Work Text:
Beetlejuice stepped into the clearing and threw his arms wide. “Ah, dining al fresco!” He breathed deeply, went into a coughing fit, hacked up a lung, pushed it back down and wheezed, “Just smell that Neitherwoods air.”
“Al Fresco? Sounds like an Italian gangster from the 40’s.” Lydia chuckled at her own joke as she followed him into the small area of grass and weed. She carefully spread out the red plaid blanket she carried and motioned for Beetlejuice to hand her the picnic basket. “You did say you liked deviled eggs, right? And I brought enough sandwiches even for you.”
“Hah, don’t bet on it! All this fresh air – well, all this air makes me hungry.” He had provided the macagroany salad and phlegmonade. “What’s in those?” He pointed to the plate of sandwiches she’d just laid out.
“What does it look like?”
He picked up one of the sandwiches, inspected it and sniffed at it, then put it back. “Well, it’s sort of grayish-brown and flat. Not that that’s a bad thing.”
“Haven’t you ever had baloney?”
“Um, no?” He plopped down on the blanket himself and began to remove plastic containers from the basket. “What exactly is it?”
“It’s something you ought to like. Can you guess what’s in it?” Lydia pulled out some plastic utensils and paper napkins.
“It’s the ground-up knees of the dreaded Tahitian balone.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Lydia laughed. “It’s the ground-up bits of pig that don’t usually get used, like noses and ears and tails. Doesn’t that sound yummy?” She offered the plate of sandwiches to him.
He took three of them, grinning. “Ground-up gristle and fat – you know I love it!”
Lydia spooned some macagroany salad onto paper plates and passed one over. “BJ, can I ask you something? Something that might be kind of personal?”
“You know you can ask me anything.” He fiddled with a plastic spoon, then set it down. “Even personal stuff.”
She looked down for a moment, then back up at him and said, “Why do you pretend to be . . . well, not very bright sometimes? I don’t mean just now; that was to make me laugh. But sometimes, you do . . . act like you’re kind of stupid or . . . or ignorant. But I know you’re not, so is it just to get everyone to underestimate you?”
“Yeah, I do that sometimes. Don’t even realize it half the time.” He frowned and made a show of examining the container of deviled eggs. “I guess that’s why, to get an edge. And . . . maybe some other stuff, too.”
“Is this too personal, Beej? I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“Nah, it’s okay. It’s just sort of pathetic.” He shrugged. “Basically, it’s a defense mechanism. When people are laughing at your jokes, or at you pretending to be stupid, then they aren’t laughing at you, the person. You deflect it away from yourself. Besides, it’s fun, fooling them, so that you’re the one that’s laughing at them instead. It’s not like I’m a genius anyway and I can just . . . you know, turn the thinking off.”
“Oh, come on. You might not be a genius, but you’re actually pretty smart. And you’re always thinking, about making money, about food, about pranks, about --”
“You,” he said matter-of-factly. “But, babes, acting dumb’s just a habit now. I don’t mean to be doing it with you.” He picked at a baloney sandwich, pulling the lunch meat out of the bread. “If it bothers you, I’ll try not to.” He looked quizzically at the baloney he held.
Lydia squinted at him. “Well . . . it doesn’t exactly bother me. But it’s the real you that’s my best friend. Beej, please, just be yourself, okay?”
“Okay,” he said through a mouthful of balone knees.
ooooo
Lydia had planned a picnic for May 1st to celebrate Beltane and suggested the Neitherwoods because of the birds. She already had photos of a boo jay and of a magpipe, which emits an unusual droning wheeze. But she had hoped to catch sight of a red-tailed hock, whose distinctive call is hock-patooie, and she particularly wanted to get a photo of the ruffled grouch. She’d only once heard one in the underbrush grumbling its usual “frikken-frakken grikken-grakken”.
After she’d moved all the leftovers to the side of the blanket and wiped her hands clean, Lydia took out her camera bag, checked her film supply, and did a couple of light tests. She thought she might have heard a grouch complaining nearby, but she couldn’t see any sign of it. Then she sat and surveyed her best friend.
Beetlejuice had eaten his way to somnolence and fallen backward onto the blanket several minutes earlier. He was just starting to think about another deviled egg or two when he was startled by a light pressure on his mouth. His brain immediately seized up and his heart stuttered madly between fainting and trying to explode; fortunately, his lips managed to ignore them both and gratefully accept what Lydia was offering.
After she pulled back up, Lydia cleared her throat and said, “So, that was my first kiss.” She looked at him shyly. “I mean, the first real one. The first one not . . . just friends. Was it . . . all right?”
“Was it all right? Babes, you just . . . kissed me. I mean, different.” He sat up and stared at her. He took a deep breath, took another, and added, “I mean, I know we’ve been kissing hello and goodbye. On the cheek. But . . .” He pulled at a loose thread in the blanket and tried to shrug nonchalantly. “I’ve been kissing the top of your head when we watch movies.” He risked a glance to see her reaction.
“I know,” she confessed. “I can see you reflected in the TV sometimes. I kissed your forehead once while you were asleep. And that one time I got your neck, but that was because you moved at the last second; I was aiming for your ear. Your ears are so adorable.” She gazed at them with yearning eyes, then stretched to kiss the pointed tip of the one closest to her.
He shivered. “Nobody . . . nobody’s ever done that before. You have no idea what that feels like.”
She took another peek at his ear, then edged closer to him, looking diffident but determined. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to try again. With the kiss, I mean. I think I could do better with practice.” She leaned toward him and fluttered her eyelashes a little.
Beetlejuice took her by the shoulders. “Lydia. Do you know how many times I’ve said ‘anything for you, Lyds’? And I’ve meant it every time. But are you sure about this? You’re only seventeen. There’s plenty of time, you know.”
“Seventeen and a half,” she answered. “And yes, I’m sure.”
“I mean, is this something that you want to do now? Instead of waiting for a while.”
“Yes,” she replied seriously. “I want to do this now.” When he still hesitated, she added, “BJ, you know the old saying, ‘sweet sixteen and never been kissed’? Well, I don’t want to be eighteen and saying the same thing.”
“Okay then.” He took a breath, tamping down his own agitation and nerves, and settled himself. Trying to project an air of confidence, he cupped the back of her head with one hand and put the other lightly around her waist. “Relax a little; remember it’s just me. See now, your neck’s all tight, and your jaw. Take it easy, babes, relax. It’s just me.”
He slid his arm up her back, caressing it, noting the tension in her muscles. “Lyds,” he murmured. “Lydia.” He closed the gap between them until their noses almost touched, then glanced to his left and spoke. “Look, a grouch!”
She darted a quick look to the side and he swooped at that instant to fasten his lips on hers while she was off-guard and less tense. He nearly lost himself in the bliss and wonder of her lips against his, but fought to remember his responsibility to her and made the kiss tender but firm, giving it only a measured amount of his passion and his devotion, and ending it much sooner than he wanted to.
“So,” he leaned his forehead to hers, “was that . . . um, you seemed to . . . ”
“Oh,” she breathed. “Why haven’t we done that before?”
Beetlejuice looked at her with a pleased smile and loosened his hold. “Did you want to do this before? Why didn’t you say anything? Why ambush me like that?”
“Because . . . probably, because I wasn’t sure you wanted to and this way, you’d sort of . . . have to.” Lydia twisted her fingers in his shirt front.
“Not want to? Not want to!”
“Well, how could I tell?” She rested a hand on his chest. “You’re being so careful with me, with us. Taking everything so slow.” She sat back suddenly. “Oh! Unless you’re not ready? I mean, to . . . to kiss like this. It’s totally fine if you’re not. Really. I don’t want to push you into something where you’re uncomfortable because you think I’m too young or you –”
“C’mere.” He cradled her face in his hands and looked at her. “You have no idea how long I’ve . . . wanted to kiss you . . . imagined kissing you . . . dreamed of kissing you. I’ve even –” he broke off, looking embarrassed.
“What?” She tilted her face up to his. “Please tell me.”
He sighed. “I’ve . . . kissed the mirror, pretending you could feel it. It’s so humiliating!”
“I think it’s touching, and sweet, and . . . romantic.”
He rolled his eyes at that, then sighed again, this time in resigned determination. “Lyds, you should have some idea of how I feel about you.” He gazed at her, as serious as he’d ever been. “Don’t you? You know how . . . hard it is for me to say stuff like . . . you know. About how much I . . .” He started to hyperventilate. “You’re everything to me. I need you. And I . . . have to tell you . . . that . . .” He gulped and tore at his hair. “I can’t . . . you don’t . . . Lydia!”
“Beej, don’t.” She grasped his shirtfront with both hands. “Yes, I do know. You don’t have to say it.”
“But I should!”
She pulled his hands from his hair and held them between her own. “I love you, Beetlejuice. And I do know you love me. You say it every day, when you help me with my photography or my homework, when you look at me, when you let me pick the movie, when you take care of me and smile at me and make me laugh. You told me when you kissed me like that. I know you love me, and you know I love you, even more.”
“Not possible,” he whispered, staring into her eyes.
She smiled at him. “See, you just told me again,” and kissed him.
He held her close, heart to heart, and his heart spoke to hers and they both knew what it said.
Meanwhile, a grouch strutted out of the underbrush and ate all the leftovers, completely unobserved.