AN: Short, I know. More coming. And i am having the hardest time figuring out what to wear for Halloween this year! Time for a trip to Goodwill, i think...
Chapter 3: Deft
Lydia slept, her vocalized lack of trust abandoned as the lesser of two evils. The lesser evil was now curled comfortably in her down comforter, his eyes closed, unsuccessfully trying to focus on the problem at hand. But his thoughts kept edging off into the darkness of a dim memory. He could still feel her thin hand against his cheek as she radiated outwards the joy of the haunt, the power of fear. Such a powerful siren she had been, so full of destruction. Her inability to love had been replaced with obsession, and she had been very good at that. By the end, he was thankful that he had not been her object, even if it meant that someone else had to die.
Very few things scared Beetlejuice. Clara was at the top of that short, unpublished list.
He glanced at the pale girl sleeping next to him, breathing slow and even, eyelids fluttering in some deep dream. Focus changed, pivoting on the delicate shape of her ear. It wasn't long before Beetlejuice came to two unassailable conclusions. The first was that Lydia was in trouble because of him. There was no way around it. Clara would never have been even remotely interested in Lydia had it not been for her connection with him. No… her tastes ran more to the helpless victim type. The second was that he was the only one who could do anything about it. He frowned moodily and shouldered himself deeper into the bedcovers. Temporarily, he could keep them both safe.
Beetlejuice began slowly, pushing his awareness out just to the edge of the bed. Part of the reason he was annoyed by the weekend ghost photographers was that they never managed to catch his good side. All this blurry orb business and never the rakish grin that charmed all the ladies. Well, all but one, he mused, as he glanced at the still-sleeping girl, pale even against the white sheets, dark hollows under her eyes. But it was true, he thought, getting back to himself, that his orb was rather on the magnificent side. As well as being huge and extremely easy to spot, like a gasoline fire on a dark night in the desert. Clara wouldn't miss it—would know that he was with Lydia, waiting.
Waiting. But she had never given him credit for thinking.
Ghosts usually never bothered with solid barriers; no need, really. Fill up a room with dark energy and no mortal would go near it unless armed with salt and sage, and even those didn't work sometimes. But Clara wouldn't be put off by a feeling of dread. Not hardly. No, he needed a real spiritual barrier. And that was a real pain in the ass. Massing considerably more concentration than he was used to holding, he began to weave threads of energy together with a deftness belied by his customary wildness. The barrier would be in the shape of a sphere—always easier than having to deal with corners, and he anchored it to his own essence rather than to the bed itself, just in case they needed to exit post-haste.
Finally, it was done. He sighed and stretched, his coat long abandoned along with the tie, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He scowled down at his shirt, blinked, and changed into a black t-shirt that was moderately cleaner. And then the moment could not be put off any longer. It was time to wake the girl.