The day which followed was nearly a carbon copy of the first. Peter
returned to his sewer world, safe from the ravages of the sun. He crawled
into a small cul-de-sac not far from the firehouse and collapsed there,
depleted in body and exhausted in spirit. He dozed fitfully, sleep
interrupted by disturbing dreams in which he killed his friends repeatedly
and in the most macabre ways possible. He would start awake, tears on his
face, only to hear the dry laughter of the Q'utah enjoying his torment.
They hungered still; Peter's truncated feeding had been enough to sustain
but not satisfy, and for this they blamed Peter, taking out their
discontent by invoking disturbing visions and wave after wave physical
pain.
Gone was any claim to his own actions; whatever defiance he'd been able to show previously was now reduced to impotent protests the Q'utah barely recognized. This was demonstrated early after the return underground. Infuriated by Ray's survival, the Q'utah had forced Peter to repeatedly dunk his own head under the waste-charged waters, then to humiliate himself in ways that would have broken a lesser man. The lessons were effective and Peter Venkman's spirits sank lower, more so as he sensed portions of his personality begin to submerge beneath the encroaching evil that was the Q'utah.
The aliens might have already won completely -- would have won -- had their victim been any other. But Peter carried a shield comprised of hatred and bonded by all-consuming rage. Anger had always been Peter's strength, and anger he now nourished, using it to fuel the burning pit that had once been his heart. He was not their's yet. Not yet.
Despite the misery there was some measure of comfort to be found. Ray still lived. The morning before, Peter had not been sure. Pleasure at his friend's survival was tainted but not destroyed by the remembrance of his last empathic contact with the younger man. The fear spice had been strong -- stronger than either love or trust in all but the memories. Not that the mind touch had not been wonderful! Peter smiled, re-savoring the experience. Rather than childhood, last night Peter had re-lived some of their ... of Ray's experiences at Columbia, many of them long forgotten or never known, and from a point of view refreshing by an innocence Peter had lost long ago. As before, Peter dwelled on the psychological intimacy they'd experienced, allowing it to ease some of the constrictions around his heart.
It would have been nice, Peter thought regretfully, if Ray hadn't been so afraid. The terror had been stimulating during the delirium of the feed; the memory was a stabbing ache. The affectionate trust Peter had once cherished was still there, and for that Peter was glad. But this time as strong as the love had been, was something Peter had only sampled the first time: an overpowering fear that bordered on the very fringe of hysteria. Peter's protective instincts rebelled at allowing his Ray to suffer like that, even while his heart broke to realize that he himself was the cause. Ray was afraid of him -- more afraid than he'd ever been. The Q'utah had seen to that, stimulating the emotion for their own pleasure. Even were the Q'utah to be destroyed and Peter restored, would his relationship with Ray ever be the same? Not that the chances of Ray actually surviving their inevitable next encounter weren't admittedly slim.
The second beam of symbolic sunlight was that Egon was now aware of the situation. As ashamed as Peter had been to have the blond physicist see him at the hospital, just that much had he been he comforted. Egon had said to trust him and Peter did more than he'd ever trusted anyone in his life. But could even the imposing Egon Spengler defeat an enemy a millennium old ... and could Peter survive the battle? As a murderer of old men and young friends, did he even want to?
Peter shook himself out of that thought. Of course he wanted to survive; whatever had happened these past two days could be faced and worked out ... eventually. Maybe. He hoped. Right now all he chose to concentrate on was revenge ... defeating the Q'utah and exacting payment for what they'd made him do to Ray ... for what they had done to Peter. Absently he flexed his right arm, watching the muscle bulge at the bicep, though no more than it had done last week; less, in fact, since dehydration and lack of food was beginning to take a toll. Still he felt the strange energy coursing through his system, enhancing his strength and speed, keeping him moving when he should have long ago collapsed. How could he be so weak and yet so strong all at once?
Confused, he clapped both hands to his forehead, bowing forward. "Egon," he groaned aloud. "Egon, please...."
"We will force you to kill your precious Egon," a hated voice trilled, "and we will feed on his thoughts."
"You will pay for the blood oath," another harped, rattling Peter's nerves with a jolt of pain. "Kill the boy, kill the other. Your friends all die."
"They'll defeat you," Peter shot back in a now-rare burst of contempt. "Egon...."
"Egon is already dead," the first returned snidely. "You are already dead."
Whatever reply Peter would have made -- could he have formulated a suitable one to that ominous remark -- was lost in the last entity's announcement.
"Night."
Peter's empathics shifted into high gear -- more intensely than he'd ever felt them save when feeding. A vision of Ray slammed into his mind, proximity strengthening the vision even more. He sensed rather than saw the young man very clearly, felt him shiver with dampness and fear, and knew beyond knowledge that Ray was seated in the basement of the firehouse.
"So close."
"No," Peter whispered, again covering his face. "They can't be ready yet. Please no more." The answer to this heartfelt plea was for his body to unfold from its uncomfortable crouch and scurry along the narrow passage to the nearest ladder. He emerged into the cool night air, tears on his face and gloom in his heart.
Dragging steps covered the one city block to Mott Street in short order. He pressed himself flat against the building opposite the great brick structure that he'd called home for several years, examining it with longing and dread. Home. This was his home and he wanted nothing so much as to crawl inside its secure walls, slip between clean sheets -- barring Slimer's nocturnal visitations -- and give himself over to the exhaustion that was claiming his soul if not his body.
No lights shone in the lower windows and Peter crossed the street, resigned now to whatever fate awaited him inside. He sensed Ray even stronger now; the younger man had not changed position; the basement was still Peter's goal. He could only hope that there were adequate protections for his friend even if it meant the end of Peter's existence ... and the Q'utah's.
As expected, the outer door was locked. This proved to be no barrier to one whose strength was enhanced many times over. A slight exertion snapped the lock, allowing Peter access to the dim interior of the garage area. There his night vision proved to be another boon -- he could see as well as if it were day. Not that I really want to see what happens next, he told himself gloomily. Egon! Where are you?
Dragging steps carried him to the stairway leading down to the basement- subbasement combination. Down there, he knew, huddled twenty-five feet below, Ray Stantz waited. Even from here the smell of Ray's ... fear? anxiety? ... was intoxicating. Subliminal warnings made him pause outside the metal firedoor, peeking around it rather than entering boldly. There were four life forms below. Not that that was surprising; Egon, Winston and Slimer would not have left Ray to face him alone.
"Four below," the parasite Q'utah growled, as empathically aware through Peter's senses as was Peter himself. "Four not one. Three and a not- human."
From where he stood Peter could see Ray quite clearly despite the dimness of the basement area. The engineer sat on a high stool three-quarters of the way across the floor, facing the stairway down which Peter peered. White bandages shone in the light of the single overhead bulb, and Ray raised a hand to touch the dressing guardedly. Though dressed warmly in jeans and red flannel shirt, he shivered slightly in the damp. Afraid, Peter thought sadly. Ray doesn't trust me anymore. There was none of the panic of the previous night, however, and the fear was tightly reined. Peter felt an element of pride in that fact; whatever else might be said about him, Ray Stantz' courage was deep cored and genuine.
Senses expanded even as this appreciative thought filled his heart, and he was able to identify the hidden forms. Winston's familiar essence was flattened against the containment unit, grim determination radiating as a purple-salty aura. At his side hovered Slimer, excited and chattery though silent. To Peter's right he sensed Egon Spengler, crouched behind a work bench, emotions so coolly controlled as to barely register, yet unmstakable. From him Peter discerned high concern outwardly directed, and resolute competence. Suddenly, Peter felt better than he had in two days.
The Q'utah made no move and Peter felt scorn rise with a fledgling confidence. "What's the matter?" he taunted in a low voice, his heart beating like a triphammer. "Are you afraid they might be able to stop you?"
Their answer came in the form of another burst of pain, so excruciating as to nearly knock Peter to his knees. "Afraid of nothing!" the entity shrilled silently. "A millennium men have tried to stop us."
"Not to mention," Peter growled back, regaining his balance, "that the only other option is starvation in short order. Trap or not, you don't have any choice, boobies."
"We will feed upon four this night."
"Hope you choke," Peter snapped, his feet descending the steep stair of their own volition. Craving grew, the deep seated hunger flaring like a new sun. Ray looked up as he approached, the expression in his large eyes enough to deepen the ache. "I'd hoped you were going to leave town, kiddo," Peter said, afraid himself.
Ray caught his breath, gaze rivetted on Peter's gleaming canines. "Whatever happens, Peter," he managed, breathless but unpanicked, "I don't blame you."
That brought the psychologist to a brief stop. "I love you too, Ray," he whispered, the warmth in Ray's mind flooding him unexpectedly. "And I'm sorry." Louder, "Know you're here, guys. Hard to hide from an empath."
Neither Winston nor Egon responded to his hale though Ray's eyes darted in either direction as though seeking them out. Peter shook his head even as the Q'utah urged him to advance. Ray staggered to his feet but did not retreat as expected. Instead, he merely crossed his arms across his chest in a defensive gesture and held his stance. "You had to come back to me, Peter," he said with a defiance directed at Peter's captors. "They must be pretty hungry by now."
"We are ravenous," Peter replied, mentally berating himself for the 'we.' It was true -- he was as hungry as the Q'utah and for the same sustenance. Could the feed be an addiction? But this was Ray! Collecting himself, Peter took a step backward. "No! Ray, I.... I'm not going to hurt you!"
"You will feed!" the Q'utah ordered, battling for control of Peter's body. Venkman clamped his mind in a knot, focussing on love, compassion, friendship. "N-no...."
"Peter."
That soft voice drew Venkman back around to his prey. Ray's amber eyes gleamed softly in the light, affection there mixed with suppressed fear. "You have no choice, Peter," he declared, taking a single step forward. "You have to take my ... me."
"They can't stop us," Peter blurted, wondering when the Q'utah-Venkman combination had become 'us.' "Egon ... Winston ... I'll just kill them if they try." Another iron effort forced his steps backward again toward the stair. "No matter what happens ..." He swallowed. "... I don't want you hurt again."
Ray licked his lips though moving no closer. "You don't have a choice, Peter. Look!" In an abrupt move he ripped off the white bandages swathing his throat. Peter could see the red, swollen flesh held together by dark sutures. Something inside of him felt sick, then even that was submerged when the Q'utah went mad! Hunger fanned to unbearable heights, blocking out love and protectiveness; Peter saw only prey. Unable to stop himself, he abandoned his arduous flight, gathered his legs under him and leaped for the stationary younger man. He made it. The Q'utah did not.
There was no warning. The first hint of a trap came with the blinding curtain that cascaded up from the floor to form a barrier between himself and Ray. In mid-air and unable to change direction, Peter had time only to raise an arm to protect his eyes and then he was engulfed in flame. Molten lava dripped from every nerve, synapses seemed to short-circuit all at once. It felt as though he hung suspended for hours though the light impeded his forward speed not at all. The scream was torn from Peter's lips even as something was torn from his mind, the pain so intense that he barely registered crashing into Ray's chest. They both flew several feet and went down, landing hard on the concrete floor.
Only marginally conscious, Peter could see little of his surroundings, yet even through his growing haze another sun burst, this time from the direction of the containment unit. He felt the unpleasant suction of directed energy even as arms wrapped around his middle, preventing him from being dragged along. Unearthly screams filled the room, uttered in three separate voices, all of them recognizable and abhored. Sixty seconds later the glare was gone, the room silent and Peter Venkman's mind was his own.
Sheer relief must have blacked him out for a few seconds for the next thing Peter was aware of, was that he was lying on top of something somewhat softer than the concrete floor, still held tight around the middle. Thundering feet approached, hands touching him gently on the back and head.
"Peter?" Egon's deep bass inquired, more anxiety in the tones than had been apparent in Peter's brief empathic scan. "Peter, speak to me."
"Is he all right?" Winston demanded from some point directly overhead. "What about Ray?"
"Peeee-ter!" That was Slimer's high falsetto, even as something squishy kissed his cheek. Peter sighed in pure contentment, exhaustion precluding his moving for a moment. I'm free! I'm free! I'm.... Hey! What about Ray? Alarmed, Peter forced his head up, until he could see his 'cushion.' A pair of worried eyes stared back from a distance of six inches, dark against a pale face.
"P-Peter?" Ray whispered. Emotions Peter declined to identify crossed the youthful face, even as the arms holding him in place tightened briefly before dropping away. "I-is that really you?"
"Ray?" Venkman croaked back. He propped himself up onto one elbow and rolled off the man he was still lying on. The effort was horrendous and nearly cost him his thready consciousness, but he held on tenaciously, worry coercing his vision back into focus. "Are you...?"
"Are you?" Ray shot back, weakly lifting one hand and touching the ugly stitches on his neck. His eyes never left Peter's, and there was a wariness there that returned the bile to the psychologist's mouth.
Peter managed a nod even as strong arms slid around him from behind and turned him over. Egon Spengler lifted him to a sitting position, bracing him with an arm around his back. Peter reluctantly raised his head, loathe to see the condemnation and disgust he expected to find in Spengler's eyes. To his surprise he found only concern in the sapphire depths. Even as Peter watched, the concern softened into intense relief. "It is you, isn't it, Peter." Was that a hint of tears in the resonant bass?
Peter sank backwards, Egon's arms providing a support that would have left him flat if it had been removed. His mind swirled, everything going light, dark and blank by turns. "Is it?" he mumbled, taking rapid mental stock of himself. The background pressure and voices that had been part of every waking or sleeping moment for the past two days were gone, the relief so intense as to leave Peter shaking. "They're ... gone," he managed through lax lips. "The Q'utah. They're...."
"Gone, Peter." Egon confirmed, using his other hand to cradle Peter's head. "We activated the emergency lock in the containment unit the minute you were clear. Activating it siphoned the Q'utah directly into the energy grid."
"Siphoned how?" Peter wondered, only mildly curious. If Egon said they were siphoned, that was good enough for him!
Winston answered from the left. "That info you came through with paid off, homeboy. Ray remembered what you said about the Q'utah being N-Es, so we planned our strategy accordingly. Egon set a barrier field of protonic energy attuned to let only your psionic frequency pass. As you went through, it filtered out any strange wavelengths as neat as putting you through a colander."
Peter grinned, having to force his eyes back open even as the quiet blackness beckoned. As his lashes lifted he was treated to a view of Egon's blue uniform with one eye and the still supine Ray Stantz with the other. He tilted his head slightly, watching as Winston slid an arm under the younger man's shoulders and lifted, bracing Stantz much as Egon was him.
"Is it really him?" Ray blurted shakily, continuing to watch Peter as though the psychologist were going to spring at any minute. "Peter, is it really you?"
"'Course it is, you dope," Peter returned, striving for a light tone. The quaver in his voice gave him away, and he struggled to sit on his own, feeling lost and vulnerable. Egon refused to release him completely, however, and for that Peter was grateful. "Ray ... I'm...."
The youngest Ghostbuster didn't reply, though his focus shifted to Peter's mouth. It was only then that Peter realized that the inch long razor canines were still there. Appalled, he tapped one of them with a fingernail, questioning Spengler with a look while wondering if his eyes were at least green again.
One long forefinger pried open Peter's mouth, tapping a fang in turn. "Obviously, not all the modifications done to your body were psionic enhancements. Whether these physical alterations are permanent or not...." The blond head shook apologetically.
The answer to that came precisely on cue. Peter coughed and spat, ejecting two white objects from his mouth. Slimer zipped to ground level, extending one sticky hand before they hit. An odd look on his face, he held them up for public view. "What?" he asked, floating at shoulder level.
Peter ran his tongue along the dual holes in his gums. "My $900 caps!" he wailed, clamping his mouth shut and feeling like one of the Beverly Hillbillies.
Egon gave a short bark of laughter at his discomfiture, as much a release of tension as humor. "We'll replace your winning smile tomorrow," he soothed, slinging an arm around Peter's chest and urging him up. "I'm betting you'll want to spend some time at the dinner table first. Those ... uh ... were root canals, weren't they? If not, we'll have to find you a straw."
After three days, food sounded pretty good, root canal or not. The body screamed its need even though Peter felt nauseated by the thought. He spat again, tasting the salt of human blood on his tongue, while his stomach tied itself into a knot. "A straw doesn't sound half bad," he joshed weakly, rubbing the still swollen spot on his jaw where Winston had punched him. The black man looked sheepish.
"Um ... about that shot, Pete...."
"About that concussion, Zed...." Peter returned, reading the man's mind. The two grinned and the matter was forgotten -- as easy as that.
Winston turned and slapped Ray lightly on the chest. "Think you can make it up, kid? Don't want to spend the rest of the night here on the floor, do you?" Ray nodded and the two also staggered to their feet; the four stood there staring at each other for several long seconds, while the tension grew to an almost palpable force. Even Slimer felt it, and circled the quartet, dripping green slime in his wake. Peter shuffled his feet embarrassedly, not knowing what to say. Thanks seemed inadequate, 'I'm sorry,' even more so. He opened his mouth then closed it again, darting a glance at Ray, who was leaning weakly against Winston. The young man was very pale and as weak as Peter himself. He widened his gaze to include Zeddemore, whose eyes gleamed with happiness. That combined with the warm weight of Egon's arm still around his back, was strengthening and reassuring, yet even that didn't loosen his tongue. For one of the few times in his life Peter Venkman found himself bereft of one thing to say.
It was Slimer, surprisingly, who broke the uncomfortable tension by flaring his nostrils dramatically. "Peeee-ew. Yucky! Yucky!"
"Someone is backsliding with their personal hygiene," Egon agreed, freeing one arm and pinching his nose shut. "I may have to fumigate this coverall."
"Ripe is as ripe does, buddy-boy," Winston added, falling in with Egon's obvious attempt at lightening the situation. "You get a shower before dinner. And use lots of soap."
Peter lifted one arm to hear his grimy uniform crackle. "How about lots of Comet," he groaned, turning determinedly away from his armpit. "I need a good scrubbing." He paused, for there was still one member of the team undealt with. His green eyes rose, meeting Ray's brown ones and locking. "You must know I wouldn't hurt you for anything in this world -- or any other."
Ray silently chewed his lip and Peter was again acutely aware of the holes in his gums where razor fangs had resided, the memory of what those fangs had done to his best friend living vividly on the filmscreen of his eyelids. His focus went from the torn flesh on Ray's throat, then up again to the white face and expressively inexpressive eyes that were examining him minutely, lingering on Peter's mouth. Finally, and to Peter's everlasting relief, Ray essayed an earnest smile. "I'm glad you're okay, Peter," he intoned solemnly. "We were worried."
In obvious and heartfelt agreement, Winston, Egon and Slimer engulfed him with hugs from all directions. Peter leaned into them with a blissful sigh then noticed that Ray, despite his usually open affection, was maintaining his distance. Peter held his breath. "Tex?" he whispered, holding out a trembling hand.
Ray hesitated a moment longer, his gaze shifting from Peter's mouth to his eyes. Then the younger man threw himself forward, nearly knocking Peter over with the force of his lunge. "Welcome back, Peter," he murmured, hugging Peter ferociously around the neck. Peter closed his own arms around the younger man's chest and pulled him close, shut his eyes in absolute contentment and finally knew himself to be home.
***
Gone was any claim to his own actions; whatever defiance he'd been able to show previously was now reduced to impotent protests the Q'utah barely recognized. This was demonstrated early after the return underground. Infuriated by Ray's survival, the Q'utah had forced Peter to repeatedly dunk his own head under the waste-charged waters, then to humiliate himself in ways that would have broken a lesser man. The lessons were effective and Peter Venkman's spirits sank lower, more so as he sensed portions of his personality begin to submerge beneath the encroaching evil that was the Q'utah.
The aliens might have already won completely -- would have won -- had their victim been any other. But Peter carried a shield comprised of hatred and bonded by all-consuming rage. Anger had always been Peter's strength, and anger he now nourished, using it to fuel the burning pit that had once been his heart. He was not their's yet. Not yet.
Despite the misery there was some measure of comfort to be found. Ray still lived. The morning before, Peter had not been sure. Pleasure at his friend's survival was tainted but not destroyed by the remembrance of his last empathic contact with the younger man. The fear spice had been strong -- stronger than either love or trust in all but the memories. Not that the mind touch had not been wonderful! Peter smiled, re-savoring the experience. Rather than childhood, last night Peter had re-lived some of their ... of Ray's experiences at Columbia, many of them long forgotten or never known, and from a point of view refreshing by an innocence Peter had lost long ago. As before, Peter dwelled on the psychological intimacy they'd experienced, allowing it to ease some of the constrictions around his heart.
It would have been nice, Peter thought regretfully, if Ray hadn't been so afraid. The terror had been stimulating during the delirium of the feed; the memory was a stabbing ache. The affectionate trust Peter had once cherished was still there, and for that Peter was glad. But this time as strong as the love had been, was something Peter had only sampled the first time: an overpowering fear that bordered on the very fringe of hysteria. Peter's protective instincts rebelled at allowing his Ray to suffer like that, even while his heart broke to realize that he himself was the cause. Ray was afraid of him -- more afraid than he'd ever been. The Q'utah had seen to that, stimulating the emotion for their own pleasure. Even were the Q'utah to be destroyed and Peter restored, would his relationship with Ray ever be the same? Not that the chances of Ray actually surviving their inevitable next encounter weren't admittedly slim.
The second beam of symbolic sunlight was that Egon was now aware of the situation. As ashamed as Peter had been to have the blond physicist see him at the hospital, just that much had he been he comforted. Egon had said to trust him and Peter did more than he'd ever trusted anyone in his life. But could even the imposing Egon Spengler defeat an enemy a millennium old ... and could Peter survive the battle? As a murderer of old men and young friends, did he even want to?
Peter shook himself out of that thought. Of course he wanted to survive; whatever had happened these past two days could be faced and worked out ... eventually. Maybe. He hoped. Right now all he chose to concentrate on was revenge ... defeating the Q'utah and exacting payment for what they'd made him do to Ray ... for what they had done to Peter. Absently he flexed his right arm, watching the muscle bulge at the bicep, though no more than it had done last week; less, in fact, since dehydration and lack of food was beginning to take a toll. Still he felt the strange energy coursing through his system, enhancing his strength and speed, keeping him moving when he should have long ago collapsed. How could he be so weak and yet so strong all at once?
Confused, he clapped both hands to his forehead, bowing forward. "Egon," he groaned aloud. "Egon, please...."
"We will force you to kill your precious Egon," a hated voice trilled, "and we will feed on his thoughts."
"You will pay for the blood oath," another harped, rattling Peter's nerves with a jolt of pain. "Kill the boy, kill the other. Your friends all die."
"They'll defeat you," Peter shot back in a now-rare burst of contempt. "Egon...."
"Egon is already dead," the first returned snidely. "You are already dead."
Whatever reply Peter would have made -- could he have formulated a suitable one to that ominous remark -- was lost in the last entity's announcement.
"Night."
Peter's empathics shifted into high gear -- more intensely than he'd ever felt them save when feeding. A vision of Ray slammed into his mind, proximity strengthening the vision even more. He sensed rather than saw the young man very clearly, felt him shiver with dampness and fear, and knew beyond knowledge that Ray was seated in the basement of the firehouse.
"So close."
"No," Peter whispered, again covering his face. "They can't be ready yet. Please no more." The answer to this heartfelt plea was for his body to unfold from its uncomfortable crouch and scurry along the narrow passage to the nearest ladder. He emerged into the cool night air, tears on his face and gloom in his heart.
Dragging steps covered the one city block to Mott Street in short order. He pressed himself flat against the building opposite the great brick structure that he'd called home for several years, examining it with longing and dread. Home. This was his home and he wanted nothing so much as to crawl inside its secure walls, slip between clean sheets -- barring Slimer's nocturnal visitations -- and give himself over to the exhaustion that was claiming his soul if not his body.
No lights shone in the lower windows and Peter crossed the street, resigned now to whatever fate awaited him inside. He sensed Ray even stronger now; the younger man had not changed position; the basement was still Peter's goal. He could only hope that there were adequate protections for his friend even if it meant the end of Peter's existence ... and the Q'utah's.
As expected, the outer door was locked. This proved to be no barrier to one whose strength was enhanced many times over. A slight exertion snapped the lock, allowing Peter access to the dim interior of the garage area. There his night vision proved to be another boon -- he could see as well as if it were day. Not that I really want to see what happens next, he told himself gloomily. Egon! Where are you?
Dragging steps carried him to the stairway leading down to the basement- subbasement combination. Down there, he knew, huddled twenty-five feet below, Ray Stantz waited. Even from here the smell of Ray's ... fear? anxiety? ... was intoxicating. Subliminal warnings made him pause outside the metal firedoor, peeking around it rather than entering boldly. There were four life forms below. Not that that was surprising; Egon, Winston and Slimer would not have left Ray to face him alone.
"Four below," the parasite Q'utah growled, as empathically aware through Peter's senses as was Peter himself. "Four not one. Three and a not- human."
From where he stood Peter could see Ray quite clearly despite the dimness of the basement area. The engineer sat on a high stool three-quarters of the way across the floor, facing the stairway down which Peter peered. White bandages shone in the light of the single overhead bulb, and Ray raised a hand to touch the dressing guardedly. Though dressed warmly in jeans and red flannel shirt, he shivered slightly in the damp. Afraid, Peter thought sadly. Ray doesn't trust me anymore. There was none of the panic of the previous night, however, and the fear was tightly reined. Peter felt an element of pride in that fact; whatever else might be said about him, Ray Stantz' courage was deep cored and genuine.
Senses expanded even as this appreciative thought filled his heart, and he was able to identify the hidden forms. Winston's familiar essence was flattened against the containment unit, grim determination radiating as a purple-salty aura. At his side hovered Slimer, excited and chattery though silent. To Peter's right he sensed Egon Spengler, crouched behind a work bench, emotions so coolly controlled as to barely register, yet unmstakable. From him Peter discerned high concern outwardly directed, and resolute competence. Suddenly, Peter felt better than he had in two days.
The Q'utah made no move and Peter felt scorn rise with a fledgling confidence. "What's the matter?" he taunted in a low voice, his heart beating like a triphammer. "Are you afraid they might be able to stop you?"
Their answer came in the form of another burst of pain, so excruciating as to nearly knock Peter to his knees. "Afraid of nothing!" the entity shrilled silently. "A millennium men have tried to stop us."
"Not to mention," Peter growled back, regaining his balance, "that the only other option is starvation in short order. Trap or not, you don't have any choice, boobies."
"We will feed upon four this night."
"Hope you choke," Peter snapped, his feet descending the steep stair of their own volition. Craving grew, the deep seated hunger flaring like a new sun. Ray looked up as he approached, the expression in his large eyes enough to deepen the ache. "I'd hoped you were going to leave town, kiddo," Peter said, afraid himself.
Ray caught his breath, gaze rivetted on Peter's gleaming canines. "Whatever happens, Peter," he managed, breathless but unpanicked, "I don't blame you."
That brought the psychologist to a brief stop. "I love you too, Ray," he whispered, the warmth in Ray's mind flooding him unexpectedly. "And I'm sorry." Louder, "Know you're here, guys. Hard to hide from an empath."
Neither Winston nor Egon responded to his hale though Ray's eyes darted in either direction as though seeking them out. Peter shook his head even as the Q'utah urged him to advance. Ray staggered to his feet but did not retreat as expected. Instead, he merely crossed his arms across his chest in a defensive gesture and held his stance. "You had to come back to me, Peter," he said with a defiance directed at Peter's captors. "They must be pretty hungry by now."
"We are ravenous," Peter replied, mentally berating himself for the 'we.' It was true -- he was as hungry as the Q'utah and for the same sustenance. Could the feed be an addiction? But this was Ray! Collecting himself, Peter took a step backward. "No! Ray, I.... I'm not going to hurt you!"
"You will feed!" the Q'utah ordered, battling for control of Peter's body. Venkman clamped his mind in a knot, focussing on love, compassion, friendship. "N-no...."
"Peter."
That soft voice drew Venkman back around to his prey. Ray's amber eyes gleamed softly in the light, affection there mixed with suppressed fear. "You have no choice, Peter," he declared, taking a single step forward. "You have to take my ... me."
"They can't stop us," Peter blurted, wondering when the Q'utah-Venkman combination had become 'us.' "Egon ... Winston ... I'll just kill them if they try." Another iron effort forced his steps backward again toward the stair. "No matter what happens ..." He swallowed. "... I don't want you hurt again."
Ray licked his lips though moving no closer. "You don't have a choice, Peter. Look!" In an abrupt move he ripped off the white bandages swathing his throat. Peter could see the red, swollen flesh held together by dark sutures. Something inside of him felt sick, then even that was submerged when the Q'utah went mad! Hunger fanned to unbearable heights, blocking out love and protectiveness; Peter saw only prey. Unable to stop himself, he abandoned his arduous flight, gathered his legs under him and leaped for the stationary younger man. He made it. The Q'utah did not.
There was no warning. The first hint of a trap came with the blinding curtain that cascaded up from the floor to form a barrier between himself and Ray. In mid-air and unable to change direction, Peter had time only to raise an arm to protect his eyes and then he was engulfed in flame. Molten lava dripped from every nerve, synapses seemed to short-circuit all at once. It felt as though he hung suspended for hours though the light impeded his forward speed not at all. The scream was torn from Peter's lips even as something was torn from his mind, the pain so intense that he barely registered crashing into Ray's chest. They both flew several feet and went down, landing hard on the concrete floor.
Only marginally conscious, Peter could see little of his surroundings, yet even through his growing haze another sun burst, this time from the direction of the containment unit. He felt the unpleasant suction of directed energy even as arms wrapped around his middle, preventing him from being dragged along. Unearthly screams filled the room, uttered in three separate voices, all of them recognizable and abhored. Sixty seconds later the glare was gone, the room silent and Peter Venkman's mind was his own.
Sheer relief must have blacked him out for a few seconds for the next thing Peter was aware of, was that he was lying on top of something somewhat softer than the concrete floor, still held tight around the middle. Thundering feet approached, hands touching him gently on the back and head.
"Peter?" Egon's deep bass inquired, more anxiety in the tones than had been apparent in Peter's brief empathic scan. "Peter, speak to me."
"Is he all right?" Winston demanded from some point directly overhead. "What about Ray?"
"Peeee-ter!" That was Slimer's high falsetto, even as something squishy kissed his cheek. Peter sighed in pure contentment, exhaustion precluding his moving for a moment. I'm free! I'm free! I'm.... Hey! What about Ray? Alarmed, Peter forced his head up, until he could see his 'cushion.' A pair of worried eyes stared back from a distance of six inches, dark against a pale face.
"P-Peter?" Ray whispered. Emotions Peter declined to identify crossed the youthful face, even as the arms holding him in place tightened briefly before dropping away. "I-is that really you?"
"Ray?" Venkman croaked back. He propped himself up onto one elbow and rolled off the man he was still lying on. The effort was horrendous and nearly cost him his thready consciousness, but he held on tenaciously, worry coercing his vision back into focus. "Are you...?"
"Are you?" Ray shot back, weakly lifting one hand and touching the ugly stitches on his neck. His eyes never left Peter's, and there was a wariness there that returned the bile to the psychologist's mouth.
Peter managed a nod even as strong arms slid around him from behind and turned him over. Egon Spengler lifted him to a sitting position, bracing him with an arm around his back. Peter reluctantly raised his head, loathe to see the condemnation and disgust he expected to find in Spengler's eyes. To his surprise he found only concern in the sapphire depths. Even as Peter watched, the concern softened into intense relief. "It is you, isn't it, Peter." Was that a hint of tears in the resonant bass?
Peter sank backwards, Egon's arms providing a support that would have left him flat if it had been removed. His mind swirled, everything going light, dark and blank by turns. "Is it?" he mumbled, taking rapid mental stock of himself. The background pressure and voices that had been part of every waking or sleeping moment for the past two days were gone, the relief so intense as to leave Peter shaking. "They're ... gone," he managed through lax lips. "The Q'utah. They're...."
"Gone, Peter." Egon confirmed, using his other hand to cradle Peter's head. "We activated the emergency lock in the containment unit the minute you were clear. Activating it siphoned the Q'utah directly into the energy grid."
"Siphoned how?" Peter wondered, only mildly curious. If Egon said they were siphoned, that was good enough for him!
Winston answered from the left. "That info you came through with paid off, homeboy. Ray remembered what you said about the Q'utah being N-Es, so we planned our strategy accordingly. Egon set a barrier field of protonic energy attuned to let only your psionic frequency pass. As you went through, it filtered out any strange wavelengths as neat as putting you through a colander."
Peter grinned, having to force his eyes back open even as the quiet blackness beckoned. As his lashes lifted he was treated to a view of Egon's blue uniform with one eye and the still supine Ray Stantz with the other. He tilted his head slightly, watching as Winston slid an arm under the younger man's shoulders and lifted, bracing Stantz much as Egon was him.
"Is it really him?" Ray blurted shakily, continuing to watch Peter as though the psychologist were going to spring at any minute. "Peter, is it really you?"
"'Course it is, you dope," Peter returned, striving for a light tone. The quaver in his voice gave him away, and he struggled to sit on his own, feeling lost and vulnerable. Egon refused to release him completely, however, and for that Peter was grateful. "Ray ... I'm...."
The youngest Ghostbuster didn't reply, though his focus shifted to Peter's mouth. It was only then that Peter realized that the inch long razor canines were still there. Appalled, he tapped one of them with a fingernail, questioning Spengler with a look while wondering if his eyes were at least green again.
One long forefinger pried open Peter's mouth, tapping a fang in turn. "Obviously, not all the modifications done to your body were psionic enhancements. Whether these physical alterations are permanent or not...." The blond head shook apologetically.
The answer to that came precisely on cue. Peter coughed and spat, ejecting two white objects from his mouth. Slimer zipped to ground level, extending one sticky hand before they hit. An odd look on his face, he held them up for public view. "What?" he asked, floating at shoulder level.
Peter ran his tongue along the dual holes in his gums. "My $900 caps!" he wailed, clamping his mouth shut and feeling like one of the Beverly Hillbillies.
Egon gave a short bark of laughter at his discomfiture, as much a release of tension as humor. "We'll replace your winning smile tomorrow," he soothed, slinging an arm around Peter's chest and urging him up. "I'm betting you'll want to spend some time at the dinner table first. Those ... uh ... were root canals, weren't they? If not, we'll have to find you a straw."
After three days, food sounded pretty good, root canal or not. The body screamed its need even though Peter felt nauseated by the thought. He spat again, tasting the salt of human blood on his tongue, while his stomach tied itself into a knot. "A straw doesn't sound half bad," he joshed weakly, rubbing the still swollen spot on his jaw where Winston had punched him. The black man looked sheepish.
"Um ... about that shot, Pete...."
"About that concussion, Zed...." Peter returned, reading the man's mind. The two grinned and the matter was forgotten -- as easy as that.
Winston turned and slapped Ray lightly on the chest. "Think you can make it up, kid? Don't want to spend the rest of the night here on the floor, do you?" Ray nodded and the two also staggered to their feet; the four stood there staring at each other for several long seconds, while the tension grew to an almost palpable force. Even Slimer felt it, and circled the quartet, dripping green slime in his wake. Peter shuffled his feet embarrassedly, not knowing what to say. Thanks seemed inadequate, 'I'm sorry,' even more so. He opened his mouth then closed it again, darting a glance at Ray, who was leaning weakly against Winston. The young man was very pale and as weak as Peter himself. He widened his gaze to include Zeddemore, whose eyes gleamed with happiness. That combined with the warm weight of Egon's arm still around his back, was strengthening and reassuring, yet even that didn't loosen his tongue. For one of the few times in his life Peter Venkman found himself bereft of one thing to say.
It was Slimer, surprisingly, who broke the uncomfortable tension by flaring his nostrils dramatically. "Peeee-ew. Yucky! Yucky!"
"Someone is backsliding with their personal hygiene," Egon agreed, freeing one arm and pinching his nose shut. "I may have to fumigate this coverall."
"Ripe is as ripe does, buddy-boy," Winston added, falling in with Egon's obvious attempt at lightening the situation. "You get a shower before dinner. And use lots of soap."
Peter lifted one arm to hear his grimy uniform crackle. "How about lots of Comet," he groaned, turning determinedly away from his armpit. "I need a good scrubbing." He paused, for there was still one member of the team undealt with. His green eyes rose, meeting Ray's brown ones and locking. "You must know I wouldn't hurt you for anything in this world -- or any other."
Ray silently chewed his lip and Peter was again acutely aware of the holes in his gums where razor fangs had resided, the memory of what those fangs had done to his best friend living vividly on the filmscreen of his eyelids. His focus went from the torn flesh on Ray's throat, then up again to the white face and expressively inexpressive eyes that were examining him minutely, lingering on Peter's mouth. Finally, and to Peter's everlasting relief, Ray essayed an earnest smile. "I'm glad you're okay, Peter," he intoned solemnly. "We were worried."
In obvious and heartfelt agreement, Winston, Egon and Slimer engulfed him with hugs from all directions. Peter leaned into them with a blissful sigh then noticed that Ray, despite his usually open affection, was maintaining his distance. Peter held his breath. "Tex?" he whispered, holding out a trembling hand.
Ray hesitated a moment longer, his gaze shifting from Peter's mouth to his eyes. Then the younger man threw himself forward, nearly knocking Peter over with the force of his lunge. "Welcome back, Peter," he murmured, hugging Peter ferociously around the neck. Peter closed his own arms around the younger man's chest and pulled him close, shut his eyes in absolute contentment and finally knew himself to be home.
***