Okay, uhm. I was just watching the movie--you know? In honor of Halloween upcoming--and I was watching the end right? And suddenly wondered, what would have happened if Barbara had been only a second later, and the Marriage had gone through you know? So I thought maybe I'd take that up and try to write it.

Also, because I've got her married to him, I wanted to up her age just a little. I want to play with the darker side of their relationship and so odd enough stuff is going to be happening without me gettin' in trouble for her being a minor. So let's just call her 18 for my peace of mine. Hopefully that doesn't bother anyone too terribly.

With that terribly long author's note and a reminder that I do have other stories so this might not go too quickly (I knew my plans to try writing out the whole story first and then post it would fall through.) but I'll finish, provided along the way no one beats me to death with a shovel.

And not like you don't know but I don't own any of the characters and sueing me would really suck.

I now pronounce you Man and Wife.

The thick and heavy words repeated again and again in her mind. Pounding against it and her raw nerves like great waves crashing against the shore. Wearing away her sanity and her reserves bit, by agonizing bit.

I now pronounce you Man and Wife.

The sickly sweet taste of fear and unimaginable sorrow weighted heavily in the pit of her stomach. Beside her, still with one thick arm draped around her shoulders, the ghost she had just been married to cackled, high-pitched and grating.

I now pronounce you Man and Wife.

When the world pitched up around them and swirled, settling like so much dust to the floor she dropped to her knees—difficult in that revolting hoop-skirt—and retched, her stomach turning itself inside out in an attempt to empty itself of everything she had ever eaten.

I now pronounce you Man and Wife.

She was sobbing and heaving and shaking so much so she could hardly catch her breath. Not that death would be so terrible. He wouldn't want her if she was dead, right? He might even let her go.

I now pronounce you Man and Wife.

He would never let her go. He wouldn't let her die either. She felt that distinctive swish of cold power—like a fine misting of rain—wash over her and her lungs filled with air and emptied even though she couldn't draw breath for all her heavy sobbing.

"Is it the traveling or something else because if it's the traveling thing I can do something about it. If not you're annoying me." His voice lanced into her small, secluded world and her heart froze in her breast. She glared up at him through bangs that hung in limp and sweaty tendrils. It took her a moment to realize that it was she who was swaying and not the room. He stood clear among hazy vision. Sharp around the face and middle and fuzzy at the edges.

Crushed red velvet and dust and wild hair.

"I don't know. It's finding myself suddenly married to a dead guy, being ripped away from my family even if they weren't the best people, and yes, maybe the traveling thing." Her anger burned away the tears and talking was easier than she expected. Her voice was reed thin and it trembled but she could speak and she watched him flinch.

"Look, you promised I can't do nothin' about that." He told her simply, and for a moment she thought she heard something more in his voice, but she dismissed it as she shook harder and retched again. At this point it was little more than dry heaves, but it still flexed every muscle in her body and a few she was certain appeared just to torment her for this occasion. "Drink this."

When she looked up at his suddenly quiet words she was startled to find he was now kneeling. He had shed the hideous red tux that was a signal of the marriage she suddenly found herself in, and was back in the striped suit, which was only slightly less hideous.

His knees were bent and he was pitched forward on his toes, balancing precariously. One arm was draped lazily over one leg and the other was stretched out towards her, cradling a dinged, metal goblet. His fingers were long and pale, and might have been elegant if not for those disgusting nails. She couldn't see what was in the goblet, but it was smoking.

"What is it?" She asked, suspiciously. She looked at it as if just being near it was enough for it to kill her.

"Drink it. It'll help with the Traveling Sickness. Mortals aren't supposed'ta transport like that." He told her.

"I mean what's in it." She clarified, wrinkling up her nose and trying to move away from the mess she'd left on the floor. There was a small part of her that was embarrassed by such a display of weakness on her part.

His empty hand with its almost-elegant fingers twitched and the mess was gone. She was still in the terrible dress—a symbol of her new prison she supposed—and she was still sweating and shaking. She wiped at the corner of her mouth with one gloved hand.

"Poison. What the fuck do you think is in it? I'm not going to kill you. I only married you because you're alive." He told her firmly.

"Comforting." She sneered, snatching it away from him, careful not to touch his hand. It was heavier than she imagined and the liquid sloshed within it, some spilled on the floor and she was almost surprised when it didn't eat through the thick planks, warped in some places and badly nailed in others.

She sniffed it experimentally and had a long moment where she was certain that her body was going to start ejecting organs for a lack of anything left in her stomach. "It smells revolting." She told him, just in case he didn't know.

"Fine you wanna be sick for days be that way." She felt that same cool sensation of power and realized that when he started forcing air in and out of her lungs he hadn't stopped, he had also lessened the dizziness and the nausea and several other symptoms. She fell back against what felt to be a chair or a couch and plugged her nose with one hand, and gulped the contents down as quickly as she could, clamping her now-free hand over her mouth.

She had to force it back down twice before the medicine—if that was what it was—stayed in her stomach.

It worked nearly instantly and she felt well enough to stand, walk to where Betelgeuse now stood—watching her intently—and slap him as hard as she could. Considering her weakened state it wasn't too terribly hard, but she relished the loud noise it made, the red welt on his cheek and the way his head snapped to the side.

"What the hell was that for?" He shouted, whirling on her. For a moment she was afraid he would strike her back, and she did not doubt that even without using his powers he would have more strength in the attack than her pathetic attempt.

"You're disgusting, and rude, and I want to go home!" She shouted back, covering her fear with more anger, and around this terrible monster she had more than enough anger.

"You ain't no prize yourself girlie! And this is home from now on! You married me. 'Member?" He asked, mockingly.

"Only because it was the only way to get you to help!" She shot back, silently startled by her surprise and hurt at what he'd said. "And I am not going to stay here!" She fairly screeched, her pitch raising with each word uttered.

"Oooh-hoo yes you are! You're my wife now babes, and I ain't lettin' you go." He grinned wickedly at her. "Laws of the Realm girl. You're mine." The words carried such a heavy finality to them that she stumbled backwards, bumping into the chair she'd leaned against to drink the vile concoction.

She spotted a door that hung crooked on it's hinges, it sagged more than stood open and beyond was another room. That was all her frazzled brain needed to know and she ran, tripping over the terrible folds of the red skirt she wore and stumbling, crashing her shoulder hard into the door frame. She fell into the room more than entered it, and slammed the door shut behind her.

"Homehomehome! Homehomehome! Homehomehome!" She shouted, again and again and again until her voice was nothing more than a whisper, horse and spent. She curled up against the door, her fingers clawing uselessly at the wood and her heart longing for the smell of Delia cooking in the kitchen or the soft, squishy warmth of a hug from her father, anything that reminded her of home. Because anything was better than this hell she had fallen into, she wanted nothing more than to go home.

She did not know what he did when she ran, but on the other side of the flimsy door Betelgeuse was silent and a small sliver of her heart managed to be grateful for that. "Home, home, home. Please? Home."

She fell sleep curled against that door, her legs bent at odd angles beneath her and her arms shaking as they wrapped around her shoulders. She chanted "home" until she fell into a fitful sleep riddled with nightmares about snakes and rings and dead fingers in pockets and one old monster proclaiming:

I now pronounce you Man and Wife.