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

Chapter 22: Spooked

Beetlejuice was drunk. Really, really drunk. He hadn't thought it was possible, but there he was, sprawled upon his crumpled bed and surrounded by at least a dozen empty rum bottles, drunk as a sailor on shore leave. He snorted, feeling poetically ironic. Was this shore leave? She had insisted, hadn't she? "Lydia…"

Part of him knew that it hadn't been intentional. He had asked her enough times to say his name, because he loved hearing the way it sounded on her lips. She had probably just gotten too familiar with it. He always wanted to hear his name from her, on either side of the gateway. But her tone, at the last. Was it really so horrible to contemplate being his lover? Sure, he was dead, but it wasn't like he was a zombie, or anything. No rot, no horrible beyond-the-grave stench. Well, unless death by rum counted for that. He smoothed his hand over his pearlescent skin in the darkness and remembered the state of his spectral body after he had first died. He had looked almost human then, if a bit waterlogged. But time and being in the presence of the Administration had taught him a great deal, and he had… changed. He had sharpened and been refined, becoming as lithe and graceful as a demon, but with better teeth. His pearly translucence was a natural effect of radiating in his aurora glow all the time, as well as being completely immune from getting sunburn. Although he would never be mistaken for human in his natural form, he didn't think he was repulsive. She had never objected to his kisses. His mind flooded with the memory of her, her small hands clutching at his back as her body heat radiated through him like swirling water. Gods… where was the rum?

As for the whole love thing, he had never had any illusions that she would love him more than anything else in her life. He had never expected that of her. But he had hoped, however fruitlessly, that she might come to love him well enough in time. That they might make some sort of a life together. Daft. He was fooling himself. But it was a nice dream.

And then there had been the ring. Try as he might, he couldn't dismiss it. A crow picks up pretty trinkets and tucks them away. She chose to wear the ring that he had attempted to imprison her with. Small clues, like her striped pants, had pointed to her being fond of him. He tried to rise, and the room wobbled. Dammit, he was going to go harass her into calling him back, if only so that she could slap him across the chops. Whatever her true feelings for him were, knowing had to be better than speculating. And he was out of rum.

Lydia passed her morning in misery. On the one hand, she wondered how she could ever have expected that the poltergeist would hold any sort of tender feelings for her, as he clearly had. Hadn't he? In all the time he had spent with her, he had never once taken advantage of her trust. At least, she hadn't read about it in the papers. On the other hand, she felt betrayed. In a few short weeks, he had made her a believer in love, with a ghost, no less. Poltergeist… she heard his annoyed voice in her ear, but it wasn't him. Just her mind remembering him. She had felt safe with him, and his passion for her left her aglow and tingling and completely in awe. He wanted her around. He wanted her…

Was that it? His cryptic comment about 'it' being possible? Lydia flushed painfully. She had never even thought about… that. Was that why he didn't love her? But it couldn't be. That couldn't be. He had never even asked. She dismissed the thought in favor of something that was less likely to rip out her heart and trample it. What if it was she that was the weak link?

Of course, that was entirely possible, as there were many things that she loved. Her dad and even her stepmom, her art and photography, her grandparents, the Maitlands… who was to say which love was greater? The emotions that swirled around Beetlejuice were powerful and shook her deep, certainly, but how could you compare that with the steady love for a parent or a friend? How could a passion of a few weeks supersede the love of an entire life?

The more she thought about it, the more she was inclined to agree with Juno, that Beetlejuice had been tricked, and that it was highly unlikely, if not impossible, for two people to love each other most of all the things in their lives. For passionate love, he had her in both hands. But for the patient, steady love that breeds a lifetime of companionship, well… that would take time, wouldn't it? She sighed, and realized she had passed the library, where she intended to do some studying.

But the library was worse, not better. Upon opening her notebook to take notes from the reading on persuasive writing, she found that every inch was covered with a curling, old-fashioned scrawl—her name, over and over again. She flipped through the notebook all the way to the end, and then thrust it back in her bag and took out a pen, flustered. She asked her neighbor for a piece of paper, and attempted to begin again, but the pen was dry. 'Beetlejuice!" she muttered, flushing. Had he used up all of her ink? A sharp cut in the wood on her desk appeared, the shaving curling delicately into a spiral.

One.

This was going to be a very very long day.