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There was no way in hell he would admit it, but Beetlejuice did in fact dream when he slept. Sometimes those dreams were exactly what you’d expect from a dirty old guy who never seemed to slow down.
But every now and again, he’d have the kind of dream that made him blush.
It started happening more and more often once Lydia entered his life, once he had someone else to star in these dreams with him. Their days pulling pranks on everyone—including each other—were some of the best of his afterlife. But in his dreams, they would end those days together, side by side in a double wide coffin. He and his babes, cuddled up tight, a scrappy little cat at their feet keeping the bugs out for her sake. They’d sleep soundly and wake up refreshed, sometimes he’d even get up a little early to surprise her. She liked coffee in the morning, with a splash of cream, no sugar, so he’d make a pot for the two of them to split, the cat winding in and out around his legs while he waited.
The dreams were tame. Some would even call them boring. Babes curled up in an oversized chair, blanket over those lily-white legs because who wears pants at home when there’s nowhere to go? She reads books on photography or flips through her philosophy books that he’s taken the liberty of annotating for her. It makes her laugh and he does love making her laugh. She’s got all these cute mugs with pumpkins and ghosts, but her favorite one is just black and white striped, and he brings it to her full to the brim with that coffee she loves. She smiles and kisses him on the cheek and scooches over in the chair to make room for him.
Sometimes they go topside in the dreams, and even then it was disgustingly homey. The Maitlands had them over for dinner or they headed for the lake with their kids (their kids! KidS! He dreamt about kids. Multiple.) and make the tiny demons laugh with pranks on all the unsuspecting Breathers. She wore a black hat with a comically huge brim, sunglasses that nearly ate up her face, and an old-school bikini with a high waist. He, of course, wore briefs that embarrassed the kids but kept her staring his way, running her fingers over his belly and his chest while they watched the littles splash at the shore.
It was embarrassing, how all he needed for his dream to come true was a little more confidence. Just the balls to tell her to stay the night. She’d do it. She fell asleep watching the neitherworld TV sometimes, and he would gently nudge her awake and she’d snuggle into his side instead of getting up. He made sure she went home, eventually. Not that he cared if she ever got back to Life, but she cared and that was enough. So he made sure.
He wondered if she ever dreamed about him. He wondered if she kept him by her side while she slept. Did she want to live in the Roadhouse and did she think about their marriage the way most Breathers did, or was it a poorly conceived joke to her? Did she ever wake up panting and needing him after dark? If he appeared at night, held one hand over her mouth while he let the other roam, how would she react? When she curled up against him, if he let his hand fall a little bit lower, curve over her ass instead of resting on her side, would she push him away?
If he admitted the places they went and the names he had picked out for their spawn, would she laugh at him? Or would she argue over where they’d spend holidays and beg him to reconsider naming them all “BJ Jr.”?
He’d tell her. He had to tell her. Tomorrow. After one more night of dreams.