighten them again. She needed to relax, she needed to get a grip, she needed to… running away and hiding under the covers actually sounded like a much better idea.
But she'd prepared for this for too long, and there was far too much riding on her success. While she couldn't claim to be any sort of expert in sex appeal and seduction, she knew that she was well past the point of no return. 'Ah well, as they say… it's show time.'
Having accepted her lot, she double checked her ridiculous costume in the reflection of a dirty window. It was like staring at a stranger; a tanned blond, blue-eyed stranger with a risqué fashion sense. Her silky strapless purple dress, if it deserved such a generous title, only reached her upper thigh and the bust was low and tight, giving her petite breasts a more va-va-voom quality. It hugged and tucked and produced curves she never realized she possessed. Thigh-high stockings with the lacy tops teasing from beneath the hem of her dress tucked into the most reasonable part of the whole ensemble: black patent pumps that, while high heeled, were otherwise sturdy and wouldn't cause her to fall and break her neck.
She pulled a small compact out of her black clutch and double checked her make up, and tugged a bit at her wig. Her heavily made up face felt stiff, but seemed to glow in the poor lighting. It felt awful, but the less she looked like herself the better, and at least the blue contacts weren't too irritating and it was not too cold for all her lack of clothing. Really, it could have been worse for an October night.
All in all, this was as good as her disguise was going to get.
Lydia rolled her shoulders to stem her nerves and stepped into the flickering orange light of the street lamp at the mouth of the alleyway by SE 5th and Marks St. She leaned purposefully against the pole, offered up like a lamb for slaughter. For scant peace of mind, she felt around her clutch for the shape and weight of her can of mace.
And so, she waited for her target. And waited. And hoped to god that her target found her before some other unsavory person did.
"You're late," she said, her voice low and slow when a figure loomed in front of her.
There was no mistaking that he was the one she waited for. She could smell the expensive Gucci cologne from where she stood, some feet away, and then he possessed a sort of aura - his presence made her feel confined and trapped. She struggled to keep her eyes on her face and not darting around for possible escape routes.
He took another step forward and the dim orange light fell across his face. He gave her a rakish smile, but it came off more as a lewd snarl. His teeth, straight and perfect, glinted in the light. "You know how these things go," he murmured, his gaze slowly traveling over her body. He casually reached over and stroked her cheek with cold fingers, walking her slowly backwards until her back came in contact with a rough brick wall.
"Come now," Lydia said in a strained voice, struggling to maintain both her composure and her stomach. "We've got business to attend to. Save that for… later." She plucked his hand from her cheek and hoped to god she'd managed to do it coyly.
He chuckled.
The sound made ice spike through Lydia's veins and her hair stand on end. A tiny itch in the back of her mind told her something was wrong, something about him was wrong. It took all of her resolve to overcome the urge to kick off her shoes and run far, far away.
As if reading her thoughts, he swiftly gripped her shoulders and shoved her against the wall, scrapping her bare back against it. She gasped, his lips grazed her ear, his breath hot against her skin. His presence consumed her. Her clutch slipped from her fingers. He brushed his hand roughly over her face and through her hair, knocking the wig to the ground and causing her black hair to tumble messily around her face.
"My, my… can it be little miss Lydia Deetz? The innocent little activist? Did you think that a little make up and a wig would hide you from me? Are you afraid, darling?" Cruel mockery dripped from his feral smile, his eyes narrowed. "You should be."
Lydia was not afraid. She was catatonic with terror, unable to move, barely able to breathe as she watched her careful plan crumble around her. She plastered herself against the wall, wishing it would swallow her away. She had heard things about this man. Rumors, unsubstantiated, but in this moment she felt their proof. "H-h-how?" she stammered, tears springing unbidden to her eyes.
He trailed his cool finger from her ear, down her neck, and hooked in her dress, at the crevice of her breasts. Her skin burned against it, and she could do nothing. "Everyone can be bought. A young man named Andre was more than happy to explain everything once we found the right price." He pouted condescendingly, "Oh, no; did you think that your little friends had integrity? How sad."
It occurred to her then, with a dream-like clarity, that she would not survive the night. She felt limp. The jig was up. He was going to keep her quiet, permanently. No question.
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, sounding more tired now than frightened. Really, was death such a bad thing? But of course, it wasn't the death she had to fear, but dying. He was the kind of man who would go to great lengths to make it a long and painful process.
"Me? I think you're a bit confused." He nuzzled her neck and ran his thumb over her lips, while his knee pried her thighs apart. He crushed her against the wall. "I'm not even here." He laughed his trademark wholesome laugh made famous by press conferences and grand openings, and pulled back. Abruptly, he turned and left her, and Lydia could breathe again.
But she knew he wasn't done with her as she sagged in relief, trying to calm her pounding heart. And this was proven all too true when, almost immediately, two men loudly rounded the corner, trapping her once again. The scent of cheap booze wafted from them in waves.
"Well what have we here!" said the first, cracking his knuckles in an almost satirical display of power.
"Mayor Van Durman's out done himself this time!" the second slurred.
"Got my vote!" the first agreed. His teeth, as he bared them at her in a jeering smile, were notably less clean and straight than his beloved mayor. His eyes were sunken and dark.
And two men descended upon her. Her slot in the obituary, she thought in a detached sort of way, was probably already in print. He had ties at the newspaper after all. She slid to the ground and distantly registered that her dress was ripped and the men left bruises where they grabbed at her. But, really, she was in another place, too shocked to fully comprehend what was happening to her, and yet so incredibly aware… There was nothing she could do, it was hopeless… No one would hear her if she called for help, and even if they did, they couldn't get to her in time. No one could help her; she was as good as dead.
…Dead?
Suddenly there was a sliver hope, and Lydia latched on to it, however impossible it seemed. Her mind flew rapidly through a series of vague connections and she didn't even realize she had said anything until the men were yanked away from her. She watched dazed and immobile as they turned heel and ran for their lives. She noted their screams as they departed the same way Van Durman had gone. She turned her head and blinked at the floating specter and sighed. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, it seemed.
Because he was there, hunched over, resting his arms on his bent knees, staring at her.
Betelgeuse looked perplexed. He had no idea who she was, who had set him free. It was funny because he didn't look quite like she remembered either, but if she was allowed to change in thirteen years' time, she supposed he could too. His paunch was significantly reduced, for one thing, and his coat was gone. He looked cleaner - if a bit more gaunt and withdrawn in the face. He still looked every bit the poltergeist, still looked very dead and withered.
"Long time no see," she tried to say, but could do no more than whisper. She winced. Apparently her lip got split open in the struggle; perhaps one of the thugs had been wearing a ring when he'd slapped her. Well, at least she thought there had been a blow to the face at some point.
Betelgeuse straightened; a thoughtful hand stroked his chin. After a beat, he said, "So, what, your john beat you up?"
"My what?" Lydia asked, before comprehending his meaning. "No!" Her voice found some strength in outrage. "You don't remember me, do you?" She concluded.
A grin lit up his face as he gave her battered form a blatant once over, "Can't imagine forgetting a dame like you, babe."
Lydia tried to stand, but her ankles felt weak and she could do no more than feebly lift herself to an awkward squat before giving up the endeavor entirely. She glowered at him from the ground. "The Maitlands, exorcism… you tried to marry me? Ringing any bells?"
He balked, but masked it quickly instead donning an almost proud demeanor. "You're that kid? And now you're a hooker? I've outdone myself."
Lydia's head was swimming. She did not want to be having this conversation. She did not want to be in this dank alleyway. She wanted to be home, behind a deadbolt, in her bed. Still, she supposed she couldn't blame his assumption: her dress had done little to salvage her modesty before the thugs had gone and ripped it all up. She crossed her arms over her uncomfortably exposed chest. "I am not a hooker. I was undercover. And it fucking tanked. I almost died. I do not want to talk about this right now."
"Huh," he said, crossing his arms. "Here I thought you didn't like me, and now you're calling on me like I'm some sort of white knight?"
Lydia scowled. "Yeah, well I wasn't exactly in the best position for rational thought." Her vision swam and she slumped against the wall. He had a point. He had every reason to want her ripped limb from limb after she left him to… whatever fate befell him. The adrenaline of his presence wore off, she hurt all over, and there was every possibility she still wouldn't make it to the morning. Against her will, tears welled in her eyes and slowly flowed, eroding canyons in her thick makeup down her cheeks.
"Hey now, Babes," Betelgeuse said, swooping down before her. He fidgeted as though having an internal debate as to whether or not he should comfort her, and whether or not a hand on the shoulder would just make things worse. "Quit with the waterworks, will you? It's not like I'm gonna hurt you!"
Lydia blinked pitifully at him, "Why not?"
"What do you take me for?" he exclaimed, pulling away and gesturing wildly with his arms. "If I want to get my kicks haunting someone, you can be sure as shit it ain't going to be no crying little girl in an alley." He pointed to himself with his thumbs. "I've got a reputation."
"So chivalry really isn't dead," she replied dryly. Still, she believed him, for whatever reason. "And I'm not a little girl. Do you know any little girls who dress like this?" She gestured to her decidedly mature, if mangled, clothing. "I'm nearly thirty for Christ's sake. And if you aren't gonna hurt me, how about helping me home, safe and sound?"
Betelgeuse paused pensively for a moment, his mouth twitched in a way that Lydia didn't like at all. "Alright, but you're going to have to do something for me in return."
Having been on the receiving end of such deals before, Lydia was swift to clarify: "I'm not marrying you."
"So quick to judge, Babe!" He dramatically clamped a hand over his still heart. "I'm hurt!"
"I'm so sure." She rolled her eyes. And yet instead of telling him to take a hike, instead of shouting his name, three times rapid-fire, she decided to hear him out. Maybe it was the blow to the head. Maybe it was the shock of seeing him again, after so many years. Maybe, after everything that had happened, she just didn't want to be alone. But most likely, it was the complete and utter lack of faith she had in her ability to herself get home. ...Even still, Lydia couldn't help but think that bargaining with the poltergeist would end up being nothing but a redundant headache. "What are the terms, then?"
"Don't know," he smirked. "Just a formality to keep up appearances, you see. Can't have the Netherworld thinking I've gone soft. And besides, it's not like you're in any position to decline, are you?" He offered her a pale hand.
Well, he'd hit the nail on the head. Rather than admit this, she begrudgingly muttered, "Fine, I'll owe you a favor, but nothing that involves a life time of servitude towards you or anyone else, or the breaking of laws that I agree with. Also, -just so we're clear- I will not marry you." And with that, she took his hand.
Betelgeuse grinned as he pulled her to her feet in one sharp, but surprisingly painless tug. And he didn't let go. "Deal, Babe."
They shook on it.
::AN:: DUN DUN DUUUUUNNNNNNN.
-ER-
(Back in the saddle again.)