AN: Whew. Tough chapter. Written to Portishead. And in traffic. And in the sleepless dawn, when i couldn't shut off the tape loop. Actually, this may have contributed greatly to the sleeplessness! Still not quite done. My heartfelt thanks to Doormouse, who kept me going with PM's and story ideas way late into the night. :hugs:

Chapter 8: Death, the Fool, and Love

"Open your eyes. I know you're awake, you stupid chit." Lydia opened her eyes, deflating slightly at her total lack of believability. Clara was sitting on her computer chair, her knees wide and heavy boots that laced up a good six inches below her breechcuffs. Lydia blanched a bit when she realized those were his boots. The boots that he loved so much he slept in them. She shook her head. Random bits of information about him, intimate things that she didn't feel right knowing, kept shaking loose. That he was left-handed. That he hated Italian, but didn't know how to cook anything else. But Clara was staring at her, so she tried to focus.

"Can I… oh, yuck, that was gross." Lydia moved her tongue, now normal-sized, around in her mouth. "That was completely unnecessary." Her voice felt like it had rusted. Her mouth was as dry as a desert.

"What the hell do you know about it?" Clara's voice was tense and strained, and she looked stressed, too. Lydia could only imagine what was going on inside her. As if answering Lydia's unspoken question, Clara stood up and paced. "He won't shut up, Lydia. Lyds? Is that what he calls you?" She curled her lip cruelly at Lydia. "I know all about you, little girlchild."

"Whatever. Beetlejuice may have a problem with unrequited lust, but he doesn't know hardly anything about me, okay? So get over yourself." Lydia sounded braver than she felt. She hoped. And a tiny part of her wondered what exactly Clara was talking about. The ghost looked… wild. She was beautiful. Rich chocolate hair that hung loose now, and deep brown eyes that looked vaguely Mediterranean, but her features were pale and dainty. She paced, and paced, and hugged herself tightly, obviously unaware of how unstable she appeared. Lydia found a voice halfway between curious and reproachful. "Why are you doing this?"

"Do you have any idea what a stupid question that is?" Clara bent down into Lydia's face, and bared her teeth, and suddenly she didn't look even remotely pretty. "He's the only one. Beej… Gabriel. Ah, such a lovely sound. Delicious on the tongue, like golden sunlight. Fresh warm champaign grapes off the vine, bursting in the mouth. She always loved those best."

Lydia thought it best to keep her talking as long as possible. "Who?"

"Lucy, you ignorant idiot. I'm sure Beej told you all about her."

"Um… you mean Mrs. Bell? The wife of the husband you murdered?" Great, Lydia, throw gasoline on the fire. Clara snarled.

"He deserved it! He tore up that little girl, you know? Betsy hated him. She was the one who called me, tho she never would admit it later. Bitch. I tried to get her to confess it all, but she never would." Clara narrowed her eyes then, and then turned abruptly to Lydia, who jumped back slightly. "You think if I'm talking, I won't hurt you, don't you? But I had a better plan, little Lydia." Clara's eyes widened manically, and she clapped her hands over her own ears. "Maybe, if I hurt you, then he'll…STOP… SHOUTING!"

Lydia's bed burst into flames, and Lydia yelped and jumped off, grabbing her comforter and folding it up to smother the flames. Clara cackled and howled with laughter, watching her struggle against the rapidly escalating fire. The overhead fire sensor bleeped loudly, and then the sprinklers spouted water, drenching not only the bed, but every corner of the room. Lydia turned her open mouth to the ceiling and drank down the cool, stale water to quench her thirst. Clara just scowled at the sprinklers.

"Maybe he doesn't care about me," Lydia whispered. "Maybe he just wants you to let him go."

"Why should I? He was just as guilty. He ran and hid and I got stuck with the blame. Jerusalem, Mathy… all of them. Even Mathy left me. Everything fell apart after Mathy left me."

"Fell apart." Sudden hot realization bloomed in Lydia's breast. She stared at Clara. And she knew who the cards were for. But she had no time at all to figure out what to do with the connection, because Clara slammed her against the wall.

"I'm tired of this. Answer me a question, little girl." As Clara walked slowly toward her, the walls began to disintegrate around them. Paint peeled, blackened, and turned to ash. Holes opened in walls and Lydia could hear screaming behind them. "Why can I hear it, but I can't get through? Even at his drunkest, Beej was never so weak as this! I came to him because I wanted the best. And now I can stretch, but I can't stretch far enough." Her voice was reduced to a feral growl. She spread her arms wide, and the floor dropped out from under them both. Lydia, pinned to the wall, had nothing beneath her but a pit filled with darkness. She couldn't hold back the scream.

Clara clapped her hands over her ears. "Shut up! Shut UP! I SAID SHUT UP!" But Lydia kept screaming, until she felt her tongue fill her mouth and she choked, gagging and crying. If she didn't calm down, she would never make it out of here alive. Sucking in thready streams of air, she slowly filled and unfilled her lungs, holding down the panic with both hands. It was the hardest thing she had ever done, harder even than dredging up the strength to say his name that very first time, when he had beaten her, when she lay bleeding on her knees in front of him.

"Oh…oh kay…" she managed to force out. The pressure in her mouth eased, and she nodded, as if telling Clara that everything was alright now. Everything was fine. Let go the noose. Lydia swallowed. It was time. "I dreamt…"

"Curious mortal weakness, dreams." Clara floated above the chasm, legs crossed easily.

"I dreamt of three tarot cards. But I think… the dream was about you, Clara."

"What of it?" Clara tried to look dismissive, but she was clearly interested. Hit her where it hurts. His voice echoed in her head. Lydia just arched an eyebrow, as if she wasn't pinned like a doomed butterfly to the wall of a bottomless pit. Clara chewed at a nail, and then scowled. "Fine. What about it?"

"Death was the first." Lydia was playing for her life here, but the last thing she could do was allow desperation to show. "Death, as in the end of something old… something that needed to be put out of its misery."

"Beej fits the bill on that one!" Clara cackled. "What else?"

"The Fool. The Fool is about… new beginnings. Filling yourself with the pleasure of life; starting from scratch, if you take my meaning." Lydia attempted a coy smile. She had no idea if it actually looked coy, or even if it was a smile. But Clara peered at her oddly.

"I'm beginning to. But I thought you two were… lovers. Why would you want to betray him?" She seemed genuinely curious. Lydia shrugged, and summoned up all the derision she could manage.

"Please! Lovers? That's what he wanted, but you know men. He couldn't keep his hands off me—he even invaded my bath!" In her mind, Lydia held fast to that image of him, water streaming down his finely muscled shoulders, his jade eyes mischievous in the steamy half-light. His fingers pressing lightly against her back, tracing the scars of his own initials. "It was disgusting." She shivered, but for different reasons than what Clara would understand. She hoped.

"I do know men. Beej always tried for more than he had earned. And old Jack, well… he deserved more than he got, in the end." Clara grinned brutally. "And what about the third card, little Lydia?"

And this would be hardest of all. Lydia took a deep breath. Looking nervous wasn't hard. Looking nervous because she was feeling shy… well, she would either receive the Oscar or die. "The Lovers."

Clara actually jumped up from where she was sitting, and drifted slowly to the same level as Lydia was pinned to. "What?"

"Lovers, Clara." Lydia licked her lips, and her heart was pounding. Suddenly, the floor appeared underneath her, and she slid slowly to her knees. Clara stood above her, a new, insane light in her eyes. Lydia stood shakily, and found herself nose to nose with the delicate features of the deranged spirit.

"You don't want him, do you?" Uncertainty fluttered in her voice.

"Never. I have much better taste than that scruffy poltergeist." She tilted her head slightly, seductively. She hoped. "Much better." And then, in that trembling moment, she saw that one of Clara's eyes had turned the color of old jade.

Everythin' that exists has edges…

Hit her where it hurts…

If we can somehow get her to back off a little… distract her… get in-between the two of you…

Now or never, Lydia. She took her last breath, and took Clara's head in her hands, and kissed her.

Clara froze for one terrifying second, and then, with trembling lips, hesitantly deepened the kiss. Lydia squeezed her eyes shut, and imagined it was him, and remembered how he had told her to keep still, just for a moment. She prayed in that moment. She weighed her chances of surviving this if he couldn't manage to break through.

It was the longest moment of her life.

And then her prayers were interrupted violently as Clara erupted into screams, and thrashed onto the floor, flailing her arms and legs. Everything even remotely breakable in Lydia's apartment shattered into a million pieces, and Lydia covered her head with her hands, crawling into a corner.

"You… bitch! You… tricked me." Clara's voice was thready, and faded into nothing at the end. A small sucking sound, and Lydia's ears popped as if the air pressure had changed suddenly.

"Get over yourself, you crazy… crazy… ohhh, shit." Lydia turned her head, fearful of what she might see. Beetlejuice was lying on the floor in a puddle of ectoplasmic goo. His hand was clutched across his heart, and for a terrible instant, she thought he was dead. Then he rolled over wearily and sat up, running a hand through his slime-covered hair. "Gods, Lydia. I think I'm gonna be sick." And he collapsed back onto the floor with a queasy splat.

"Beej… Gods, what is that?" Lydia crawled over to him, but was suddenly too weary to care that he was ruining her carpet. A two hundred and ten dollar deposit seemed like pretty small change at the moment. She lay down next to him. "Is she gone?"

"Yep. Kinda. Mostly." He reached out to stroke the tip of her ear. "You did good, kid."

Lydia closed her eyes, exhausted, feeling like she could sleep for a week. She would need all of her strength to give him the loudest, most invective-filled lecture of his long and eventful life.