A/N: It's short, but it's something, I guess? Thank you to everyone who reviewed, it was a big inspiration to actually get this out here! I hope it lives up to expectations.
PREVIOUSLY:
But, in the end, the drink and the late hour overcame her. She nodded off with her chin propped up on her fist, listening to a tall tale about impersonating a bishop to foil the exorcism of a haunted outhouse. A bit of chocolate was smeared on her chin.
When she didn't laugh at what he, personally, thought was the funniest part of the whole story, he glanced over and his gesticulating arms fell to his sides. "Well, damn." Putting her to sleep certainly wasn't part of the plan.
AND NOW, ON WITH THE STORY!
Chapter Seven:
Shifting restlessly in the tropical heat, Lydia rolled over and threw a leg on top of a pleasantly cool pillow. She snuggled into the lumpy, but more importantly, cold pillow and sighed, slipping deeper into sleep.
Until it moved and said, "Oooh, yeah, baby!"
Her eyes snapped open. "Beetlejuice!"
"That's right, say my name!"
His deep laugh reverberated through her ear, lying on his chest. Her hands were fisted in his none-too-clean shirt, and it was only her profound relief that he hadn't left her to rot in this hellhole of an island paradise, and was wearing a shirt at all, that locked the incipient shriek in her throat. Her eyes tracked up to his face – he was leering, his hands leisurely folded behind his head. He thrust his hips against her leg again, rubbing his belly and something unholy against her inner thigh.
Her shocky paralysis lifted as her toes involuntarily curled and a shudder wracked through her body, making every single hair stand on end. Bolting upright, she fired off, "I-have-to-go-to-the-bathroom!" as he reached for her.
Leaping off the bed, she dashed through two beaded curtains and stumbled to a stop on maroon tile. She really needed a proper door, so she could slam it closed and collapse against it, gasping. Bracing herself with her hands on her knees and panting just wasn't the same. It lacked drama, and there was no DOOR. A bead curtain isn't exactly Fort Knox level protection. Quickly taking stock, she noted that she was still wearing her dress and deduced that she fell asleep during dessert. He must have carried her to bed – and then climbed in with her, which pretty much negated any bonus points for caring.
How long could she hide out in here before he came looking? She mentally cursed her lame excuse. It the split second it had taken to come up with, it had seemed like a great idea – she had discovered that being alone was incredibly boring when you had no one to pointedly be alone AT, so she didn't want to start a big fight and drive him off (the camaraderie they'd shared at dinner last night had nothing at all to do with it, of course). He might actually just abandon her here! And although just telling him no had worked, it seemed to piss him off pretty badly. She hated to admit it, but he was terrifying when he wanted to be.
It was, she thought, something about the way his unearthly green eyes glared out of the sunken pits under his slashing eyebrows. They were, while clearly the eyes of a dead man, anything but dead - they burned into her. The rest of him was laughable – he had a beer belly, for god's sake. The sinewy strength of his hands didn't mean anything, seeing as they were merely part of an insubstantial, spectral reflection of his mental self-image, i.e. his ghost. And she wasn't scared of ghosts.
The pallor of his skin wasn't that disconcerting (she was nearly as pale). The mold, crazy hair, and dirt were nothing new to someone who had lived in New York and saw hobos all the time (although they generally just had a skin disease, not actual mold). And, although the thought of a hobo wanting to make out with her was certainly disgusting by a factor of ten thousand, it did not elicit fear. Hobos, however delusional they were, could not actually turn into a giant snake and toss her father over the stair railing.
Another reason for really needing a door presented itself. Now that she'd mentioned it, she actually did have to go, but not if just anyone, meaning HIM, could walk by and see her business. Biting her lip and squeezing her knees together, she abandoned her inner monologue of all the little reasons he wasn't actually scary, and the really big reason that he really was, to search desperately for a solution to the increasing problem of her bladder.
Finally, inspiration struck.
Beetlejuice had been content to wait for Lydia to come back to bed in the self-assured assumption that now she had felt his sexiness she couldn't resist (she could). Any minute now, she'd come back. Any minute. He hadn't felt the call of nature in centuries, being firmly stuck in the realm of the supernatural, but should it be taking this long?
Hearing odd thumping and scraping noises from the living room, he wandered out there, one angled eyebrow raised. The other one inched upwards at the sight of Lydia dragging the unhinged front door across the room. The shoulder of her dress slipped down as she took a deep breath and heaved at the oversized wooden plank. He silently urged it to slip just a little more…. Out loud he said, "Honey, what ARE you doin'?"
She jumped and fumbled the door. It hit the ground with a thud, narrowly avoiding her feet. "Um." Turning her face to him, she smiled a bright, entirely fake smile.
"I thought you were, y'know, takin' a piss?" He jerked a thumb at the toilet, visible through the beaded curtain.
She winced. "I was. I am! I just need to put up this door."
"What for?"
"I can't go if you're watching!" she snapped. He could be so clueless! And inconsiderate.
"I wasn't!" He waved away the accusation, mentally adding, 'this time.' And what the hell was the big deal, anyway? He didn't remember broads being nearly as uptight about this back when he was alive. Everybody just did it. None a' this namby pamby 'going to powder their noses' and indoor plumbing. He, personally, didn't see the point. Damn good way to frighten the living daylights outta somebody, though – they never expected the porcelain throne to grow fangs and take a bite when they tried to sit down.
Lydia struggled with a pithy retort about how likely it was that he wouldn't act like a voyeuristic pervert when given half a chance, which was zero percent. She reminded herself that arguing, while it might make her feel better now, would make her feel a lot worse when he stranded her alone on this godforsaken island without even a volleyball named Wilson to keep her company. Taking a deep breath, she ground out, "I would just prefer having a real door. So if you don't mind?" She bent over to heave at the door again.
His head tilted to the side as he watched the fantastic things it did her to her…assets. He could juice the door into place in a jiffy, but somehow he didn't feel real motivated to do so. He pulled out a smoke and settled in to watch the show. When she stubbed her big toe the third time in a row, however, he started, "Lyds, why don't you-"
"I just want a door! Is that so much to ask?" She let the wood fall in a clatter.
"I was gonna offer to put it up for ya, but if ya don't want my help…" He turned to go back in the bedroom and smirked.
"Wait!" She hurried over to grab his elbow.
He looked at her, wiping the smirk off his face before she saw it. "Yes, dear?"
"Please," she said, staring at her dusty bare feet.
Flicking his cigarette away into the ether, he reached out and lifted her chin.
She stared at him with those big, dark eyes.
"Aw, hell." He twitched his nose at the door and it was done.
A startled, shy smile broke out over her face and it was like the first time he'd seen the sun again on his numerous attempts to escape the Neitherworld. As she said, "Thanks," and slipped off to the bathroom and closed the newly installed door, he tried his damndest to shake off the old memory of sudden light and alien warmth, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He hadn't even tried to kiss her!
Angrily, he summoned another cig and stomped outside. The sky was awash in gold and pink, the sun rising in a haze of red and orange clouds. He cursed and debated stomping back inside. He should be in the bathroom with Lydia right now, enjoying her company. It's not like a door could actually stop him. And just because she had noticed he was there that once didn't mean he sucked at being invisible. But she'd probably catch him. And then she'd yell – or worse, not yell. Saint Brigid's britches, he just didn't want to deal with it. He glared at the sun until storm clouds obscured the horizon and rain lashed the beach.
And he was NOT making excuses for himself.
