A Rose is a Tulip is a Peony
by
Owlcroft
Lydia heard Beetlejuice growling and turned to see him scrolling down a page on their computer. "Beej?" she asked. "Something wrong?"
"Grrr," he replied, then amplified with, "Look at this!" and a wave of his hand at the screen.
She trod across their small library to see he'd brought up a fanfic about . . . Beetlejuice.
"Bit of an egoist, aren't you?" she teased. "How is it? Any good?"
"Don't know. I just skimmed it looking for me, but it's all the musical guy instead. It says right here 'Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989)' but there's nothing about me in it." He glowered at the fanfic description. "Can't anybody tell us apart?" He turned to face her, still scowling fiercely. "I mean, it's not that hard to keep us straight – the movie one's grungy and sly and . . . grotesque –"
"Oh, I think he's kind of cute, in a bizarre sort of way."
He looked at her in surprised horror. "Really?"
"But not nearly as cute as you are." She pressed an ameliorative kiss on his forehead.
"Hmm." The scowl diminished just a trifle. "And the musical one is just totally different from either of us – he's all needy," he paused while his wife smothered a chuckle, "and he's a demon from Hell, which I'm certainly not, and he's violent and even you're – I mean, your counterpart – is turned into a murderer. Babes, dearest, it's just not that hard to see the differences!"
"No, it really isn't. You all have some of the same superficial characteristics, but fundamentally you're so completely different."
He snaked an arm around his wife's waist and gave her a leer. "Polysyllabic words - you know I love 'em."
She simpered at him and dropped another kiss on his forehead. "Oh, Beej," she said suddenly and put her head down on his shoulder. "We're both idiots."
"What? No, you're not!" After he thought about that for a moment, he added, "I mean, we're not. But why did you say that?"
"Because I just realized why they do it – it's not that they're not paying attention or get confused. They're just looking for hits! The more hits the better, right? So they want the widest audience which means they pick every category they possibly can. See?"
"Hmm." He brightened suddenly. "Oh! And that's why they're all about sex – more hits! More kudzus!"
"Kudos, my darling."
"Well, all I know is we seem to get less sex than the others. What's that about, huh?" He nudged the air with his elbow, muttering, "Hint, hint."
Lydia laughed. "If you're talking to the writer, you might want to be a little more diplomatic. Although," she twined her arms around his neck, "I'm not exactly busy right at the moment."
He perked up immediately. "Oh, yeah?" Then his attention went back to his computer screen. "Let me get this straight first."
"Oh, that just begs for a racy remark," she grinned. "How about 'let me get that straight for you'?"
That dispelled most of the grouchiness and he cackled as he put his arms around her. "But, sexy babes, you're saying the writers just pick all the categories regardless of which of us is in the story so they get more 'kudos'?"
"Yup." She nibbled the tip of his ear and he moaned faintly, but stayed true to his grievance.
"Well, that doesn't seem fair. In fact, it sounds sort of like fraud." He thought about that, as well as he could with the distraction, beginning to breath a little harder. "And another thing – this whole musical thing of calling humans breathers? We breathe, too! They breathe! How could they sing if they didn't take breaths in and let them out?!"
She shook her head at that and tugged him up out of his chair. "Of course you all breathe. And you all sing – although some better than others." She pushed his jacket off his shoulders and he let it fall to the floor. "Does it really bother you all that much? It's not like you're even . . . the original."
"But at least I stay in my own category." He ran his striped tongue down her neck and then nibbled gently. "I don't prance around in an attic with some weird people called the Maitlands, and I don't talk – or sing – about maiming kids."
"Oh, forget about them. As far as I'm concerned, you're the most important one. The others –" she flipped a hand casually, "don't matter to me one bit."
"That Otho guy is just a creep, regardless." He picked her up in his arms and kissed the tip of her nose. "I'm glad we don't have an Otho!"
"Me, too," she soothed, then yanked off his tie and ran her hand inside his shirt to a nipple.
He gasped and clutched her tighter. "I'm just going to call them The Others," he managed to mutter. "But, dearest, what is mood ring hair?" and they vanished.