AN: It's nice to be home. Thank you to all of you that have reviewed-- my lifeblood, and the reason i keep writing. Love you all. And to Doormouse and WitchyWanda, brave and wonderful writers both for taking up this extremely fun and diverse challenge, woooo haa! I only wish that FF actually let us update normally...

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Chapter 6: In Need of Protecting

At first, Lydia was tempted to pretend that she was still asleep. But the retching turned into groaning, and what might have been the thump of a head hitting the floor, and all her thoughts of the night before came flooding back. She couldn't just leave him like that. Like it or not, he was her responsibility now.

So she climbed out of bed and padded quietly into the bathroom. "Beetlejuice? You… ah, okay?"

He was laying on the floor, his forehead pressed against the floor tiles. He didn't even attempt to look up at her, but she could see that his face was beaded with sweat. "Kill me. Do it quick." His voice was reedy and weak. Not okay, then. And oh, he needed a bath. Maybe two.

"You've already been dead." She knelt down beside him, breathing through her mouth. "You need water. You're dehydrated. And a bath," she added, because she couldn't help it. He rolled over and squinted at her, and then nodded gingerly.

"That might kill me. What's this bath thing?" His skin was almost green, and dark circles sunk his eyes deep into their sockets. He would easily have passed for dead at the moment. He certainly smelled dead. Unwilling to try to pick him up again, she rested her hands on his shoulders.

"Come on. Get up and I'll run the water, okay? You'll smell… feel much better."

He scowled at her. "Alright, alright, I get it already. Gods, I don't even care. Maybe you can drown me and my head'll stop tryin' to explode." He struggled up off the floor and she turned the tap on and plugged the drain. And then poured half a bottle of lemongrass and sage scented bath gel under the tap. When she turned back he was standing, if a bit unsteadily, and attempting to hook both hands under the hem of his shirt. "Jus' snap m'fingers, an never had to worry about actually takin' anythin' off. Dammitall. Hate livin'. Hateithateithateit."

Lydia stepped towards him, and then blushed. What she nearly did when he was asleep she could hardly bring herself to do now that he was awake. But she steeled herself, and reached out to untuck his shirt. "Here. But the pants you have to deal with yourself." He attempted a wolfish grin, but it came out rather lacking. She lifted the shirt to his shoulders and tugged it over his head and down his arms. He grinned a bit more comfortably and turned away from her to attempt to unfasten his pants. She began to protest that he wait until she was out of the room, but then her eyes trailed up the slender line of his abdomen to his shoulders. And Lydia's heart clutched and stopped. "Oh my God, Beej…

The strange contours that she had felt the night before on his shoulders and back stood out in angry red lines against his nearly translucent skin. In her limited experience she could only equate them visually with what a jellyfish attack might produce. But then the horror of the truth of it sunk into her like hot iron nails into ice. His shoulders and back were laced across with ropy scars that could only be whip cuts. Vicious, undoctored whip cuts. He tried to look over his shoulder but wobbled, and grabbed at the little sink to steady himself. "Aw, Lyds, are you sure you can't help me with…" He fell silent, taking in her expression of open-mouthed horror. "What? Am I filthier than you thought?"

She could hardly find her voice. "What… what happened… who did this to you?" Beetlejuice swayed, peered over his shoulder, and then circled unsteadily until he could see his shoulders in the tiny mirror over the sink. He fell quiet, just looking for a moment. And then, with an effort, he smiled.

"Oh, looks much worse than it is. Had totally forgotten, ya know? Long time ago." He turned to face her, so that she couldn't see the scars. She just kept shaking her head, completely at a loss. He sighed and shook his head at her. "Look, Lyds. It's not nice out there, okay? Forget about it. Help me take off these damn pants!" That startled her, and she held her hands up to ward him off.

"No way, Beej. You get in the tub yourself, and I'll help you wash your hair. Just… cover… the bubbles… oh, hell." She backed out and closed the door, flustered. From her bedroom, she raised her voice. "Just tell me when you need help!"

"I already told you I need help!" But she could hear that he was teasing her, even through the door. He was trying to make her feel better. She took a long breath, and let it out slowly. He needed some new clothes, but she didn't have money for new clothes. Benji would rather slit his own throat than lend 'Uncle Dougie' a single pair of jeans. Lydia grinned a bit at the image of Benji working for Juno, matching slashes leaking cigarette smoke. Totally not funny, but she felt the giggles bubbling a bit hysterically in her stomach. Whoo, girl, calm down. Trip to East Village Thrift, a nice big coffee from the local Starbucks, and she would figure out what to do from there. A large amount of splashing and cursing eminated from behind the door, and then a sulky, "Alright. I'm decent." She opened the door to see him immersed to his chin in bubbles, looking quite put out.

"So is this all there is to the whole bath thing? I just sit here?" He scowled at the mountain of bubbles. "And what's that smell? All like some frickin' Upper West End rich-lady-and-poodle spa, or somethin'. Lydia laughed despite herself, and was relieved to find that it felt almost natural.

"Oh, no, Beetlejuice. There's all sorts more you're going to have to learn about, if you want to stay here. Toothpaste, deodorant, soap, dusting, cooking, laundry… " With each word, he sank a little deeper into the hot water. His forehead was wrinkled in misery. She reached out and brushed his hair away from his face, and his brow smoothed beneath her fingers. He surfaced slowly.

"Suppose, if I have to." Lydia smiled at him, and his eyebrow twitched slightly, betraying his amusement. She uncapped a bottle of shampoo, put a sizable dribble in her palm, and worked it gently into his fine golden mane of hair. He sighed beatifically and relaxed, closing his eyes. "I could get used to this…" he murmured.

"Well, don't. I'm just helping you out this one time, alright? So don't get any ideas."

"Oh, I got ideas runnin' all through me, Lyds." But his voice was so gentle, so unthreatening, that she just rolled her eyes at him. The heat from the water was bringing color back into his cheeks, and he looked very human. She began to feel self-conscious, but wanted to wash his back, now that she had him quiet and relaxed.

"Sit up. Let me wash your back, and then I'll let you…um… finish the rest." He gave her the sleepy half of a toothy grin as he lifted himself slowly away from the back of the tub.

"There's room for two in here. You might be able to reach me better…"

She felt herself blush. "There isn't room for two, and in your dreams, B." He leaned slowly forward for her, sighing dramatically, and she could see the scars clearly now. Some of them looked barely healed. She stroked a bar of soup into a soft washcloth and very gently rubbed over his shoulders and upper back. He held so still that she was afraid it hurt, but when she asked him, he only shook his head.

"No, not hurt. No. Just. no one ever… touches me like this. Izzal." His voice was gruff. Beneath her fingers, she felt his muscles tense, as if he was expecting her to react negatively. Her heart welled up with a curious mix of sadness and something she couldn't really identify. Like protectiveness, but not… quite.

"Oh," was all she said. And she dunked the washcloth in the water and squeezed it over his shoulders, and then ran her fingers through his hair and slowly washed out the suds. He was completely still, his expression as solemn as she had ever seen. When she was finished, she rocked back on her heels and stood up, stretching. "Okay, so I'm gonna go find you something to wear… and then breakfast."

He stirred and squinted up at her. "And then?" Somehow, such a short question conveyed an immense amount of possibilities, and she flushed.

"I'll see you when I get back." And she was gone. He smiled slowly. And then turned to the immensely less pleasurable task of scrubbing the rest of the dirt off. He could agree to be clean for her, and even to smell like he had been bodily assaulted by an herb garden, but there were a few things he would not do. And first on that list was tolerating Benji. Stupid name, anyway. Benji would be history in less than a week, or he would wear a dress and sing show tunes in Times Square. One week. He was feeling better already.