It was unusually quiet for a Monday morning. Egon lifted his head from the spare power cord he was examining, twisting until he could peer out the small window next to the cubicle. Gray clouds filled most of the view, tiny droplets smearing the pane with a soft patter. He craned his neck, getting a glimpse of the ribbon of cement that connected the main buildings. Pedestrian traffic was at an all-time low, possibly due to the steady drizzle that had begun the previous eve. The weatherman had predicted rain all day, though at present the rest of the week looked to be clear and warm and typically spring. Egon hoped so - Frieda was demanding a trip to the shore Sunday, and Egon preferred to oblige her. Things had started to grow strained between them of late, and after sharing his apartment with her for two relatively blissful months, he was not eager to sever the relationship that quickly.

A contented smile curling his full lips, he left off his dreamy contemplation of the damp window to survey the only other human being in the room. Disdaining the lilliputian table and chair he'd been provided, Ray Stantz sat crosslegged on the hardwood floor, tools and parts neatly arranged on some newspaper. He was applying a powerful magnifying glass to a printed circuit, examining each connection individually and with great care.

Ray had proved to be an even better choice than hoped, Egon reflected, watching the boy work. Careful and precise, and so filled with the joy of learning that Egon himself was finding new pleasures in the pursuit of discovery, and of sharing that pleasure with the boy. My classes are even more interesting, Spengler told himself wryly, possessing no illusions about his less-than-scintillating abilities in that area.

Intelligence, imagination ... all in all, Stantz had the makings of a fine scientist. The only flaw Egon had been able to find in him was that extreme reaction to even the smallest failing - whether or not it was Ray's fault. Egon wondered not for the first time what series of events had combined to so ravage the confidence of someone who - Egon could admit without false egotism - was increasingly revealing an intellect that might one day rival Egon's own. But the one thing Ray resolutely would not talk about was his background, questions eliciting no more than an embarrassed dissemble as reply. Egon was certain the answer to Ray's damaged ego lay in that veiled past, though sheer politeness dictated that the subject not be pushed even to satisfy a nagging curiosity.

The auburn head bent lower, spilling a lock of hair forward over the smooth brow. Ray absently brushed it back then picked up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the paper plate next to him and took a bite. It was only then with its cessation that Egon became aware of the low murmur that had played as a background for the full hour he'd been here. He cocked his head but could remember little of Stantz' speech save the occasional self- query or comment. Where Ray had picked up the habit of talking to himself while he worked Egon was never to know, but it was a mildly annoying tendency that had nearly driven Peter to violence on more than one occasion. Egon himself, of course, was able to tune out any distractions when he was concentrating; Peter on the other hand was perennially aware of his surroundings and had twice threatened to break Ray in two if he didn't shut up.

The threat had worked partially - Ray's monologue had dropped in volume from conversational quality to a low mutter, something both could at least live with. Egon was glad the situation had worked out; he was growing quite fond of his young lab assistant and would have hated for the abrasive psychologist to have forced him out of the job. Further contemplation added an amendment to that thought: to give Venkman the credit due him, Egon had never once heard him actually harsh with Ray. Egon had even noticed that Peter tended to restrain the heavy sarcasm that was so much a part of his speech when addressing the boy, revealing at least an iota of sensitivity. Spengler raised a brow at the thought. Venkman with a soft side? An interesting, if unlikely, possibility, and one Egon filed away for further study.

Speaking of whom.... Egon glanced at the Rolex watch that had been a graduation present from his father; eleven o'clock. Where was Venkman? Not that Egon particularly cared, he told himself, but the man had so far proved himself to be at least moderately regular in his work habits, especially this late in the semester. Preparations were underway all over campus for final exams, which were approaching rapidly, and there was a stack of reports on Peter's desk needing his immediate attention should he desire further grants next semester. Where could the man be?

As if in answer, a low shuffle tickled the edge of Egon's hearing, and he lifted his head to stare at the entrance. The building without was noiseless save for a single pair of feet trudging up the hall, weighted as though the entire world rode upon the traveler's shoulders. A moment later the frosted-glass door slammed open causing Ray to start, squeezing jelly out of his sandwich and over his fingers.

Peter Venkman entered the room looking less than his normally robust self. Dark circles underscored his eyes, contrasting with his pale skin to give him a feverish appearance. His white sweater was clean but his slacks looked as though they'd been slept in - not an unusual occurrence for Venkman, Egon sniffed disapprovingly.

Without a word Peter shrugged out of his coat and collapsed into his chair, ignoring Ray's greeting by dropping his head forward to rest on his folded arms. Ray put down his sandwich and scrambled to his feet.

"Peter?" the assistant asked, hurriedly approaching the semi-recumbent form. "You look terrible! Are you all right?" He rested his unsticky left hand on the other's head, a frown creasing his smooth features. "You don't have a fever. Have you been ill? Can I help?"

The reply to this was a low, anguished groan and an irritated swat. "Go away, Ray," Peter growled harshly. "Don't you know enough to leave the dead in peace?"

"Another party?" Egon asked, one brow arching into his hairline.

The nod was barely perceptible, consisting of little more than a wobble of the thick brown hair. "Blow out. Tri Cuppa. Just got in."

Ray, still hovering by the desk, accepted this piece of information with due astonishment. "You partied until eleven o'clock?" he bubbled. "Wow! I've never been to a party lasting into the morning! What did you find to do for so long?"

Peter waved a negligent hand though not deigning to raise his head. "Usual stuff, kid. You start with a drink...."

"And graduate into drugs and debauchery," Egon finished, unaccountably annoyed that Ray would be impressed by this example of immaturity. He snuck a glance at the boy, mildly disappointed when Ray's admiration hadn't wavered. "Not precisely professional, Venkman." He thrust the power cord into Ray's right hand then grimaced when some of the jelly came off onto his own. "Ray, why don't you go get Peter a cup of coffee from Professor Cage's lab. And there's aspirin in the first aid kit in the hall."

Ray carelessly dropped the cord into a box by the window and headed for the door. Egon waited until he had disappeared before adding, "You know, Peter, if you insist on carousing, you might at least practice a modicum of self-control. I see no reason to go as far as you do in the simple pursuit of a good time."

Peter grumbled something obscene and turned his head until he could regard the blond with one eye. "Listen to the party animal over there," he gibed nastily. "Like you could cruise one of these parties and walk a straight line afterward. It just don't compute that way, booby - not if it's going to be worth your while to go at all."

Egon snorted. "For some people perhaps," he returned condescendingly, "but the mature man can find pleasure without surrendering his dignity."

That brought Peter's head all the way up. "His dignity?!" he echoed disbelievingly. "You're putting me on, right?"

Egon straightened his neat pink shirt, his innate sophistication providing a feeling of superiority over Peter's dishevelment. "Not at all, Mr. Venkman. I contend that it's quite possible to attend one or any of your galas without ending up in the ... er ... condition that you are in now."

Resentment stained Peter's pale face rose. "Oh, you contend, do you, Doctor Smart-ass? You're telling me that you could do one of my gigs, enjoy it and still come out on top the next morning? Is that what you're telling me?"

Egon nodded virtuously. "That is exactly what I'm alleging, and I think you would do well to consider the possibility for the next time you decide to play juvenile delinquent."

Peter thought this over for a long moment, unconsciously massaging his temples with his thumbs. Finally, he cocked his head in Egon's direction. "You're blowing smoke," he said succinctly. "I think that if you were to dig one of the do's, you'd either end up as potted as everyone else or spend the night sitting in a corner twiddling your thumbs. No middle ground."

"There's always middle ground," Egon bristled.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Peter smiled, a meager twist of one side of his mouth. "There's another big blowout Friday. Susan Newman - you know her, don't you? Redhead with the gazongas? She's throwing a Mardi Gras party that should be a real blast. You want 'ta prove what you're saying? Go to the party."

Egon opened his mouth then shut it again, dismayed by the impish glitter in the other's green eyes. Sensing danger, his first inclination was to refuse out of hand. "Ray and I have an early meeting with Professor McKenna...." he began doubtfully.

"I'm certain you'll be able to handle both," Peter returned sweetly.

"Well...." Peter's smile took on a smug quality and Egon knew himself to be trapped. Put up or shut up, he told himself with some element of disgust. He sighed. "Oh, very well, if you think that's necessary...."

"Oh, very necessary." Peter again dropped his head. "Wake me before then." It wasn't long before soft snores heralded his sleeping state, leaving Egon to stare at the top of Peter's head and contemplate Frieda's reaction to being back on the party circuit.

Neither of them noticed the return of the little gray mouse that had so terrified the female student. Attracted by the smell of food, it snuck around the perimeter of the room and climbed into the box by the window, where Ray had deposited the jelly-smeared power cord only minutes before. With a happy little squeak it began to feed.

***

Friday was unseasonably warm, the mercury climbing into the eighties by midday. Egon taught two classes in the morning, spent four hours with Ray in the lab, then returned to his furnished apartment to shower, shave and prepare for Susan Newman's party that evening. If truth were to out, he was somewhat nervous at the prospect of attending a party hosted by anyone associated with Peter Venkman. No stranger to campus nightlife, Egon nonetheless tended to avoid the drug and alcohol crazed stratum of the populace, preferring the formal balls at the country club his parents had insisted he join, or the elegant galas they gave in their Long Island home. He liked to think he'd outgrown the "Get high and have sex" parties that had formed a part, albeit a small one, of his undergrad days.

Frieda was already dressed by the time Egon got out of the shower, her lush curves enhanced dramatically by the figure hugging, blue spandex pants and halter top she'd donned. She waited on the leather couch, shimmering in the lamplight and looking quite lovely. She rose when she saw him, twirling lightly on her toes under his appreciative gaze.

"Like it?" she asked unnecessarily. "I went to Macy's this morning with Marcia. I wanted to look perfect for you tonight."

Egon was across the plush green carpet in three strides to slip his arms around the woman's slim waist. "You always look perfect," he assured her, his heavy bass muffled. "And to think that I have Peter Venkman to thank for all this."

Frieda giggled, snuggling closer. "I'm glad Pete's going to the party. It'll be nice to see him again. It's been awhile and he and I used to be ... close."

"Forget Venkman," Egon suggested, burying his face in the thick chestnut hair that hung free on her shoulders. "Are you certain you actually want to go out this evening? We can always make some excuse...."

Frieda stiffened, pulling back out of his grip. "We always make some excuse," she accused, poking Egon in the chest with a long red nail. "Well, let me tell you something, Egon Spengler, we are not making 'some excuse' tonight! I've sat around here long enough and I want to party!"

Spengler stared, obviously surprised by her mercurial change of mood. "I thought you enjoyed staying at home!" He scowled, pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. "Does this have anything to do with seeing Venkman again? I thought everything was over between you two."

"Pete Venkman has nothing to do with this," the woman returned shortly, teetering off on her spiked heels. "Maybe I'm just tired of being an apartment trophy." She snagged a jacket from a hook. "I'll meet you there."

"Frieda...!"

But the door slammed and she was gone leaving Egon alone in a spartan, tasteful and very silent room.

***

Egon arrived at the sorority house soon after. It was a handsome building, roomy inside, ivy kissed without, and fragrant with the smell of spring herbs planted in the tiny garden to the rear. Egon paused by the front door to inhale the scent; aromatic smoke wafted toward him in the draft created by the open door and Egon drew in an involuntary lungful causing him to sneeze violently. Definitely not tobacco, he thought, feeling in his pocket for a handkerchief. And am I surprised?

He used the cloth to wave away the annoying mist and entered without knocking, pausing just inside the doorway to examine the scene. Blue eyes grew dark with the strain of adjusting to the maddening cacophony of light within - red lamps provided the primary illumination, the ruby periodically shattered by the intense flash of several strobes deposited at strategic points around the perimeter and reflected as a prism by the silvery ball suspended from the ceiling.

The party was already in full swing; twenty or so colorfully clad people crowded into a moderate sized den, the ratio between male and female roughly even. A leather couch and loveseat had been pushed back against the wall and a few couples were taking advantage of the extra space to gyrate to a Rolling Stones album. The rest hung in clusters like grapes, talking loudly to be heard over the music, while a miscellaneous few lounged prone in various attitudes of early intoxication.

Egon took this all in, in a single sweep, his gaze settling on the chestnut headed woman, who stood back to the door encased in the arm of an annoyingly familiar figure. Egon was across the room in a half dozen strides, having to step over several of the reposing bodies en route. "Hello, Frieda," he greeted, speaking loudly to be heard over the blare of the stereo. "Peter."

Peter Venkman smiled broadly, leaning closer so he wouldn't have to raise his voice, the action forcing open his expensive silk shirt nearly to the waist. "Yo, Spengs! Didn't think you were really gonna make it, booby! Frieda and I were just ... discussing the situation."

"I can see that," Egon returned dryly, removing Venkman's arm from around the woman. "However, I doubt hands-on demonstrations were necessary."

Frieda snuggled her body against Egon's in a coquettish gesture. "I think he's jealous," she giggled, running her fingers up and down Egon's arm. "Isn't that cute?"

Egon escaped her grasp by the simple expedient of taking one step backward. "Extremely entertaining. What is it you're on? Pot? Hash?"

Frieda threw back a strand of hair, her amusement fading. "Maybe this is just me having fun. Ever think of that?"

Frankly, he hadn't. Spengler stared at her thoughtfully, shifting his gaze when Peter clapped him companionably on the shoulder. "Come on and meet some of the crew," he offered, steering the two in the direction of the bedroom. A knot of people were gathered in the doorway; they parted and Egon could see the target of their interest - a glowing television set.

"What are they watching?" Egon asked just as a roar of applause signalled the end of the show.

Before he could get an answer two people split off from the group in the doorway. "Yo, Pete!" Chuck Weaver yelled, shoving his way past two women garbed entirely in tin foil. "You just missed the end of The Dukes of Hazzard! Man, them good old boys are sure a hoot! We never once missed 'em in Waco."

Peter slapped the muscular blond on the back, giving the petite brunette at his side a more gentle pat. "This is Chuck's chick, Rhoda. I think you both already know Chuck."

"Oh, I remember Chucky real well," Frieda purred with more than a hint of suggestion coloring her throaty contralto. "Hi, Chucky."

Chuck smiled, his ruddy skin flushing to the roots of his long blond hair. "Lo, babe. Didn't expect to see you here, Casper."

Egon sighed at the unloved appellation. "Egon," he murmured without much hope. "If you'll excuse...."

Peter aborted Egon's attempted escape by slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Egon is here to prove a point."

"What point is that?" Rhoda asked with friendly interest.

Egon tried to wiggle free of Peter's grip; the psychologist snarled his fingers in the taller man's collar and held on. "He's here to prove that a body can do one of these do's without getting blasted to the gills." He paused, striking a dramatic pose. "And still have fun!"

There was a chorus of ooohs and ahhhs, intermingled with some good-natured jibes. Egon felt the blood rise in his neck, the situation not helping when Weaver leaned forward to poke him in the ribs. "Well, gosh, almighty! And landsakes, too! D'ya really think we can?"

Instinctively rising to the bait, Egon pulled free of Peter's hold and straightened his linen shirt across his thin chest. "Whether or not you can is arguable," he retorted. "However, I'm certain any intellect higher than a protozoan will be able to accomplish the feat."

Chuck smiled seraphically and Egon winced when he noticed how closely that expression mirrored Venkman's. "Ah see. C'mon, Rhoda, you an' me got us some party'in ta do."

The brunette waggled her fingers in farewell and followed the big man through the crowd, the pair disappearing into the still swelling sea of bodies cramming the den.

Frieda chewed her lip as she watched them depart, then spun on Egon, her expression tight with anger. "Well, you're in fine form tonight," she snapped, eyes blazing under her false eyelashes. "Picked up that holier- than-thou attitude on an empty stomach, too, didn't you?"

"Never mind Weaver. He had it coming." Egon took her arm, leading her past the still smiling Peter Venkman. Peter, not one to be ignored, skipped two steps to the side, placing himself directly in their path.

"Hey, relax, big guy!" he admonished, spreading his hands to prevent their passing. "Why don't you have a drink? Or something to eat. C'mon." He herded Egon - who clamped Frieda's wrist possessively only seconds before Peter could take it himself - to a laden table set against the opposite wall. "Look here, scotch, vodka, bourbon.... The blender is full of Red Devils and the food is over here. How about some white wine, Frieda?"

The woman accepted the offered glass, smiling her thanks. "At least someone around here knows how to have a good time," she said pointedly.

Egon ignored her to examine the banquet suspiciously. "I hesitate to imagine what is in these brownies," he criticized, lifting one and sniffing it like a bloodhound. His long nose crinkled as he recognized the almost imperceptible aroma of illegal greens. "Just as I thought." He stopped, leaning closer to the table. "That's not sugar, is it?"

Peter dipped a finger into the questionable white substance, touching a minuscule amount to the very tip of his tongue. "Yeah, right. Sugar," he sniggered, wiping his hand on his skin-tight black slacks. "You're a real card, Spengs."

"Why not try some of the punch?" Frieda suggested, sipping delicately at her wine. "It's half Kool-Aid, half Zombie."

"I think I'd be safer with the brownies," Egon muttered, staring at the innocuous looking pink fluid with a mild sense of horror.

"Well, try something else for crying out loud," Frieda growled, rapidly losing her patience. "Did you come here to criticize or to have fun?"

Peter coughed loudly; to Egon it sounded like a badly concealed chuckle. Egon stiffened. "Of course I'm here to enjoy myself," he assured her, dropping her wrist. "Beer will serve perfectly, I assure you." He selected a sealed can of Miller and popped the tab. "Where's the ice?"

"Ice is in the ice bucket, natch." A pretty redhead swooped down on the little group like a whirlwind, gypsy scarves flapping in her wake. "Everybody having a good time?"

Peter wrapped both arms around the redhead's waist, pulling her back against him and leaning slightly forward to nip at her ear. "Don't I always?" he asked obviously unnecessarily since the woman laughed.

"No kidding, Pete!" She suffered her ear to be bitten a second time, her attention focusing on Egon, who was watching her with polite interest. "By the way, who are you? Haven't seen you at any of these shindigs before."

"Who he is," Peter returned, coming up for air, "is Dr. Egon Spengler, late of M.I.T. Spengs, baby, this is the author of this little bash, Susan Newman."

Susan offered her hand, pumping Egon's once before releasing it. "Nice to meet you, Spengs, baby." She missed Egon's softly uttered, "Egon," to address the narrow-eyed Frieda LesMartin. "Hi, Frieda, is the blond cutie here with you?"

Frieda slipped a proprietary arm around Egon's arm, and he nearly winced as her long fingernails dug into his skin. "Touch him and I'll pull your hair out by your dark roots."

Rather than anger, the statement produced only a philosophical shrug. "Don't worry, honey, I can get my own without stealing anyone you'd be interested in."

"I'll bet you can," Peter murmured, drooping over her neck. "Me, for instance."

Egon tuned them both out, using the opportunity to get some ice. He filled his glass to the rim then took a sip. "Come on, hon," Frieda urged, tugging lightly at his arm. "There's Dave and Julie. We should go say hello."

Egon nodded, first helping himself to a plate. "I'd like to have something to eat, Frieda; I've been without nourishment since morning." He browsed the foodstuffs slowly, passing by both cakes and casserole with nary a hesitation. "That salad looks harmless," he declared, piling a heap of lettuce on his plate. "Carrots ... celery...."

He lifted a small bowl filled to the rim with a brown-gray substance, studying it critically before his face cleared. "Mushrooms! Excellent." He scowled, resenting the woman's having diced them into unrecognizability, then subjected the near-paste to the same test as he had the brownie. "I don't smell additives," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose it's safe enough." So decided, he finished making up a platter, topping the salad with the vinegar-and-herb dressing from a shaker bottle.

"Will you come on?" Frieda demanded, tapping her foot. "I don't want to stand here all night."

Egon picked up platter, fork and beer, then turned to the waiting woman. "Lead on, my dear."

He finished his meal while the two circulated. The room was packed and they stopped often to chat - smalltalk for the most part, the inane politenesses humans exchange when they're unacquainted with each other and uninterested in learning. Egon had to admit that he was actually starting to enjoy himself despite himself. The lighting was impossible, the music set on explosive force, yet both soon faded into the background of Egon's consciousness until they were barely noticeable at all. His taut muscles grew pliant, mind floating free of the tension that had gripped it since the argument with Frieda earlier. He was even beginning to like that stupid disco ball in the ceiling, he admitted privately. Light from the strobes touched silver and prismed, seemingly to grow ever stronger even as he watched. Yes, lovely indeed. Maybe this party wasn't such a bad idea at all!

Through the cotton swaddling his brain he gradually became aware that he was being spoken to. He left off his contemplation of the lights reluctantly, adjusting his focus to the very dark-skinned man in the long robes, who was presently addressing him. "I beg your pardon?" Egon asked, frowning prodigiously in concentration.

The man broke off mid-sentence, pausing to stroke his long curly beard. It was Frieda who replied. "Eberley was just saying how happy he is to be in America since Ghana is having so many internal problems lately."

"Oh." Egon regrouped rapidly, wondering why he was having so much trouble paying attention. "Yes. America is ... very nice. It's...." He trailed off, eyes drawn irresistibly to the length of gold chain draping the negro's neck. "Your necklace is ... is ... great," he gushed, unable to think of a more appropriate descriptive. "I never noticed how bright it is before." He glanced around feeling a dull surprise at how clearly he could see the entire room through the smoke - the crystalline clarity which honed even curves into razor sharp edges. He brushed past Frieda, closing the distance to the dark man. "As a matter of fact," he whispered, grasping his arm, "everything is incredibly bright this evening, isn't it?"

The other man smiled thinly and disengaged his arm with bland courtesy. "I see you enhance your senses as do these others." He gestured, his wide sleeves making a colorful swirl that Egon found strangely fascinating. "My people, I fear, insist on purity of both body and soul. I respect your right to imbibe, however."

"Imbibe?" Egon blinked stupidly and glanced down at the nearly empty glass in his hand. "I only had one beer."

"Oh. Right. Of course. A beer." White teeth flashing in a conspiratorial grin, Eberley bowed slightly and wandered off, chuckling softly to himself.

Egon frowned. "Wonder what that was all about?"

"Honestly, Egon." Spengler turned, actually retreating a step from the blue glare that nearly pierce him through. "And after all your lectures to me! I never knew you were such a hypocrite."

"Which lectures, Frieda?" Egon asked, gulping the last of his beer and looking around for some place to put the bottle. "Do you see a trash receptacle nearby?"

"No." The single word was clipped and sullen. Frieda yanked her halter a little lower over her navel, consequently exposing several inches more cleavage in the bargain. Egon's glands cheered though he dared not mention the fact at present. "I'm going to go talk to Frankie," the woman concluded coolly. "I'll see you later. Maybe."

On that somewhat unpromising note, she turned and strode off, the bright blue of her outfit soon being swallowed up in the equally bright spectrum of humanity. Egon raised one hand, making a distinctly unsatisfactory attempt at stopping her, then let it drop to his side with a sigh. Some nagging portion of his brain told him that Frieda's 'maybe' meant 'never,' but he couldn't seem to work up any enthusiasm over the fact - or any other fact for that matter.

Egon wandered aimlessly for sometime, some unexpected daring taking him past both Scotch bottle and Kamikaze pitcher several times during the evening, though innate good sense always persuaded his choice of an unopened beer rather than the harder alcohols. He did finally appropriate the little dish of mushrooms, finding their unrecognized tang a pleasant one, though leaving a lingering aftertaste that he was certain would stay with him for hours.

The wall clock was registering three and the party showed no signs of abating. People came and went with annoying irregularity, and the temperature in the den steadily climbed with the crush of human bodies. Finally, shirt soaked through, Egon sought refuge in the kitchen near the back door, cradling an untouched glass of iced beer to his chest and staring glumly at the semi-naked woman who was rummaging in the cupboard. Mousy and exceedingly thin, she continually mumbled to herself as she searched, paying no attention to Egon's conversational gambit in the least, and had she been wearing more clothes Egon might have abandoned the attempt altogether.

He opened his mouth to try again, then closed it without making a sound. Semi-clothed or not, he couldn't summon the effort. Fatigue was draping itself heavily, and to Egon's perception, the lighting had grown steadily less diverting. His head was beginning to pound steadily and he could no longer recall why he'd wanted to come to this party in the first place. He was spending a moment calculating the energy expenditure involved in rising and returning to his own home, when a tall form interposed itself between himself and the nearest strobe, a slurred tenor breaking his concentration.

"Wondered what happened to you," the newcomer remarked, leaning heavily against the kitchen sink. "Heck of a party, eh?"

Egon reluctantly withdrew his gaze from the woman, less than thrilled by the interruption. He removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt, then replaced them at a new angle, scowling at the necessity to still squint to see the other with something resembling clarity. The man obligingly bent down; this turned out to be a mistake for he swayed dizzily with the attempt, then his legs gave out, depositing him with a thump at the blond's side. Egon took the opportunity to lean closer. "Oh. It is you, Peter. How long have you been here?"

Peter considered, chewing his thumbnail thoughtfully. "Since eight, I think. Clock says it's after three. That makes it...." He trailed off, brow furrowed in furious concentration. He ticked off several numbers on his fingers, then spread his hands helplessly. "Quite a while. Dynamite party, isn't it?"

Egon scratched his head, running his fingers through the drooping blond curl. "I suppose so but that makes me dizzy." He pointed a quaking finger at the powerful strobe that was flashing regularly from one of the counters. "I mean, it must be the light making me dizzy, don't you think?"

Peter nodded his head furiously, then groaned. "Yeah, right. The light. Anything you say, Spengler, old buddy." He peered curiously at the blond, who was by now peering just as curiously back. Dulled green eyes narrowed. "What did you have to eat, anyway?"

Spengler shrugged. "Salad and beer. With vinaigrette."

Peter nodded wisely. "With the 'special' mushrooms and the 'special' herb dressing? And ... uh ... did that ice come out of the bucket or the refrigerator?"

Egon brandished his glass of beer like a sword, spilling some out onto the tile floor. "The bucket. And the dressing wasn't all that special," he amended honestly. "But at least the mushrooms were fresh."

Peter gaped in what Egon tentatively interpreted as rampant disbelief though what the source of that disbelief could be was well beyond his ken. "Wow!" the psychologist breathed with real respect. "Mushrooms, dotted ice, 'special' dressing and beer? Wow!" He gave Egon a comradely clap on the shoulder. "I have ta' admit that I thought you were gonna be a real wet blanket on this gig, Spengs, but anyone who can down that whole batch and still walk ... well, function, is okay in my book."

Egon scowled, assuming there was an underlying meaning to that little speech that he'd missed but unwilling to give the younger man the advantage by admitting to his ignorance. Instead, he returned his attention to the muttering woman, who had by now removed the rest of her clothes and was wandering toward the screen door.

"That's Diane Kennedy," Peter spoke up, following his gaze. "Long time junkie. She makes all the parties looking for a free fix. Bad news chick."

The door banged shut causing both men to wince. "And why would I be interested in her," Egon asked rhetorically, "when I've got Frieda waiting for me in the other room?"

Peter opened his mouth, paused, then swallowed. "Didn't she go home with Frankie a couple hours ago?" he asked with feigned innocence.

Egon snorted and reached again for the dish of mushrooms. "Interesting party," he began, forcibly changing the subject before the other man could warm to it. "Back when I first started college, my mother would call me every other night to make sure I wasn't attending soirees like this one. I think she used to watch too much Laugh In on television."

Peter laughed. "Mine, too. She still calls me sometimes - says it's only to make sure I'm not in jail somewhere." He plucked Egon's beer out of his hand, took a sip, then stuck out his tongue. "Not for me to tell you what to do," he began gently, "but you might want to lay off this stuff. Pot is one thing but the rest can get pretty uncool after awhile."

Egon reclaimed his glass and stared into its depths, puzzled. "I don't know what you've got against Miller, but you're right - it is none of your business."

Peter's jaw tightened but he contented himself with a single, obscene gesture. "No skin off'a my nose. Yo! Chuck!"

Blond hair bobbing, Weaver poked his head around the doorjamb, arm still clamped firmly around Rhoda. "Hey, Pete!" he drawled. "Wondered what happened to y'all. Last I saw, you was with Susan."

Peter smacked his lips noisily. "I was with Susan and I'll be with Susan tomorrow. Right now I need a little sustenance. Wanna hand me a beer?"

Dragging the drowsy girl with him, Weaver crossed to the refrigerator and retrieved a beer, tossing it in Peter's general direction. "Here ya go, man. Want some'a this here funny ice?"

Venkman shuddered delicately, popping the top of his virgin can. "You know I don't do that route anymore, pal." He jerked his thumb in Egon's direction, adding cryptically, "Reverend Egon here flunked his experiment though."

Chuck smiled knowingly; Egon glowered back. "I don't know what you're talking about," the physicist grumbled, stretching up to deposit the mushroom bowl in the sink. "I'm in perfect control."

The smile transformed into an open smirk. "Control. Uh-huh. Right." He waved amiably and left, leaving Peter and Egon to drink in the relative peace of the kitchen. It was Egon who finally broke the minutes-long silence.

"So, you're mother isn't crazy about your party life?" he asked, unsure as to why he wanted to know anything at all about this maddening man. "I was under the impression she was deceased."

Peter cocked his head until he could peek in the older man's direction. "Why would you think she was dead?"

Spengler shrugged. "You've never spoken of her. I just assumed...."

"My mom," Peter began, leaning comfortably back against the counter, "lives right outside of Chicago. That's where Roger, her husband, owns his accounting firm." The thought of Peter Venkman learning at the feet of anyone as mundane as an accountant was so outré that Egon couldn't restrain the chuckle that rose. Peter peered closer. "What's so funny?"

Egon spared him a mischievous look. "Funny, you don't look like the son of an accountant," he teased.

For once Venkman's uncertain temper didn't ignite at the joke. Obviously, he found the concept amusing as well. "My parents divorced when I was six," he said, taking a swig of his beer, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "She didn't marry Roger until I'd been in college a year. I've always been grateful for that."

Egon crossed his legs indian fashion, reflecting that he hadn't been able to do that earlier this morning. "My parents have been married twenty-nine years come August," he announced proudly. They were high school sweethearts; neither have ever even dated anyone else."

Peter nodded approvingly. "That's rare these days. My dad blew into Chicago one day and blew back out six months later with a wedding ring and my mom. They only stayed together long enough to have me, then Charlie was back on the road and he's been there ever since."

"Growing up with an absent father must have been tough," Egon asked with vague commiseration. "Do you see him often? I've only seen him visit you that one time this year."

That did it. Peter turned to stone, and Egon could see the anger smoldering within at the imagined slight. "Dad was around as much as he could. It's kind of hard when you're ... in business for yourself. Especially around the holidays," he added in a lower tone."

Egon raised one hand placatingly. "I'm certain he did his best," he acknowledged easily. "I was only asking if you had much time to spend together."

"Oh." Venkman subsided, the emerald fires in his eyes banking suddenly. "Not ... not at first. He was in town only a couple times a year but ... it could have been ... worse." His voice picked up animation, as though he were exploring new territory. Perhaps he is, Egon reflected in surprise; Venkman is definitely not the type to share his innermost thoughts with anyone. Why he was doing so now Egon could not conceive. He gathered his muddled thoughts, determined to hear the man out.

"It could have been worse," Peter repeated, stretching his legs out comfortably before him and crossing them at the ankle. "At least whenever he was there he was really there; that's more than a lot of kids could ask for. And he'd always send presents. Never remembered Christmas or birthdays, though. I...." He bit his lip hard. "I wish he'd shown up at least on Christmases. That was always the hard part." He broke off, dashing a sleeve across his face. "Man, am I getting maudlin or what?"

He cast Egon a surreptitious glance seeking censor or perhaps ridicule, but Spengler kept his face carefully neutral. After a moment, Peter went on less defensively, "Besides, once I hit thirteen or so, I was old enough to join him over the summer vacations. Mom didn't like it but she knew I'd do it anyway with or without her approval. He always got me back in time to start school on time, anyway."

Something crashed in the other room, then voices raised in furious indignation. The two paused to listen, then exchanged a look and a shrug. "Join him doing what?" Egon asked, picking up on the conversation where they'd left off. "Nothing dishonest?"

Expecting an angry rebuff, Egon was mildly surprised when the psychologist only rolled his eyes. "We used to travel the midwest carnie circuit - Iowa, Nebraska, Missouri. Dad was a barker and I used to work as a roustabout." He shot Egon a boyish grin, which Egon felt compelled to return. "Not the most honest work we ever did but it kept us both out of jail. We'd hit Vegas in early September and I'd be the only kid in my school with pocket money."

He paused, obviously growing uncomfortable with the openness. "Wonder if Ray's dad was around much," he said in a perfectly - for him - transparent attempt at changing the subject. "If he wasn't, it might explain ... a few things."

Feeling mellow, Egon allowed the subject of Venkman's past to drop, moving on to the less personally threatening one of Stantz. "Ray's parents died just before his seventh birthday," he said, earning himself a startled look from the other. "He was raised in foster care." He blushed under the continued regard, adding, "The information was in the file I requested before I interviewed him. It's not precisely classified, you know."

Peter massaged his chin thoughtfully. "Explains more than a few things, anyway. Knew the kid got that complex from somewhere, and being orphaned that young is a real good start on one." He scowled, audibly grinding his teeth together. "He also shows definite symptoms of mistreatment, but whether emotional or physical, I'm not sure; not sexual, though. I can't be certain if the source is his natural or foster family, either."

It was Egon's turn to be startled. "Abuse?" he repeated, unable to reconcile the concept with his gentle young assistant. "You believe that boy was abused by his guardians?"

Peter hesitated, then shrugged. "If you're looking for a professional diagnosis, look me up in the morning. If all you want is a mildly drunken opinion, then yeah, I'd say he was definitely abused over a period of time. A kid doesn't get his self-confidence beaten out of him overnight." He cleared his throat. "I ... guess I didn't have it so bad after all; I mean, at least I always knew my dad was ... somewhere." His voice dropped again until he was talking almost to himself. "And that he cared." He looked up with a rueful smile. "Guess neither one of us had the 'ideal' family life you did, eh?"

Egon rolled his head until he could look out the screendoor into the tiny fenced-in garden bordering the back lot. If he squinted he could just make out a pale feminine form moving about in the dark. "My home life was pleasant and supportive," he admitted without apology. "But it was hardly ideal."

"Your father was around a lot?" Peter asked by way of an accusation.

Egon nodded. "Physically, at least." Muddled reminisce swamped him then, boosted by a sudden melancholy, as though all his energy was leeched away by the words. He barely heard Peter's inquisitive noises, but responded to them nonetheless.

"My father and my uncle Cyrus are co-owners of a biolab in Cleveland. Spengler Labs, ever hear of it?" Peter shook his head, and Egon went on, "It's a highly respected research facility. They opened a smaller branch in Flushing; my parents moved there a few years ago."

He trailed off again, the past more alive to him now than the present. He barely registered the discrete gurgling noise of Venkman emptying his beer can and it wasn't until the man had cleared his throat twice that Egon drew his attention away from the unassuming garden door, blond brow raised. "So, like, what does 'physically' mean?" Venkman prodded.

Egon's lips twisted in a tiny half-smile. "My father is a brilliant biochemist; most of his life has been dedicated to the pursuit of advanced knowledge in the field. That, of course, requires a great deal of dedication - and concentration." He turned his head again, preferring to stare into the painful glare of the strobe to the knowing green eyes of his companion. "Especially concentration, and Father's is iron. When he is immersed in a project the rest of the universe effectively ceases to exist.

"Father worked at home most of the time," Egon went on quietly, rocking his legs in rhythm to the music coming from the den. "But it didn't seem to matter much. Whenever he got a new project, my mother used to say, 'Boys, looks like we lost Nathan again." He laughed softly. "We could see him as often as we wished, but he wouldn't even realize we were in the room until he'd solved whatever problem he was laboring on at the moment."

Egon felt a single light tap on his knee, then Peter spoke, the light tenor voice roughened with comradely sympathy. "Hey, that's too bad. Having a father who ignores you is just as bad as having one that's never around."

Empathy was the one thing Egon had never received from Peter Venkman, and the one thing he was unprepared to accept. He turned to regard the younger scientist with one eye, deliberately banishing yesterday to the past. "Perhaps I'm painting too harsh a picture. Most of the time Father is quite attentative - Mother would have never stood for less from him."

He settled his head back, returning his gaze to the quiet garden. "The times I remember best are the afternoons I would seek him out on some pretense or another. He'd pull a high chair up to the bench and lift me up on it, then take the time to explain whatever it was he was working on. He loved to teach and was very good at it." Egon felt his adams apple bob as he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "He's not a demonstrative man, but neither Morrie nor I have ever doubted his affections."

There was a muffled rumble from his left and Egon turned to see Peter Venkman, legs sprawled straight, head fallen forward on his breast. Egon reached over and grabbed a handful of thick hair, using it to lift the man's head. Peter's mouth fell open, allowing another snore to escape; Egon released him. "Now who can't hold his ... er ... enhancements?" he rumbled with more than a trace of self-righteousness. "Even if I will admit that there might be more to you than I'd originally estimated."

Peter slept on unaware and Egon looked around again, a frown marring his forehead. "Wonder what did happen to Frieda? I'm certain she has far greater intelligence than to fall for Frankie McCall's line. I ought to go look for her." He lurched upward, making it almost to his knees before slumping back against the sleeping Venkman. "Maybe I ought to sit here for just a few minutes longer," he mumbled, heavy lids drooping to half mast then shut. "Just a few minutes to ... rest my eyes. Yes, that's it. I'll just ... rest my eyes."

Thirty seconds later his heavier snores joined Peters, and Egon slept the sleep of the righteous. It was two hours later that an ominous figure knelt by Egon's side, blocking out the light of the rising sun.

***