AN: Whoops. Language again. :washes mouth out with soap:
Disclaimer: Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.
Chapter 8: Scary Things in the Dark
At first, disoriented and confused, Lydia could still feel his arms around her, and she thought it was a memory. Then she felt his hand sliding down her back in a very intimate, furtive manner, and she shoved as hard as she could. She must have surprised him because she was able to stumble backwards, almost losing her balance. He chuckled darkly.
She shuddered. "Where are we?"
She heard, rather than saw him smile, a little tiny snort of air in the silence. "Don't you recognize home, Lyds?"
She looked around and caught the familiar shape of her window. Oh. They were in her bedroom. "I left the light on."
"I turned it off."
"Why?"
"So you wouldn't be so stunned by my good looks."
"You're full of yourself."
"Wouldn't you like to be?" His voice was vibrating low in her belly.
"Eww. I mean, eww. That's gross. You're dead."
"M'not a corpse, sweet cheeks. I'm a poltergeist. There's a difference."
"Really? Cold…check. Deceased…check. Filthy…check." She smiled sweetly, hoping that he could see her. "Like night and day, Beej."
He scowled and turned away from her, falling heavily onto the bed. "Corpses smell terrible. They drop bits and pieces everywhere. They can't speak properly, nor can they fly, teleport, or make pennies into wallpaper." She followed the sound of his voice until her knees hit the bedframe. He caught her hand and tugged her off balance, and she squawked and tumbled onto the bed next to him, all arms and legs. As if she wasn't struggling to right herself and cursing, he continued. "And you, m'dear would certainly never look at a corpse the same way as you looked at me tonight."
"Oh?" Lydia challenged, sounding vaguely muffled. "And how was that?" With the last word, she managed to sit up, and tossed her head angrily. But Beetlejuice just chuckled. A match flare blinded her, and she squinted painfully as he lit a cigarette and waved the match out, leaving fire tracers clouding her vision. "Put that out."
The cherry flared, but he was silent. She sighed. "You might be immortal, but I'm not. Put it out."
"You're immortal, Lyds. That lovely, petite body may not be, but what counts is."
"What counts?"
The cherry flared again. Then, in a lazy, insolent drawl, "Having a great personality."
"Fuck you, Beetlejuice."
It was his turn to squawk. "Lydia!" But he was torn away, leaving a lingering odor of cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of ozone. She had sent him back. Three to come in, and three to go out. Interesting.