DISCLAIMER: I am a poor college student, who owns no copyrights, trademarks, or monopolies of any kind whatsoever, and doesn't get paid for writing.

A/N: I have been told that a short chapter is better than no chapter at all…this chapter is extremely short. It is finals time once again, though, and I thought I had better post what I got in case I am so depressed afterwards by massive tests/titanic projects that I can't write humor and I am tempted to write that magical ghost-killing rocks fall and everyone dies, the end.

To my reviewers:

badkidoh, roolsilver, Darbanville, TheBlackxRabbit – those of you who keep reviewing, your constancy is amazing! It's a thrill every time to know that someone keeps coming back for more (especially since, as I re-read what I've written, I wonder how anyone could have gotten through the utterly boring first chapter). I'm glad the OCs were entertaining! I've heard that people don't like them very much in fanfiction, so I tried to keep it down, but it was hard, because that's what I like about the DMV, too. And I really want to continue this story, because I haven't even gotten to the shocking, appalling plot twist that will probably make all my readers angry! But I just don't know if I can, so I totally understand the whole thing about the busy time of year.

PREVIOUSLY:

Chara rapped on the counter with a series of spastic movements to get the unlucky couple's attention. "We can fit you in today at seven after three afternoon. Go to the thirteenth office when the time is right." The appointment book flipped open and their appointment bled onto the page from within, squeezing between two lines and into the margins. Jerkily, she pointed down a hallway, barely avoiding putting her finger up Lydia's nose.

AND NOW, ON WITH THE STORY!

Chapter Five: In Which Waiting is Boring

A smiling Lydia, pulling a thin-lipped Beetlejuice along, wandered over to a waiting area with chairs and coffee tables overflowing with magazines. All of the chairs were taken, as well as the tables and make-shift stacks of magazines. Beetlejuice just sat on a convenient patch of air and put his feet up, crossing his arms and scowling.

This left her somewhat at loose ends. The Neitherworlders here were either of a sterner stock or he hadn't terrorized them before, and didn't seem inclined to do more than inch slightly away, hanging on to their seats with grim determination. So unless she felt like racing the other standees for a seat when someone left, she was out of luck. Judging by their expressions, they were ready and willing to lie, cheat, and sell their grandmas for one of the chairs. One in particular of indeterminate gender, wearing a flannel shirt with the arms ripped off and torn up jeans over full body fur, wrinkled a half-human, half-wolf nose and snarled. He or she was either a lumberjack or very butch. Lydia decided not to risk it.

Resigning herself to standing, she plucked a magazine off the floor. The cover was tattered, but from what she could piece together it was the December issue of Gothic Bride. Flipping through it, she found herself unable to concentrate. First, her feet started hurting. Her spiky blue high heels weren't exactly meant for running around in, and now that she wasn't being dragged around and pestered by a certain poltergeist the sole abuse was catching up to her. Then, the weight of her dress, which was not inconsiderable, started trying to drag her tired body down. She wondered how long they had been in the Neitherworld, for her to feel this worn out. Hours?

She snuck a look at Beetlejuice out of the corner of her eye. He was still pouting, but had added muttering darkly to himself to his repertoire.

"What time is it, anyway?" she asked him, pretending to read the magazine.

"How the hell should I know?"

"You've got three watches!"

"So?"

"So look at them!"

"You're so hot under the collar 'bout it, why don't YOU?"

Staring flatly at him, she got up on tiptoe and leaned in to check the watch faces exposed on his wrist by his crossed arms. One was all dirty broken glass, the digital one kept blinking 13:13, and the last one was just abominably slow. It ticked every three seconds, then four, then two, then six, and so on. "Why are you wearing three busted watches?"

He glared at them. "What are ya talkin' about?" He tapped the irregular ticker. "This one's still goin'?"

"It's slow."

"How can ya tell?"

"By counting!"

"Hmph." He crossed his arms again, emphatically. "Whatever."

"I just wanted to know how long we had to wait."

He muttered something laced with profanity under his breath.

She sighed, and went back to her magazine, shifting from foot to foot. She could feel blisters forming by the minute, she really could. And she was just so tired…it was like something was sucking the life out of her. Finally, she asked him, "Is there room up there for two?"

He said flatly, "Ya'd hafta sit on my lap." That was a lie, and he fully expected her to refuse like a boring prude and demand that he juice up a chair or something, because that was just the way his day was shaping up. Just when he thought he was getting somewhere, some cosmic force, some narrative causality, some sorry-ass motherfucking bitch of fate, shut him down (that damn receptionist had better watch out! …What the hell was her name again? Karen?). Well, he wasn't falling for it anymore!

"Oh," she said, taken aback by the obligated way the blandishment was given, like he was reading from some script he didn't like but had to use. "If you don't want me to…"

She was saying yes…? "Hell yeah, I want ya to!" He scooped her up and deposited her crookedly in his lap, his hands taking up proprietary positions around her hips. "Make yourself right at home!" Even though he'd said it, he was stunned when she did just that.

Kicking off her torturous shoes, she leaned back into the comforting solidity of his chest. His ghostly chill was less chilly than the Neitherworld's malaise, and since everyone'd been staring anyway and he wasn't even trying to stick his hand down her bra, why not? Might as well give them something to stare at. She flipped open her magazine once again and was finally able to concentrate on the article about finding the perfect church graveyard.

Beetlejuice rested his chin in the crook of her half-frozen shoulder, unable to believe his luck but perfectly content to take advantage of it by looking straight down her shirt. Hell, she'd practically told him to – 'that's what they're for, looking at!' At least in public…in private, he'd bet she'd sing a different tune, and then he could fondle them to his heart's content (which was a lot of fondling). And while he was at it, he banished her spiky shoes. After all, some luck you had to make yourself.

They peaceably spent several minutes this way – him captivated by the rise and fall of twin perfection, her reading with an increasing sense of incredulity: 'How to protect guests from exorcism on consecrated ground,' 'How to make your own special cemetery in your backyard on a budget; tips on consecrating the ground for that spooky tingle,' "Making sure the headstones don't clash with your theme – 10 easy lessons in engraving.'

Then, just as he started wondering what that pulsing beat flowing through her neck under his chin was, Lydia turned to the fashion plates. Distracted by the interesting things her snickering was doing to her chest, he caught a glimpse of unimaginable, glossy-paged atrocities.

"What the hell is that supposed to be?" he said, grabbing the magazine and dragging it closer so he could examine it, his eyebrows somewhere in the region of his hairline.

She shoved the magazine out of her face. "I'm guessing a bridesmaid." It was then that she noticed something. "You have another watch?"

Dropping half the magazine to let it dangle, he pushed his sleeve back farther to check his timepieces. "Ayep."

"Well, what's wrong with the fourth one?"

"Nothing! Look!"

So she did, and he was right. It was an old wind up pocket watch duct-taped to a wristband, merrily ticking away. "It's only 12:09? Great." She slumped bonelessly against him. "We've got a couple hours to kill. You don't have a deck of cards, do you?"

"Maaaaybe," he said, uncertain whether or not he wanted to fish out his nude-mermaid-backed deck. He didn't mind cheating, but she'd probably insist on a more traditional poker set-up, which meant not sitting in his lap so he couldn't see her cards, or even down her shirt. Talk about cruelty! Never mind that he was perfectly happy to show her his if she'd show him hers (and not just cards, heh). Not that the cards in his hand usually stayed the hand he was dealt.

"Or," she sat up straight and half turned to look at him, "we could go back to my…um, haunt for a while. I've got a lot of unpacking to do…" That is, if her stuff was still there and she hadn't been declared a missing person, because of the time difference between the two planes.

He blinked. Yeah. They could do that…nobody had to wait here, as long as they came back in time for their appointment – most of 'em did, though, just to make sure they didn't miss their time slot, because they didn't know how to or just weren't powerful enough to juice themselves where they wanted to go. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. And if he happened to be doing something to Lydia in her (private!) attic/closet box-filled room that made her forget all about even having an appointment…well, what could ya do?

She took his contemplative silence for a 'no' and tried to sweeten the pot. "We could order take-out!" Now that she'd been in the Neitherworld, she really wanted to get OUT (it was strange to find herself sympathizing with Beej's feelings on the matter), where she could get WARM. She'd started to notice her breath beginning to crystallize in the air. If it wasn't so damn cold, though, it'd be cool. That is, interesting. Full of curiosities and weird shit.

"You can talk over a phone line?" he asked, a little impressed. It was easier than making people see you (if they couldn't actually SEE that you were dead, they were less likely to go into denial and ignore you as being impossible), but still, not many ghosts managed it, and definitely not newly dead.

Shit! She'd forgotten about that. Think, think! "Nooo…but you can, right?" She smiled widely and hoped he bought it.

He smirked. "Damn straight! Ghost with the most here, babes! Let's get the hell outta Dodge!"

So they did.