Chapter 6
After Juno had left, Lydia had helped Betelgeuse into her bedroom. Following a few jokes about getting into her bed, he had fallen asleep.
She didn't know what to think about him. He was infuriating but so pathetic right now. She saw him turn on his showbiz personality to hide his embarrassment, and it saddened her to watch. On one hand, she felt a tremendous amount of pity and protectiveness over him, and on the other, she was terrified that his actions would lead them both into some sort of legal trouble with the Netherworld. Thinking back to his rashness of the past, it was difficult to trust him. But she had grown and changed in that time, perhaps he had as well? Her contradicting thoughts ping ponged in her brain until she felt mentally exhausted.
Finally she decided it was best not to think about him at all. Putting the contract aside, she focused on a large paper calendar spread across the kitchen table. It was filled with scribbled locations and times.
Lydia had kept her passion for photography and had built a gorgeous portfolio of artistic images. Her favorite subjects were dying plants, old houses, and murals that had begun to peel. Her gothic days were long behind her, but that interest in the strange and unusual would never leave. However, these did not make much money. In order to make a living, she had taken on the job of wedding photographer and was highly sought after. It wasn't the exciting photography she craved nor was it even an artistic outlet (as many couples wanted the same types of photos) but it allowed her to write off her supplies as business expenses.
Much like her father, Lydia enjoyed sinking into a task. She began comparing her emailed requests and parameters with the events on her calendar. Marking off jobs she had completed and making a list of supplies for the wedding she would be attending on Friday.
"Have to get the Smith's photos developed by tonight if I want to stay on schedule," she said quietly to herself, making a note of it.
An hour later, everything was planned and in order. She had even packed her camera bag and props for Friday's event. She gave the schedule a satisfied look over, before leaning back into her chair.
And then she remembered that she had a lecherous ghost in her bed. Sighing, she marked "visit Maitlands" for Saturday before she rocked herself up to a standing position. Guess I better check on him before I crash on the couch, she thought as she looked around the room, gonna have to go in there if I want to grab a blanket for myself anyway. She tidied up the room first, completely aware she was stalling. She scooped up the pillows from the floor, tossing them back to their home on the couch and then dragged the coffee table to the center of the room. With no rush, she put the plates in the sink and, for good measure, washed the dishes.
Finally, she was out of tasks and made her way to the bedroom. Slowly opening the door, she peered into the dark room. At first it was difficult to see him, but as her eyes adjusted she was able to make out a vaguely man-shaped lump in the covers. He looked dead, laying there unbreathing, but then again, he was dead. His face, as pale as it was, almost glowed with the small amount of light glowing weakly from the open door. It was more relaxed than she had ever seen it with his eyes closed gently and his mouth slightly open. It was slightly obstructed by his wild hair which, for the second time that day, she had the urge to brush. The curiosity of what it would look like groomed was not strong enough to have her approach her childhood monster. His arms were spread wide as if they were wings, while his legs were tangled in the comforter. She wondered if he had moved a lot as he had slept. She wondered if he had dreamed of his time in The Room. Barbara and Adam slept occasionally, and when Lydia had asked, they said they dreamed but the dreams were mostly of being alive. As she thought this, he shifted and moaned, pushing his hips up a few times. She gave a short sigh. He was more likely dreaming of Dante's or someplace similar.
She tip-toed into the room, aiming for the closet. The apartment was not old, but not well kept by the landlord. The creak of the floorboards had never bothered her before, as she was on the top floor and lived alone, but tonight the creak-squeak had her grimacing. One foot in front of the other, don't pause, just in and out. She took rapid but careful steps before reaching the closet and pulling the door open. It too released a high pitched sound as the unoiled hinge dragged metal across metal.
Movement from the bed caught her attention. She looked over to find that the poltergeist no longer looked relaxed. His eyebrows were knitted tightly together, and he was tossing in the bed. His yellowed teeth were clenched tightly together but his lips were moving as if trying to say something. Was he awake?
"Betelgeuse?" She called quietly, figuring it would be best that he knew she was in the room instead of surprising him.
The reaction was instantaneous. He sat straight up without even using his arms and screamed.
"I have a haunting voucher." Charles attempted to say casually to his boss.
His boss, a man named Quamir with a flattened torso and tire marks across them, did not even look up from his stack of papers. "Those go through Juno."
Mr. Deetz had known this but did not want to go through Juno. He had often caught her giving him suspicious glances when he asked questions. It also did not escape him that she did not take him on as her assistant. Plus, despite what she said about how dangerous her ex-assistant was, Charles suspected that she had a soft spot for Betelguese.
"I know, but she is always busy. This is just for a couple of days in the mortal world, and I wouldn't want to bother her with something so trivial. If you really think about it, I'd be there now anyway if I hadn't taken this job."
Quamir looked up. The last line caught his attention. He knew with Charles there, death was much better than it could be, and unlike the rest of the staff, Charles probably could leave.
"Valid." He looked over at Juno's vacant desk before waddling over and snatching a stamp off of it. He held out his hand and Charles handed him the voucher. A stamp and a signature later, he was good to go.
"And of course I'll need some protection."
Quamir raised an eyebrow at Charles but didn't question him verbally. He held out his hand again, and Charles handed him a separate form. Another signature and stamp (this time from his own desk) was placed before he said, "bring that one to Luther."
Betelgeuse had in fact been dreaming of whores. Dead, gray-skinned whores with grabbable hips and bits. The ones in his dreams didn't look at him with disgust or fake their sounds of pleasure, they were eager for his body.
One was straddled on top of him, rocking with snake-like motion, each thrust bringing them both closer to climax. The bed creaked and squeaked in rhythm with the movement. She leaned down, grabbing the sheets with one hand and his hair with the other, her eyes screwed closed with pleasure. As her face got closer, Betelguese saw it shift from the ashy gray of death to a very pale, but very alive, hue. Studying it closer, he saw it was Lydia's face.
"Oh Betelgeuse!" She cried, getting closer.
He chuckled nervously. "Careful with that B word, Deetz."
Although he had stopped moving, she was still grinding and picking up pace. "Betelguese!" She shouted, louder this time.
"Seriously, babes. Ya can't say it again. I don't wanna go back. I can't…" He tried to push himself up, but she used his hair to hold him down. Her eyes shot open, staring at him now with a devious grin, yet her body still sought pleasure.
She tossed her head back and pushed hard against him with a final scream. "BETELGEUSE!"
He opened his eyes to darkness and rose like the dead. I'm back. He let out a rough sob, and tried to run for the sliver of light, assuming it was the door closing in on him. Unfortunately, his legs were so tangled up in the blankets that he fell face first on the floor. "Juno! Don't close it! Please!"
He crawled and struggled against whatever restraints had been placed on his legs, scrambling forward with his nails digging uselessly against the floorboards. The light was still there; there was still hope.
And then Lydia was at his side.
Lydia had had her share of nightmares as a teen, ironically brought on by the man in front of her. Barbara or Adam were quick to appear in her room when she called out. Gently waking and grounding her with "we're right here" and "it's just a dream; you're safe." Adam would rub her back in small circles and Barbara would make her tea. They both would sit and talk to her until her mind was in the present and the dream began to fade. They had never made her feel embarrassed for needing them.
She tried to be that for Betelgeuse now as she sat by him. "Shhhh," she said quietly, "you're in my room. You're safe." She reached out a cautious hand and placed it on his back. He jumped at her touch but then settled, giving up and lying on his side. She took this as a good sign and began to run her hand up and down, careful of the bandaged spots. She could feel his body tremble in short bursts but even that slowed and then stopped under her touch.
Instead of accepting what she was doing, she focused on how unique the sensation of touching him was. He wasn't cold but certainly not warm, and with lack of breath or heartbeat it was as if she were comforting a mannequin. His suit, though, was so tattered and grimey. She let her mind wander to her calendar. "Shop for men's clothing" would be added soon. An unexpected sound drew her back to reality. A soft wheeze and hic sound that she couldn't place immediately.
Looking down at Betelgeuse, she realized that he was crying.
Her heart clenched and she felt tears spring to her own eyes. The monster of her youth was crying at her feet. She knew that tomorrow, when he was more himself, he would be ashamed so she pretended not to notice and continued to rub his back. "I won't send you back there," she repeated her promise from earlier. "You never will go back."
She meant it too. Her nurturing side wanted to hold him until he felt safe, but common sense told her that could end poorly in a number of ways. Instead, she chose a tactic he would feel comfortable with. She used her free hand to delicately untangle the blankets from his legs, balling them up and tossing them back onto the bed. When his crying stopped, she lay down next to him so that they were face to face.
"Hey bug breath, when I said you could sleep in the bed, I did mean in the bed. This is the floor."
He met her eyes and gave a wry smile.
It had been the heat from Lydia's hand that brought him back to her room. As the panic ebbed, he could hear her voice promising him safety as she tried to remind him of where he was. It wasn't lost on him that no one spoke to him like this, no one touched him so gently and so kindly. They hated or feared him. At best, they tolerated him. It was better that way. But Lydia's steady caress was going to break him in a way no punch ever had, and her caring words were going straight to his unbeating heart like no insult or scream ever had.
Before he could stop himself, he realized he was crying. He hated himself for it. The ghost with the most had not cried since death. Crying was for those recently deceased who couldn't come to grips with death. He had only grown powerful in death– why cry when you could do something instead. Then why was he falling apart over a few words and barely a touch?
Luckily, she didn't seem to notice. He was able to collect himself with a bit of self-encouragement: You absolute bastard of a ghost, what is wrong with you?
He found himself thinking about when they had met. He had always been wild with the Maitlands; they were desperate, he could mess with them however he wanted to. With Lydia he had slowed down and had been more deliberate. The girl who could see ghosts could be useful to him, and he did not want to let her slip away. His movements were more careful, slower than the erratic jumping and screaming (and honking) that he could get away with as a guide and bio-exorcist. Laying on a chair or carefully turning to look at her from the model graveyard. She had to think he was competent enough to save her friends. And it had worked. Almost. The only time it had cracked was when she had thrown him a curve ball. "I want in." That had surprised him. He wanted out, she wanted in. It had seemed like a great opportunity. He held all the cards and was going to play them well. Now she held all the power, and was choosing to keep him out, no trade or benefit to her. He knew he did not deserve her altruism.
After that somewhat enlightening trip down memory lane, his tears had stopped. The only evidence was the clean tracks left behind on his dirty face. He blinked and she was there, practically nose to nose.
"Hey bug breath, when I said you could sleep in the bed, I did mean in the bed. This is the floor."
He smiled. This was his territory. He could crack insults back and forth for centuries.
"Well, you took too long to get here, babes. Geez, playin' hard to get is one thing, but I guess I'm willing to literally come down to your level. You're welcome."
The corners of her mouth twitched into the hint of a smile as well. "You ass."
He reached over and grabbed her butt. "Your ass!" He made a honking sound as he gave it a squeeze then cackled loudly.
Her smile fell, and she pushed herself back up and pulled his hand away from her. Dropping it, she said, "I see you're feeling better." With that, she left the room, stepping over his legs and closing the door behind him, throwing him into darkness.
Too far, you idiot. He mentally kicked himself, as he searched for a light switch.
Chapter 7
If Betelgeuse was mature or had any experience with communication, the tone of the day would have been very different:
It was Saturday morning, and Lydia was hunched over a cup of coffee. After calming down Betelguese and then calming down herself, she had been forced to stay up late in order to develop photos and stay on schedule. Had she been more alert, she would probably be worried about the ghost waking and commenting on her pajamas and lack of a bra, but she was far too tired to care.
When he did emerge from the bedroom, it was hard to tell if he looked tired. His raccoon-like eyes hid the usual signs from her and his hair always looked like he had just woken up. However, he was walking without assistance (albeit still holding his side) and the bruises she could see were already fading. He still wore the makeshift splint on his arm, but he moved it more freely than before.
"You're looking better. How are you feeling?"
He grunted in response before sitting across from her at the small table.
"We're not talking today?"
If Betelgeuse was mature or had any experience with communication, he would have said 'I'm sorry, I don't want to discuss what happened last night yet' or perhaps 'I'm grateful for everything you've done, I just haven't had the chance to sit with everything.' If he were brave, maybe a confession of his newfound feelings would have been mixed in. However, Betelgeuse was Betelgeuse, and his chosen response was a hoarse, "S'up jail-keeper," while giving a lazy salute.
Lydia looked up at him. Her hair was disheveled, her own eyes had bags under them that started to come close to his own, and she was not in the mood for his nonsense. "I'm fine pretending that last night didn't happen, but could you at least be polite? I didn't ask for this."
He looked like she had punched him in the gut before switching to a scowl. "Aren't we happy this morning?" He turned to go back to the bedroom but ended up making a full 360, staring right in her face. "Neither of us chose this! But one of us at least kept his side of the bargain."
"And what good would it have done you if I had gone through with it?" Lydia's voice became stronger, frustration winning over the exhaustion. "You'd be on earth for sixty or seventy years before I die, and then they'd send you right to your punishment. Who would save you then? I should just…" She threw her hands in the air and huffed. She was on a roll now and the last two days of unpleasant surprises and having to keep it together for a broken ghost were bursting free. "Now I'm stuck with whatever consequences YOU enact on us!"
She stopped, taking a few heavy breaths, and looked at him, waiting for a scathing response. Instead she saw him grabbing at his hair and clenching his teeth.
He was actively fighting the panic creeping up in him as her voice got louder. Loud days had been the ones he dreaded the most. The room had started the days with a mosquito-like whine that had risen in volume over the hours until it was splitting his brain. Covering his ears did nothing to muffle it, so he did not even bother now. There was no place he could go where it softened. Just jarring, non-stop cacophony.
And then back in the present, it grew quiet, and Lydia was looking at him again with pity. "I'm sorry," she stated. It was not the soft whispers she had used the night before, but all of the anger had left her. "That was too far."
If Betelgeuse was mature or had any experience with communication, he may have apologized as well. Perhaps he would have stepped away to gather his thoughts. But he was still none of these things, and so he said, "shove your pity, Deetz. I'm tired of it."
Lydia, who was at least more mature than the ghost, pushed her lips into a thin line and gave herself the break of three breaths through her nose. She then looked at him and said, "fine. Let's just talk business then. Today you need clothing, which means I either find something within five miles or you're coming shopping. Tomorrow I have work which is more than five miles away, so you are coming with me. You can stay in the car. The day after, we are going to my old home, and the Maitlands are going to help us out."
He bristled at the mention of the Maitlands but just said, "Do I get a say in any of this?"
"No." Again, no anger, no warmth; just a response. "We'll work on compromises later, but I was given no time to plan around your arrival."
It seemed fair. It was fair. But he stomped back to her room all the same and slammed the door.
She put her head in her hands and stayed that way until her coffee had gone cold.
The argument had made Betelgeuse realize something: he was seen as a burden by Lydia Deetz. She had promised not to send him back, and he believed her– she wasn't like the Netherworld ghosts who would talk out of both sides of their mouths– but she did not want him there either. What made the situation even more frustrating was that he couldn't leave even if he wanted to. And he didn't want to. Lydia meant protection. She meant warmth. She… ugh! Genuine emotion was not something he had felt in a long time, and it was frustrating. Of course he would want to leave her, he told himself. Why would he, Betelgeuse, allow himself to be dragged by the balls? By a breather no less?
He flopped himself down on the bed, and it made a creak of protest. He looked over at the dresser mirror across from him. The glass only revealed an empty bed. It had been centuries since he had seen his reflection, and while he was sure he looked as dashing as ever, he wondered what Lydia saw when she looked at him. He glanced down at his outfit. A mess. She saw a mess. That's why she wanted to get him new clothing.
He wanted to be furious at her, but he couldn't. Every time he tried to bring up his frustration, he just saw her standing over him, protecting him from Juno, caring for his injuries, speaking in that voice that made him feel…NO!
But still, it was embarrassing to be seen as a burden. In a rare moment of self-reflection, Betelgeuse began to brainstorm ways to be, if not likable, at least helpful.
Charles appeared in his house that morning.
He startled Adam and Barabra, who had been cleaning the living room. They still enjoyed a tidy house regardless of haunting it, and being able to float had its benefits, such as being able to dust the ceiling fan without standing on a chair. Adam was currently working on that while Barabra was bent over cleaning behind the couch. Adam turned to make a comment about a lovely view of her behind, when he spotted Chalres standing below him and fell to the ground.
"Oh!" Barabra jumped as she turned to see him standing where there had previously been no one. "Charles? What are you doing here?"
"Am I not allowed to visit my old house? You two never even left."
Adam jumped in. "Of course you are! We just didn't expect you." Barbara nodded in agreement.
"Of course, of course." Charles walked over to his comfy chair and sat down, sighing happily. He rubbed his hands over the arms of it, enjoying the familiar feel. "It's really good to be back. I'm just visiting. Was granted a haunting voucher for a bit. Is Deliah around?"
"No," Adam responded, "She isn't around often." It didn't escape anyone's notice that Charles looked relieved at that answer. "We're just happy she hasn't sold the house."
"You're timing couldn't be better, though," Barabra had recovered quickly from the surprise. "Lydia will be visiting soon. Unfortunately…." She shifted her feet, unsure about how Charles would respond to the news that the ghost that nearly killed him would be here for a visit.
"I know," Charles said and leaned forward towards them. "I know that he's back as well. How would you both feel about getting rid of him for good?"
There was a pause where all three ghosts looked at each other. Charles had never looked so confident; death had really been good for him.
Both Adam and Barbara stepped closer to him. "What do you mean?" Adam asked while Barbara was already eagerly wide-eyed.
"Do you still have your handbook?"
They both nodded.
"Good. I have a means of protecting ourselves, but we're going to pull an Otho."
Barbara gasped and Adam's mouth fell open. They had not felt any pain after dying except for the day that they had nearly been exorcized. The fear and sadness still sat uncomfortably with them, having to watch each other shrivel away, while realizing it was the final goodbye.
"I'm not so sure that's the best idea, Charles. It sounds like Beetlejuice has paid for his crime. Lydia made it sound like he's quite harmless now."
Barbara, on the other hand, was silent. She looked at Charles, who was still sitting comfortably in his chair. When he saw that Barbara was still convincible, he turned to her and said in earnest, "You know we can't let him be around our Lydia. He's a literal snake."
Barbara, in turn, faced Adam. "He's right, you know. Juno had said not to trust him, and we didn't listen before."
Adam chewed the inside of his cheek. "But he didn't let us get exorcized before. It just doesn't feel right."
"He only did that to force a deal out of Lydia. Who knows what he'll be able to do this time if he has the chance?"
"You two make your decision on your own," Charles stood up and began to prepare the table for the spell. "I will be going through with it either way.
Chapter 8
Lydia was not surprised when she heard swearing and yelling echoing from her bathroom; the language in her house had grown more colorful since she had summoned Betelguese. What did surprise her was the sound of running water that accompanied it. The steady pelting of droplets on tile grew louder as she entered the master bedroom. She ran to the bathroom door and then hesitated, not knowing what she would see upon opening it. The yell turned into a surprisingly shrill scream, and she decided to go for it.
Opening the door revealed quite the scene: The shower was running, but there was no steam. A very naked Betelgeuse was trying to wet his hair and body, but kept stepping out of the stream of water. His hair was partially wet and now had a matted look to it, the upper layer being weighed down and the fluffy under part fighting back. Lydia would have laughed if the image wasn't so shocking.
"Betelgeuse? Sorry…BJ."
He jumped at the sound of his name but showed no shame at his nakedness. "Why would people use these things? We at least heated the water when I was alive."
Lydia reached over with the smallest of smirks and turned the handle towards the H on the dial. He watched her hand enter his space and pull back out, but didn't move. She nodded when finished. "Give it a minute and try it again."
Soon steam began to fog the mirror, and Betelgeuse stepped back into the flow of water. His whole body physically relaxed, and he sighed. The heat was already soothing his sore muscles. "Alright. I get the appeal now." He looked back to see Lydia Deetz gawking at him.
He grinned, showing his yellowed teeth. "Like what you see, Deetz? He jutted his hips out and motioned to his nether region like Vanna White. She quickly moved her gaze up.
"Just surprised that you would shower…ever."
"I just wanted to, ya know, be presentable when we went shopping." His voice lowered a bit. "Didn't want to embarrass you or anything."
She was shocked. Was he trying? She decided to roll with it, and give him the benefit of the doubt. "Oh. Good. Do you need a towel or anything before I step out?"
"Yeah! That might be something. Also, what are these different bottles for? We just had a bar of soap," he hunched a bit for flair and made his voice raspier, "back in my day."
Although she was aware of the fact somewhere in her subconscious, it dawned upon Lydia he had been alive at some point. She had gotten so used to knowing him as a ghost that she hadn't even questioned who he had been beforehand. Millions of questions crowded her mind and she almost forgot to answer his question. When he waved the bottle in her face, she jumped back to the present, tucking the thoughts away for later.
"Um, that one is a conditioner, you put it in your hair after the shampoo," she pointed to the bottle of shampoo, "and then this one is body wash. You scrub it on your skin with a washcloth." Opening the cabinet under her sink, she pulled out a towel which she hung on the rack, and a washcloth which she handed to the soaked ghost. "You'll want to close the curtain so that water doesn't splash onto the floor."
She had kept her eyes to the floor and on the various items that she was explaining, not wanting to be more uncomfortable with the situation than needed. When she did manage to look at him to check if he understood, he was using his good hand to hold the bottle of shampoo upside down and get it to drip into the same hand, all while trying to keep the splinted arm out of the water. His metal wrists cuffs were on display and extremely noticeable as the wet surface reflected the harsh bathroom lighting.
Lydia tried to bite her tongue.
She tried to stop herself.
She knew he would take it the wrong way.
"Do you want me to help?"
He paused, looked right at her, and a sly grin spread across his face. "Oh babes, I have something large you can help me wi-"
She put a hand up and quickly said, "Nope, nope, no, sorry I asked," as she turned to leave the bathroom.
"Wait." A softer version of his voice called out, stopping her. She had never heard him talk like that, and her heart confused her at the sound. When she turned to him again, the bravado was gone. He was holding the bottle out to her. "You can help. Ya know, if ya want."
He wouldn't say please. The word, while already feeling wrong on his tongue before his time in punishment, was now practically poisoned. It had been drawn from his lungs countlessly without thought to who would hear it. But he did still want her to stay and help, so he asked in a more noncommittal way.
When she instructed him to turn around, he did so without question, tilting his head back so that she could easily reach. He heard the squirt of the shampoo and then felt her fingers in his hair. It was like nothing he had ever felt. She was gentle and the pads of her fingers practically massaged him as she worked the shampoo into a lather. Even the occasional scrape of her nails sent jolts through him. She was carefully holding strands of his hair as she worked out tangles. He had been touched before in some very creative and pleasurable ways, but not with this amount of tender care. He found himself wanting to hold her and kiss her in the same manner, but he resisted not wanting to scare her away from the task. When the shampooing was done, she directed him into the water.
"Here, tilt your head back more so it doesn't get into your eyes," when she said this, she placed the edge of her hand against his forehead to block any drips.
That was what broke him. The small act of kindness that she didn't need to do but did so anyway because that's who she was. He had nothing to offer her in this moment, nothing she could gain from that act. His entire death had been deals and exchanges, ways people could use him and he could use them. This was so foreign. As shampoo, moss, and mold swirled down the drain a few of his tears joined them.
Lydia helped him with conditioning his hair in a similar manner and he remained silent through the entire process. When she had finished, she lathered body wash onto the washcloth and handed it to him. "You can do the rest yourself," she simply stated and gave him a quizzical look when he just nodded. She left the bathroom after that, and he discovered the convenience of jacking off in the shower. If he could turn her back into just another woman in his mind, he could let all of this go. He could stop obsessing and focus on finding a loophole in the contract. Yet, after his shower, he still found himself trying to brush his hair so that she would be okay going out in public with him.
Stepping from the bathroom into her bedroom, he found that he still only had his wedding outfit. He missed the easy outfit changes with his powers; it was always something he enjoyed as he found it entirely too boring to stay with a single look. Many of the dead are trapped in whatever clothing they died in, so as soon as he was able, he never stayed with one style for long. Perhaps Lydia had an ex who left some clothing in her room. He began to pull open dresser drawers and dig haphazardly through the clothing. While his search for clothing was not successful (he doubted any of Lydia's outfits would be comfortable) he did find a small wooden box tucked in the back of one of the drawers. It intrigued him as it was engraved with small bats and spiders. He surmised that it was probably from her childhood as she seemed to have left much of her goth aesthetic behind.
Opening the box revealed a collection of trinkets and letters. While he was sure they had importance to her, a clear treasure distracted him from everything else. There, settled comfortably in the corner of the box, was his ring.
When she had left the bathroom, Lydia found the phantom feeling of soap and scalp had not left her fingertips. She also found that she didn't mind. Her feelings towards the ghost had warmed considerably along with the shower. He was trying, he was speaking kindly, and he had done something she didn't know was possible, he had remained silent for more than a few seconds. Lydia was not new to developing feelings for people. She had had her fair share of crushes in her youth and relationships she could have sworn were love as she navigated adulthood, but she felt some worry as the familiar tugs at her brain and heart were created by none other than Betelguese.
Sitting down at the table, she grabbed the contract and a highlighter. It was about time she found out what she could do about their situation.
It was three pages long, and she had to look up some of the legal jargon, but she was already on her second read-through as Betelgeuse walked back out. He burst through the door with the flair of a showman, he arms outstretched to show off his newly cleaned self. "Ta-da!" he shouted, accompanied by jazz hands. Lydia let out a snort of laughter before she could stop herself, his bravado such a contrast to the man who couldn't figure out how to heat the water. She gave him a few semi-sarcastic claps, and he bowed with a flourish.
His hair was still a mess but more in a towel-dried manner than the matted chaos of before. In fact, it was more blonde with just hints of green. His face and body too were considerably more recently dead flesh as opposed to the rotten hue. What ruined the look, though, was the red suit, still ripped and bloodstained in spaces. Being more versed in the contract terms now, she knew how to fix that.
As he held out his hand in the bow, she took the opportunity and tapped at the metal cuff three times. He froze and stared at it as did she. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then a seam etched itself into the metal growing deeper until it split and fell to the ground with a rattling clank.
Slowly, he raised himself from the bow, a devilish grin forming on his face. Lydia began to wonder if she had made a mistake.
Chapter 9
Betelgeuse was pouting, and while Lydia had found it amusing at first, she was fed up with it now. His pleas of "letting a professional do his work" were quickly getting on her nerves.
"You're not even able to work here! I'm the only bio you can exorcize, and if you do that, you're screwed." She was right. The contract had been very clear: if she died due to any interference on Betelguese's part, he went right back to The Room of Punishment. On the flip side, when she died of natural causes, his sentence was up. She neglected to tell him about that, as she didn't want him hoping for her early demise.
Removing one cuff had only given him a fraction of his powers back, and most of them were not the "fun ones" according to his whining. The ones he was able to access were what the contract called "surface level." He could minorly change his appearance, so clothing was no longer a problem. He was able to float around again and go through walls (another thing he had been using to annoy Lydia), move small objects, increase his healing, and manipulate sounds. Essentially he was a recently deceased, and while it was better than nothing, he knew the rest of his powers were just a few taps of her lovely fingers away.
When she had first removed the cuff, Betelgeuse had been so ecstatic, he could barely contain himself. He launched into the air with a loud "Yeeeeahhaaaw!" changing into cowboy getup. "Thank 'ee, kindly! Who knew a shower was all it took to please a lady?" Switching immediately into a black tuxedo, he lowered himself back to the floor and held out his other arm. Putting on an English accent he said, "If you would, m'lady?"
She placed a hand on his arm and pushed it back to his side. "Not yet."
"What?!" His eyes practically popped out of his face.
"It's not a 'no,' just a 'not yet.' I don't really trust you fully." She said it slowly, hoping it would sink in that he would have a chance to earn that trust.
He held a hand to his heart in mock shock, slipping back into the accent. "Not trust me?"
She gave him a long look.
"Okay okay," he went back to his normal voice. "But ya gotta understand. I've done my time; don't I deserve to go back into society and be the best ghost I can be?"
And so it went on. Lydia found herself avoiding him around the house due to his constant badgering. Or rather, she tried to avoid him. She would be editing photos and there he was, suddenly at the table next to her, sliding his arm along the wooden surface to show his remaining cuff and waggling his eyebrows. "Ya know you wanna touch it." She would close her laptop, and walk away. She would be in the kitchen, making herself a sandwich, and he would appear leaning against the fridge. She was suddenly not hungry. When she went for a walk to put some distance between them, he was soon following, and the walk turned into a jog. In the bedroom, in the hallway, sitting in her car… The last straw was when she sat on the toilet, and he pushed open the shower curtains to reveal himself.
She pulled her shirt down to cover herself and yelled, "Stop! Just stop! Every time you ask me to take off the other one, I am going to add another week."
That shut him up, but now he was sulking. She found him sitting on the couch with his arms crossed, pouting like a child. At first it was a better alternative, but she grew increasingly irritable as his mood began to taint the room. He would not make her feel guilty about this. She didn't even have to give him any of his power back. In fact, she had half a mind to put the first cuff back on.
A full day had passed and she had to get to the wedding. Betelgeuse had not moved from his spot on the couch. Lydia stood above him with her camera bag. "Come on, we have to go. I don't want to be late; brides are always on edge, and it's usually the staff that take the heat."
"Oh, it's the staff? Not the groom?" He slumped farther into the couch. "Do ya think it'll end with a sandworm eating someone? That seems to be your kind of wedding."
"This is going to end with a sandworm eating someone if you don't get in the car." She forced between clenched teeth. "You can mope just as well there as you can here." The thought crossed her mind that this must be what motherhood feels like.
Like a ragdoll coming to life, Betelguese dragged his body to the car and sat in the passenger seat. Lydia got in the driver's side and waited for him to buckle his seat belt. When he didn't, she pointed to her own to give him the hint. When he still didn't move, she reached over him, dragging the belt across him before clicking it into place.
He sat up and froze, not having expected the physical contact of her body against his. She paused at his reaction, wondering if she had triggered another memory by putting the belt across him.
"I'm sorry," she quickly said. A long silence stretched as the car pulled out of the driveway, but Lydia's mind wouldn't let the moment go. As they made it to the highway, and the hum of other cars filled her ears, she asked, "were you able to move when you were, you know, there?"
He was quiet for so long, Lydia was convinced she had pushed too far. She had resigned herself to an awkward car ride when his voice broke the silence, making her jump.
"I was never restrained. Hell, there weren't even walls. Just black nothingness and free floating." Lydia was shocked that he was speaking about his time in the room, and remained silent out of fear that she would say the wrong thing. She encouraged him to continue by looking towards him and nodding. He just stared forward and said almost robotically, "I suppose that made it worse. Nothing to fight against or hold on t'." His voice trailed into silence once more, and for several moments, they both sat with what he had just shared.
She reached for his hand without thought, and he caught it like a snake striking. He held her hand tightly in his, turning the skin paler where he pressed. She let him. Both of them staring forward as if the contact didn't exist. Yet, he didn't lessen his grip; it anchored him to reality.
By the end of the car ride, Lydia's hand had gone numb. She wiggled her fingers a bit to let him know it was time to let go, and he complied, seeming almost surprised that they had stopped moving. Like their former moments of comfort, they both didn't mention it.
They parked outside of a large field, decorated with strings of lights and a chalkboard sign pointing them towards the venue: a repurposed barn also strung with lights and decorated to match the couple's wedding colors. It was picturesque and purposefully so. Lydia had photographed this location multiple times and was fairly familiar with the space.
"Do you think you could change into black pants and a shirt? It's common for staff to wear black to a wedding. And maybe some sunglasses to hide those eyes? They give away the corpse thing."
"I'm staff now, huh?" He was slowly regaining a sense of the present.
"Yep. You'll be my assistant today."
He snorted at that but didn't protest. Without even a wave, he was dressed for the occasion and even had a bag of extra film ready to go. "Where to, boss?"
She had said "not yet," and while it was infuriating that she could release his powers with just a few taps, the car ride had cooled his frustration. Another simple and heartfelt act on her part was a reminder of why he was so smitten with her. If she didn't trust him yet, he could make that happen. All it took the first time was a shower. That 'not yet' was a challenge to convince her, and if Betelgeuse was anything, he was a good salesman. If he was going to be an assistant, he'd be the best damn assistant she had ever had (assuming she had ever had one).
She smiled when he called her boss. He looked at that smile and wanted to see it more often. When he had more time, he wanted to figure out all the ways to make her smile, but for now, he knew that he wasn't being a burden, and it seemed to be working. Be helpful and butter her up, was the lesson he took from that moment, and he jumped into the roll with gusto.
He had assumed the wedding would be boring, and it absolutely was, but seeing Lydia in her element opened his eyes to how much she had changed in the last fifteen years. Her ease and confidence when talking to the bride, corralling groups together for photos, and finding just the right angle and lighting for scenic shots was enchanting to him, and he often found himself just staring. She had an adorable way of turning her head when looking through the camera. He wanted her to study him like that.
"Hey, Lyds," he said to her as she was taking a break in a side section of the barn and eating from the plate the bride had been kind enough to set aside for her. "Take my picture!" He posed in true showman style, feet in a wide stance and arms spread wide. Lydia wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin, but didn't go for her camera.
"Ghosts don't show up on film. I've tried many times with Barbara and Adam."
He wavered in his pose. "Those stiffs aren't me. I've got a bit more, ya know, somethin' to me when summoned. Come on, showtime!" He stood up straight again, giving his signature grin.
She held the camera to her face, and there it was. She was concentrating on him with the tilt to her head. She was moving to get the best image, stepping closer and then… she paused, lowering the camera without having pushed the button.
"What?" He dropped the pose completely, wavering between being hurt and annoyed at her delay.
She stood there, camera hanging from her neck, and looked him up and down. He had a rare moment of self-consciousness. "Is there something in my teeth?" She held her chin and looked him over again.
"This isn't you. Could you…" She held his shoulders and shifted him to the side so that the flowers were no longer in view. He relished the quick touch. She decided that his background was still not completely right. "Follow me." She walked out of the barn and led him to the empty field. It wasn't perfect but better. The sun was sinking low and his shadow stretched out behind him at an angle. "And maybe if… do you think you could wear that striped suit?"
His grin almost consumed his face as he switched to one of his favorite looks. "You like that, huh?"
She rolled her eyes but was smiling. Looking at him like this, she was reminded that he had been a powerful creature to behold at one point–and could be again. She paused, looking at the image through the camera. He was once again the figure from her youth and her breath hitched, not with fear though; she was spellbound. Snapping the photo, she hoped that he would show up on film.
The ride home was much more pleasant than the ride there. The anger and tension of the morning had faded and both woman and ghost had enjoyed themselves at the wedding. Lydia's gear rattled in the backseat, and they found the background sound comforting.
"How did you die?" Lydia had a million questions she wanted to ask him, but that one was at the top of her list. She quickly followed it by, "or is that rude to ask?"
"Nah, it's not rude to ask. It's a usual conversation starter in the Netherworld." He stretched out in the passenger seat, looking out the window as they went down the highway. "It's only rude to ask if the ghost is a civil servant."
"But you're not a civil servant, right? You are…were a poltergeist for hire."
Betelgeuse turned to her. "Didn't Juno tell you? I used to work for that bitch. It wasn't exactly my jam, so I turned to more freelance work. Like to make my own schedule, babes."
Lydia shook her head. "I didn't know. So you…"
"Yep. Killed myself." He didn't seem to be dainty about the subject. "Lit my house on fire. You think I was born with this raspy voice? Death by smoke inhalation will do that to ya."
She turned to him wide-eyed, only pulling her attention back to the road when she felt herself veering into the grass. "But why?"
He shrugged. "I was angry. Angry at God, angry at life. The plague had taken my family, my friends. I was pretty drunk when I did it, probably would have starved anyway; I had stopped working and most of my money had been spent on whores and booze." Despite speaking in first person, his tone was as if the whole ordeal had happened to somebody else.
For Lydia, one detail stuck out. "You had a family? Why didn't you reunite in the afterlife?"
"My wife wanted nothing to do with me when she saw what I had done with my life after she died." A bitterness crept into his voice. "I spent decades working for Juno to earn a trip to see them, and she turned me away." His voice grew soft by the end, seeming almost surprised that he was saying them.
For the second time today, Lydia extended her hand to him. This time he took it more slowly. She squeezed his, and gave him a small smile, acknowledging the contact for the first time. "I'm sorry, BJ."
He responded with another shrug. "Thanks, but it was centuries ago. Really gives a guy time to get over it."
Changing the subject, Lydia had what she hoped was a less serious question. "How did you become so powerful? The Maitlands can't do even half of what I've seen you do."
His body language changed immediately; he sat up and straightened his suit with his free hand. "First of all, those stiffs are still newly dead. They will gain more control of their powers as the decades pass. Don't compare the likes of me to such deadbeats."
She gave an exaggerated sigh. "But even so…"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm definitely more powerful than your average ghost, regardless. After I died and realized that the afterlife was the opposite of freedom, I wanted to find a way to spice things up. Got mixed up with some cult, yadda yadda, and they granted me power by binding me to my name. Not my best move."
"So Betelgeuse is your real name?"
"Careful." He flinched at the sound, but realized that she didn't intend to say it again. "No, actually. Part of the trade off was a renaming. And before you ask, I don't know what my real name was. It was a forever kind of trade. That kind of magic fucks with your head."
She wasn't sure how to respond to that. What she did realize, however, was there was so much more to death than she ever thought of before. Barbara and Adam were rather naive about much of it because they hadn't moved on yet, and the handbook was more about the bureaucratic side of things. Betelgeuse was full of knowledge that he was now casually dropping as if it were nothing. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a CVS. She had a few items she wanted to grab, so she pulled into the parking lot.
"You can wait in the car if you want; I just need to get a few things." She released his hand, and he let her.
"What? Think I'll shoplift?" He put his feet up on the dash and reclined his seat back.
"No I-"
"Probably would. Good call." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as if he were going to take a nap.
She was quick, running back with two bags before Betelgeuse had grown bored. When they arrived home, she handed one of the bags to him. "If you're going to be here for a while, might as well have some of your own things."
He took it into her bedroom– she had given him it for the week– and opened it. Inside he found an all-in-one bodywash/shampoo/conditioner and laughed at it. Putting it on the bed, he reached for the next item and found something large and soft. Opening it fully, he discovered it was some sort of blanket with something inside of it to make it heavy. He felt his heart in a way he hadn't in centuries. She had heard what he said about free-floating and gave him a way to ground himself at night. Granted, he would rather have her body on him for that, but there was time. The last item was a small night light which he plugged in immediately.
He slept much better that night than he had in years. It was a good thing, too, because the next day they were going back to the house where it all started.