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

Chapter 11: Ghosted

Beetlejuice was pacing. He had been pacing from the moment he found himself back in his lair, having been stolen away from her without being able to press his advantage. His boots scuffed against the heavily worn floorboards, and his hands were clasped tightly across his chest, but his thoughts were focused on one single memory: that of her warm mouth barely touching him. How he had her, right there, in his arms, and she had sent him back before he could… before he could… what, exactly?

He cursed fluently and long. This had all been so simple in the beginning. He tugged off his heavy wool jacket and threw it into a dusty corner and paced in his shirtsleeves. He thought she would be easy pickings, so deep and dark and confused and gullible. And in the beginning, all she had to defend her were her friends, of which, admittedly, he had thought less of than he should have. But then she had grown up. That was the trouble with the living, wasn't it? They always had to change.

At first he had only looked in on her occasionally, between trouble-causing forays and opportunities to escape for a few hours. There were a few windows open to him, though not permanent, and he liked to slip out to feel the sun on his face, and hold the world by the tail, when he could. He remembered flashes… Lydia in a blue Easter dress in front of the mirror, scowling thunderously as her stepmother cooed and preened over her. And then later that same week, in a black trenchcoat and striped pants that looked very familiar. That was his first inkling that she hadn't forgotten him.

Her costumes became more skillful and ornate, and her parents got her a beautiful sewing machine that he had tried, unsuccessfully, to possess. He recalled that Babs had lectured him heartily that night, and he grinned toothily at the memory of her furious, motherly scolding. Ah well. So he had confined himself to watching. The photographs, the costumes, the art and books… Lydia's interests were far-reaching and deep. Philosophy, history, horror, and theater, mostly. She even researched pirates and created a beautiful buccaneer's costume for the upstate New York Renaissance Faire. Now that was a barrel of monkeys, he smiled to remember, haunting the fleet of Henry Morgan. What a creature to have at his side, she would have been…

Then she had gone to college, to Skidmore in Saratoga Springs. It was a good match for her, intellectually. She flourished, there, and as he spied on her more regularly, he found himself feeling a bit strange, like it was hard to take a full breath, ironically, when he saw her come into her room. As a girl of 16, she was merely interesting. At 18, she was pretty. At 20, she was… he closed his eyes, and felt her whisper kiss. At 20, she was a little beyond his ability to describe.

And somewhere in there, in the space of a day, he had lost track of what he was trying to do. When the opportunity had presented itself, he had swooped down to save her the trouble of having to bash that idiot's brains in. His goal was simple—if he could get her to fall for him, he was a free bird. She wouldn't put him back if she was infatuated with him; that was the theory anyway. It had worked before, however briefly. But then she had asked him to stay, and he had… all night, in fact. The imprint of her heat still ghosted against his skin, so much so that he thought it might be more than a memory. He sighed heartily and shook his head, and glancing up, caught himself in the mirror. Unlike in the Living World, the Netherworld had mirrors that actually frickin' worked.

He studied himself, not something he was given to do often. Wild-looking, gaunt, pale… deceased. His eyes were sunken, and the shape of his skull was perfectly outlined. The shirt he wore was of not-too-clean linen, and his breeches were a dark, old wool that hit just above heavy hobnail boots. Not exactly GQ material, although he hated to admit it. She illuminated him much too clearly for his comfort. Not to mention he didn't produce any heat, while she was so warm. What was he thinking? He just needed to hang around long enough to convince her not to put him back, and then get out of earshot and lay low for a while. Bring her presents every once in a while. What the hell did his wardrobe have to do with it? Or body temperature, for that matter?

"I haven't seen you look this serious since you were eaten by that sandworm."

He spun around, chagrined to have been caught in such obvious self-contemplation. Juno was sitting in his kitchen chair, smoking calmly and looking at him with a speculative twinkle. He glowered at her, but she remained unfazed.

"Don't you knock ever?" he grunted, but she didn't answer. "What? What do you want, grams? Because whatever it is, the answer's no."

"What are you playing at, Beetlejuice?" The words echoed in his head, in a different voice. His scowl darkened thunderously.

"I'm not playing. Am I not allowed to have friends?" But he knew how weak that sounded, and he closed his eyes briefly in annoyance at himself.

Juno leaned forward abruptly. "Friends? Is that what you are? Is that what you were doing in that poor girl's bed, grandson?" He looked up sharply, but she held up a wizened hand to stay him. "You are playing a dangerous game with Lydia's heart. I need not remind you that she is not unprotected." She cocked an eyebrow at him, and he found himself sitting heavily down next to her and reaching for the half-full whiskey bottle and a dirty glass. Drinking didn't help, really, but it made him feel better to have something to do with his hands. Besides strangling his grandmother.

"Juno." He stopped, and then tried again. "Lydia." This was stupid, how flustered he felt. "I don't know what game I'm playin' anymore. In fact, I don't think I'm playin' it at all. I think it's her game now." He knocked back a half full glass and savored the burn. Juno looked at him with a hint of surprise.

"There may be hope for you yet," she said with some satisfaction.

"Doubt it." But his lips quirked in a hint of a smile. He looked keenly at the old ghost next to him. "What did she say to you, about me?" His tone was cautiously nonchalant, but his eyes were anything but. Juno thought carefully.

"She thinks you have some goal in mind. She knows you want your freedom. But she is also fully aware of what you are capable of, and that is entirely your fault."

"You told her my gauss was off the scale," he said accusingly, grimly pleased to have something to shoot back at her.

"I told her the truth. Were you going to tell her how powerful you really are? In all your hamstrung glory?" Juno's voice became progressively louder, and Beetlejuice winced. "You were the one that tied your own leash, Beetlejuice! No one else. You might as well be your namesake for all the good it does you. You should have gone on when you had the chance." She sighed, weariness and disgust in equal parts. "And now you are on the brink of stealing a heart, a living heart, and bring her down with you."

"And would she go?" he whispered. "Would she go down with me?" His voice held a tremor she had never heard before. All the anger whooshed out of her in that instant. She reached up and stroked his wild hair.

"Maybe she would. The question is, will you allow her to?"

She stood, after a moment, and forgoing her customary dramatic exit, she walked haltingly to the door. He continued to stare grimly at the table, at his empty glass. When she turned back to him, she had only intended to say goodbye. But he looked so wretched that she took pity on him. A very small amount of pity. "If it is any consolation, she is extremely fond of you. And I believe that you've earned it honestly." She pursed her lips at him, and then she was gone, the click of her heels fading down the corridor. But he didn't move for a very long time, until the bottle was empty, and for many hours after that.