Chapter Text
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There was something in his head.
He knew there was something. He could feel it. Something leftover from whatever had gone down in the attic the other day. Whatever that asshole with the youtube channel had done to him, something had gotten left behind. He couldn’t remember all of it (any of it really, but when he said that everyone had gotten a weird look on their faces) but he was pretty sure fire had been involved? Unless his nose had wandered off again, he knew the scent of burned pages when he smelled it. That should have taken care of whatever had gotten a grip on him.
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Right?
But there were still these...moments...Little gaps in the day where he knew something had happened, but couldn’t remember what. Delia had asked him to float a dish onto a high shelf for her and the next thing he knew, she was finishing thanking him. Adam asked him to hold something, and suddenly he was taking it back, another task already accomplished. He’d done whatever they had asked of him, but he couldn’t remember what it was.
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There was something in his head.
If he could just focus on it hard enough, he could rip it out. He’d done it before (he had?) he could do it again no problem.
The only issue was focusing.
Focusing was not his strong suit. Chaos was his strong suit. Striped was his strongest smelling suit. Disturbing the Peace was his favorite lawsuit. Chimneys were his favorite soo--
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...Wait. Shit. He’d totally lost his train of thought. Wasn’t there something he was supposed to be doing?
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There was something he had to do.
He just needed someone to tell him. He wanted someone to tell him.
“Beetlejuice?”
He blinked and looked around. He’d wandered up to the attic again. He kept doing that. The Maitlands were sitting on the couch, Adam reading an old newspaper, Barbara sewing up a tear in one of Lydia’s dresses. They were so boringly domestic it made his eyes water. Barbara could melt an entire VHS after some practice, but she held the delicate layers of the dress with careful hands. Adam could possess an entire skeletal audience, but he still got up off the couch to get the next issue of old news.
What dorks.
(he loved them)
Shut up.
(so much)
Barbara was still giving him a look, part welcoming, part concerned. (how do they fit that many emotions on one face?) “Are you all right?”
“Huh? Oh! Yeah! No, I’m great! Just uh...seeing what the two lamest lovebirds were up to.” He stuck his face directly over the top of Adam’s newspaper. “Still being boring?”
Adam was fighting a smile. “Certainly trying to be.”
“Laaaaaaaame! C’mon guys! Sandy’s mating season is almost over and I think a welcome home banner is still a great idea!”
“The banner is a good idea, Beetlejuice,” Barbara said. “Writing ‘Congrats on the Banging’ is not.”
“Hey, ‘Congrats on the Fucking’ was my first suggestion!”
“That is not better.”
“Says you.” He handly won the argument by sticking his tongue out and wiggling his hands beside his head. But he still wasn’t going to actually make the banner until they said yes, because--
Because…
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“Beetlejuice?”
“Huh?” He blinked again. Barbara was giving him that concerned look again. (they all were. all the time.)
“Are you...sure you’re okay? You seem a little out of it.”
“Maybe you need a nap?” Adam offered. The demon made a derisive noise.
“No way! I slept for aaaaaages! You deadbeats may be all for doing nothing for hours at a time, but I have much better things to do than stare at my eyelids!”
Barbara folded up the dress and sewing and put it to the side before patting the couch in between herself and Adam. “Beetlejuice, sit down.”
OBEY
He was on the couch.
When did he get on the couch?
he was happy to be on the couch
The Maitlands were doing that thing with the eyes that they did to communicate psychically (or whatever couples did) and their expressions weren’t happy ones.
“Beetlejuice...what does white mean?”
He blinked heavily, trying to get his bearings back. “Uh...for what? In China and Japan it means death, but Americans got it in their head that it means virginity or something. Hah! What a waste!”
“No,” Adam cut him off before he could continue his tangent. “What does white mean in your hair?”
In his hair?
“Uh. I uh...I-I don’t know.” He picked at a loose thread on his cuffs. “W-When was it white?”
“Just now. Before you sat down.”
“Oh.”
He couldn’t remember.
(why couldn’t he remember?)
"It...um...I…" His usually unstoppable mouth was failing him. Something was wrong with him. White? His hair was never white! Something was terribly wrong with him. There was something in his head.
(get it out get it out get it out)
"--tlejuice? Beetlejuice!"
"Huh?" There were arms wrapped around him. Someone was rubbing his back in soothing circles. Someone else was running fingers through his hair. Someone was whispering to him--
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(no No NO NO)
He jerked out of the confining (comforting) grasp. He needed to go, to be alone, to get his head together!
But then who would tell him what to do?
he needed to be told what to do
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(No NO NO NO )
What was he supposed to do?
whatever they asked of him
(getitoutgetitoutgetitoutgetitoutgetitout)
OBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEY
"S-Something's in my-"
OBEY
(his head hurt)
He was on the roof.
When did he get on the roof?
"Beej?"
He turned towards the basically-door-to-the-roof window. Lydia was there, with a worried look on her face. (they were all so worried all the time) "H-Hey, Lyds! What's up?" He was fine. He could fake this. He could fake anything.
(his head hurt a lot)
"Beej, what's going on?"
"Wha-hah, what? Nothing!" The look he received could have stripped paint. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Not buyin' it, huh?"
"Not even a little." Lydia sat on the stoop by the chimney, arms crossed. "Talk."
OBEY
"There's something in my head." Who was saying that? He couldn't focus. He couldn't stop. He couldn't-- "I...I can't...I can't not . I can't say no ."
The glare was gone, replaced with worry. No, not worry.
Fear.
Lydia was afraid.
(of him)
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He couldn't stop. "Th-there's someone...whispering...at me. There's something in me and I need to get it out but I can't. I'm not... I'm not allowed."
"'Allowed'? Beej--"
"I-I don't even know I'm doing it! Someone just tells me to do something and I do! I think? I don't remember!"
"Beej--"
"I can't stop, Lyds! It just happens and I come back but my head hurts and it's in me and I don't know what to do! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!"
"BEETLEJUICE, STOP!"
OBEY
There were arms around him. Someone was rubbing his back in soothing circles. Someone else was running their fingers through his hair. A familiar sound of rustling newspaper was coming from his side.
(his head hurt)
He forced his eyes open. It was a lot harder than it should have been. His head was resting against Adam's shoulder (he'd recognize that plaid anywhere). It was Adam's hand tracing patterns on his back. It was Barbara's fingers in his hair. It was Lydia leaning against his legs. Looking around (also hard) he saw Delia reading some book, and Charles messing with something in the kitchen.
(safe)
(together)
(with him)
obey
(nonononono)
He should be running the hell away. He should be killing the guy who did this to him. He should be burning everything to the ground .
But Adam's shoulder was stupidly comfortable, and Lydia's back was warm, and Barbara's fingers hadn't stopped their soothing strokes on his head. (he was so tired)
He didn't want to ruin this. He's ruined so many things, some of them even halfway-decent. He can't let this be one of them. This is good.
(too good for him)
"'m sorry…" He mumbled. The hand on his back paused, startled, but then resumed its comforting circles.
"This is not something you need to apologise for," Adam said firmly. "Nothing about this is your fault."
"That man with the camera crew did this," Barbara added. "This is on him. You're the victim here, Beetlejuice. Not the problem."
Comfort. Validation. Understanding. Acceptance.
(what was he supposed to do with that?)
Charles emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "Now that we know there is a problem, the next step is what do we do from here? Mr. Juice?"
"Uh." Now they were asking his opinion? He's never going to get used to this family. (to being treated like a person) "Jus'...just don't tell me what...what to do. I can't...I can't not . I can't say no." Barbara's fingers tightened in his hair. Oh yeah. They were always going on about 'consent' or whatever. He guessed this was part of that whole thing.
Charles' face was doing the scrunch-frown of considering. "Perhaps phrasing things as requests? 'Would you mind' or 'when you could' and such?"
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He gave a tired shrug. "Sure. I guess."
"Hmm," Charles' face remained scrunched. "Mr. Juice, would you mind handing me that newspaper?"
OBEY
He was standing in front of Charles.
happy to...
(his head hurt)
hadn't he just said not to do that?
Charles had a look of shock on his face as he let the newspaper slip from his hands. "I-I-I'm so sorry! I thought that would be enough of a request, not a command, I-"
Gentle hands were guiding him back to the couch. He was very glad to sit down before his legs gave out. He was so tired.
he had knelt before someone before. never again.
but it felt right
"'Would you mind' is not enough," Delia said shakily.
"No," Charles agreed. "No, it is not. I'm so sorry."
He flapped a hand at the breather. "'S fine…"
Charles shook his head. "It’s not, but thank you. We can test this again later. When you're rested."
Lydia squeezed his leg. "We'll figure this out, Beej," she whispered. "I promise."
(he believed her)
like a fool
His eyes closed.