Work Text:
Lydia stabbed down the bad art, just as she’d planned. She hadn’t planned on how difficult it would be. In the movies, stabbing someone seemed about as hard as slicing into an apple, or maybe a watermelon with a particularly thick rind.
It wasn’t like that.
She had to put her whole weight into it, everything she had. She could feel the metal shaft slide through meat and scrape bone. The sound was… horrible. A wet, popping, squelch. And the way Beetlejuice screamed as she shoved the improvised weapon through him was even more horrible. It wasn’t a beautiful sound. It was ugly. It reached in through her ears and scratched her soul raw. She’d never heard a scream like it, except… except she had, because this had all happened months ago. Yet here she was again, in her scarlet wedding dress with the smell of blood in her nose. Here she was again, but it was different this time.
“You stabbed him!” Delia’s voice was shrill. A tea kettle shriek.
“With bad art!” Adam sounded accusatory, as if her choice of weapon was somehow an insult to everyone, not just her victim.
Beetlejuice didn’t stagger upright and make a quip about how this felt meaningful. He just lay there under her, wheezing, then turned his head to look up with those huge amber eyes full of confusion. Frothy blood spilled out of his mouth, adding to the growing puddle on the floor. “It hurts,” he said. His voice was so small. “I thought… we were pals. Lyds… it hurts.”
She let go of the bad art and staggered back. The top-heavy sculpture tipped over. The leverage forced Beetlejuice onto his side, arm twisted under him, legs an awkward tangle. It gave her an unimpeded view of his face, smeared with blood and betrayal as the light left his eyes. They looked like glass.
Delia again, almost sobbing: “I don’t understand. You brought him to life just so you could kill him?”
Her mouth moved and she heard herself say, “Exactly.” Yes, that was all part of the plan. Now he would be recently deceased and they could send him to the Netherworld.
To Juno, a little voice in her mind added. To his mother. She’ll rip what’s left of him apart.
No she won’t. He’ll ride in on a sandworm and rip her apart instead.
Except… he didn’t get up. He just lay there.
“Beetlejuice?” she said, and went to him. No movement, not a single twitch. She nudged him with her foot. Still nothing.
“Beetlejuice?” Heart hammering, she crouched and shook his shoulder. It felt like touching a stage prop, a CPR dummy or something. His body was still warm though. The blood that soaked into the hem of her dress was warm too. It smelled like iron and made her teeth ache. But he didn’t move. His eyes were still like glass.
“Beetlejuice!” This time she shouted it. Then she shouted it again. “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice Beetlejuice!” Three times in a row, spoken unbroken. She’d done it, just like he said. Now he would get up. Maybe another repetition? He’d told her things done in threes had more power. Three repetitions of three would have three times as much power, right?
“Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!”
Nothing.
There was nothing.
He was dead and gone. Just like her mother was dead and gone. His body was getting cold, just like Emily Deetz's had been in that coffin. His bright eyes were dull and empty, just like Emily's eyes had become when life left her.
The smell of blood was getting stronger. It was all over her. It coated her hands up to the elbows like gloves. Her dress wasn’t just red, it was made from blood. Her hair dripped with it. She could taste it in her mouth and she gagged.
A hand settled on her shoulder, an achingly familiar hand, small and feminine. A woman’s voice in her ear, breath scented like funeral roses and tinged with sorrow. “Oh pumpkin, you killed your best friend. Why didn’t you find another way?”
Then the hand shoved her hard in the back and Lydia was falling forward into the pool of his lukewarm blood, where she began to drown.
Lydia sat up in bed, sucking in air and strangling any screams that might escape. Her face was wet and sticky, and for a panicked second she thought it was blood, but then realized it felt different. Whether the dampness was tears or nightmare sweat, she didn’t know and didn’t care. The salt stung her eyes and chapped lips, but she ignored the burn. It was better than blood.
Scrubbing at her cheeks with the blanket, she took several long, deep breaths. That helped center her, calming the painful beating of her heart, but it didn’t stop the other pain.
Throwing off the covers, she rolled out of bed and onto her feet. Her hands scrabbled at the door until she managed to turn the knob, then flung it open. Everything was still, quiet except for the soft creaks of an old house settling, the only illumination a dim star-shaped nightlight in the bathroom. She didn’t need the light though, the room she wanted was right next to hers.
Normally, she would knock, but not tonight. She needed to see him, right now. Her hand went to the knob, but she couldn’t open the door. Heart thudding in her ears, breath coming faster, she tried again. Was she still in a dream? Why couldn’t she get in? What was wrong—
The door opened just as she was about to crumble to her knees. Beetlejuice blinked down at her, confusion visible even in the faint glow from the night light.
Huge amber eyes filled with confusion, pale skin smeared with very human blood.
Swallowing back the pain, she leaned in and rested her forehead against his chest. Immediately, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. “Hey,” he said, gravely voice gentle as he could make it. “What’s the matter? Bad dream?”
“Yeah,” she croaked, her voice as rough as his. “You… died.”
Pressed against him, she felt his chuckle as much as heard it. “I’m dead already, remember?” She just shook her head, unable to tell him more than that. He stroked her sweat damp hair. “Not even a smile? Must’ve been a really bad dream. Come on, Scarecrow.”
Before she could utter a protest, he’d picked her up and carried her to the bed. Plopping her down, he snapped his fingers and the ceiling and walls were suddenly transformed into a starry sky. The sheer beauty of it distracted her from her misery and she stared in wide-eyed wonder as a comet zoomed by. She bounced as he landed next to her, his suit transformed into a pair of striped pajama pants and a shirt with a glow-in-the-dark sandworm ouroboros.
“Now,” he said, “I don’t know much about slumber parties, but I do know this is a requirement.” Two bowls of ice cream appeared in his outspread hands. He handed her one, and she finally managed a small smile. He beamed at the sight. “There she is.”
They leaned back against the pile of pillows, and he manifested a third arm so he could wrap it around her shoulders and still eat his ice cream. That got another, bigger smile, and she leaned in against him. His skin wasn’t exactly warm, but he wasn’t cold like a corpse. He didn’t breathe except when he talked, but she could feel when he shifted his position or took a bite of ice cream. There was no heartbeat under where she rested her head, but she could feel the pulse of what she knew was the store of magic he kept tucked under his skin. Beetlejuice wasn’t alive like a human was, but he certainly wasn’t dead, no matter what he joked. “Thank you, Beej.”
“Hey, any time,” he said. “Next time, just call me, and I’ll be right there.”
“Promise?” Her voice was small.
He squeezed her shoulders, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “Promise. Promise. Promise.”