Author's Note and Disclaimer: I don't own Beetlejuice or Lydia or any of the other spooktacular characters from that show/movie which I may borrow for this story.
That being said, this is my first attempt at a Beej fan fiction. I would love some honest reviews, as I am new to the fan fiction world, and want this to be good. This is a mix of cartoon-verse and movie-verse, but it's mostly on the cartoon-verse side.
The bar carried a certain weariness and despair that kept drawing him there night after night. The muted lights and hushed atmosphere helped to keep the patrons anonymous, which was what he wanted. As he sat, hunched over his drink, he never had to concern himself with thoughts of anyone else present knowing or recognizing him. All that mattered in this establishment was: if you paid and didn't cause trouble, then no questions were asked. Thus, shrouded by a thick curtain of stale cigarette smoke, he was able to think. His own cigarette added to the swirling cloud overhead as he took half-hearted drags in an attempt to calm his nerves. Unfortunately, that was never the case. His nightly ritual had become a habit now despite the fact that it did nothing to compose his thoughts. He needed to be alone, and this was simply the best place to do so.
With a flick of his wrist, he downed his glass of whiskey, not at all savoring the warmth it brought to his cold body as he once used to. The bartender knew his routine like clockwork, and a new glass was instantly in place before the seated poltergeist even had to motion for one. It was all a part of the ebb and flow his afterlife had become ever since…he didn't know when. And that was what frustrated him so much and what caused him to return to this seedy hole in the wall so often to drown the pain in the haze of alcohol; a pain that consumed him, yet he was not even aware of why.
How long had it been now? He had lost count years ago. He only knew that it grew as time went on. It grew, and it hurt. It filled him with emotions he didn't want to experience, and he could not even name the source. His few friends believed he had gone even more insane than he already was, but it felt so real that it squeezed at his dead heart and crushed his spirit. He was – pardon the pun – a ghost of his former self; and not even that would form a literal translation of his juice.
He snorted in exasperation and slammed the glass down on the worn counter after swallowing its contents quickly. They were worried about him, his friends and family, making a fuss over him as if he were some invalid. Him…of all ghosts…the thought was almost comical, almost. Between their threats of booking him a session with Doctor Sigmund Void and him escaping here, he would wave them off and dismiss their concerns as unfounded. He would insist he was his same old abnormal self and keep up appearances by floating calmly away, hands jammed in his pockets, and whistling an innocent tune. He had a reputation to keep, after all.
Then come nightfall, after the effort of keeping on the mask, he always found his way here, where his walls crumbled and the mask turned to dust. Only then would the tears sometimes fall hot and unwelcome, grinding his pride into the dirt.
But why…why did his being ache for what he couldn't even identify? Why did he feel like a piece of himself had been torn away, something irreplaceable and precious? What could possibly be precious to someone who had never overly cared about anyone or anything (besides himself) in his long afterlife? That involved emotions that were nice and (blegh) lovey! There was that reputation again…
Disgusted with himself and his rampaging emotions, he downed the next glass the bartender had placed before him. Despite the numbness that was beginning to seep into his mind from the alcoholic fog, it did nothing to quell the feeling of emptiness that refused to leave. He tried to internally reason with himself that he was indeed fine, despite the nagging awareness that he was pining for something that supposedly didn't even exist.
He remembered long ago when pranks and cons were his driving force, creating mayhem and reveling in the chaotic aftermath. And then, one day, it just didn't matter anymore. None of it did….and for what reason? As far as he could recall nothing had triggered or led up to it. It seemed as if a switch had been flicked off in his afterlife and his light bulb had inexplicably burned out. One day he was one way, and the next…he was this.
"But why…" he found himself wondering out loud, an errant tear landing on one of his red tipped fingers. He left it where it lay, his moisture blurred vision glaring at it defiantly as the faint light from the ceiling reflected sickeningly on its surface.
He was vaguely aware that more had begun to fall unbidden, and he found that he didn't even care. His shoulders heaved slightly as he cried silently, lamenting over the unknown. With all his power – almost limitless it seemed – he could not so much as glean a shred of awareness as to why he felt this way.
The bartender always avoided the ghost on nights when he reached this point, attempting to give the poor soul at least a sliver of dignity. The seated poltergeist failed to notice that a new glass had not replaced the empty one, nor did he observe the door to the bar swinging open and a skeleton entering. This individual paused for a moment, adjusting his vision to the dim lighting before scanning the sullen crowd. His golden eyes stopped when he spotted the tell-tale black and white striped suit he was seeking. He made his way over to the ghoul with the smooth movements of an athlete, his strides long and graceful for one with no flesh or muscle.
Upon reaching the ghost at the bar, the skeleton placed a boney hand lightly on his shoulder to gain his attention. His head snapped up in surprise and favored the intruder with a harsh glare as he swiftly wiped away straggling tears with a dirty sleeve.
"Wha' the hell you want, Jacques!?" he growled, attempting to sound intimidating.
His tone of voice did not have the effect he had desired however. It was quite the opposite, actually. The skeleton's bright yellow eyes flickered with pity momentarily as he withdrew his bleach white hand. Pity was not something that was at all welcome, and it did nothing but raise the ire of the poltergeist farther. Pity was for the weak, the powerless, the hopeless…three things he was not. How dare Jacques pity him?
"Be-atlejuice…" Jacques said gently, his voice heavy with his French accent, "I knew I would find you 'ere. Your mere called and zey are coming over demain along with Donny, your petit frère. Eet ees late, you should come 'ome and rest."
Beetlejuice face palmed. His parents and annoying brother were coming over? Mostly likely to do the same thing Jacques was doing now; coddle him like some helpless baby. He scowled deeply at the thought and stood up on unsteady feet abruptly. He had to muster more concentration than he would have liked on maintaining his balance in his inebriated state.
"Don' make me juice you outta my face, Jacques, cuz it won't be pleasant, and it won't be in one piece," Beetlejuice said through gritted teeth. "I came here to be alone, not to have to deal with your boney ass."
Jacques sighed, but refused to back down. His eyes narrowed in frustration. "I came 'ere to check on you and 'elp you 'ome, Be-atlejuice. You should be grateful zere are some ghouls who actually still care about your sorry 'ide."
Beetlejuice rarely felt guilt, but now was one of those infrequent moments. It briefly fluttered in his brain and he mentally blamed the alcohol for the flash of uncomfortable emotion. If it registered on his face, Jacques made no indication of noticing it. Beetlejuice knew Jacques was correct, and that was part of what was making the poltergeist feel a war of uneasiness and anger raging in his head. The two had known each other and been neighbors at the roadhouse for centuries, and no matter how many times Beetlejuice pranked him, or was rude to him, or tried to con him, the skeleton remained kind to him. Granted, Jacques was a kind soul and warmhearted with most everyone (and that was quite a feat for someone without a heart), but a vast majority of the Neitherworld could not stand to be in the same zip code as the powerful ghost. He had a reputation, and a rap sheet to match. In fact, Beetlejuice was certain he could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of individuals who gave any care of what happened to him.
"I don't know why ya came either, bone bag, 'Snot like I asked you too," Beetlejuice's voice carried an edge of shame which was barely perceptible to the skeleton. The poltergeist was too proud to ever admit to a fault. His tone was so well controlled that only those who knew him well would have ever picked up on the tinge of emotion there.
"I came out of respect for your mere and our old friendship, mon ami. I just weesh you would tell moi what bothers you so deeply. Zis 'as been going on so long now," Jacques toothy mouth turned down in a frown of concern.
Beetlejuice averted his gaze and jammed his hands in his pockets. "Nuttin's wrong. You should know that by now." His voice then became hushed and his next words were a barely audible whisper, "'Snot like you, or anyone else for that matter, could ever possibly understand, anyways."
Jacques knew Beetlejuice had not meant for him to hear, but he had indeed. The athlete felt a seed of hope begin to take root in his mind. That was the most he had gotten his friend to admit to at all in the last ten years.
"Try me," Jacques goaded.
Beetlejuice's momentary lapse was instantly gone and replaced by a crooked grin that was devoid of any true mirth. "Nah…not hungry," the poltergeist waved a dismissive hand. "Anyways, I prefer a little more meat on my bones, if ya know what I mean."
Jacques shook his head, not at all placated by the fake smile his friend adorned at the moment. The seed of hope had withered into nothing, and he was back at square one. No chisel in existence could crack the façade of the "ghost with the most" at this point. The skeleton sighed in defeat and turned to leave.
"Be-atlejuice," Jacques said in a quiet tone, his back still turned to his friend, "as you contend with whatever eet ees that 'aunts you, never forget there are those of us who do care."
With that said, the skeleton made his way out of the bar. Beetlejuice's eyebrows knitted in frustration, but he still would not let Jacques get the last word.
"And you never forget that I'm the one that does the haunting, bone head, not the other way around!" He shouted after Jacques just before the door closed behind him.
A few of the patrons by this point had glanced up from their places to eye the poltergeist with annoyance at the disturbance. Beetlejuice simply reached into his pocket, paid for his drinks, and chucked a thumb at the door.
"Damn bothersome skeletons," he cackled weakly, trying to ease the tension, "you know I hate'm."
He was aware this was his cue to leave, as much as he dreaded it. Jacques was bad enough, but now come morning, he would have to deal with his parents and brother, the last three ghouls in the Neitherworld he had any desire to see. Sandworms sounded more appealing at the moment, and that was saying something.
He shoved his hands nonchalantly into his pockets once again and floated over to the door languidly. His mind was abuzz with rapid thoughts, and he had to shoo a few bees away from his face as they flew out his ears. The ghost was so distracted that he failed to notice the black hooded figure at the rear of the bar who watched him leave. The figure stood when Beetlejuice left, and then stealthily followed out the door and blended in with the shadows.