Chapter Text
Six months, three weeks, and four days. Not that she was counting or anything, she wasn’t.
She wasn’t. It was just a side effect of being hyper-aware of how long it had been since her mom died. (One year. To the day.) She wasn’t consciously keeping track of the last time she had seen him, because she didn’t miss him. Nope. Certainly not.
He was a creep, and an asshole, and he literally tried to murder everyone in the house. He blackmailed her into marrying him, for god’s sake, there was a reason she had stabbed him through the chest, alright?
And she was happy. Happier, anyway, happier than she thought she could ever be again after her mom died. Adam and Barbara were wonderful, she and her dad were closer than they had ever been before, and she had even started to like Delia. She had started at a new school, and though she most certainly was an odd one out when it came to most of the student body, she had still managed to make a couple friends.
Things were good, relatively speaking.
So what the hell was this ache in her chest, sitting right next to the gaping hole that was her mom’s absence? Why did she dream about him, about their lawless stint as masters of the house? Why did her eyes keep playing tricks on her, convincing her there had been a flash of stripes in the corner of her eye, lurking just out of sight in the mirror of her vanity?
She was so tired of it; so tired of missing him, so tired of beating herself up over missing him, so tired of the terrible little blossom of hope that made her heart race every time she thought she caught a glimpse of him.
She was so tired on the anniversary of her mother's death; so physically, mentally, emotionally exhausted after a day of traveling back to New York, of visiting the grave of Emily Deetz, of crying and hurting and missing her mother so badly it took everything in her to remember her trip to the Netherworld, to remember all the reasons to stay here on earth as long as she could. She was so tired that she couldn't keep pretending that she didn't miss him, sitting in front of her vanity feeling carved out and hollow.
"Why do I miss you so much?" she softly asked the mirror, staring unseeingly at her own reflection. "I shouldn't miss you at all, I shouldn't even think about you. You tried to kill us all, you threw me under the bus the second I wanted to see my mom more than I wanted to be a ghost with you. So why the fuck do I miss you so much?"
She stared at the mirror, not even bothering to lie to herself about how much she wanted him to appear, how much she wanted to be right; that she wasn't going crazy, that he was there, that he was lurking, just out of sight.
Tik tik tik tik... The antique clock on her dresser marched on as Lydia sat, lost in her own miserable thoughts, trying to fight her desire to do what really needed to be done.
She needed to say his name.
She technically didn't even know if that would work anymore; had her saying it three times the first time broken some kind of curse? One and done, freeing him from the name rule forever? Or had bringing him to life and then killing him done it, perhaps? She didn't know for sure, and who could she even ask? The Maitlands kept The Handbook hidden; not that she could open it on her own anyway.
She didn't know and couldn't ask, but still some instinct inside her kept pushing...
Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse.
If only it were that simple; if thinking it was enough to summon him, so she could pretend she hadn't meant to.
Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse.
Repeat, repeat, repeat; like a chant or a song, stuck on loop in her head but never leaving her lips.
Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse.
Her heart pounded with every repetition, fear and longing sitting side by side in her chest. What would she do, if he came when she called? Worse; what would she do if he didn't?
"Lydia?" Barbara's voice carried through the door questioningly, breaking Lydia's zoned out stare into her reflection. "Can I come in, honey?"
No. You're not the ghost I want.
The shameful thought made her stomach twist and icy disgust chill down her spine.
What is wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you?
Barbara was trying to help. She was always trying to help, and there Lydia sat, wishing for someone else to be at her door. She couldn't stomach this.
Instead of answering, she stepped as quietly as she could toward the lightswitch and turned it off. She needed sleep. She needed this day to be over, she needed to silence the disgusting, depraved part of her that was making her think such stupid things.
"Okay... I understand. Goodnight, Lydia. Love you."
Love you too, she thought but didn't say, crawling into bed still dressed.
Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse.
Shut up, she told her brain, digging her head under the pillow and wishing the floor would swallow her up, bed and all.
Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse...
***
Two weeks after that, it appeared.
Lydia came into her room after school, book bag still over her shoulders, preoccupied with thoughts of her upcoming calculus exam, and was brought up short by the very red, very flowy fabric hanging from a hanger hooked over the top of her vanity mirror.
"What the hell?" she murmured out loud, just staring for a solid thirty seconds, trying to make sense of what she was looking at.
It was very red—blood red—that much was true, but it was also accented with black stripes, branching out from the neck hole in a pattern she couldn't yet identify. It was also long, the fabric hanging down in a V that she was nearly sure would trip her if she put it on.
She almost turned on her heel, ready to go downstairs and ask where it had come from, when it finally dawned on her that there was an envelope pinned to it, nearly obscured by a fold of fabric.
“Well this is weird,” she said to the room, sliding her bag off her shoulders as she moved toward her desk, leaving it there before approaching the garment and unpinning the envelope.
The paper of the envelope was yellowed, clearly old and a little bit water-stained, like the stationary hadn’t been touched in a very long time. It was unaddressed, which wasn’t really surprising, she supposed; it was hanging in her room, who else would it be for?
The adhesive crackled a little when she slid her finger under the edge of the flap, popping it open surprisingly cleanly and pulling out the paper inside with mounting curiosity.
Scarecrow,
Miss you too.
—B
Blood pounded in her ears.
She was right. She was right, she was right, she was right. He was there. He was hanging around, just out of sight, watching her. Listening.
It should have terrified her. Enraged her. Had her fleeing the room and immediately telling everyone in the house, setting a plan in motion to put up safeguards, perform an exorcism if they had to, anything.
But all she could do was stare, the spiky handwriting practically burning into her brain until she realized her hand was trembling, her breathing increasingly rapid and her knees starting to feel weak.
“Bastard,” she whispered, crushing the note and it's envelope against her chest, taking a long breath in through her nose, then out through her mouth.
She was relieved. It made no sense, just like missing him made no sense, but it was true.
She was right, and she missed him, and he missed her too.
She looked at the garment again, and finally reached for it, spreading the fabric to take a better look.
It was... a cloak? No, not quite right. Though now she could see the pattern on it, and couldn’t help the tiny breath of amusement through her nose; the black stripes were a spiderweb, centered out from the collar to the tips of the fabric.
She shoved the note into the pocket of her school skirt (a pocket added with the help of Barbara at the beginning of the school year, much to Lydia's delight), before reaching up to take the cloth off the hanger. It didn't seem to have a designated front or back, so Lydia shrugged, bunching the fabric in her hands so she could comfortably put her head through the neck hole.
As it settled over her, the points of the V-shaped hem nearly brushing the floor, Lydia was struck by the sudden feeling of coziness that washed over her. Her room was warm, autumn's chill not quite set up shop outside, but the presence of the cloth on her body suddenly made the temperature of the room perfectly comfortable. That, of course, made no sense; if anything, she should feel overheated with so many yards of fabric draped over her, and yet...
She took a couple steps back from the mirror so she could get a better look, observing herself curiously, turning this way and that to see how it laid on her frame.
Poncho, her brain suddenly supplied, and she couldn't help but laugh, pinching the sides of the fabric to spread it out, looking appreciatively at the web pattern. Oh my god, this weirdo actually gave me a spider poncho, of all things.
When was the last time ponchos had been in fashion, anyway? She chortled as she adjusted it, the loose fabric laying in an admittedly lovely drape down her body.
Damn him. She loved it.
She bit her lip as she looked in the mirror, the impulse to call for him rising by the second. It was a foolish idea. Absolutely nuts. Certifiably crazy.
"Betelgeuse," she said.
Static electricity crackled through the air, raising the hair on the nape of her neck and down her arms. It made anticipation flutter in her belly.
"Betelgeuse," she said again, sing-songy, and she could swear she could feel his excitement like a vibration in the air.
"Be..." she started, the familiarity of this particular cat-and-mouse game making her grin despite herself. "...fore I say it again, you're going to have to come talk to me, Betelgeuse. I know you can hear me."
That hum of excitement turned to frustrated disappointment, but Lydia was not budging; the ball was truly in her court this time, and she was going to use it. The only thing she had to gain was his company, rather than revenge, so if he needed her to say his name, he was going to have to negotiate.
"Still drive a hard bargain, I see."
She'd almost forgotten just how gruff his voice was, the rough scratch of it seeming to whisper from every corner of the room, but it's owner still out of sight.
"Considering how familiar I am with your resume, I think it's warranted."
His amused chuckle echoed chillingly around her, and suddenly, Lydia wasn't looking at her own reflection anymore.
There was a part of her that thought actually seeing him outside of her dreams would make her realize just how foolish this all was; that reality would punch her in the face and bring her to her senses, putting all thought of inviting him back into her life out the window, like rationality told her she should.
“I know,” he smirked, tugging on his lapels and straightening his tie in that twitchy way he did. “I look even more devastatingly sexy than last time.”
His self-inflated quip pulled her from her frozen stare, her breath escaping in a slow exhale through her nose as she closed her eyes and shook her head, unable to refrain from the little smile tugging up the corner of her mouth.
“And so humble,” she said dryly, opening her eyes again.
He was still there. She wasn’t imagining him.
“Humble pie, that’s me,” he agreed, slipping his hands into his pockets.
A beat of silence, Betelgeuse’s eyes scanning over her from top to bottom, his grin widening considerably until he reached her face again; thankfully saying nothing of the blush that was taking over her face.
“You look real good in red, Lydia.”
“Shut up,” she said, crossing her arms and trying to arrange her expression into some semblance of sternness. “You don’t get to say that to me.”
“What?” He shrugged with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just tryin’ to be complementary.”
“Less trying to butter me up, more giving me honest reasons why I shouldn’t be performing an exorcism to get rid of you.”
“Because I have impeccable fashion sense.”
“Betelgeuse.”
“Two more, and I can come out to play, babe.”
Lydia sighed, uncrossing her arms and taking a couple steps toward the vanity, pulling the little seat out and settling into it, leaning her elbows on the surface of the vanity and interlacing her fingers.
“Not until you answer my questions.”
He sighed, long and dramatic, tilting his head toward the ceiling.
“Ugh, questions? What questions? You already know how this works, Lyds.”
“Do I?” She raised her eyebrows at him until he looked at her. “There seemed to be a lot of hidden catches last time.”
"Catches? What catches?"
"Like the giant monster snake-worm-thing trying to eat us for leaving the house."
"Eh." He waved her off. "She woulda spit you right back out. Sandworms ain't interested in the taste of the living."
"You're not making the point you think you're making."
"Come onnnnn," he pleaded with an honest-to-god pout. "You miss me, I miss you, what's to think about?"
"The point where I stop missing you and start wishing I could kill you a second time."
"Ha!" He seemed genuinely amused. "Can only pull that trick once, baby, but I'll let you dismember me any time."
"Ew."
“Oh don’t even pretend you wouldn’t love that.”
She wasn’t that twisted, despite what he may think.
“You’re stalling.”
“Oh Lydia, come on—”
“Alright then. Bye.”
She got up, ready to throw a blanket over the mirror, prepared to ignore him until he was ready to play ball.
“Wait!”
She paused, staring expectantly at him with raised eyebrows.
He sighed again, tilting his head slightly as he looked at her with scrutiny, before a little smirk appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“Fine.” He shook his head. “You’ve got me by the short-hairs, kid, what can I do? What do you wanna know?”
She sat back down, folding her hands again and thinking. Where to even start?
“Where are you?”
“Where do you think?”
“Well, last I saw you, you were heading into the Netherworld, but for all I know you’ve been kicked out for being too much of a pain in the ass.”
He laughed at that, wagging a finger at her with a wink.
“Oh, cheeky, cheeky, Ms Deetz. Yeah alright, I’m in the Netherworld. Why does that matter?”
“Well, why do you want to come back to this side?”
“You, duh.”
Lydia ignored the heat that creeped up her neck, along with his playful grin.
“What about your quest, find your dad?”
“Eh,” he said, shrugging. “Not as easy as the movies make it seem.”
She, of all people, could appreciate a complicated parent situation.
“This name thing,” she decided to switch tracks. “What’s the story with it, exactly?”
“Boring. You know this one.”
“Elaborate. Three times in a row frees you. But how did that happen? Is it a curse, a punishment? Can it be reversed without the circus of bringing you alive, then killing you?”
“Why, you wanna get rid of me already?”
“If you don’t stop stalling, maybe!”
She could see the tension in his jaw, his teeth most certainly clenched despite the grin still plastered on his face. He was thinking, she could tell. Calculating while she glared insistently at him.
“Punishment,” he finally gritted. “I caused a bit of trouble in the middle ages. Rebel teen years, you know how it is.”
“So the whole, briefly-alive-thing didn’t break it?”
“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ sound. “Soon as I was dead again, it all reset.”
“Hm,” she acknowledged, thinking. “Alright, so last time, you were stuck on Earth, invisible to everyone but me, apparently. Three name thing, then everyone can see you. But now you’re in the Netherworld. So what happens this time if I say it?”
“Same thing, more or less. With the added bonus of a door to your world.”
"And if you overstay your welcome? Is there a way to shove you back through that door that doesn't involve marriage and murder?"
"Nice alliteration, offensive question."
"Any deal with you requires an escape clause. So I need a failsafe or no dice; that mirror stays our only connection."
He was calculating again, stalling for time as he brought one hand up to stroke his chin, tapping his finger against his lips.
"How about you come to my side of the door?"
That was certainly unexpected. Lydia didn't know how to answer, just staring at him blankly as the question tumbled about in her head. Go back to the Netherworld?
"Living aren't allowed in the Netherworld," she eventually answered. "Remember last time? How your mom wanted to kill me for doing it?"
"Remember how I got her eaten by a sandworm?"
"It can't be that simple. Just because she's gone doesn't mean the rule is."
"Well..." he drew out the 'L' sound, his body swaying slightly, like he was rocking on his heels. "That may be true, but there are a few loopholes in that particular rule."
"Oh really?" she drawled, raising her eyebrows skeptically.
"Sure, sure," he nodded. "Where do you think spiritwalker lore and stuff came from?"
Huh. She hadn't thought about that.
Go back to the Netherworld...
There was clearly so much more to the Netherworld than she had seen; he told her he was a demon, and obviously he had always been dead, or becoming alive wouldn't have been such a shock to the system to him. So was there a whole civilization in the Netherworld, of other beings like him, like Juno? Something beyond the endless corridor she had traveled, when she was trying to find her mother?
And he was inviting her to see it.
"What loopholes?"
"One condition."
Of course there was a condition.
"What?" she asked suspiciously.
"I'm not taking you on a dead mom scavenger hunt. If you're coming to this side, it's to see me."
He might as well have slapped her in the face, anger flooding through her in a hot wave that made her wish she could reach through the mirror and punch him in the mouth.
"Screw you."
"Look, I'm just saying." He held his hands up placatingly. "I can't do it, even if you asked me, so I just wanted to make that clear."
"Can't?"
"Can't," he repeated, lowering his hands and sliding them back into his pockets. "And that, much like my name situation, is something that has no loopholes."
Lydia glared, trying to tell if he was lying. It seemed like the truth; mainly because he wasn't trying too hard to sell her on it.
"Fine," she agreed curtly. "But I have a condition too."
He raised his eyebrows imploringly.
"I get to come home whenever I want to. If you try to keep me hostage there, you better believe an exorcism will be the least of your worries."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Lydia bit her lip, the two of them just looking at each other for a moment. Was she really agreeing to this? Was she really about to invite him back into her life, let him whisk her off into a whole different world?
"Do we have a deal, then?" he eventually prompted.
Lydia took a deep breath.
"Betelgeuse."
His grin was absolutely hungry, his hands smoothing over his lapels.
"Betelgeuse."
The crackle of magic in the air was making the hair on the back of her neck stand up again.
One last deep breath.
"Betelgeuse."
His grin turned damn near manic, his excitement palpable, his hands giving his suit jacket one last tug and smoothing of the fabric. Then his gaze shifted, looking over her shoulder, drawing her eyes away from the mirror and toward whatever it was he was looking at.
Lydia stood so swiftly that the vanity seat tipped over with a clatter, her mouth falling open in a small gasp at the sight of a strange, orange light leaking out of the seams of her closet door.
"What—" she began, turning back toward the mirror, only to find her own reflection instead of his.
Knock knock knock.
Her head snapped back, her heart fluttering with anxious anticipation.
You can do this, she thought, taking a deep breath before stepping toward the door. You can do this.
The doorknob was barely turned in her hand before it flung open, nearly hitting her before she had a chance to jump back and out of the way.
"Lydia!"
He was practically a black and white blur he rushed through the doorway so fast, and the next thing she knew, he was hugging her crushingly tight and picking her clear off her feet. It nearly knocked the wind out of her, her arms pinned to her sides in his tight embrace.
"I know we've already said it, but I really did miss you, kid."
She would still probably live to regret freeing him again, but in that moment, all she could feel was a strange sense of relief; it was as if... the house felt more like home with him there, more complete. It didn't make any sense, none of this did, but for a second, she let herself feel it; her arms tentatively bending at the elbow to wrap as best she could around his waist.
He abruptly set her back down, grabbing her upper arms to steady her when she stumbled a little.
Again his eyes scanned over her from top to bottom, a satisfied smirk firmly in place.
"You really do look good in red."
"Shut up." She smacked his shoulder, giving him a glare. "Stop commenting on how I look, it's creepy."
"I can't help it, babes, I really have impeccable taste."
"If the year was 2004, sure."
"Excuse you very much, but capes are always in fashion."
God she'd missed this, this silly banter of theirs.
"Which would be true if this was a cape, but it's a poncho."
"What? No it's not."
"Yes it is. Capes are open in the front, with clasps. This is a poncho."
"Nitpick, nitpick, nitpick." He released her arms, only to take her hand. "Come on!"
Before she could get a word in to object, he had taken her hand and pulled her though the door.
