Disclaimer: Beetlejuice and Co belong to Geffen. Alas that he did not choose to make further use of them.
Chapter 6: Time to Think
Ghosts don't have to sleep. Ghosts can shut their eyes, if they still have them, and the mind can wander, if it's still attached in the first place. Sometimes ghosts slept to keep from going insane. Beetlejuice never slept. He looked down at the girl asleep in his lap and wondered what this strange feeling was, the heaviness between his shoulder blades and on his brow. She didn't look all that comfortable, come to think of it. He tried to edge away, and her hand came up and grasped at his knee. Not quite asleep, then.
He hovered her carefully, and then propped himself up on her bed, just for a moment. The night was out there, and he was free. The thought made him a little giddy. But he wanted to wait until she was completely out, of course. Otherwise she could snatch him back at any moment, and he didn't want that hanging over his head. She settled gently beside him, turning and snuggling her backbone into his chest. Oh. This was… unexpected. Not like he could keep her warm, or anything. But she curled firmly against him, and he found his hand resting on her hip, through no fault of his. Hands always had a mind of their own, anyway. He could feel her hipbone through her nightshirt, and scowled slightly. And surprisingly, he could feel her warmth, too. It was a… curious sensation. He settled in beside her to ponder all of it.
So she had called him, and he had come. How long had he fretted that she wouldn't—that she would get in over her head, and fall into a bog, or whatever, and his chance would be gone. Watching her with frustrated impotence from behind her mirrors had been the tedious pastime of five years. But as he had watched her, he had begun to absorb something of her life, too. And that had been… annoying.
He remembered one evening in particular that she had come home and sat in front of the mirror for hours, combing out her hair and weeping quietly, tears trailing down her cheeks and her nose and eyes red with grief. He had snorted in discomfort and turned away, but then had found himself wondering what it was that had gotten her so upset. Not that he cared, but he was concerned about her health because she had to be alive when he married her. When he looked back at her, she had been clutching a letter, a note written on a torn out sheet of notebook paper. He couldn't read it, but she read it over and over, until her lips whispered the words, leave me alone. Obviously the message of the letter. Who would tell such a beautiful girl such a thing? He snorted without grace. Men were idiots. He was glad he wasn't one, anymore.
Another night he had to watch Lydia come in on her roommate making out with a boy, and that had been supremely entertaining. Lydia and her roommate… Betsy? Betty? Whatever, they seemed to get along pretty well. Sometimes Lydia would even get out and enjoy herself because of her roommate's encouragement, rather than poring over her books and sketches. But this evening, Lydia had come upon them as she came in to grab her books for her evening art class. And had just exploded. "For Pete's sake, Beth!" He grinned as he remembered how embarrassed she had been, her delicate complexion flushing a pale, angry pink. "This is my room too, you know, not a hotel. I'll be back in two hours." And she had fixed them both with a fierce glare. Beth had attempted a weak defense, but Lydia flounced out and slammed the door.
So for five years, he had watched her, and he had to admit, he knew her routines, if not her mind, pretty well. But she didn't know he did. And something told him that he would have to be an idiot to admit as much to her. She stirred in her sleep, and shifted so that she was facing him now, her eyes squeezed shut in a dream. The night beckoned. He hovered gently upwards, losing substance as he did, and eased away from her curled body. Her arm came up and passed right through him, and then she reached over the bed.