Patient Care
by
Owlcroft

As usual, Beetlejuice was waiting for her in the mirror, but this time he was leaning up against it, looking pale and tired. "Hey, babes," he said in a voice even raspier than normal. "Let me through, huh?"

Lydia looked at him closely, then clucked her tongue. "Are you okay? You look like something the cat dragged in . . . and then dragged back out." He started cackling at that but it quickly changed to a creaking cough. "BJ, you're sick! You just stay right there; I'll be there in a couple of minutes!"

"No, hey," he started to object, but it was useless. She was pounding on the front door of the Roadhouse less than two minutes later. Beetlejuice managed to juice himself there to open it for her, then coughed some more. Then he blew his nose resoundingly, ending with a noise like a strangled goose. Lydia looked at him in surprise and he shrugged. "Sorry, just a habit," he muttered before sniffing lugubriously. "Do that to make you laugh."

"Well, it only works when you're not sick. I think you should be in bed," she declared, taking his hand and pulling him over to the stairs.

He protested. "Lyds, come on. You know I carry a lot of viruses around. I'm used to being sick!" He tugged at her hand half-heartedly, then sneezed. "I'm fine," he mumbled. "Probably just ate a bad beetle or something."

"That would just give you indigestion," she said from experience. "But this sounds like a cold. A bad one."

"At least you can't catch anything from me," he coughed loudly and cleared his throat. "If you weren't human, though . . ."

She tugged him gently up the stairs and down the hallway to his room. "Thank goodness. You sound awful, BJ. How long have you been sick?"

He shrugged and snuffled. "Maybe last night. Maybe. But we can still have a good time, babes. I'm not that sick."

"The last time you got sick was when you got cabin fever. Which you got from curing my measles." She steered him over to his coffin-bed and turned her back. "Now change into your pajamas and get into bed."

Grumbling, interspersed with coughing, ensued but in less than half a minute he said, "You can turn around now."

His new pajamas were a violent lime green with a chartreuse beetle pattern. Lydia visibly flinched, then turned back the covers and plumped his pillows. "In," she ordered.

More grumbling, more coughing, but as he settled in and squiggled to get comfortable, he said, "Yeah, I got cabin fever, but I don't want you getting it now from taking care of me!"

"I think that's one of those things I can't get, BJ. I certainly won't have a little cabin on my head," she smiled. "I remember that day so well. We went up into the attic and you found your dolly – your Salvador Dali. That was the most ridiculous afternoon we've ever had," she said and the smile became a grin. "And, in a way, it was my fault you got sick that time. The least I can do is spend some time with you now that you're not feeling well. It's my turn to take care of you."

Beetlejuice made a muted growling noise, shifting uncomfortably and sniffling. In what was close to a whine, he said, "But you don't want to stay here taking care of me. You should be out having fun." Just that much speech initiated another coughing jag.

"Beej, don't be silly. What fun could I possibly have knowing you were here, sick? Now lie back and let me adjust those pillows again and then I'll get you some nice cold slimeade. It'll make your throat feel better."

He groaned a bit, trying to get comfortable, then reached up to take her hand. "Lyds, I don't want you to waste your time –"

"If I ever think I'm wasting my time, I'll tell you. Promise." She gripped his hand tightly then went downstairs for the slimeade.

ooooo

The coughing had subsided a little now that Beetlejuice was in bed and quiet. But he was bored and fretful.

Lydia offered to read to him and he shrugged and nodded, taking another slug of Die-quil Cold Formula.

"So what would you like me to read to you? I can get one of your favorites or something from my room." She leaned forward on the chair she'd dragged over to the side of the coffin.

"Anything; I don't care. Whatever you're in the middle of would be okay." He sniffled then coughed briefly and subsided into the pillows.

"All right then. There's a book on my nightstand. Can you juice it here or . . . no, I should go get it." As she rose to leave, she heard the snap of his fingers and turned to see 'The Prince and the Pauper' resting on his outstretched palm. With an admonitory frown, she took it and settled back into her chair.

After the first few paragraphs, she noticed his hand was resting on the edge of the coffin and she carefully took hold of it as she read. He didn't appear to notice, but he did return her clasp at first, until gradually it loosened and she realized he was asleep. Looking at him lovingly, she rested her cheek on his hand and took this opportunity to whisper, "Get well, my Beej. Fast. I need you well again."

He shifted then, abruptly, snored once, half-woke, then went back into a sound sleep.

ooooo

She checked on him the next day before leaving for school, but he was still sleeping. At lunch, he was awake, although somewhat groggy and very bored, so she chatted with him through the school bathroom mirror for a few minutes and made him promise to eat something. As soon as school was out, she headed for the Neitherworld.

Beetlejuice was sitting up, elbow on the side of his coffin, head resting on his hand. The instant he saw her, he said, "I'm all well again, babes. Really!" Then spoiled it all by sneezing twice.

"I can see that," she replied with a smile. "Have you eaten anything? You need to eat."

"I had half a pound of peanuts and I found an old can of salted beetles in the closet." He sniffled, but did sound a little better.

Lydia tugged him forward to plump up his pillows, then pushed him back. "I'll make you some tea with ground-up honey ants, then."

He groaned at that. "Lyds, you don't have to take care of me. You should be out somewhere having a good time, not here with boring old me."

"I swear," she told him, hands on hips, "if you thought I was bored, you'd haul yourself up out of that sickbed and take me wherever I wanted to go. Wouldn't you?"

"Well, yeah." He eyed her uncertainly.

"So why don't I get the same right when it comes to you? I want to be here, taking care of you. I want to do whatever I can to make you feel better." She gently rubbed his arm. "It's a two-way street, Beej. You took care of me to the point where it made you sick. I can't get what you have now, so let me do what I can to make you comfortable and better, okay?"

He frowned, sniffled again, and said, "But –"

"Remember when I got that throat thing and lost my voice? You spent the whole day baby-sitting me and you even stayed that night so I wouldn't be alone, just in case I needed something." She settled herself on the edge of the coffin. "You've been sick for two days now and you've told me at least eight times that you'd rather I go away and have fun somewhere. Why can't you accept that you mean as much to me as I do to you?"

"Because no one could," he said hoarsely, then looked appalled. "I mean, what I meant was . . . that no one could . . . could mean as much . . . that I couldn't mean as much to anyone . . ." He trailed off and hung his head, breathing heavily.

"Beej," she said gently, "lie back and rest a little."

"I'm feverish!" he said suddenly. "I don't know what I'm saying!" He looked at her with very little hope, but a great deal of anxiety.

She had already tucked his words into her heart, to be taken out and wondered over and cherished frequently. "Okay. But you still need to rest and I'm still going to sit here with you as long as you're sick. That's the deal with friendship, you know. Especially when we're the best friends ever. Now, if you don't want any tea then I'll read to you some more."

He subsided grudgingly and somewhat sheepishly. "Same book? I liked that book," he murmured. Then, for only the second time, he gave her that look – the wide-eyed gaze, open and limpid, filled with devotion and need. "I could listen to you read forever." He not-so-subtly rested his hand on the side of the coffin next to her.

"I even brought the book with me today." She smiled at him, pulled up her chair, opened her book, and took hold of his hand.

He closed his eyes and sighed in content. "Maybe being sick's not so bad," he murmured.