[MAY 2] [Beetlejuice] Used to Be
Title: Used to Be
Day/Theme: the eyes and hands and curiosity of a lifelong bandit
Series: Beetlejuice
Character/Pairing: Beetlejuice/Lydia
Rating: PG
There were times she couldn’t help but wonder what he had been in life. It was the only thing he wouldn’t talk about, which she thought was odd since he was so anxious for any loophole that could get him back with the living again. He would tell her all kinds of lurid things about his afterlife, but always changed the subject or cracked a dirty joke as soon as she asked anything about what he had been when he was alive.
She tried to guess, piecing together clues from what he had told her. The trouble was she didn’t know how seriously to take him. He mentioned living through the Black Plague which would mean he was hundred of years old, if it was true. The only outside information she had on him came from the Maitlands who told her that Juno had said he used to work for her. From what Lydia knew of how that worked, that meant that Beetlejuice had probably committed suicide to have landed in the afterlife civil service.
She couldn’t imagine it. Dead as he might have been, she knew plenty of living, breathing people without a fraction of his fire for life. He wanted back to life so badly that it didn’t seem possible that he would have killed himself. His crazy eyes burned with it. Her gut told her that whatever was driving him was more than just guilt or regret. Something had happened. Something he wouldn’t tell her. Something nobody would talk about.
So, she watched him and took note of the wicked, clever fingers that made her think he had always been a conman, or a juggler, or a thief. She kept an eye out for scars on his wrists, or any whiff of almond or hemlock on his breath. (It could only be an improvement.) She wondered if the way he popped his neck when annoyed meant that he had hung himself. Was it possible that he stayed so filthy because he couldn’t bear water after drowning himself?
Did it mean anything, she wondered, that the only time he had ever really be serious with her was when she had said she wanted to be dead? She remembered the quiet way he had asked her “Why?” just one word with all the disbelief and unease of someone who had wanted more than anything to live. He had changed the subject then too. He hadn’t argued, but he had derailed her.
Whatever the truth was, he couldn't bear it. Whether that meant he had thrown his own life away or been forced to take it by something too awful for even him to talk about, she didn’t know. Not yet, anyway.
Day/Theme: the eyes and hands and curiosity of a lifelong bandit
Series: Beetlejuice
Character/Pairing: Beetlejuice/Lydia
Rating: PG
There were times she couldn’t help but wonder what he had been in life. It was the only thing he wouldn’t talk about, which she thought was odd since he was so anxious for any loophole that could get him back with the living again. He would tell her all kinds of lurid things about his afterlife, but always changed the subject or cracked a dirty joke as soon as she asked anything about what he had been when he was alive.
She tried to guess, piecing together clues from what he had told her. The trouble was she didn’t know how seriously to take him. He mentioned living through the Black Plague which would mean he was hundred of years old, if it was true. The only outside information she had on him came from the Maitlands who told her that Juno had said he used to work for her. From what Lydia knew of how that worked, that meant that Beetlejuice had probably committed suicide to have landed in the afterlife civil service.
She couldn’t imagine it. Dead as he might have been, she knew plenty of living, breathing people without a fraction of his fire for life. He wanted back to life so badly that it didn’t seem possible that he would have killed himself. His crazy eyes burned with it. Her gut told her that whatever was driving him was more than just guilt or regret. Something had happened. Something he wouldn’t tell her. Something nobody would talk about.
So, she watched him and took note of the wicked, clever fingers that made her think he had always been a conman, or a juggler, or a thief. She kept an eye out for scars on his wrists, or any whiff of almond or hemlock on his breath. (It could only be an improvement.) She wondered if the way he popped his neck when annoyed meant that he had hung himself. Was it possible that he stayed so filthy because he couldn’t bear water after drowning himself?
Did it mean anything, she wondered, that the only time he had ever really be serious with her was when she had said she wanted to be dead? She remembered the quiet way he had asked her “Why?” just one word with all the disbelief and unease of someone who had wanted more than anything to live. He had changed the subject then too. He hadn’t argued, but he had derailed her.
Whatever the truth was, he couldn't bear it. Whether that meant he had thrown his own life away or been forced to take it by something too awful for even him to talk about, she didn’t know. Not yet, anyway.