Disclaimer: Betelgeuse and Lydia and the rest belong to people who are not me. "I Don't Even Know Myself" belongs to The Who. Various uses of symbolism and mythology belong to their respective cultures, mostly Greek in this case, and heraldry belongs to the Middle Ages. Ish.

A/N: I'm sticking to strictly movieverse canon here, largely because it means I can make up my own rules Which means no mirrorstalking, and no puns, and gratuitously... creative... use of mythology. I would also like to deliver belated cookies to Kades, sometimes called randomvacancy, who hits me around the head with a gravedigger's shovel when I get Beej wrong and puts up with my kvetching. She is hostile to all life forms, but appreciates good food; send her offerings.



Dialectics: In classical philosophy, an exchange of propositions (theses) and counter-propositions (antitheses) resulting in a synthesis of the opposing assertions, or at least a qualitative transformation in the direction of the dialogue.

The sun was bright and warm on her face, too much so. She opened her eyes and saw the word cast into a sharp relief, flooded with light, every color standing vibrant and alone, with every detail sharp and clear as winter air.

The field was greener than green, so green it broke with reality and became more the idea of green; the ideal green field from which all green fields spring. Stalks laden with white blossoms thrust out of the sea of wavering green, clustered together or standing alone and sometimes shot through with similar plants of a brilliant yellow. One was bent over her, tickling her face. She was lying down. She didn't want to get up. It was comfortable here.

"We made this, you know."

That wasn't her voice.

"Oh, Osiris and his lot will go on for centuries about how they made the psychic space, how their belief brought all this into being. But we decorated the building, as it were. We dreamed of something other than simple immorality, and they were dark dreams at first. They softened with time, as all things do, but they were needed, are needed; if you don't fear death just a little, you never manage to live your life."

A woman's voice made rough by coffee and tobacco, the harsh edges softened by some peculiar quality of the glimmering air. It felt like the new softness after a storm here, the moment when the day breaks and the dew lies gentle on the world. Clouds formed and reformed over her head at unreal speeds, somehow never interrupting the light. She sat up; the woman who had been speaking was sitting next to her, smoking. She was dressed in a grey suit, yellowing pearls around her slit neck with dried blood still clinging to some of them. The woman took a long drag on her cigarette.

"Of course, you can go too far one way and end up afraid to leave your room, withering away like that poor child – Emily, that was her name. I hear that now you lot have decided that it wasn't all that tragic, since she valued her friends. Shows what you know; those that love deepest run farthest from the world. Remember that, child."

She blinked in the bright light and spoke through a mouth full of thick honey sweetness.

"Are you Juno?"

"Who did you think I was?" the woman snapped, stubbing out her cigarette in the ground. "Mortals. So few of you ever… if you're not running so far from life for fear of death you never get anything done and end up here, you're so lost in your own lives you never think to wonder and end up here anywhere! Don't get me started on suicides, either; I have entirely too much office help these days. And then there are the angry ones, the lost souls…"

Juno watched the distant horizon for a moment, as if remembering. Then she shook her head. "Nevermind that. Listen, child, I'm doing what I can, but the bargain isn't fulfilled and I do have other duties."

"What do you mean?" Nothing made sense now, but that was all right. It was so peaceful here…

"Damn it, pay attention! Remember this: I'm Juno. It isn't just a name, it's a job description, and you made a deal. He might not act as though he remembers or cares, and might even mean it, but the universe hasn't forgotten and he won't lose a second time. You've got to make your choice and make it soon, or it'll be made for you."

"I still don't understand."

"Him, child! The one who can't leave enough damn well alone! Can't even remember why he's doing it at this point. Won't. Doesn't want to bear the hurt and move on. Damn fool."

Her shout was no louder than normal, really quieter than most because of her broken throat but it still shook the field; from nowhere, butterflies enveloped the scene. Juno disappeared behind the swarming veil of color and erratic dancing while a humming grew louder and louder and then the world was drowning in slow-moving amber sweetness – and it wasn't a hum, it was a buzz, and there was a great surge of yellow and black darting through, clouding her sight as the bees formed a face before her, a woman's face, laughing…

Lydia stuck a hand out from under her covers and groped at the alarm, fumbling for the off switch and finally just knocking the whole thing on the floor. She groaned and flung back the covers before she could think better of it, staring at her ceiling and trying to hold onto the shreds of her dream. Butterflies and bees, and fields of asphodel… well, she had a good excuse for having death on the brain.

It had been over a year and a half now since Betelgeuse had wormed his way back into her life and she hadn't exactly intended things to end up as they had. It wasn't that she resented it; somehow he'd ended up just always being there. And she hadn't thought that would be the case when he gave her permission to call her. She'd thought she would end up having to seek him out, and rarely, but there were few days when she didn't come home from school and find him lounging in miniature on her desk. He'd grin up at her – "How about those B-words, babes?" – and she'd been wary of letting him loose at first, but months had passed and he'd never done anything harmful.

She swung her legs over the side of bed and stood up, fumbling for her stereo remote and finally managed to turn the thing on, eyes still bleary and swollen with sleep.

There's nothing in the way I walk that could tell you where I'm going
There's nothing in the words I speak that could betray anything I'm knowing
Don't think about the way I dress
You can't fit me a labeled shelf
Don't pretend that you know me, 'cause I don't even know myself

The shower spray was hot and soothing; she could just hear her music over the stuttering hiss of the ancient plumbing system. Adam was always going on about fixing it, but nothing had happened so far. It wasn't even as if the basement was outside the house. She couldn't shake the idea that it was a Guy Thing – that admitting they needed professional help would somehow detract from one's masculinity. Her father had the same problem, however subliminated it was under his constant nervous paranoia. He'd stubbornly refused to see a psychiatrist, insisting that all he needed was a little time away from it all. And Betelgeuse… oy. He was worse than all of them put together. You'd think the world was ending the way he'd carry on whenever something didn't go according to plan. It wasn't that he got angry; she'd never seen him truly angry that she could remember, but he'd grow increasingly agitated as everything turned up dead ends and their choices narrowed down to actually asking for help instead of trying to work it out alone getting themselves more muddled.

Her tendency to end up in a gigglefit as he grew more and more frustrated probably didn't help.

It was odd, she couldn't help thinking as she stepped out and wrapped a towel around herself, but she never felt herself to be in any danger with him. Not since that first Halloween, when Ammit had frightened her into fainting and he'd…

She touched her fingers to her forehead, lightly. He'd never explained why he'd done it, and she'd never asked. Something told her the answer would break the fragile détente between them; there was a kind of unspoken agreement to not ask personal questions beyond "How was your day?" He'd show up and whisk her off someplace in the afterlife or the real world, show her things she'd never dreamed of seeing (and admittedly frightened her on occasion; like when they'd gone to the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris, standing on the walkway between the belltowers and he'd suddenly grabbed her hand and jumped over the side, taking her along with him. She'd screamed then, in the moment of freefall before he caught her and held her with preternatural strength, dangling from a gargoyle and grinning wickedly). He'd never asked anything in return, either; she assumed he must be getting something out of it, because it wasn't in his nature to do otherwise. Sometimes she thought she could almost grasp the shape of it, sense it in the back of her mind like she'd sensed the meanings of the Handbook (she'd never explained to Barbara and Adam that she didn't understand the words anymore than they did; she just got the sense of it, and knew it was right. She didn't think they would understand) but then she would forget, or it would slip away, or she'd get distracted…

Don't listen to the words I say
Weighing up as if I'm enlightened
Don't shiver as you pass me by
'Cause mister, I'm the one who's frightened

Now, staring at her muzzy reflection in the fogged mirror, unfocused and half in her dream, she thought she could feel it fluttering around the edges of her mind; something in possessive hand that always ended up on her waist, the insistence on standing near her, how she always seemed to end up close to him… careful compliments that never went over the line but seemed to brush up to the very edge of it, things she'd put down to his basic nature; he was the kind of person who lived dancing on an avalanche, pushing and pushing until the cards collapsed….

Don't pretend that you know me, 'cause I don't even know myself

I don't mind if you try, once in a while
And I don't mind if I cry, once in a while
The doors aren't shut as tight as it might seem
I'm just trying to fight my way out of this dream…

"Lydia! Lydia, dear, you're going to be late!"

…and it was gone. She shrugged into her bathrobe, wrapping the towel around her head, and stuck her head out of the bathroom.

"I'm coming, Delia! Just lemme get dressed!"

He eyed his ancient foe warily, knowing that this would be the decisive battle. It was a war that had raged for many years, to the point where he couldn't remember why he was still fighting it except for the general principle of the thing. His foe was wily and clever; claims had been made that the opposition was willing to talk peace, but he remained suspicious.

You just couldn't trust showers. They were sneaky things, always spraying water on you when you least expected it. Some would argue that was the point of showers, but Betelgeuse was quite sure they were working for the enemy. He didn't like showers; he came from a time when a good stink was something you cultivated and treasured to keep the flux away. He could never quite shake the idea that more than one bath a year was pushing it, but a couple decades ago one of his intermittent lovers (this was before everything went to hell) had put her foot down and had the shower installed, and insisted he use it.

'Course, she had managed to come up with a pretty good incentive… she'd had some real skill with a loofah. He couldn't remember her name, or what had happened to her; probably they'd just wandered apart, like all the dead did eventually.

It bothered him, obscurely, that he couldn't remember her name.

Anyway. Shower. He had to take one; Lyds was graduating today and he was going to take her out for a night on the town, and it wasn't like he made a habit of it or anything, just that this was a special occasion. Like her eighteenth birthday and their one-year anniversary had been. He wasn't whipped, dammit! It was all part of the Plan – she had to trust him, after all.

Betelgeuse shuddered and stepped into the shower, gingerly fiddling with the knobs and cringing as the cold spray washed over him. Even the damn water was cold here; what use did the dead have for heat? None, obviously, they couldn't feel it, but it would be nice.

Grumbling, he reached for the cheap yellow soap that as far as he knew was the same soap he'd brought when the shower was first installed – still barely touched – and raised it to his face, examining it. He'd made it a point of pride not to use soap. Sure, he'd get in the shower and stand under the water for a while and that was all well and good, but he drew the line at soap. But… Lyds was graduating…

He swallowed hard and before he had time to think about it, lathered up and starting running his fingers through his hair, copying what he dimly remembered as being the procedure for… well, you know. Hair. Soap and water. Alright – washing.

Years of grease and loose hairs worked their way out of his tangled mane and crowded on the shower floor, swirling with the rising water as the drain clogged from the sheer amount of filth being rinsed out. A couple of bugs happened to come out with the rest of it; an unexpected bright spot in the whole trial. Tasty ones, too. He applied soap to skin grimly as he chewed, watching with a certain amount of horror as the dirt of centuries dissolved and joined the swirling mess that was now spilling onto the floor of the tiny bathroom. It was like witnessing the untimely death of an old friend.

Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and stepped out, zapping the drain unclogged as he went. There were no mirrors in the afterlife, so he had no way to judge the job he'd done. But going by the mess on the bathroom floor, it'd been a good one.

Because he was still himself despite it all, he shook himself off like a wet dog before donning his signature suit and going out to make some arrangements.

"Parents, teachers, friends, the graduating class: We are here today with one purpose in mind: to recognize the graduation of those deserving seniors. What does it mean to graduate? To me, it is not just the completion of twelve years of schooling. It is the setting of a foundation firm enough for us to build the rest of our lives, our learning, and our future. And we, through the fine efforts of our dedicated teachers…"

Lydia leaned back in her chair and tuned out the speech, focusing her eyes on the green treetops against blue sky rustling lightly behind the makeshift stage; it was traditional for each class to plant a tree in the school grove, tend to it, watch it grow… she found her class tree, the slender and branchless trunk straining towards the sky, a bushy crown of leaves casting shadows that brushed against the edges of the junior and sophomore trees, and the scrawny little freshman sapling, looking lost and alone amidst the older trees already reaching for the sun. The graduation ceremonies were always held outdoors, with the exception of that freak snowstorm in 1882.

Up on the stage, the valedictorian (what was her name, Amy? Melissa? Claire? She wasn't part of Lydia's small circle, that was for sure) had gone on long enough that the headmistress started clapping at the first available break. The valedictorian humphed and flounced her way offstage as the headmistress commandeered the mike.

"Thank you, Samantha, for that inspiring speech. Now, I'd just like to say that I've been honored, absolutely honored to have a part in the education of these exceptional young ladies. However, there comes a time, as you all well know, when every bird must leave the nest and fly free into the glorious sky! So, without further ado, I proudly present…"

Lydia tuned out again, waiting for her name to be called. Speeches, speeches everywhere and nothing useful said.

"Gabrielle Adams."

It was all going to be over soon, anyway; she'd been accepted to NYU and they'd been given their diplomas before the ceremony, in their last homeroom.

"Clarissa Barclay."

This was all a formality, anyway.

"Katherine Carmichael."

Well, no, more than that. Ceremony and ritual, a way of marking the passage of time. Like the brooch Delia had given her with no little embarrassment when she started menstruating. She'd taken it, unsure, cramps still stinging (the painkillers hadn't set in yet), bloated and confused and not liking this new sensation at all…

"Jennifer Colburn."

"Well, you're a woman now," Delia had said, and she'd nodded and walked away. A few days later, for one reason or another, they'd fought and Delia had shouted that she was just a child, how could she know? And Lydia had been tempted to scream back that she was a woman now, thank you, and choked on it because woman was too round and potent a word for what she was; the skinny little girl hiding under layers of black and lace. We grow into the world with the pain of second birthing, she had written later, a single line on a blank white diary page. Later that day, she had quietly put away Captain Pillow, the bear who had sat on her bed for all twelve years of her childhood, placing him up on a high shelf. Her father had come in to say goodnight and seen him there, and though he hadn't said a word she knew he knew, and she felt the gulf between them her mother's death had caused widen imperceptibly.

After that day, he'd begun knocking on her door before coming in.

"Lydia Deetz."

She had an idea that the thin avenue between the chairs should widen in her perception, somehow, that the short walk should take longer; that time should slow while she took that second-to-last step into the wide world.

It didn't, however. In the time it took her to have that thought she'd walked to the stage; by the time she processed it, she was walking across, sweltering in the rough gown pulled over her jeans and shirt and pulled at anxiously by Barbara just before she left the house, and they'd handed her the sheet of blank paper – ritually tied in a ribbon of heraldic sanguine (slow to battle but ever-victorious) – and she was shaking hands with the faulty, stumbling over her hem as she stepped down and joining her milling classmates on the other side.

It was really terribly anti-climatic, she thought as she threw her hat in the air.