MARGARET
By: CindyR
Peter Venkman stood at the large picture window in the second floor lab, leaning forward on one bent arm so he could see out into the busy street. From this vantage one could watch in safe anonymity as people of every type and description scurried about their everyday lives, their passage a fascinating drama to one who cared to look. Today, for example, amid a typical slice of humanity, a woman stood out in the crowd, short and dark skinned, she gesticulated wildly with both arms, herding four children along, the oldest barely six. The youngsters huddled together, watching the woman warily, flinching every time she raised a flattened hand.
Directly to their rear, another woman moved in perfect contrast to the first. Tall and nordic blonde, her confident stride parted the crowd as Moses had parted the Red Sea, her athletic figure and expensive silk suit drawing no few appreciative glances as she passed. Skirting the screaming children with a little moue of distaste, she achieved the curb with a little skip and stepped into the yellow cab that waited there, beating out the elderly couple who had hailed it by nearly three steps. The cabbie waved an apology and pulled out into traffic, leaving the cursing old man and woman behind in a puff of blue smoke.
Peter watched them as he'd watched countless others over the years since he and his teammates had moved into the firehouse headquarters. He'd early accepted that his own interests were inexorably tied up with that of humanity itself. That conceded, his career choice had hinged only on whether he would go to college and become a psychologist or follow his father's less than honorable but just as people oriented vocation. It had been his mother's influence that had decided him. Today Peter Venkman held two doctorates, and was acclaimed a respected researcher the world over.
Thick glass muted the noise of the city without, muffling its normal angry roar into a dull growl like that of a living being. An urban dweller all his life, Peter tuned out the background noise as a matter of course and was thus alerted to another's approach by the thud of heavy boots on hard wood.
"He's here, Peter."
The voice was soft and laden with a gentle sympathy so characteristic that even had he not known the voice as well as his own, Peter would have recognized the owner without hesitation. He nodded without turning around. "I heard the buzzer." He jerked his head, beckoning the younger man closer. "Ever people watch, Ray? It's kind of like owning one of those ant farms you and Egon go on about but so much more. Take Mindy, for example."
The sturdy wood creaked again as Ray Stantz moved nearer, taking up a position just behind Venkman's right shoulder. He leaned forward, large brown eyes skimming the crowds. "Which one is Mindy? The pretty redhead?"
"Nah. Bag lady with the gray hair." He tapped the pane with his thumbnail toward the northernmost side, indicating an elderly woman in several layers of colored clothing, thrusting a laden shopping cart ahead of her. "She passes this way every day about this time pushing the same old belongings in the same old shopping cart. I always wondered where she was going with that thing and if she'll ever get there."
"She doesn't have any where to get to, Peter." Ray followed the woman's progress until she disappeared into one of the myriad side alleys that adorned that side of the street. There was compassion in his gently rounded features, eyes full of pity. "And she won't take money, either. I don't know where she sleeps."
Peter turned his head at that, giving his younger teammate an amused glance. "Now, how could you possibly know that?" he wondered aloud, smiling slightly when Stantz blushed.
"All right, so I saw her go by a couple of times," he defended himself, automatically defensive. He stopped at the impish glint in Venkman's green eyes, his own features breaking out into a grin. "And how did you know her name was Mindy?"
Caught out, Peter cleared his throat. "So, I'm a sucker for old ladies, too. Sue me." But his friend's grin was infectious and Peter returned it as a brief flash of very white teeth before all humor faded away. "Always was a sucker for lonely old ladies," he added in a quiet voice.
"Peter...." Ray touched the other man's shoulder, clenching it tight. "Peter, I...." He broke off when Peter shook his head.
"Don't say it, kid." All impish humor of the past moment was gone now, replaced by a gruffness often donned to hide vulnerability. "I know you're sorry. Everybody's sorry. So am I." Peter straightened, turning slowly, even as Stantz withdrew a step and allowed his arm to drop to his side. A muscle leaped in Peter's lean jaw, the glitter in the exotically shaped eyes only a reflection of the filtered sunlight from beyond the glass. "I'm all right, Ray. The hardest part is going to be telling him what happened. I ..." He slapped his own breastbone lightly. "... am fine. A fact I find more than a bit surprising."
Ray studied him frankly and with more openness than was customary for the shy man, but loving concern pushed many men past what was customary. "It still hurts, though," he said at last, finishing his examination by meeting Peter's returned gaze. He hesitated then moved near, again grasping the other man's lean shoulder in a tight, supportive grip. "I know how that is. If there's anything I can do...?"
Peter twined his own arm under then over Ray's until he could similarly touch his comrade in a reciprocal gesture. "Just be you," he said with gentle affection. "That's all I need right now." He waited for the younger man to return his smile, then took a deep breath and stepped back and away. "My hair look okay?" he asked, running his fingers through the thick dark locks once.
Stantz looked again, not with concern but critically. "Not a one out of place. But you have grease on your jeans."
Peter wet his thumb then rubbed at the large spot on the denim, handsome face twisting with annoyance. "Blast. I must have brushed against the work bench. I don't know who took Ecto's fuel pump apart...."
"Uh, that was me." Ray indicated the stains on his sand colored coverall with a mildly embarrassed air. "I thought I might be able to increase the fuel efficiency if I...."
Peter clapped him on the back, cutting him off before the younger man could launch one of his lengthy apologetic explanations. "No problem-o. But you have laundry detail this week."
"Deal." Ray flashed him a tiny smile that immediately faded. "Your father is waiting," he prodded gently. "Do you ... would you like me to come with you?"
Peter braced his shoulders and turned determinedly for the door. "I can handle it." He paused to ruffle his friend's auburn hair en route. "Thanks anyway, kid, but sometimes it's not doing the job -- it's finding the right words."
"There aren't any right words," Ray whispered, but he was talking to himself, for Peter Venkman was gone.
***
By: CindyR
Peter Venkman stood at the large picture window in the second floor lab, leaning forward on one bent arm so he could see out into the busy street. From this vantage one could watch in safe anonymity as people of every type and description scurried about their everyday lives, their passage a fascinating drama to one who cared to look. Today, for example, amid a typical slice of humanity, a woman stood out in the crowd, short and dark skinned, she gesticulated wildly with both arms, herding four children along, the oldest barely six. The youngsters huddled together, watching the woman warily, flinching every time she raised a flattened hand.
Directly to their rear, another woman moved in perfect contrast to the first. Tall and nordic blonde, her confident stride parted the crowd as Moses had parted the Red Sea, her athletic figure and expensive silk suit drawing no few appreciative glances as she passed. Skirting the screaming children with a little moue of distaste, she achieved the curb with a little skip and stepped into the yellow cab that waited there, beating out the elderly couple who had hailed it by nearly three steps. The cabbie waved an apology and pulled out into traffic, leaving the cursing old man and woman behind in a puff of blue smoke.
Peter watched them as he'd watched countless others over the years since he and his teammates had moved into the firehouse headquarters. He'd early accepted that his own interests were inexorably tied up with that of humanity itself. That conceded, his career choice had hinged only on whether he would go to college and become a psychologist or follow his father's less than honorable but just as people oriented vocation. It had been his mother's influence that had decided him. Today Peter Venkman held two doctorates, and was acclaimed a respected researcher the world over.
Thick glass muted the noise of the city without, muffling its normal angry roar into a dull growl like that of a living being. An urban dweller all his life, Peter tuned out the background noise as a matter of course and was thus alerted to another's approach by the thud of heavy boots on hard wood.
"He's here, Peter."
The voice was soft and laden with a gentle sympathy so characteristic that even had he not known the voice as well as his own, Peter would have recognized the owner without hesitation. He nodded without turning around. "I heard the buzzer." He jerked his head, beckoning the younger man closer. "Ever people watch, Ray? It's kind of like owning one of those ant farms you and Egon go on about but so much more. Take Mindy, for example."
The sturdy wood creaked again as Ray Stantz moved nearer, taking up a position just behind Venkman's right shoulder. He leaned forward, large brown eyes skimming the crowds. "Which one is Mindy? The pretty redhead?"
"Nah. Bag lady with the gray hair." He tapped the pane with his thumbnail toward the northernmost side, indicating an elderly woman in several layers of colored clothing, thrusting a laden shopping cart ahead of her. "She passes this way every day about this time pushing the same old belongings in the same old shopping cart. I always wondered where she was going with that thing and if she'll ever get there."
"She doesn't have any where to get to, Peter." Ray followed the woman's progress until she disappeared into one of the myriad side alleys that adorned that side of the street. There was compassion in his gently rounded features, eyes full of pity. "And she won't take money, either. I don't know where she sleeps."
Peter turned his head at that, giving his younger teammate an amused glance. "Now, how could you possibly know that?" he wondered aloud, smiling slightly when Stantz blushed.
"All right, so I saw her go by a couple of times," he defended himself, automatically defensive. He stopped at the impish glint in Venkman's green eyes, his own features breaking out into a grin. "And how did you know her name was Mindy?"
Caught out, Peter cleared his throat. "So, I'm a sucker for old ladies, too. Sue me." But his friend's grin was infectious and Peter returned it as a brief flash of very white teeth before all humor faded away. "Always was a sucker for lonely old ladies," he added in a quiet voice.
"Peter...." Ray touched the other man's shoulder, clenching it tight. "Peter, I...." He broke off when Peter shook his head.
"Don't say it, kid." All impish humor of the past moment was gone now, replaced by a gruffness often donned to hide vulnerability. "I know you're sorry. Everybody's sorry. So am I." Peter straightened, turning slowly, even as Stantz withdrew a step and allowed his arm to drop to his side. A muscle leaped in Peter's lean jaw, the glitter in the exotically shaped eyes only a reflection of the filtered sunlight from beyond the glass. "I'm all right, Ray. The hardest part is going to be telling him what happened. I ..." He slapped his own breastbone lightly. "... am fine. A fact I find more than a bit surprising."
Ray studied him frankly and with more openness than was customary for the shy man, but loving concern pushed many men past what was customary. "It still hurts, though," he said at last, finishing his examination by meeting Peter's returned gaze. He hesitated then moved near, again grasping the other man's lean shoulder in a tight, supportive grip. "I know how that is. If there's anything I can do...?"
Peter twined his own arm under then over Ray's until he could similarly touch his comrade in a reciprocal gesture. "Just be you," he said with gentle affection. "That's all I need right now." He waited for the younger man to return his smile, then took a deep breath and stepped back and away. "My hair look okay?" he asked, running his fingers through the thick dark locks once.
Stantz looked again, not with concern but critically. "Not a one out of place. But you have grease on your jeans."
Peter wet his thumb then rubbed at the large spot on the denim, handsome face twisting with annoyance. "Blast. I must have brushed against the work bench. I don't know who took Ecto's fuel pump apart...."
"Uh, that was me." Ray indicated the stains on his sand colored coverall with a mildly embarrassed air. "I thought I might be able to increase the fuel efficiency if I...."
Peter clapped him on the back, cutting him off before the younger man could launch one of his lengthy apologetic explanations. "No problem-o. But you have laundry detail this week."
"Deal." Ray flashed him a tiny smile that immediately faded. "Your father is waiting," he prodded gently. "Do you ... would you like me to come with you?"
Peter braced his shoulders and turned determinedly for the door. "I can handle it." He paused to ruffle his friend's auburn hair en route. "Thanks anyway, kid, but sometimes it's not doing the job -- it's finding the right words."
"There aren't any right words," Ray whispered, but he was talking to himself, for Peter Venkman was gone.
***
