Spirit of the Season

By Wee-Me

DISCLAIMER: I don't own, so don't sue me. C'mon it's the holidays, leave me be.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hasty holiday fic that wouldn't leave me alone, so I threw it out here. Please enjoy.

9:30 a.m. Dec. 20-somethingth

Santa-

Here is my list of demands. I have been very good this year, not creating half as much trouble as I wanted to or could have. If you want this trend to continue you will gimme what I want. See, I know how this stuff works and you'd better believe I know how to make you regret it if you don't pay up.

1) A case of my favorite whiskey

2) Make that two cases

3) A box of Cuban cigars

4) The mounted head of a sand worm

5) Adam Maitland's glasses

6) Barbara Maitland's voice in a jar

7) Delia Deetz's arrogance

8) Otho's decorating sense (to burn in my fireplace)

9) Chuck Deetz's money

10) Juno's lighter (wait, already stole that, never mind)

If this seems like too much you can kiss my EXPLETIVE DELETED. Or you could get me what I really want.

1) Lydia Lenore Deetz and some mistletoe

I might even say thank you or something stupid like that.

(If you happened to also put a mirror inside her shower that'd be good too.)

Now pay up or else,

B---------

This is the sight that greets Lydia as she stumbles into her bathroom to do her morning routine, taped inside her mirror - a letter to Santa blocking her view of her own face. She grins as she reads it again, checking now and again for a trace of energy that would let her know he is watching and finding none. She hastily preps herself for the day and then moves to jot a note at her desk. She tapes it to her mirror facing inward for the irksome poltergeist to find and then she heads out for a day of browsing at the huge library a few towns over.

The man himself is pacing irritably as he waits long enough to assure himself that she is done in her bathroom and he can pop into her mirror without the threat of violence. A minute and a half should do it. In the quickest of instants he is over to his mirror and uncovering its silvered surface. He pulls his letter down disappointed that it didn't work, not that he had really expected it to (he's been trying to romance her for a whole year and nothing has worked so far), when he spots the letter on the other side.

Not-so-dear Poltergeist,

First, let me say how much fun it was to do my hair without my good mirror this morning. (Can't you use my other mirrors? Why always this one?)

Second, I'm not sure you got the spelling correct in your letter, are you sure you weren't trying for Satan instead? (Hmm, probably not. I'm sure you have a direct line to him and wouldn't need to write. Never mind.)

Third, you say thanks? That would be something.

Fourth, Merry Christmas.

–Lydia

P.S.: Stay a way from my shower!!! I mean it.

He sighs, this is no declaration of love or promise to call. He has spent the last year getting to know her more and trying to win her heart, but even at his most optimistic he could only call them friends (with unresolved romantic tension). She wouldn't even let him out of the mirror in her home, it's like she doesn't really trust him or something.

It is time, he decides, for the traditional Christmas "Good, Stiff Drink" to be followed by the annual "Drink Everything He Can Find That Has Alcohol", to be finished off with everyone's favorite: "The Alcohol Induced Sleep Until The Horribly Depressing Holiday Season Is Over Ritual". Not one to flaunt his own made up traditions he heads downstairs to get it started.

Returning home around 6:00 p.m. with nearly her weight in books and groceries (plus some holiday cheer) Lydia puts things away and heads into her room with a mission and a to-do list. Adam and Barbara are settled for the night up in the attic and her parents are on a couples ski trip somewhere, so the house is basically hers. A few hours of work and everything is perfectly set for her to make a call: gifts wrapped, dinner set, and the perfect dress on with the matching heels. Now to just say the word.

His fifth bottle of booze down and his mood not greatly improved, as the alcohol is having no effect whatsoever, Beetlejuice is too busy notice that he is no longer in his home. That is until he reaches down about his feet to find his new bottle and comes up with empty air. Well, actually, he finds a bed-skirt which is wrong in many ways because 1) he was in his wingback chair and 2) even if he were on his bed it wouldn't have sheets, let alone a bed-skirt. He gazes blearily at his surroundings, which seem oddly familiar. He glances at a portrait of Lydia on the wall then to a candle burning in a wall sconce, then does a double take back to the portrait. His mouth falls open as he realizes exactly where he is. He hasn't been anywhere near this room in corporeal form in years.

A dainty snort of laughter alerts him to Lydia walking toward him from a candle lit table for two in the corner. He is actually in her room, on her bed, with her dressed fit to kill in a strappy hunter green dress that flows over her curves to hit just below her knees. If he weren't already a spirit he might swear he had died and gone to heaven. In a heartbeat she is standing in front of him, smiling no less, and handing him a small gift box.

"Merry Christmas, B."

"M-m-merry Christmas, Lyds. What's?"

He waves his hand around to encompass the room and the situation in general.

"I believe Santa received an offer he couldn't refuse. Now open your present."

"Babes, I don't need anything else. This is . . . "

" Open it. It took forever to find."

He rips open the paper and pulls the lid off the box. His mischievous grin at the contents is matched by Lydia's own. A sprig of mistletoe is nestled on a bed of tissue paper in his hand. He lifts it up and stands to tower over Lydia, dangling the mistletoe above them.

"C'mere Babes, lemme thank you."

Merry Christmas!

AUTHOR'S NOTE 2: Just a quick fic, not terribly refined so I hope it's okay.