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Just (a Little Less) Alone

Summary:

A Beetlejuice/Reader slowburn romance. Eventual smut. A LOT of angst. It's been a LONG time since I've written anything worth posting, so I hope what I'm posting is still fun to read. Please let me know what you think in the comments! Kudos are always appreciated! And this is unbetaed so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

Hope you enjoy!

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: A Night Unlike Any Other

Chapter Text

 

Life is wild.

Maybe that was too reductive. By nature, life, in general, was untamed and unpredictable. At times your life in particular felt as wild as those cheesy TV shows about surviving in the jungle against all odds. You’d know, because they watched those shows late at night, all alone, with a can of diet soda to your left and a bag of baked chips to your right. 

 

Those shows blew everything out of proportion. The protagonist was always against the odds and somehow miraculously made it out of whatever harrowing situation they had fallen into. Dramatic music. Slow Motion camera panning over rushing muddy waters. A close up of a snake mid-hiss.The protagonist had been handed a death sentence and triumphed. You brush the chips crumbs from the front of your shirt as the happy ending unfolds on your TV screen. Huzzah, confetti, and a tearful comment about “I Believed in myself too much to die”. Credits. Commercials. Repeat.

You always had an inkling that embellishment was always heavily applied.

The odds were these tourists didn’t listen to the locals warnings because they wanted to take some nature photos for their meager Instagram following. This tourist got themselves lost in the jungle. This would-be-hero probably drank unfiltered river water and was horrendously ill while they tried to figure out the way back to civilization. And if they were lucky enough to be found by local authorities or picked up by some local fishermen then they were already scheming to sell this story to whoever would pay. After embellishing, that is.

A wave of self hate rolls through you slowly. You’re not one to talk. You embellish your own life. 

 

You go to work every damn day as a walking lie. You greet your boss and coworkers with a smile at the restaurant. You encourage others when someone’s looking down, or offer a helping hand. You try to be there for whoever needs you, whenever your needed, because sometimes you just need to be needed. You bring in treats just to get a tiny bit of praise from your coworkers. You scrub and scrub at the dish-pit until your hands are red and raw and stinging. You go out of your way to have a laid back friendly facade. 

 

That facade might as well be made of plaster. It crumbles when someone raises their voice or you receive a reminder that you just aren’t up to snuff with the rest of the world. It stays in place only so long, like your cheap dollar store foundation that makes your skin itchy and irritated, and everyday you make a hasty retreat to your ratty little sanctuary; an apartment on the quieter outskirts of town where your neighbors are all retirees. When you’re home none of the people you’ve worked so hard to convince you’re happy can see the darkness creeping in. The facade can come down when you’re home. It almost makes you laugh. 

 

Almost.

 

You tip your drink and find it annoyingly empty. You’d get up to get another, but that wave of self loathing makes you feel like your legs are made of stone. ‘Why bother’, you think, and your apathy pulls you down deeper.

 

Why bother with anything?

 

This night is the same as every other night you’ve had this week. When that thought flits through your mind, an unwelcome reminder that truly nothing is expected of you, tears spring to your eyes. Hot and intrusive and threatening to spill over at any second, and you fumble for your phone. With blurry eyes you open the voice search, but nothing comes to mind. A small blue icon of a microphone pulses slowly, waiting with patience only machines know, but your thoughts have locked up. You can’t think of a single thing, this time of all times, not to open YouTube or watch stupid Vines or look at pointless pictures of cute cats.

“Help me,” you blurt, throat thick with the effort of holding a breakdown at bay. You don’t even have time to feel foolish, because Google provides a wealth of articles that you don’t particularly want to read. But at the top of the page there’s an automated bubble the search engine provides; ‘Are you alright? Here’s who to call when you’re in crisis’. 

 

You take a deep breath. In through the nose and out through the mouth. It’s a futile attempt to regain what little control you had. 

 

It’s easier to distract yourself if you actually make some sort of effort so you open the first article Google provided. TEN STEPS TO COMBAT THE BLUES shines back at you. Your bitter spirit feels mocked. Anything is better than giving into those hateful tears, however, so you mechanically read through the list.

 

One, drink more water. Two, take vitamin D supplements. Three, consider visiting a therapist.

 

You scoff, your bitter spirit feeling the brief hot flare of validation.

 

Four, take a walk.

 

You pause. A quick look out the window tells you it's quite late. You'd home from your shift after midnight, and you'd been watching trash TV since. No one would be around. Maybe the fresh air would clear your head. A cigarette definitely would.

 

In a few short minutes you've replaced your work boots and and shrugged into your jacket. It was nearing winter with each day and the chill would set into your bones if you weren't careful. As soon as you step out of your apartment you light up that smoke, savoring the burn in your lungs. It grounds you, as does the nip in the air. The condescending self help list had been at least a tiny bit helpful, you suppose.

 

You wander your neighborhood aimlessly as you clear your head. The crime rate is low but you keep your keys in your fist none-the-less; a single person walking alone at night could never be too careful. All in all you figure you're more spooky to others than they would be to you this late at night. How late was it again?

You dig your phone from your coat pocket; nearly three in the morning. 

 

When you look back up from the bright blue screen you're met with the cemetery gates. It had been quite a while since you'd had the misfortune to walk through here. 

 

The wind makes the old metal gate creak open. Your gut instantly tells you 'Oh Hell No'. 

 

You ignore it.

 

Wandering into a cemetery should be by all rights be spooky. They were full of the dead. But if you ignored the obvious it was just a park...full of the dead. But it was quiet. It was peaceful. 

 

Despite the occupants it was private.

You fished another cigarette from the pack, your lighter following suit. A click and a spark, followed by another and another. Without anyone to witness your lack of self control you growled at the inanimate object, slapping it in your palm as though that would give it some sort of jump start. Another click, but this time…

 

A breeze brought the scent of freshly turned soil to you. You froze in place. Your fight or flight instincts were on the verge of kicking in, but before you could settle on one or the other a figure stepped from between the slanted headstones. The figure that was tall and wearing dirty rumpled clothes with wild electric green hair that stood on end. And you don’t know if it’s shock that holds you in place or if this person just appears before you but you take a hasty step away, which ends with you tumbling onto your ass, cigarette and lighter abandoned on the frosted grass.

 

“Ohohoho, what’s all this about?” His voice might as well be a gravel country road. He’s staring at you with eyes wide with intrigue. “Can you see me, flesh-sack?” 

 

You frown up at him as your mind tries to map the easiest escape route back home. Before you manage a response he’s crouching in front of you. He plucks the cigarette from the ground and places it in your mouth which refuses to close. Now that he’s closer the stench clinging to him assaults you fully; damp soil, rotting leaves, perhaps a hint of dumpster or something even more foul. You can also see him more clearly. His clothes are threadbare in places, moldy in others, and...strange. A suit made of wide black and white stripes, a tattered tie that’s still tucked neatly beside an equally tattered dress shirt. Your eyes take as much of this man in as quickly as possible, and when they get back to his face-- His deathly pale white face-- He’s wearing a lopsided grin.

 

“You can,” he affirms with something akin to wonder in his voice. With a snap of his fingers a flame flickers into existence. You aren’t sure why that doesn’t make you panic (it definitely should), but you take the light without taking your eyes off of this stranger. The tiny flame reveals deep set bruises under his eyes, a green beard to match the wild tresses up top, and-- Oh lord, what the hell was sticking to his face? 

 

“Am I not supposed to?” Your voice didn’t waver half as much as it wanted it to, which interrupted your fear with pride for only an instant. Inhale the fire, exhale the smoke. He looks oddly pleased once the end of your cigarette flares bright orange. A quick flick of his wrist and the flame dancing over his fingers vanishes in a puff of purple smoke.

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

The two of you just stare for a few moments. Neither party seemed sure how to proceed and the growing tension was going to give you heart palpitations. Thankfully the stranger broke first. His hand wrapped around your wrist before you could startle away and he was hauling you to your feet. Shit, his hands were as cold as ice, and that was the last thought that registered before he announced “Unless you’ve got a habit of seeing dead guys.”

 

"You're not dead," you shoot back the denial immediately, waving a hand as though that would somehow make your proclamation true. "You're standing right in front of me."

 

" 'Fraid not, doll." He grinned back at you before striking a pose, both hands extended with a jazzy wiggle. "You're looking at the ghost with the most, the one and only! Hey, hey, slow down Tootse," You had taken a startled step back and he'd followed with dirty palms held aloft in a placating gesture. It didn't stop your retreat. "Just look at the opportunity you've found! You see dead people, that could make you a fortune if you play your cards right!"

 

"I don't want a fortune!" You nearly shout the reply back at him. You slip and stumble your way backwards with wide eyes refusing to leave his. In your high-school days you'd had a tendency to mess around with tarot cards and Ouija boards with your tiny friend group like outcast kids tended to do, but you'd never actually encountered anything...real. This, however, was undeniably real and it terrified you to your core. 

 

He hadn't stopped following you, expression manic. "You could be famous! You could be the next--"

 

"And I d-don't want fame!"

 

Your back slammed hard into something hard and cold. A quick glance and you were met with the grimy marble walls of a mausoleum. You had only averted your gaze for a moment but he was practically pressed chest to chest when you turned back. Your breath hitched, a lump of fear lodging itself in your throat.

 

"Then what do you want?" His voice had dropped to a low growl. You could feel tears stinging your eyes. This was the last time you'd ever take advice from some stupid article on the internet. Hell, this might be the last time you'd do anything. You didn't know this man's intentions. Eyes burning and heart racing, you try to blink your tears away. Fuck it, what was the use of lying about anything if you were about to be murdered?

 

“To not be alone.”

 

Your quiet reply hangs in the silence. Oh fuck, his eyes haven’t left you for a second and you’re going to cry, this was so humiliating, admitting to this stranger that you were just some lonely sap and you were probably about to die so--

 

“I can fix that," the ghost growls in response, eyes half-lidded and and a suggestive waggle to his eyebrows.

 

You pause a beat. You're mind process 'Oh, I think fucking not,' before he's stepping closer.

 

You shake your head, terrified of what’s coming, but those icy fingers grip your chin. “You’ve just gotta say my name, babe, and I can make sure you’re never alone.”

 

You shove him away and, surprisingly, he gives you the space you are demanding. It surprises you, too, mostly because you were sure this creep was about to do something unspeakable. “N-Not like that,” you stutter out through chattering teeth. Was it the fear or the bitter cold that made you shiver? Did it matter? The stranger-- Ghost?-- leers at you with that lopsided grin that’s becoming familiar.

 

“Not like what? You mean you don’t want a p--”

 

“No, I don’t!” you interrupt, on the verge of shouting, hands trembling and balled into fists. He looks you up and down and a chill runs down your spine. It felt as though you were being read like a book; there were no secrets you could possibly keep from whoever this entity was.

 

“Not sex, then.” He shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his tattered over coat. “Your loss. But,” he holds up a finger before you can protest, “You’re lonely and it just so happens I’ve been looking for a new roommate.”

 

“What for? You’re dead.” You supply that fact and bite your own tongue in embarrassment. Of course he’s dead, that’s been a well established fact for several minutes. You’re brain is about to launch into a diatribe about why, exactly, you suck when the specter grabs your attention again.

 

“Look, dollface, this crowd?” He gestures widely to the graveyard the two of you are standing in. “Dull. Boring. If I wasn’t already dead they’d kill me with boredom. I need some excitement, a change of scenery if you will...all you’ve gotta do is say my name, and,” He snaps his fingers, a little poof of purple smoke materializing like magic, “Ta-da! Instant roommate!”

 

This seems like the worst possible idea anyone could ever have. 

 

Your instincts were screaming to run and this time you didn't ignore them. You bolted away and ran faster than you could remember, lungs burning with effort. You didn't look back until you reached your apparent door, and you were…

 

Alone.

 

You eager gulped down the freezing air, numb fingers fumbling for your keys, before you managed to unlock your front door and stumble inside. With the deadbolt slammed shut your legs finally gave up. You sat in a rumpled heap on the floor, your mind racing, before it too gave up and you passed out slumped against your front door.


 

Three weeks have passed since you met a dead guy and your life is...changing. You have just finished up your shift. You worked as a line cook, but what kept you out so late was the baking. The kitchen was small with only one oven, and your boss always paid you extra to stay late and get all the pastries made that you could for the next day's service. You didn't mind the silence, but you did mind the long walk home now that winter was setting in. 

 

And your walk home brought you past the graveyard.

 

Every night he’d be casually leaning against the fence, or floating on air as if there was some invisible chaise lounger beneath him; ankles crossed and hands tucked behind his head. Once or twice you were greeted only by his head sitting on the low flagstone fence. That earned a startled scream from you the first night, but the second time it happened you punted his disembodied head like a soccer ball. He didn’t try that prank again.

 

He’d greet you the same, head kicking or no, every night on your way home from work.

 

 “Hey there hot stuff, have you reconsidered my offer?”

 

To which you’d diligently reply, “Not a snowball's chance, fella.” 

 

He’d shrug and maybe give you a half heated glare before launching into whatever had occupied his time today. You’d started the habit of having a smoke and chatting with him each night, and although his stories were always (worryingly) entertaining you gave him the same responses; “Mine was fine, how was yours?” You can't bring yourself to actually share. How pitiful would that be? The only person you feel comfortable talking to was a ghost who’s pass time was hassling the living. But you didn’t feel the expectation to share, or lie, or even pretend that you had the energy to participate and that felt...nice. The ghost would prattle on and crack jokes and trying to make you laugh while you burned through your cigarette in silence. To be honest, the specter just seemed happy to have the company. 

 

You could relate.

 

Eventually you’d smoke your cigarette to the filter (you told yourself it was wasteful not to when you knew deep down it because you were having a good time), toss the extinguished butt into one of the empty stonework vases that framed either side of the cemetery gateway, and wish your dead guy acquaintance a “Good night.” 

 

Without fail he’d see you off with “Don’t forget about my offer, babe!”

 

And then you’d walk home to an empty apartment. You’d sigh as you hang your coat on the cheap plastic hook you’d gotten at the dollar store. You’d sigh as you changed into your more comfortable sweats and baggy T-shirt. You’d sigh as you sat down in front of the TV with snacks. You’d sigh as your routine fell right back into place and the darkness crept in.

 

You’d sigh because you were alone and you were starting to actually consider his stupid offer.