As Lucas stood there, his face as stony and unmoving as his son's normal mask, Jareth blanched visibly. The hue filtered from his gaunt cheeks, dripping away like water splashed paint off a canvas. His glimmering eyes faded as dull as chipped marbles as he stared at his reappeared father, all hope of resuming his composure long gone.

"I'm back," Lucas said firmly.

Jareth scowled behind his stunned visage. Of course you're back damnit, I'm not blind! But what was there to do? His mind was reeling, playing out situations based on actions he imagined himself executing right now. He could embrace Lucas, but that action was altogether too bold, and Jareth wondered why the thought had even crossed his mind. You don't hug a dead man, let alone one you killed. The thought was followed closely by a pang of guilt that leveled his entire thought process a moment. He could send Lucas back to whatever filthy hell he'd come from, and yet his curiousity would be unsatisfied. That awful morbid curiousity that bayed him as how, and why. The answer he knew would make him cringe, and only stir a violent twister of emotions left buried. And buried they would stay, he amended and forces his slack jaw to tighten as his eyes hardened.

"So I see, but I do wish you'd stay six feet under where you were put Lucas." Jareth's tone had almost frozen out all emotion, save for the habitual tint of patronization and annoyance. Lucas, however, was prepared for this treatment for he lurched forward catching Jareth in a boa constrictor of an embrace. Again, Jareth's eyes went fish like and huge as a shrill coldness crept up his spine. It was like being enclosed in meat. There was no living vibe, no warmth. Cold and repulsive. With a grimace of disgust, he shoved Lucas back abruptly and snarled.

"Don't ever touch me again! Understood?!" All he could think about was the clamminess, the musty smell that comes with the unearthing of moist ground radiating from his father's form. A shiver wracked his willowy frame and Lucas in turn smiled disgustingly.

"What's wrong son? Can't stand to give your father a hug? I think it's the least you could do, circumstances being what they are." He clicked his tongue and placed clumsy looking hands on his hips. There was something wrong with his poise. He swayed slightly, unsteadily, like a tree of kelp in the whirl of the waves. Swaying, yet obviously strong in some odd fashion. Two words bubbled up in Jareth's mind, "Guilt Trip". And it was working. He closed his golden eyes a moment and opened them to look as if appraising the sombre grey stone beneath his feet. No matter what, Lucas was his father, and he had taken his life. He owed him something didn't he? A lump rose in Jareth's throat which he attempted to alleviate by swallowing.

"I'm sorry..." and yet the word father was too alien, too far unused and so the sentence remained as broken as Jareth's understanding. Lucas watched.

"I'll be in my quarters," he said simply and trudged up a case of stairs. And there it was again, the way he moved, with an almost comical disorientation, his knees bumping together as he shuffled stiffly. As stiffly as a corpse.

His eyes closed again, and for once in his long life, Jareth worried. Extensively.