Disclaimer: Beetlejuice and Co belong to Geffen. Alas that he did not choose to make further use of them.

Chapter 7: Lines are Drawn

"Beetlejuice? Are you leaving me?" He remained silent, hoping that she would just fall back asleep. But instead, she roused herself and peered up at him, squinting in the gloom. "B? Don't make me put you back."

He groaned, all pretence of silence dropped. "C'mon, Lyds. I won't do any harm, promise! It's been so long since I got out and stretched my legs. Be back in half an hour. I'll even bring you a present!" he added hopefully.

"I'd rather you stayed here. It's… nice." She must not have been fully awake, because she didn't blush nearly as much as he did, and he was dead. He sighed dramatically, but the odd feeling inside his breast intensified. Strangely, he found that he didn't really want to leave, either. So he grumbled a bit to put up a show for his dignity, and then drifted back down to settle next to her. She smiled, then. "I've never slept next to a poltergeist before. It's much more peaceful than I had imagined. No spinning beds or anything."

"If you like…!" And the bed lifted up clear of her desk and spun lazily around in the center of the room. She giggled and thumped his chest with the flat of her palm.

"B, you take everything so literally."

"This stuff is easier that being solid, babe. I'll do as much of the haunting as you like. That's the fun part!"

"It's hard to be solid?" She tucked up on her elbows, but evidently didn't realize how close that would bring her to his face. She found herself mere inches from him, noses almost touching. Startled, she jumped back a bit, and so did he, and the bed crashed to the floor. "Oof!" They were tangled up now, truly; his arm was flung around her to hold her steady and she was pressed against his chest, her arms trapped under her. She extricated herself with speed, and he let her go, but watched her with an amused sparkle in his luminescent eyes.

"It's hard to be a lot of things, Lyds. What are you so afraid of?"

She sighed heartily and sat criss-cross on the bed. "Not you." She widened her eyes and jutted out her jaw for emphasis. "Just… how many girls sleep with… next to ghosts and think that's perfectly normal? It can't be normal. And if it's so hard to be solid, why do you do it?"

"That's two questions, I think."

"What, do I have to pay extra for two?" He gave her that chilling, feral smile again, and she tucked her arms more firmly in her lap, refusing to be intimidated.

"I'll answer both for free. But don't forget that you owe me." He straightened, made a show of dusting off his coat, and then fixed her with the slightly deranged glare that had become so familiar to her. "It's hard to remain corporeal because of havin' to concentrate on it all the time. You see, when you… surprised me with the question in the street about the coffee, I lost it. It's the only reason that old lady didn't end up with a beetle in her radiator." Lydia giggled at the image, and Beetlejuice lifted an eyebrow at her. "As for the other, that's hard to say, 'cause I don't know what goes for normal round you. So I guess you'll have to answer that yourself."

Lydia nodded after a moment. "That's fair. I guess for me, the strangeness is not so much that you're dead, but that we're supposed to be mortal enemies." She poked a finger at his breastbone. "You did almost shanghai me into an illicit marriage."

He poked a long, slender finger back at her, grazing her nose. "Also saved the afterlives of your deeeaar friends."

"You should have done that anyway."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't do anythin' that doesn't have nothin' in it for me."

She paused and fixed him with a deep look, her dark brown eyes such a contrast to his pale green. "So what's in it for you, staying here with me on a night like this?"

At that he looked down at his hands. "I want out. Like I said. That hasn't changed. And you seem to tolerate me much better than… well, anyone. So I have a better chance of convincin' you than, say, Delia."

Lydia laughed out loud. "Delia? I think you wouldn't last ten minutes in a marriage with my step-mother." He looked up, a sheepish grin on his lips. She sobered then. "So that's it. You want me to marry you and set you free?"

"Pretty much," he grunted.

"What would marriage to you be like, exactly? What does the wife of a ghost do?" He looked uncomfortable, and then gazed back up at her, and she caught the unmistakable look of wistful longing in his eyes. A shiver traveled thought her body.

He lay back down on the bed, and after a long-considered moment, she followed him, tucking her head between his shoulder and chest. He, in turn, slid his arms around her and linked his fingers just above her hip. It was the most intimate she had ever been with a man, if this even counted, and she felt it in the nervous tremor that seemed to take up residence in her stomach. But she breathed him in, and he smelled of dust and candle wax and old wool and whiskey, not unpleasant. She lifted a finger to trace the line of his jaw, the bone so clear underneath his translucent skin, and felt him jump slightly under her touch. His skin was cold to her, but soft.

"Careful, Lyds, that tickles." But his voice betrayed him by shaking a little.

"You can feel that?" She shifted slightly, her hand splayed against his collar with her thumb settled against the curve of his breastbone. She felt rather than heard him sighing.

"I can feel your warmth, Lydia. I can feel same as you." And there was such a depth of melancholy in his voice that she no longer feared for him leaving. She rather feared that he would stay.