A/N: The muse has struck for this fic. And THANK GOD! I've never been this involved with any fic I've done before – to the point that I'm pouring over every version of the movie script, watching old cartoons, researching points of time in which noteworthy events took place – it's incredible. I'm riddin' a fic high! Hope ya'll are having fun riding it with me! And…um…forgive the emotional angst. But it's a relationship – a messed up one – but a relationship none the less that two people are trying to sort through and I guess this is just how I see them sorting through it.

A HUGE thanks to both Mikell and Melody Winters for not only helping me muddle through future issues with this fic but being two of the greatest friends and beta's a girl could ask for! Love you girls!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic. The usual ;)

Gray Areas

The old house still creaked as it settled – a constant condition of age given the way the renovations had been built around the existing frame rather than created from new material. Charles Deetz may have been a snob about prime real-estate, but he knew shit about reconstruction. In the stillness of the early morning hours, cast in eerie, elongated shadows from the few dim lights that remained on, the house may have been somewhat disturbing to a human. To Beetlejuice – it was relaxing. Sure, it wasn't his choice digs in the field of haunting, but he could think of a lot worse. Besides, he wasn't haunting thanks to that damn contract. Still, he couldn't deny that there was something decidedly comforting about the silence, especially without Delia's shrill vocals constantly destroying it. And this silence wasn't the kind that existed in his little hole-in-the-wall-hell. It was the kind of silence that existed in the house of flesh and blood woman who'd blind-sided him repeatedly and who was either insane enough or stupid enough to trust having him free and under the same roof. Which of them won out was still kind of a gray area for him.

A contemplative frown pulled at Beetlejuice's features as he sank further into his chair, propping his feet up on the chair Lydia had vacated and crossing them at the ankle. He was trying to maintain some tentative grasp on the entire idea of vengeance, though it was growing near impossible to do so. Damn Lydia for being the exact opposite of what he had expected her to ever be. He had never thought for one minute that she would tack on a few extra years while still being the morose brat she had been. But at the same time…he'd never expected her to grow into a confident woman that could face the likes of him with even the slightest degree of compassion. She had though. And to top it all off, she's apologized to him…him. Sure, it wasn't the apology he'd originally wanted, the one that sounded like something along the lines of "I'm sorry I didn't marry you and stood back to watch while you got eaten by a sandworm." It was an apology though.

That feeling that he had gone disgustingly soft and pathetic started to creep over him again, persistent and annoying as shit. He attempted to wash it away with a quick shot of vodka chased by an impossibly long drag from his half finished cigarette that would have left a breather damn near hacking up a lung.

Then…he forcefully shifted gears. He took every conflicting, nauseating emotion he had when it came to the dark eyed little witch, and put it into one last-ditch attempt to hate everything Lydia Deetz was.

You don't want to hate her though. Nu-uh. You want to do the exact opposite of hate her. Isn't that what last night was about? If you hated her…you would have taken what she was giving without thinking. You would have been greedy and you wouldn't have given a shit how much you would have hurt her.

"Shut up," he muttered, refilling the shot class for the umpteenth time, cigarette clamped between his teeth.

Feel pretty good to have the tables turned? To be the one talking to voices?

"Fuck off."

Come up with more than two word come-backs and maybe I'll consider it.

Beetlejuice gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut, willing his voice of reason to be silent. He was furious that the words were gaining purchase through the turmoil already taking up too much space in his head, furious that he'd managed to let what little scrap of loathing he'd started to build up slip away. The entire appeal of agreeing to every goddamned stipulation was so that he could be free of Juno's Nazi-like regime and play Ms. Deetz in any way possible to ensure that she paid for-.

For what? Something that happened when she was a kid? Something that happened after ten minutes of knowing her and deciding that she looked hot enough to hitch yourself to so why not? And let's not forget the fact that she never actually said yes…you did it for her. Face it, Beej. You don't want to play her. You want to play with her. Note the distinct difference.

It was noted, complete with visual. Beetlejuice swore loudly, jerking up in his chair. He snatched the bottle of vodka, put it to his lips and tilted his head back. It was at times like these, when liquor was washing down his throat and feeling like nothing more than cold frustration, that he really wished he was alive. He wanted to feel the sting of it, to have it dull his senses so he could just stop thinking about Lydia - about the way she'd made a solid effort to be friendly to him, about those damned eyes, about that body that had been so willing under his hands. And most of all, he wanted to be drunk as hell so that when his voice of reason spoke, it was nothing more than an annoying cricket-like chirp.

Ain't nothin' doin', he thought miserably, slamming the empty bottle down on the table with nearly enough force to shatter it.

He grasped desperately at any remaining straws, racking his brain. Maybe there was somthin' about her that could reinforce those glorious feelings of vengeance.

Inspired, he pushed away from the table and moved upstairs. The bathroom light had been left on and he tilted his head to the side slightly, trying to remember whether or not he'd left it on. Not that it mattered. Either he had or she had. He shrugged and ghosted through the open door, going straight to the medicine cabinet and pulling it open. The usual collection of toiletries dominated the shelves – perfumes, glass jars filled with q-tips and cotton balls, razor refills, lotions. The top shelf though - that sweet little baby – now that made him smile. It was stuffed with orange bottles; all labeled neatly, all very clearly stating that they were prescription drugs.

He started looking through them, tossing anything that didn't belong to Lydia in the sink while muttering to himself.

"Delia…Delia…Ghost with the goddamned most…six hundred years of not givin' a shit about anyone and this little brat comes along and makes me…uuugh…feel stuff. Delia…Delia…Delia-. Fuck…can you even mix half this shit? And what the hell is she bein' nice for anyway? What's in it for her? Doesn't even know why she's hangin' around this place…Delia…Delia-."

The last bottle was thrown irritably into the collection spilling out of the sink, sending several of those already cast aside spinning over the countertop and clattering to the floor. Nothing…not a damn thing. Nothing for anti-depression which meant she'd gotten that little shit-storm under control. No uppers meaning her kindness towards him was entirely non-drug induced. No downers which mean that her little spells were just that…spells.

He leaned over the counter, sneering disdainfully at the bottles and the choice of tasteless marbled ceramic. He knew he was just snatching at tiny, spider-web thin threads right now, looking for reasons to hate Lydia. He knew this about as much as he knew, damn her living soul, that he couldn't hate her. Sure, he could make up a million damned excuses to try to hide the truth of the matter. But the truth was…she fascinated him. What she was, what she'd become, the way she moved with all that confident sassiness that really got him worked up. Knowing she wanted him….well now, that was just the hot little cherry on the top. And that kiss…hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually felt anything akin to affection for a living being. Damn, a dead being for that matter. The way her lips had moved on his and the taste of them, like rich whiskey and honey…he'd give his entire afterlife to taste that again.

With a defeated sigh, he pulled the wastebasket out from under the sink and filled it with the contents of Delia's little drug-stash, musing over how the woman could possibly still be alive, popping that many pills into her system on a daily basis. Probably a good thing she was. That woman in the waiting room? He'd feel pity for any…any…poor spectral sap dealing with that shit. Hell, he'd feel sorry for Juno. And he never felt sorry for Juno.

He flipped the switch on his way out, started down the hallway and came to a stop at Lydia's door. For the longest time he floated there, staring at it, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into. She ruled him. She owned him. And as much as he was trying to…he couldn't replace any of the admiration or curiosity with even the slightest bit of animosity. She'd worked him over without even trying.

"Damn meddling little bitch," he muttered, his voice lacking any hostility. He almost sounded like he was…complimenting her. Right about now would be the time he'd be puking his guts out…if he could…and if he had any. Which, sadly, he did not.

He turned from the door, muttering an endless stream of curses under his breath as he continued down the stairs and into the living room where the couch sat waiting. Not Lydia…the couch. Damn it. He sank onto it, juiced a blanket, then did the only thing he could do to shut every nagging, annoying voice, up. He went to sleep.


Being a ghost required next to no sleep, if any at all. The entire concept of sleep was something they could, if they wanted to, entertain every once and a while when the urge to do so struck. Or, in Beetlejuices case, if you had a head full of conflicting crap that pissed you off on a regular basis and sleep was the only option to make it stop for a few hours. The unfortunate side affect of sleep when you were a ghost, however…was that you woke up feeling the same way you did when entering into the world of the dead for the first time – groggy, disorientated and almost painfully lethargic.

Beetlejuice squinted into the gray, early morning light as his body adjusted to a wakeful state. His thoughts were immediately on Lydia and he found, with mild shock and a good dose of disgust, that he was feeling a bit more optimistic about the situation they were in now that he'd had some time to not think. The idea of revenge no longer held any appeal…which was strange even for him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt anything but distaste, loathing and an all consuming sense of vengeance for the living. Lydia though…damned if that girl didn't rub him an entirely different way. He grinned lecherously at the thought, replaying a few choice images from that damn night that had changed everything.

Without that driving need to do something disgustingly vile to Lydia…all that was really left was…what was it? Well, whatever was left was a hell of a lot more complicated.

"Fuckin' human emotions," he muttered, lazily floating off the couch and toward the ceiling.

A knock interrupted the silence and he turned his head slowly to the side, staring at the front door. He watched it dumbly for a moment, wondering if he'd imagined the sound. Then it came again, more insistently.

Aint even eight o'clock yet. Who the hell would come knockin' this early?

A smile suddenly lit his face – twisted and entirely demonic. Someone had come a'callin' that early…about two days ago. Little Miss Janey Butterfield. And she'd pissed Lydia right off.

Beetlejuice righted himself, chuckling darkly. His hands may have been tied when it came to scaring the living shit out of people…but that didn't mean he couldn't toy with them a bit.

The knock came yet again, this time accompanied by a muffled voice that's pitch alone grated on his nerves. Unholy hell, she was worse than Delia. "Ms. Deetz? Ms. Deetz, I know you're home."

"Impatient little broad, ain't she?" Beetlejuice muttered. "Well…let's not keep Miss Stick-up-her-ass waiting."

One snap of the fingers and he was dressed in nothing more than black, silk boxers and a blood-red silk robe. Ridiculous, fuzzy black slippers adorned his feet and a cigarette dangled between his fingers. He tilted his head contemplatively to the side, then snapped his fingers again. A glass of deep red wine appeared before him, hovering in the air. He took it and barked out a "Yeah, yeah…I'm comin'! Keep yer fuckin' panties on!" when the impatient knock came yet again.

He went to the front door and jerked it open. Jane Butterfield – all starched lace and bland formality – startled slightly, her dainty hand lifting to her throat and her dull eyes widening.

Taking advantage, and a small amount of joy, in Jane's momentary shock, Beetlejuice leaned against the doorjamb, tipped back the glass of wine, then lowered it and brought his cigarette to his mouth, holding it between his lips so that he could scratch his stomach while giving the stiff woman a slow once-over.

Finally, when the silence got a little boring, he muttered a simple, "Yeah?"

"I…um…I was…" the woman stuttered. She pulled herself together, pressing back her already meticulously straightened shoulders and sticking her nose disdainfully in the air. "I am looking for Miss Lydia Deetz. Is she here?"

"Lyds? Yeah, she's here, alright." He leaned forward and lifted his hand to his mouth, offering a wicked smile full of suggestion. "She's a bit tied up…if ya know what I mean."

Jane's face paled considerably. Ohhh, she knew exactly what he meant.

"That Lyds – she's got a hell of a kinky side. All S&M…whips and chains…leather and hot wax…that kinda shit. Maybe I can help ya," he said, adding an evocative waggle of his brows. "Though I gotta tell ya, lady – with the way Lyd's is keepin' me busy…might not be enough juice left in these old bones to show ya what kinda damage I can really do. Gimme a few hours." He reached for the crotch of his boxers, adjusting them and hoping that Miss Starch and Lace Butterfield got a look at the goods. Judging from the strangled sound that left her and the way her eyes grew considerably larger, he'd say that she'd gotten an eye-full. "If ya come back later I'll rock yer world five ways from-."

"No!" she quickly exclaimed, staggering away from him. She nearly lost her balance when her foot left the porch all together. A mad grab for the railing stopped that welcome tragedy from happening. Pity, Beetlejuice thought.

"No, no…that's quite alright. Just…um…just tell her that Jane Butterfield stopped by. She has my card but -."

She started to reach for the oversized bag hanging from her shoulder and it was right then that Beetlejuice decided he'd had enough bending of the rules. He muttered a drab, "Yup…sure…Butterfield…got it," and slammed the door right in Jane's gaping, mouse-like face. He cackled as he turned away from the door, satisfaction unlike anything he'd known for quite some time rushing through him. Of course, it would be short lived. Of course Lydia would be standing at the foot of the steps, arms crossed over that mouth-watering chest and one delicate brown arched.

"That wasn't anything juice related," he said, quick to defend himself.

"What would you call it then?" she asked, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "Uh…a gray area?"

"A gray area," she muttered dryly. "Sure it was. Coffee?"

"Rat shit!"

She started for the kitchen, her laughter winding around him. And he followed, feeling like a completely smitten moron…but unable to resist the sound of pure happiness from the lips that had haunted his dreams.


A/N: The phrase "rat shit" is actually pulled from the first, unrevised script. It seemed to be BJ's choice phrase of complete frustration. Lol.