Thanks to the incursion of Gozer the Gozarian in the year 1985, the
physical barriers defining the time-space locale known as New York City-
present were somewhat less rigid than those governing most of the world.
Damaged by the forcible breach, the walls of reality itself would
occasionally thin, creating nexus to other dimensions termed the nether-
realms. When this happened alien inhabitants of those far-away planes
gained access to the great blue planet Earth, New York City in particular.
While some few were powerful denizens in their own right, wielding energies
unknown in this world, others were relatively harmless irritants driven by
some unexplained desire to tease or vandalize. It was these latter which
made up the bulk of cases the Ghostbusters handled day after day. This was
one of them.
The building had been built in the 1930s as a vote-attracting nod at the hordes of low-income families in depression era New York. It had originally been a sound enough dwelling in a decent neighborhood, but time and neglect had served to erase all of that. The once proud structure consisted now of little more than a gutted shell, holed-through flooring and shaky stairs; in wartime it might have been mistaken for a direct bomb strike. Urban renewal, which had overtaken the neighborhood recently, had mandated this building be condemned and demolished; the six nether-beings who had moved in after the tenants were evicted decided otherwise. The Ghostbusters were there to settle the dispute -- with blasters.
"He's over here! C'mon, guys!" Peter's call rang hollowly, muffled by crumbling walls. The shrillness of the purple N-E with three eyes and no legs sounded clearly, however, its taunts audible from all over the entire floor, "Flesh-head," and "Earth-crawler!" being among the more printable.
"I'll get you, you little slimeball!" Peter hollered, racing after the more- or-less round being at full speed. This vow was followed by a loud, "Whoop!" as his boots encountered the trail of purple slime the creature was leaving behind. His feet skidded out from under him, momentum carrying him forward several yards bottom first. "Yeeeeeow!" he screeched, coming to a stop just shy of a six-foot hole in the floor. Cautiously crawling the last few inches forward, he hitched one eye over the edge -- it was a twelve foot drop to an equally saggy floor. Peter gritted his teeth and backed away.
"Can't catch meeee!" the nether-being jeered, dripping additional slime on Peter's head for good measure.
Sputtering dangerously, Peter scooped goop out of his mouth, gagging at the fetor left behind. Three days in the sewers had left him with an intense hatred of unpleasant smells -- particularly on him. Wrinkling is nose, he retrieved the thrower dropped in his fall and thumbed the power up another notch. "You're toast, slimehead," he growled, taking careful aim. The emerging white-hot beam charred a crater in the ceiling, showering the furious psychologist with moldy plaster. The N-E, unfazed, swooped under the beam, zipped to the other side of the room and thumbed its nose in Peter's direction. Peter fumed, his admittedly unstable temper fraying like an old rag. "You little.... Ray?! Egon?! C'mon!" Peter yelled, again taking aim. "Get your butts in here!"
Pounding boots responded to this summons, the thud-thud preceding Ray Stantz' appearance by mere seconds. "I'm coming, Peter!" he hollered breathlessly, slipping on the same slime that had taken Peter down. He windmilled his arms, barely maintaining his balance, and ended up sliding gracefully into the room looking pleased with himself. "Hey! That was fun!"
"We're not here for fun," Peter snapped, scowling fiercely in the other's direction. All he wanted out of life right now was to go home and shower off this putrid gunk, and Ray was acting like a kid at an amusement park. "Do your job, Stantz."
Ray's budding grin faded as if it had never been. "Sorry," he returned humbly, eyes carefully fixed on the purple creature who was even now holding its sides with laughter. "I'll get him from this side."
Peter nodded curtly, glancing just once in his youngest partner's direction to gauge the angle for his next shot. To his alarm he noticed that Ray was standing perilously close to the large hole in the floor. Who knew how strong those boards were? Declining another shout, he crossed the distance in a double stride and raised his arm, intending to drag the younger man to safety by the scruff of the neck. "Watch i--"
Ray turned, seeing Peter a fraction before his collar could be touched. Brown eyes widened, flying from Peter's hand to his mouth, a panicked expression crossing the youthful features. Uttering a barely audible gasp, Ray stepped backward out of reach, his foot encountering nothing but empty air. With a surprised yelp he toppled, landing on the floor below with a loud thump.
"Ray!" Momentarily startled into immobility, a dozen thoughts flew across Peter's mind, lighting briefly before moving on. The image of Ray's face when he'd seen Peter so close flashed briefly, driving a rusty dagger deep into Peter's chest. It was the sound of Ray hitting that galvanized him into action. He leaped forward, barely avoiding going over himself, and stared down at the sprawled body lying a dozen feet below, his throat constricting at the blood that was beginning to soak the dirty boards around Ray's head.
"Ray, are you all right?" There was no answer to his faltering query and now dread lended itself to Peter's distress. He crawled to the edge of the hole and reversed, scrambling for position until he was hanging onto the rotted boards by his fingertips. From there it was an easy drop to floor level. He knelt beside the still form, unbuckling the heavy proton pack and unzipping the sand-colored uniform. Eyes narrowed, he ran shaking fingers over chest and back, searching for broken bones. As near as he could tell, the head injury seemed to be the worst of it -- potentially more than bad enough. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief, using the soft cloth to wipe away some of the blood. To his relief he found only a shallow cut on Ray's forehead that was, as such cuts are wont to do, bleeding copiously.
"Ray, you in there?" Peter haled softly, slapping one smooth-shaven cheek firmly. Brown lashes fluttered and slowly rose; obviously, Ray had just had the wind knocked out of him. Torn between shaking the younger man until his teeth rattled and hugging him hard, Peter's temper struck out on its own and went into immediate overload.
"What is the matter with you?" he roared, gripping the groggy man by both arms and hauling him into a sitting position. "What'd you think I was going to do, bite you?" Nastily, he bared his teeth, revealing the silver temporary caps in the canine positions. Ray blinked confusedly up at him.
"I-I ... sorry." he stammered, raising one hand and dabbing at the blood running down his cheek. "I.... What happened?"
Annoyingly, this innocent confusion fanned Peter's fury even hotter. "Really stupid," he snapped, giving in to his impulses and shaking Ray roughly. "The gooper escaped, thanks to you. We chase the thing twenty minutes and you have to do something moronic like...."
Ray uttered a low cry, cluthing at his ribs and stammering more bewildered apologies. Peter pressed his lips together to prevent more rebuke from gushing forth and again felt inside the open jumpsuit. "You may have a couple of ribs loose," he grated, teeth clenched. "You could have broken your neck."
Ray braced himself against Peter's bent leg, fixing his gaze on the dirty floor. "I'm sorry."
Disregarding the extended apology, Peter searched Ray's pockets, coming up with a small packet of Kleenex. "Here," he gritted, shoving two of the tissues into Ray's hand and taking the rest for himself. "Clean yourself up." Stantz dabbed at his bloody face while Peter pressed the rest of the wad against the cut, tangling the fingers of his other hand in the auburn hair to secure the hold. "Any double vision?" he rapped, using his grip to force Ray's head up. "Dizziness? Nausea?" He received Ray's protestations with an absent nod and leaned forward to study the brown eyes for himself, seeing nothing amiss. "I don't think you have a concussion. You weren't out very long."
"I'm fine," Stantz mumbled, working his fingers under Peter's and holding the tissues in place. He still wouldn't look up.
Venkman felt a particle of remorse at the harsh way he was treating his injured comrade. But Peter's temper was too shredded to allow the gentleness he usually showed to the sensitive younger man, and Ray's lack of trust in him hurt too much to bear. Without a word he unceremoniously hauled Ray to his feet then staggered when the engineer uttered another cry, his leg giving out under him.
Peter braced himself, drawing Ray's arm across his shoulders and slipping his own arm around the younger man's waist. "Ankle?" Stantz pale face made the ensuing nod almost unnecessary. Peter sighed. "Looks like we bust with one short for awhile."
"I'm sorry," Ray repeated miserably, hanging his head. "I didn't mean it."
"Sure you didn't." Peter half-supported, half-carried the other toward the rickety stairway in the corner from which they could exit the building. He was starting to calm a bit, though resentment sang in each vein. The cause of the accident was all too clear to him -- he'd seen Ray staring at his mouth, noticed the fear in the amber eyes -- fear of Peter Venkman. Ray was still afraid of him and it hurt. Movement caught his attention peripherally and he looked up to see Egon and Winston peering down at them; Ray's yell must have brought them running.
"What happened?" Egon demanded, studying them both closely. "Raymond, are you hurt?"
Ray waved his free hand, eyes bright with shame. "I messed up, Egon. We lost the last gooper."
"Never mind that." Winston circled the hole, cautiously testing each board before he stepped on it. "Are you okay? Pete?"
"It's his ankle," Venkman returned, irritated by so obvious a question. "Get down here and we'll get him to a hospital."
"Very--" Egon stopped abruptly and stepped back out of Peter's view. There was a scrambling sound and muted instructions, then the magnificent glow of two proton streams illuminated the entire open floor. Peter recognized the shrill whistle as belonging to the purple gooper, then he was blinking, trying to adjust to the sudden dimness.
Winston's exultant yell of, "Got him!" told Peter that those two at least had had more success than he and Ray. Supporting Ray's weight, Peter silently made his way to the stairwell and waited for the triumphant twosome. He felt a timid touch on his chest and looked down into the contrite face of his friend.
"I'm sorry," Ray said, letting his hand fall away at Peter's sharp look. "I didn't mean to mess up the bust."
"For someone who didn't mean to, you did a great job," Peter snapped back, unable to help himself. He immediately regretted the words upon seeing the fresh guilt flash in those soft brown eyes. No apology would pass, however, so it was a real relief when Egon and Winston showed up then, Egon combing purple slime out of his hair, Winston grinning and bearing a smoking trap.
"We got it!" Zeddemore announced, holding the trap aloft. "It dive bombed Egon and ran right into my stream!"
"Odoriferous creature, isn't it?" Egon remarked, wrinkling his long nose. "I believe I shall claim the first shower when we get back."
"You may have to fight me for it," Winston remarked heartily, playfully tossing a blob in Peter's direction. When Peter's sour expression turned into a scowl, he darted a worried glance at Stantz. "Hey, you guys really aren't okay, are you? How bad is it?"
"I'm fine," Ray said even as Egon knelt to carefully probe the rapidly swelling ankle. Ray stiffened at the first touch, and Peter could see the blood drain completely from his already pale face. Ray darted a self- conscious glance in his direction, bit his lip and looked away, and Peter felt his own heart sink.
"Look," Peter began, his jaw tighten. "Why don't you guys take Ray to the hospital for some x-rays while I stuff these goopers into containment." He barely stopped himself from reacting to puzzlement from Egon and Winston and the way Ray's shoulders sagged. He didn't care. It had suddenly become imperative that he have some time to himself. Time with no Ghostbusters around.
This plan was spoiled when Winston shot him a cryptic look and proclaimed, "Think I'll head back with you, Pete. You can't carry five traps by yourself."
Accepting the arrangement and not remarking on Peter's grimace, Egon stepped forward and slid an arm around Ray's chest, allowing Peter to withdraw. Good ol' Egon. Knew I could count on you anyway. "We'll drive Ecto-1 to the hospital while you two request transportation from the officers' working crowd control. We'll join you at home shortly."
"I didn't mean to do it, Egon," Ray said, leaning heavily against the blond.
"I've never considered self-impairment to be one of your hobbies, Raymond," Egon teased gently in a way Peter would have under other circumstances. He was glad to see Ray relax fractionally as the friendly tone soothed some of the guilt Peter's accusations had inflicted. But not enough, Spengs, Peter thought with regret as Ray's shoulders continued to sag. You don't have the touch with him.
The problem was, maybe he didn't, either. Not anymore.
***
Winston had assisted in flushing the traps into permanent containment, then disappeared upstairs, much to Venkman's relief. Emotions churned inside Peter's gut, from frustration to outrage to a gentle sorrow closely resembling grief, each more difficult to deal with than the last. Not that these feelings were new; they'd been planted by the Q'utah, germinating in a soil tilled by heartache and watered by regret. Guilt had settled heavily, bearing as its standard the white flag of gauze swaddling Ray Stantz' damaged throat. Though logic dictated that blame be laid at the insubstantial feet of the Q'utah, still Peter accepted a lion's share for himself, as well; he had failed to protect Ray when his friend and brother had needed him most, worse, had become the instrument of near fatality. That Ray had survived was fortuitous and, Peter admitted freely, no thanks to himself; that he had immediately declared his forgiveness of Peter characteristic. Both were welcome -- had Ray died by Peter's own hand, so too would the psychologist, in spirit if not body. Yet, even that provided no oils on the maelstrom that raged inside of Peter's own soul.
Ray doesn't trust me anymore.
Frustration was the worst. Peter paced the garage like a caged panther, from the steel security door Winston had installed after the one time they had been burglarized, back past Janine's desk and into his own office, around and around in a monotonous circuit. Despite determined efforts, his mind insisted on replaying the events of the past week, emotions rising like old bile in the back of his throat. The storm was confused and undirected but foremost in his soul was the alluring desire to retaliate. But what kind of vengeance can one wreck upon a bodiless entity that was even now entrapped in the energy matrices constituting the klein bottles? Can't touch them, he reminded himself bitterly. Over a thousand years of death and torture, and they get off this easy.
"It's not fair!" He punctuated the statement with a vicious kick at the nearest file cabinet, following up with a right cross that would have knocked any sensible human cold. The steel drawer whumpf'd and deformed inward, the green exterior lightly stained with red. Peter grimaced, blowing on his multiply skinned knuckles, and feeling not one whit better. The cold, hard fact was that his natural inclination to turn blame outward wasn't working this time. The Q'utah were very much beyond Peter's reach, and no amount of temper tantrums could change that. He wanted to make them pay and pay dearly for what they'd done to him -- what they'd made him do to Ray ... to them both.
The only other tangible target for his continued pain was an auburn-haired, fresh-faced young man who had once loved Peter with all his heart. This was Ray's fault, too. After all, if Ray hadn't made that offer, Peter wouldn't even now cringe in remembrance every time they were together. If Ray had fled when he'd been given the chance, Peter would not now be crushed under a mountain of culpability. If Ray hadn't stopped believing in him, Peter would have been long rejuvenated by the supportive circle of his friends. If Ray hadn't stopped loving him.... Peter's heart twisted in his chest.
I nearly killed him. Again as he did nearly every waking hour, he tasted the salty copper of Ray's blood, and impulsively spat as he had after his teeth had ripped through vulnerable flesh. Ray's body was warm in his arms, the taste of the fear-spice delicious, the feeling of power over a helpless human being sang its pleasure in Peter's veins ... then died. Shame added its timbres to the song that was Peter's misery, that there could be anything smacking of pleasure in so vile an act.
But it wasn't all bad, he reminded himself for the thousandth time, striving as he had for days to find some semblance of balance in the situation. Not all of it. The empathics were gone but Peter remembered what it had been like to absorb the memories and emotions of the dying man; he felt again that peculiar fusion with another human mind, and savored the intimacy. I was actually part of him for awhile, Peter thought wonderingly.
The memories had begun to fade as soon as empathic contact had been severed, but fragments of the other's history remained with him, tantalizing shadow memories not his own. "So that's what 'Pa' Hanley was like," Peter murmured, a decade-long curiosity at least partially fulfilled. "Just like I imagined, the old sour puss. Reminds me of Old Man Petrewski from Flatbush. He had a face like a pickle, too." Melancholy filled him, as strong as a little boy's loneliness. "We were a lot alike growing up," he told a eight-year old boy who wasn't there. "So empty." For a single moment righteous indignation crowded away the resentment, and Peter again felt that deep-rooted protectiveness that had marked their relationship from the beginning. "I wish I'd known you then, Ray. No one would have ever touched you or put you down if I'd been there."
Tactile sensations flooded back at the trigger, from tired muscles to the thick leather strap cutting into young skin. Peter flinched from its sting and was rewarded with the smell of fresh-mown hay and the sloppy greeting of a pet cow named Lorna. "Lorna?" Peter snorted, amused despite himself. "Not quite as weird a pet as I'd expected, but knowing you, kiddo, there were a lot more where that came from."
Quite without bidding, Peter envisioned another scene -- one from his own past, a wet tongue and soft fur. "Sparky," he breathed, wanting to smile and cry all at once. "Good old dog. Forgot all about you. Shouldn't talk about Lorna, I guess -- pets are all the same no matter what they are."
The visuals were sketchy and fading further day by day; the second-hand emotions were more long-lasting. There had been so much loneliness in the younger man's past -- so much grief -- and the abandonment by his parents had been crushing. Why does that sound familiar? Peter asked himself bitterly, for the father he was missing was of medium height and balding, and considered the holidays 'sucker time' for the marks. We have too much in common, Ray.
But at least Charlie Venkman reappeared at irregular intervals to lavish love and attention on a son who needed him. Ray had never seen his parents again and never would. How could he bear remembering.... Except that Peter suspected Ray didn't allow himself to remember, even if he could. There had always been gaps in their conversation whenever talk had turned to the past. Everyone blocks things out they don't want to remember, the psychologist in him remarked silently. Wonder how much I block out?
But there were other sentiments Ray had to draw upon, pleasant ones, particularly those centering around Peter himself. These remained as clear and fresh as though first absorbed. Peter stopped midpace to lean against Janine's desk, overwhelmed by the two-way rush of affection he'd felt from the moment Ray had offered his own blood for Peter's survival. His faith in Peter had been so strong that even now it made Peter's eyes sting. From the very beginning he trusted me.
"The boy always was a fool," mocked him from every corner of the room.
"Only when it came to trusting me," he answered, his words lost in the stillness of the air. He shut his eyes against the self-accusation and another pattern arose, himself as Ray saw him, first in college: tall, strong featured and intelligent, and with a heart Sir Launcelot might envy. Even I wasn't that perfect, he thought with a wry smile, automatically running fingers through his wavy hair. You'd have thought that image would have tarnished a bit over the years. But it hadn't. The reflections of himself from That night (Peter always thought of it as That night) also rang clear in his thoughts -- too clear. Older perhaps, more human than idol, but there had been no shade of reservation despite Peter's lack of facade. Ray had always accepted him as he was without desire for change, unlike any other person who had ever entered Peter's life.
Teeth slashed through skin and trust died.
And now Ray is afraid of me.
The last reel unfolded across the viewing screen of his closed eyelids and Peter was again himself seeing Ray's face as it had appeared through the hospital window. Dread and outright fear had tamped affection nearly out of existence. He remembered Ray shivering on the bed as far away as he could get, large eyes fixed hysterically on Peter's mouth ... as they had been today.
"Can't blame you too much, kid," Peter whispered, his stomach churning nauseatingly. "How can you believe in someone who gave in so easily -- who didn't try hard enough to stop himself from killing you?" His fists clenched generating a jagged edge of pain from his swollen knuckles that was somehow welcome and no less than he deserved. "Frankly, I think I'm afraid of me, too."
Even Winston and Egon seemed to watch Peter constantly, suspiciously, as though they expected him to snap out again at any minute. Indignation grew, radiating toward all three of his friends. Winston and Egon doubting him hurt as badly as that Ray did. Ray generally stayed out of his way but Winston watched him surreptitiously, whenever he thought Peter wasn't looking; Egon was more open about it, but with a hesitance in his blue eyes as though he wanted to speak but could not find the words. Even Slimer hovered constantly, always nearby if without the usual devoted chatter that usually drove them all crazy. Peter slammed his already abused left fist down onto Janine's desk, barely noticing the fresh blood that spotted a stack of invoices. "I'm not a specimen!" he growled.
Absently he fingered the bruise along his jaw where Winston's haymaker had landed a week earlier. It was mostly faded now, more yellowish than purple, and the swelling was long gone. "I'm surprised he didn't break my jaw," he murmured aloud.
"I tried."
Peter's head snapped up at that half-amused baritone, eyes narrowing as Winston Zeddemore descended the long staircase from the upper levels. "What are you doing here?" he demanded gruffly. "Spying on me?"
Heavy boots thumped on the concrete floor as the black man approached, coming to a stop behind Peter's right shoulder. "Is that what you think?"
Peter bit his lip, dropping his head to study the pile of bloodied paperwork. "I haven't decided to sprout fangs again," he managed over the lump of resentment choking him.
A warm, heavy hand settled on his shoulder, bringing Peter irrationally back to the evening a week distant when Ray had touched him much like Winston was. The empathic flood had been delightful then, but there was no flood now and no delight, nothing but that simple, tactile contact. Once it would have been enough, but Peter's hurts bore too deep now for even Winston's offered friendship to touch.
"I wasn't thinking you would," Zeddemore reproved mildly. "I was hoping you might like to talk." He pulled Peter around, dipping his head until Peter was forced to meet his eyes, to see the sympathy and understanding there. One of the many locks on Peter's heart snicked open, loosening his tongue enough to mumble,
"Nothing to talk about." He pulled back and away, rubbing his sore knuckles. "I'd better go...." Winston grabbed him again, arresting the intended escape; Peter's eyes flashed offense. "Planning on hitting me again?" he snapped, bruised jaw jutting truculently forward, body tensed for combat.
Winston blanked and released him, raising both hands in a placating gesture. "I'm not here to fight, Pete. I'm here because...."
"Why?" Peter demanded, not unclenching his fists.
The older man hesitated. "I thought you could use a friend."
The answer disarmed Peter immediately. He gulped, the anger fleeing in a rush. "Why?" repeated, this time with more perplexity than heat.
"Because I am your friend." The negro wrapped a long arm around Peter's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug and ignoring Peter's half-hearted attempts at retreat. "You've been sending mixed signals for days, Pete, and I think it's time you talked instead of running."
Running? That was a surprise. Peter Venkman was a social creature, adept at absorbing what emotional support he needed from those around him. Rather than rejecting his friends' approaches, he would seek them out, and they would offer whatever he needed, whether it be a hearing ear, a comforting shoulder or just the consolation of companionship. When there was consolation to be had, that is.
"What do you mean?" he asked stupidly, finding no strength to pull away from the other's tight hold.
He felt Winston examine him thoughtfully, and Peter stove not to squirm under his sharp look. "Ever since that problem with the Q'utah you've stuck up 'No trespassing' signs all over. Look at you now hiding down here instead of upstairs with me or at the hospital with Ray and Egon. That's not like you. Ray's hurt and you're here?" He cluck-clucked disbelievingly. "No way, Jose. Last timed Ray was injured on a bust you were stuck to that boy's side like superglue. We had to use a crowbar to get you to eat and sleep."
Peter shook his head sadly. "That concussion he had in June wasn't my fault."
The answer seemed to surprise Winston as much as it did Peter, who hadn't intended to say anything at all. "What are you talking about, homeboy?"
Venkman took a deep breath and again turned away, his shoulders hunched. He didn't want to see Winston's face when the man realized the full extent of Peter's culpability. "Ray was standing on the edge of that hole -- too close. I was going to drag him back. He turned, saw me and jerked away." He darted a glance up, then immediately away. "Don't you see? He fell because he was more afraid of me than he was of breaking his neck!"
Winston stared and Peter could hear his breathing increase its pace. "That can't be right. Ray's never been afraid of you in his life. Ray loves you like a brother, man."
Well ... he did, anyway. Peter directed his gaze at the top of Janine's untidy desk, finding the unaccusing metal top soothing somehow. Inside, the pangs of loss and isolation grew exponentially deeper the closer they got to the crux of the problem. "I imagine it's a little hard to love a brother who just ripped your throat out. He must wonder if it's going to happen again -- whether I'll ever revert to type. He must know that I ... remember."
"Remember what, Pete?" Winston asked gently, replacing a hand on Peter's shoulder.
"Him." Peter picked up a stapler from the desk, turning it over and over in his hands. It was heavy and cold and made Peter think of the pit of his own stomach. "What it was like. For me it was pleasure with no logic involved; imagine being ravenously hungry and then being offered a full banquet table. I had no control -- none! Even when he was begging me...." A sob rose and he took a deep breath, striving to control his shaking voice. The memory of Ray's pleading was distant, but the intensity of his terror as he lay dying in Peter's arms was sharp as diamond. "He was begging me not to kill him ... and I enjoyed it."
"Peter." The name was whispered softly, then Winston's arm was back across his shoulders and Peter gratefully accepted the comfort he could not deserve. "It wasn't you enjoying it, man, it was them -- the Q'utah. You were as much of a victim as Ray was. Why can't you see that?" Peter felt the muscular body straighten, tightening his hold. "I know you, Pete, and I know for a fact there isn't any way in the world you would ever hurt Ray -- or let anyone else hurt him, either. I've seen you go to bat for that boy too often -- and him for you -- to believe you'd enjoy seeing him actually die."
"Maybe...." The words made sense and echoed what Peter had been telling himself for days. The only problem was that he couldn't accept them, the risks were too great. "Too bad Ray doesn't believe it."
"You can't say that, Pete," Winston protested, giving him a shake. "Ray loves you as much as you love him -- that's so obvious it's almost funny you not believing that. If you'd seen how scared he was for you even after he ended up in the hospital, you wouldn't think that." He paused, continuing in a softer voice, "Egon and I were just as worried for you."
Peter continued to hold the stapler, then placed it down gently on the desk, his fingers cramping around it. "I saw how scared he was of me on the bust today. He looked at me and thought I was going to kill him." Large eyes flying to his mouth where the hated fangs had once been ... fear blanking the youthful face ... Ray falling.... "He thought I was going to hurt him and he flinched away." He stiffened, shoulders coming back, head determinedly coming up. "If he doesn't trust me, there's no way we're going to be able to fight together."
"But...."
Peter raised a peremptory hand. "Don't say it, Zed. The way the three of you have been keeping your distance shows me you think so too. Let's face it, in our business, trust is everything. If the kid is forced to work with someone he doesn't trust, it's going to get him killed, or you, or Egon. Today was proof of that. I'm not willing to risk that ... not with him. Not with any of you."
Silence reigned for a long moment, then Winston, not releasing Peter's shoulders, led him over to Janine's chair and pushed him down. When Venkman made to rise, he leaned forward, using his superior weight to hold the psychologist in place. "I think it's about time you heard me out, Pete. There's a few of the supposedly obvious facts you seem to have missed."
"Like...?"
"Like the reason we've been keeping out of your way." Peter's skepticism must have shown on his face, for Winston shook him again, still not lifting his large hands. "Pete, you seem to be forgetting that the rest of us know what you went through with the Q'utah. Oh, not completely since we can only imagine, but we know you, and how hard it is for you to even come close to losing your identity. None of us have forgotten Watt. There's bound to be some trauma associated with that."
"You sound like me," Peter complained, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Maybe Winston had a point. Though he was having trouble objectively identifying the specifics, as a psychologist Peter had expected to face the results of living the better part of two and a half days under slow torture. What he hadn't expected was the effects to gnaw away at him without respite. Had he been subconsciously rebuffing his friends' advances since That night?
Winston smiled back. "I was quoting you. Not a bad deal learning from the best, eh?" His smile faded, leaving him looking older and very tired. "Point being that we knew how bad off you were and wanted to help, but you kept ..." He waved one hand helplessly. "... running away from us. I wasn't kidding about those 'no trespassing' signs, Pete. You made it loud and clear that you didn't want to be bothered -- always going off by yourself, snapping when one of us spoke to you. Your temper has been nonexistent and you're irritable all the time."
"I haven't been that bad?" Peter asked, surprised. He'd known he'd been a little short, but all that?
Winston nodded solemnly. "Worse. Even Egon was thrown for a loop. Finally, he told Ray and me to give you some breathing space. He said that when you were ready, you'd come to us." He paused significantly. "Looks like a bad call on this one. Your stubbornness even extends toward feeling rotten." Another pause. "We wanted to come to you, Pete, but you didn't want us."
Venkman ignored that last. We wanted to come to you. He tasted the phrase again, liking the sound. So he hadn't been abandoned by his friends, after all. Honesty told him that he had been short-tempered of late. He remembered Egon coming to him two nights before, ostensibly for advice but obviously with conversation in mind. Peter winced to remember the sharp words that had passed between them ... from him, he amended, not Egon ... and Egon's withdraw. There had been pain in the blue eyes then, that Peter had not noticed until now. Before Egon it had been Winston, bearing a plate of spaghetti like an shield, also rejected. Poor Ray had hovered silently for days unacknowledged, large brown eyes woeful. "I'm sorry," he blurted, wishing he could say as much to Egon and Ray and resolving to do so later. "I didn't know. I didn't mean to."
Winston's fingers massaged the tight muscles in Peter's shoulders, and Peter found himself relaxing despite himself. "We know that, homeboy. We don't blame you. We knew you were hurting; what hurt us was that we couldn't help. Let us help now."
Peter smiled gratefully up into the dark face. "Thanks. I'll ... try." The offer was so tempting -- so wanted -- that Peter nearly forgot the carefully constructed reasoning behind his earlier decision and the emotion that had prompted it. That blissful state didn't last long. "None of this changes anything. I know what I saw today and I saw Ray nearly die because he was afraid of me." That hurt all over again and he slumped. "We're all of us alive only because we take care of each other in a fight. If Ray won't let me near him, he's going to get killed when things get tough."
"Besides which," Winston added cannily, "not being able to watch out for Ray would pretty much kill you too."
Peter shrugged. Despite Winston's teasing, he'd long ago come to acceptance of that fact. He didn't disrespect Ray's abilities to handle himself; rather, he relied on them, for Ray's strength, speed and sheer determination had delivered Peter from the Reaper more times than he could count. But Ray's enthusiasm often got in the way of his common sense, his impulsiveness leading him to jump the gun in combat and to act before he thought. 'Not that I don't do that myself, Peter admitted wryly, especially when I'm p.o.'d. Then it's Ray that keeps a leash on me! On several levels he'd felt protective of the young man since college and Peter saw no reason to change now. Aren't friends supposed to watch out for each other?
Aloud he said, "No argument there, Zed. I don't like to see the kid hurt. Never have. Doesn't have anything to do with the fact that we all watch out for each other out of necessity." He swallowed hard, forcing the hated words past clenched teeth. "That's why I'm pulling out for awhile to ... give everyone a chance to get back to normal. You can call that Army buddy of yours, Eddie Kobart, to fill in so you won't be short--"
He broke off; Winston's fingers had ceased their massage and were now digging painfully into his arms. "Don't you dare," he stated in cold tones, piercing Peter with a scowl. "We're not going to let you run, Venkman. I'm not about to let you do that to Egon or Ray ... or yourself."
"I never run!" Peter snapped back, anger flaring again. Consciously, he tamped it down, remembering the admonition earlier. "I just think it might be the best thing for everyone involved."
Winston stared at him pityingly. "Putting your own feelings aside, can you sit there and tell me that either Ray or Egon -- or me -- will be better off without you around? Who drags Egon out to live a little whenever he starts thinking like a mushroom? Who keeps Ray from crushing down under the blame he keeps taking on? Or buoys me up when I'm down in the dumps? Have you the slightest idea how involved you are in all our lives?"
Peter opened his mouth to deny the words, then shut it again with a snap. Frankly, he did know and not only as a psychologist. While he admittedly had more than a few personal blind spots, the natural empathy he was blessed with gave him a pretty balanced view of the relationship the four of them shared, and a lack of false modesty allowed him to see the very integral part he himself played in the team, particularly with Egon and Ray. Without him, Egon would have long ago retreated into his fungus studies, becoming starchily stolid and so wrapped up in his scientific pursuits as to forget he had an actual life to lead.
It took very little effort for Peter to conjure up an image of Ray Stantz as he had been back in college. He closed his eyes and saw a boy whose self-image was so battered by childhood abuse and neglect that his sense of worth had been practically zero when he'd joined Egon's math class. It had taken conscious effort and support from Peter to coax that battered spirit into asserting itself; the present day Ray Stantz -- positive and reasonably self-connfident -- was proof of the success of his efforts though the kid was still prone toward accepting blame for things he had no control over. Good thing the kid's buttons are so easy to push; makes it easy to divert that guilt before it hurts him too badly. He stopped. Without Ray's trust, that function had officially come to an end.
Fighting the renewed ache, Peter looked up again into earnest chocolate brown eyes. Winston hadn't been with him as long as the others but he'd become family almost from the day he'd joined. The powerful black man might not have developed with them -- for the other three had grown from boys into men together -- but his warm, caring personality had provided a sound backing that the other three had lacked, and he'd brought the assets of a stable background and the experiences of open combat in Viet Nam to the team. More, of them all Peter and Winston most closely shared a similar history, city street life neither Egon nor Ray could ever fathom. When Winston got out of sorts, affected by the unfairnesses of society, Peter could understand, and invariably knew just how to make him feel better and offer sympathy. The black man returned the favor by being there for Peter whenever the psychologist needed to talk ... such as now. However, there was a more powerful motivator at work here, one Peter could not dismiss lightly.
"I know what you're saying," Peter pronounced carefully, "and I ... appreciate it. But that doesn't have anything to do with what I'm talking about." He straightened, pushing Zeddemore's hands gently aside and rising to face the man squarely. "We're talking about risking Ray's life in combat, and I think that puts what you're saying in a major different perspective."
Winston backpedaled, raising both hands palm up in a helpless gesture. "At least talk to Ray and Egon first, okay? Don't make a decision like this on your own."
Peter clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll talk to them, not that it's going to be easy." His lips turned downward of their own accord. "It's hard enough to look at the bandages on the kid's throat and remember what I did. It's harder to look into his eyes and know that he's remembering too. But...."
"But you'll do it?" Winston asked with weak hope.
Peter nodded, sorry he was putting his friend through the same anguish he was feeling himself. "First chance I get."
"You're about to get that chance," Winston remarked, cocking his head in a listening attitude. "I hear Ecto coming."
***
The building had been built in the 1930s as a vote-attracting nod at the hordes of low-income families in depression era New York. It had originally been a sound enough dwelling in a decent neighborhood, but time and neglect had served to erase all of that. The once proud structure consisted now of little more than a gutted shell, holed-through flooring and shaky stairs; in wartime it might have been mistaken for a direct bomb strike. Urban renewal, which had overtaken the neighborhood recently, had mandated this building be condemned and demolished; the six nether-beings who had moved in after the tenants were evicted decided otherwise. The Ghostbusters were there to settle the dispute -- with blasters.
"He's over here! C'mon, guys!" Peter's call rang hollowly, muffled by crumbling walls. The shrillness of the purple N-E with three eyes and no legs sounded clearly, however, its taunts audible from all over the entire floor, "Flesh-head," and "Earth-crawler!" being among the more printable.
"I'll get you, you little slimeball!" Peter hollered, racing after the more- or-less round being at full speed. This vow was followed by a loud, "Whoop!" as his boots encountered the trail of purple slime the creature was leaving behind. His feet skidded out from under him, momentum carrying him forward several yards bottom first. "Yeeeeeow!" he screeched, coming to a stop just shy of a six-foot hole in the floor. Cautiously crawling the last few inches forward, he hitched one eye over the edge -- it was a twelve foot drop to an equally saggy floor. Peter gritted his teeth and backed away.
"Can't catch meeee!" the nether-being jeered, dripping additional slime on Peter's head for good measure.
Sputtering dangerously, Peter scooped goop out of his mouth, gagging at the fetor left behind. Three days in the sewers had left him with an intense hatred of unpleasant smells -- particularly on him. Wrinkling is nose, he retrieved the thrower dropped in his fall and thumbed the power up another notch. "You're toast, slimehead," he growled, taking careful aim. The emerging white-hot beam charred a crater in the ceiling, showering the furious psychologist with moldy plaster. The N-E, unfazed, swooped under the beam, zipped to the other side of the room and thumbed its nose in Peter's direction. Peter fumed, his admittedly unstable temper fraying like an old rag. "You little.... Ray?! Egon?! C'mon!" Peter yelled, again taking aim. "Get your butts in here!"
Pounding boots responded to this summons, the thud-thud preceding Ray Stantz' appearance by mere seconds. "I'm coming, Peter!" he hollered breathlessly, slipping on the same slime that had taken Peter down. He windmilled his arms, barely maintaining his balance, and ended up sliding gracefully into the room looking pleased with himself. "Hey! That was fun!"
"We're not here for fun," Peter snapped, scowling fiercely in the other's direction. All he wanted out of life right now was to go home and shower off this putrid gunk, and Ray was acting like a kid at an amusement park. "Do your job, Stantz."
Ray's budding grin faded as if it had never been. "Sorry," he returned humbly, eyes carefully fixed on the purple creature who was even now holding its sides with laughter. "I'll get him from this side."
Peter nodded curtly, glancing just once in his youngest partner's direction to gauge the angle for his next shot. To his alarm he noticed that Ray was standing perilously close to the large hole in the floor. Who knew how strong those boards were? Declining another shout, he crossed the distance in a double stride and raised his arm, intending to drag the younger man to safety by the scruff of the neck. "Watch i--"
Ray turned, seeing Peter a fraction before his collar could be touched. Brown eyes widened, flying from Peter's hand to his mouth, a panicked expression crossing the youthful features. Uttering a barely audible gasp, Ray stepped backward out of reach, his foot encountering nothing but empty air. With a surprised yelp he toppled, landing on the floor below with a loud thump.
"Ray!" Momentarily startled into immobility, a dozen thoughts flew across Peter's mind, lighting briefly before moving on. The image of Ray's face when he'd seen Peter so close flashed briefly, driving a rusty dagger deep into Peter's chest. It was the sound of Ray hitting that galvanized him into action. He leaped forward, barely avoiding going over himself, and stared down at the sprawled body lying a dozen feet below, his throat constricting at the blood that was beginning to soak the dirty boards around Ray's head.
"Ray, are you all right?" There was no answer to his faltering query and now dread lended itself to Peter's distress. He crawled to the edge of the hole and reversed, scrambling for position until he was hanging onto the rotted boards by his fingertips. From there it was an easy drop to floor level. He knelt beside the still form, unbuckling the heavy proton pack and unzipping the sand-colored uniform. Eyes narrowed, he ran shaking fingers over chest and back, searching for broken bones. As near as he could tell, the head injury seemed to be the worst of it -- potentially more than bad enough. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief, using the soft cloth to wipe away some of the blood. To his relief he found only a shallow cut on Ray's forehead that was, as such cuts are wont to do, bleeding copiously.
"Ray, you in there?" Peter haled softly, slapping one smooth-shaven cheek firmly. Brown lashes fluttered and slowly rose; obviously, Ray had just had the wind knocked out of him. Torn between shaking the younger man until his teeth rattled and hugging him hard, Peter's temper struck out on its own and went into immediate overload.
"What is the matter with you?" he roared, gripping the groggy man by both arms and hauling him into a sitting position. "What'd you think I was going to do, bite you?" Nastily, he bared his teeth, revealing the silver temporary caps in the canine positions. Ray blinked confusedly up at him.
"I-I ... sorry." he stammered, raising one hand and dabbing at the blood running down his cheek. "I.... What happened?"
Annoyingly, this innocent confusion fanned Peter's fury even hotter. "Really stupid," he snapped, giving in to his impulses and shaking Ray roughly. "The gooper escaped, thanks to you. We chase the thing twenty minutes and you have to do something moronic like...."
Ray uttered a low cry, cluthing at his ribs and stammering more bewildered apologies. Peter pressed his lips together to prevent more rebuke from gushing forth and again felt inside the open jumpsuit. "You may have a couple of ribs loose," he grated, teeth clenched. "You could have broken your neck."
Ray braced himself against Peter's bent leg, fixing his gaze on the dirty floor. "I'm sorry."
Disregarding the extended apology, Peter searched Ray's pockets, coming up with a small packet of Kleenex. "Here," he gritted, shoving two of the tissues into Ray's hand and taking the rest for himself. "Clean yourself up." Stantz dabbed at his bloody face while Peter pressed the rest of the wad against the cut, tangling the fingers of his other hand in the auburn hair to secure the hold. "Any double vision?" he rapped, using his grip to force Ray's head up. "Dizziness? Nausea?" He received Ray's protestations with an absent nod and leaned forward to study the brown eyes for himself, seeing nothing amiss. "I don't think you have a concussion. You weren't out very long."
"I'm fine," Stantz mumbled, working his fingers under Peter's and holding the tissues in place. He still wouldn't look up.
Venkman felt a particle of remorse at the harsh way he was treating his injured comrade. But Peter's temper was too shredded to allow the gentleness he usually showed to the sensitive younger man, and Ray's lack of trust in him hurt too much to bear. Without a word he unceremoniously hauled Ray to his feet then staggered when the engineer uttered another cry, his leg giving out under him.
Peter braced himself, drawing Ray's arm across his shoulders and slipping his own arm around the younger man's waist. "Ankle?" Stantz pale face made the ensuing nod almost unnecessary. Peter sighed. "Looks like we bust with one short for awhile."
"I'm sorry," Ray repeated miserably, hanging his head. "I didn't mean it."
"Sure you didn't." Peter half-supported, half-carried the other toward the rickety stairway in the corner from which they could exit the building. He was starting to calm a bit, though resentment sang in each vein. The cause of the accident was all too clear to him -- he'd seen Ray staring at his mouth, noticed the fear in the amber eyes -- fear of Peter Venkman. Ray was still afraid of him and it hurt. Movement caught his attention peripherally and he looked up to see Egon and Winston peering down at them; Ray's yell must have brought them running.
"What happened?" Egon demanded, studying them both closely. "Raymond, are you hurt?"
Ray waved his free hand, eyes bright with shame. "I messed up, Egon. We lost the last gooper."
"Never mind that." Winston circled the hole, cautiously testing each board before he stepped on it. "Are you okay? Pete?"
"It's his ankle," Venkman returned, irritated by so obvious a question. "Get down here and we'll get him to a hospital."
"Very--" Egon stopped abruptly and stepped back out of Peter's view. There was a scrambling sound and muted instructions, then the magnificent glow of two proton streams illuminated the entire open floor. Peter recognized the shrill whistle as belonging to the purple gooper, then he was blinking, trying to adjust to the sudden dimness.
Winston's exultant yell of, "Got him!" told Peter that those two at least had had more success than he and Ray. Supporting Ray's weight, Peter silently made his way to the stairwell and waited for the triumphant twosome. He felt a timid touch on his chest and looked down into the contrite face of his friend.
"I'm sorry," Ray said, letting his hand fall away at Peter's sharp look. "I didn't mean to mess up the bust."
"For someone who didn't mean to, you did a great job," Peter snapped back, unable to help himself. He immediately regretted the words upon seeing the fresh guilt flash in those soft brown eyes. No apology would pass, however, so it was a real relief when Egon and Winston showed up then, Egon combing purple slime out of his hair, Winston grinning and bearing a smoking trap.
"We got it!" Zeddemore announced, holding the trap aloft. "It dive bombed Egon and ran right into my stream!"
"Odoriferous creature, isn't it?" Egon remarked, wrinkling his long nose. "I believe I shall claim the first shower when we get back."
"You may have to fight me for it," Winston remarked heartily, playfully tossing a blob in Peter's direction. When Peter's sour expression turned into a scowl, he darted a worried glance at Stantz. "Hey, you guys really aren't okay, are you? How bad is it?"
"I'm fine," Ray said even as Egon knelt to carefully probe the rapidly swelling ankle. Ray stiffened at the first touch, and Peter could see the blood drain completely from his already pale face. Ray darted a self- conscious glance in his direction, bit his lip and looked away, and Peter felt his own heart sink.
"Look," Peter began, his jaw tighten. "Why don't you guys take Ray to the hospital for some x-rays while I stuff these goopers into containment." He barely stopped himself from reacting to puzzlement from Egon and Winston and the way Ray's shoulders sagged. He didn't care. It had suddenly become imperative that he have some time to himself. Time with no Ghostbusters around.
This plan was spoiled when Winston shot him a cryptic look and proclaimed, "Think I'll head back with you, Pete. You can't carry five traps by yourself."
Accepting the arrangement and not remarking on Peter's grimace, Egon stepped forward and slid an arm around Ray's chest, allowing Peter to withdraw. Good ol' Egon. Knew I could count on you anyway. "We'll drive Ecto-1 to the hospital while you two request transportation from the officers' working crowd control. We'll join you at home shortly."
"I didn't mean to do it, Egon," Ray said, leaning heavily against the blond.
"I've never considered self-impairment to be one of your hobbies, Raymond," Egon teased gently in a way Peter would have under other circumstances. He was glad to see Ray relax fractionally as the friendly tone soothed some of the guilt Peter's accusations had inflicted. But not enough, Spengs, Peter thought with regret as Ray's shoulders continued to sag. You don't have the touch with him.
The problem was, maybe he didn't, either. Not anymore.
***
Winston had assisted in flushing the traps into permanent containment, then disappeared upstairs, much to Venkman's relief. Emotions churned inside Peter's gut, from frustration to outrage to a gentle sorrow closely resembling grief, each more difficult to deal with than the last. Not that these feelings were new; they'd been planted by the Q'utah, germinating in a soil tilled by heartache and watered by regret. Guilt had settled heavily, bearing as its standard the white flag of gauze swaddling Ray Stantz' damaged throat. Though logic dictated that blame be laid at the insubstantial feet of the Q'utah, still Peter accepted a lion's share for himself, as well; he had failed to protect Ray when his friend and brother had needed him most, worse, had become the instrument of near fatality. That Ray had survived was fortuitous and, Peter admitted freely, no thanks to himself; that he had immediately declared his forgiveness of Peter characteristic. Both were welcome -- had Ray died by Peter's own hand, so too would the psychologist, in spirit if not body. Yet, even that provided no oils on the maelstrom that raged inside of Peter's own soul.
Ray doesn't trust me anymore.
Frustration was the worst. Peter paced the garage like a caged panther, from the steel security door Winston had installed after the one time they had been burglarized, back past Janine's desk and into his own office, around and around in a monotonous circuit. Despite determined efforts, his mind insisted on replaying the events of the past week, emotions rising like old bile in the back of his throat. The storm was confused and undirected but foremost in his soul was the alluring desire to retaliate. But what kind of vengeance can one wreck upon a bodiless entity that was even now entrapped in the energy matrices constituting the klein bottles? Can't touch them, he reminded himself bitterly. Over a thousand years of death and torture, and they get off this easy.
"It's not fair!" He punctuated the statement with a vicious kick at the nearest file cabinet, following up with a right cross that would have knocked any sensible human cold. The steel drawer whumpf'd and deformed inward, the green exterior lightly stained with red. Peter grimaced, blowing on his multiply skinned knuckles, and feeling not one whit better. The cold, hard fact was that his natural inclination to turn blame outward wasn't working this time. The Q'utah were very much beyond Peter's reach, and no amount of temper tantrums could change that. He wanted to make them pay and pay dearly for what they'd done to him -- what they'd made him do to Ray ... to them both.
The only other tangible target for his continued pain was an auburn-haired, fresh-faced young man who had once loved Peter with all his heart. This was Ray's fault, too. After all, if Ray hadn't made that offer, Peter wouldn't even now cringe in remembrance every time they were together. If Ray had fled when he'd been given the chance, Peter would not now be crushed under a mountain of culpability. If Ray hadn't stopped believing in him, Peter would have been long rejuvenated by the supportive circle of his friends. If Ray hadn't stopped loving him.... Peter's heart twisted in his chest.
I nearly killed him. Again as he did nearly every waking hour, he tasted the salty copper of Ray's blood, and impulsively spat as he had after his teeth had ripped through vulnerable flesh. Ray's body was warm in his arms, the taste of the fear-spice delicious, the feeling of power over a helpless human being sang its pleasure in Peter's veins ... then died. Shame added its timbres to the song that was Peter's misery, that there could be anything smacking of pleasure in so vile an act.
But it wasn't all bad, he reminded himself for the thousandth time, striving as he had for days to find some semblance of balance in the situation. Not all of it. The empathics were gone but Peter remembered what it had been like to absorb the memories and emotions of the dying man; he felt again that peculiar fusion with another human mind, and savored the intimacy. I was actually part of him for awhile, Peter thought wonderingly.
The memories had begun to fade as soon as empathic contact had been severed, but fragments of the other's history remained with him, tantalizing shadow memories not his own. "So that's what 'Pa' Hanley was like," Peter murmured, a decade-long curiosity at least partially fulfilled. "Just like I imagined, the old sour puss. Reminds me of Old Man Petrewski from Flatbush. He had a face like a pickle, too." Melancholy filled him, as strong as a little boy's loneliness. "We were a lot alike growing up," he told a eight-year old boy who wasn't there. "So empty." For a single moment righteous indignation crowded away the resentment, and Peter again felt that deep-rooted protectiveness that had marked their relationship from the beginning. "I wish I'd known you then, Ray. No one would have ever touched you or put you down if I'd been there."
Tactile sensations flooded back at the trigger, from tired muscles to the thick leather strap cutting into young skin. Peter flinched from its sting and was rewarded with the smell of fresh-mown hay and the sloppy greeting of a pet cow named Lorna. "Lorna?" Peter snorted, amused despite himself. "Not quite as weird a pet as I'd expected, but knowing you, kiddo, there were a lot more where that came from."
Quite without bidding, Peter envisioned another scene -- one from his own past, a wet tongue and soft fur. "Sparky," he breathed, wanting to smile and cry all at once. "Good old dog. Forgot all about you. Shouldn't talk about Lorna, I guess -- pets are all the same no matter what they are."
The visuals were sketchy and fading further day by day; the second-hand emotions were more long-lasting. There had been so much loneliness in the younger man's past -- so much grief -- and the abandonment by his parents had been crushing. Why does that sound familiar? Peter asked himself bitterly, for the father he was missing was of medium height and balding, and considered the holidays 'sucker time' for the marks. We have too much in common, Ray.
But at least Charlie Venkman reappeared at irregular intervals to lavish love and attention on a son who needed him. Ray had never seen his parents again and never would. How could he bear remembering.... Except that Peter suspected Ray didn't allow himself to remember, even if he could. There had always been gaps in their conversation whenever talk had turned to the past. Everyone blocks things out they don't want to remember, the psychologist in him remarked silently. Wonder how much I block out?
But there were other sentiments Ray had to draw upon, pleasant ones, particularly those centering around Peter himself. These remained as clear and fresh as though first absorbed. Peter stopped midpace to lean against Janine's desk, overwhelmed by the two-way rush of affection he'd felt from the moment Ray had offered his own blood for Peter's survival. His faith in Peter had been so strong that even now it made Peter's eyes sting. From the very beginning he trusted me.
"The boy always was a fool," mocked him from every corner of the room.
"Only when it came to trusting me," he answered, his words lost in the stillness of the air. He shut his eyes against the self-accusation and another pattern arose, himself as Ray saw him, first in college: tall, strong featured and intelligent, and with a heart Sir Launcelot might envy. Even I wasn't that perfect, he thought with a wry smile, automatically running fingers through his wavy hair. You'd have thought that image would have tarnished a bit over the years. But it hadn't. The reflections of himself from That night (Peter always thought of it as That night) also rang clear in his thoughts -- too clear. Older perhaps, more human than idol, but there had been no shade of reservation despite Peter's lack of facade. Ray had always accepted him as he was without desire for change, unlike any other person who had ever entered Peter's life.
Teeth slashed through skin and trust died.
And now Ray is afraid of me.
The last reel unfolded across the viewing screen of his closed eyelids and Peter was again himself seeing Ray's face as it had appeared through the hospital window. Dread and outright fear had tamped affection nearly out of existence. He remembered Ray shivering on the bed as far away as he could get, large eyes fixed hysterically on Peter's mouth ... as they had been today.
"Can't blame you too much, kid," Peter whispered, his stomach churning nauseatingly. "How can you believe in someone who gave in so easily -- who didn't try hard enough to stop himself from killing you?" His fists clenched generating a jagged edge of pain from his swollen knuckles that was somehow welcome and no less than he deserved. "Frankly, I think I'm afraid of me, too."
Even Winston and Egon seemed to watch Peter constantly, suspiciously, as though they expected him to snap out again at any minute. Indignation grew, radiating toward all three of his friends. Winston and Egon doubting him hurt as badly as that Ray did. Ray generally stayed out of his way but Winston watched him surreptitiously, whenever he thought Peter wasn't looking; Egon was more open about it, but with a hesitance in his blue eyes as though he wanted to speak but could not find the words. Even Slimer hovered constantly, always nearby if without the usual devoted chatter that usually drove them all crazy. Peter slammed his already abused left fist down onto Janine's desk, barely noticing the fresh blood that spotted a stack of invoices. "I'm not a specimen!" he growled.
Absently he fingered the bruise along his jaw where Winston's haymaker had landed a week earlier. It was mostly faded now, more yellowish than purple, and the swelling was long gone. "I'm surprised he didn't break my jaw," he murmured aloud.
"I tried."
Peter's head snapped up at that half-amused baritone, eyes narrowing as Winston Zeddemore descended the long staircase from the upper levels. "What are you doing here?" he demanded gruffly. "Spying on me?"
Heavy boots thumped on the concrete floor as the black man approached, coming to a stop behind Peter's right shoulder. "Is that what you think?"
Peter bit his lip, dropping his head to study the pile of bloodied paperwork. "I haven't decided to sprout fangs again," he managed over the lump of resentment choking him.
A warm, heavy hand settled on his shoulder, bringing Peter irrationally back to the evening a week distant when Ray had touched him much like Winston was. The empathic flood had been delightful then, but there was no flood now and no delight, nothing but that simple, tactile contact. Once it would have been enough, but Peter's hurts bore too deep now for even Winston's offered friendship to touch.
"I wasn't thinking you would," Zeddemore reproved mildly. "I was hoping you might like to talk." He pulled Peter around, dipping his head until Peter was forced to meet his eyes, to see the sympathy and understanding there. One of the many locks on Peter's heart snicked open, loosening his tongue enough to mumble,
"Nothing to talk about." He pulled back and away, rubbing his sore knuckles. "I'd better go...." Winston grabbed him again, arresting the intended escape; Peter's eyes flashed offense. "Planning on hitting me again?" he snapped, bruised jaw jutting truculently forward, body tensed for combat.
Winston blanked and released him, raising both hands in a placating gesture. "I'm not here to fight, Pete. I'm here because...."
"Why?" Peter demanded, not unclenching his fists.
The older man hesitated. "I thought you could use a friend."
The answer disarmed Peter immediately. He gulped, the anger fleeing in a rush. "Why?" repeated, this time with more perplexity than heat.
"Because I am your friend." The negro wrapped a long arm around Peter's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug and ignoring Peter's half-hearted attempts at retreat. "You've been sending mixed signals for days, Pete, and I think it's time you talked instead of running."
Running? That was a surprise. Peter Venkman was a social creature, adept at absorbing what emotional support he needed from those around him. Rather than rejecting his friends' approaches, he would seek them out, and they would offer whatever he needed, whether it be a hearing ear, a comforting shoulder or just the consolation of companionship. When there was consolation to be had, that is.
"What do you mean?" he asked stupidly, finding no strength to pull away from the other's tight hold.
He felt Winston examine him thoughtfully, and Peter stove not to squirm under his sharp look. "Ever since that problem with the Q'utah you've stuck up 'No trespassing' signs all over. Look at you now hiding down here instead of upstairs with me or at the hospital with Ray and Egon. That's not like you. Ray's hurt and you're here?" He cluck-clucked disbelievingly. "No way, Jose. Last timed Ray was injured on a bust you were stuck to that boy's side like superglue. We had to use a crowbar to get you to eat and sleep."
Peter shook his head sadly. "That concussion he had in June wasn't my fault."
The answer seemed to surprise Winston as much as it did Peter, who hadn't intended to say anything at all. "What are you talking about, homeboy?"
Venkman took a deep breath and again turned away, his shoulders hunched. He didn't want to see Winston's face when the man realized the full extent of Peter's culpability. "Ray was standing on the edge of that hole -- too close. I was going to drag him back. He turned, saw me and jerked away." He darted a glance up, then immediately away. "Don't you see? He fell because he was more afraid of me than he was of breaking his neck!"
Winston stared and Peter could hear his breathing increase its pace. "That can't be right. Ray's never been afraid of you in his life. Ray loves you like a brother, man."
Well ... he did, anyway. Peter directed his gaze at the top of Janine's untidy desk, finding the unaccusing metal top soothing somehow. Inside, the pangs of loss and isolation grew exponentially deeper the closer they got to the crux of the problem. "I imagine it's a little hard to love a brother who just ripped your throat out. He must wonder if it's going to happen again -- whether I'll ever revert to type. He must know that I ... remember."
"Remember what, Pete?" Winston asked gently, replacing a hand on Peter's shoulder.
"Him." Peter picked up a stapler from the desk, turning it over and over in his hands. It was heavy and cold and made Peter think of the pit of his own stomach. "What it was like. For me it was pleasure with no logic involved; imagine being ravenously hungry and then being offered a full banquet table. I had no control -- none! Even when he was begging me...." A sob rose and he took a deep breath, striving to control his shaking voice. The memory of Ray's pleading was distant, but the intensity of his terror as he lay dying in Peter's arms was sharp as diamond. "He was begging me not to kill him ... and I enjoyed it."
"Peter." The name was whispered softly, then Winston's arm was back across his shoulders and Peter gratefully accepted the comfort he could not deserve. "It wasn't you enjoying it, man, it was them -- the Q'utah. You were as much of a victim as Ray was. Why can't you see that?" Peter felt the muscular body straighten, tightening his hold. "I know you, Pete, and I know for a fact there isn't any way in the world you would ever hurt Ray -- or let anyone else hurt him, either. I've seen you go to bat for that boy too often -- and him for you -- to believe you'd enjoy seeing him actually die."
"Maybe...." The words made sense and echoed what Peter had been telling himself for days. The only problem was that he couldn't accept them, the risks were too great. "Too bad Ray doesn't believe it."
"You can't say that, Pete," Winston protested, giving him a shake. "Ray loves you as much as you love him -- that's so obvious it's almost funny you not believing that. If you'd seen how scared he was for you even after he ended up in the hospital, you wouldn't think that." He paused, continuing in a softer voice, "Egon and I were just as worried for you."
Peter continued to hold the stapler, then placed it down gently on the desk, his fingers cramping around it. "I saw how scared he was of me on the bust today. He looked at me and thought I was going to kill him." Large eyes flying to his mouth where the hated fangs had once been ... fear blanking the youthful face ... Ray falling.... "He thought I was going to hurt him and he flinched away." He stiffened, shoulders coming back, head determinedly coming up. "If he doesn't trust me, there's no way we're going to be able to fight together."
"But...."
Peter raised a peremptory hand. "Don't say it, Zed. The way the three of you have been keeping your distance shows me you think so too. Let's face it, in our business, trust is everything. If the kid is forced to work with someone he doesn't trust, it's going to get him killed, or you, or Egon. Today was proof of that. I'm not willing to risk that ... not with him. Not with any of you."
Silence reigned for a long moment, then Winston, not releasing Peter's shoulders, led him over to Janine's chair and pushed him down. When Venkman made to rise, he leaned forward, using his superior weight to hold the psychologist in place. "I think it's about time you heard me out, Pete. There's a few of the supposedly obvious facts you seem to have missed."
"Like...?"
"Like the reason we've been keeping out of your way." Peter's skepticism must have shown on his face, for Winston shook him again, still not lifting his large hands. "Pete, you seem to be forgetting that the rest of us know what you went through with the Q'utah. Oh, not completely since we can only imagine, but we know you, and how hard it is for you to even come close to losing your identity. None of us have forgotten Watt. There's bound to be some trauma associated with that."
"You sound like me," Peter complained, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Maybe Winston had a point. Though he was having trouble objectively identifying the specifics, as a psychologist Peter had expected to face the results of living the better part of two and a half days under slow torture. What he hadn't expected was the effects to gnaw away at him without respite. Had he been subconsciously rebuffing his friends' advances since That night?
Winston smiled back. "I was quoting you. Not a bad deal learning from the best, eh?" His smile faded, leaving him looking older and very tired. "Point being that we knew how bad off you were and wanted to help, but you kept ..." He waved one hand helplessly. "... running away from us. I wasn't kidding about those 'no trespassing' signs, Pete. You made it loud and clear that you didn't want to be bothered -- always going off by yourself, snapping when one of us spoke to you. Your temper has been nonexistent and you're irritable all the time."
"I haven't been that bad?" Peter asked, surprised. He'd known he'd been a little short, but all that?
Winston nodded solemnly. "Worse. Even Egon was thrown for a loop. Finally, he told Ray and me to give you some breathing space. He said that when you were ready, you'd come to us." He paused significantly. "Looks like a bad call on this one. Your stubbornness even extends toward feeling rotten." Another pause. "We wanted to come to you, Pete, but you didn't want us."
Venkman ignored that last. We wanted to come to you. He tasted the phrase again, liking the sound. So he hadn't been abandoned by his friends, after all. Honesty told him that he had been short-tempered of late. He remembered Egon coming to him two nights before, ostensibly for advice but obviously with conversation in mind. Peter winced to remember the sharp words that had passed between them ... from him, he amended, not Egon ... and Egon's withdraw. There had been pain in the blue eyes then, that Peter had not noticed until now. Before Egon it had been Winston, bearing a plate of spaghetti like an shield, also rejected. Poor Ray had hovered silently for days unacknowledged, large brown eyes woeful. "I'm sorry," he blurted, wishing he could say as much to Egon and Ray and resolving to do so later. "I didn't know. I didn't mean to."
Winston's fingers massaged the tight muscles in Peter's shoulders, and Peter found himself relaxing despite himself. "We know that, homeboy. We don't blame you. We knew you were hurting; what hurt us was that we couldn't help. Let us help now."
Peter smiled gratefully up into the dark face. "Thanks. I'll ... try." The offer was so tempting -- so wanted -- that Peter nearly forgot the carefully constructed reasoning behind his earlier decision and the emotion that had prompted it. That blissful state didn't last long. "None of this changes anything. I know what I saw today and I saw Ray nearly die because he was afraid of me." That hurt all over again and he slumped. "We're all of us alive only because we take care of each other in a fight. If Ray won't let me near him, he's going to get killed when things get tough."
"Besides which," Winston added cannily, "not being able to watch out for Ray would pretty much kill you too."
Peter shrugged. Despite Winston's teasing, he'd long ago come to acceptance of that fact. He didn't disrespect Ray's abilities to handle himself; rather, he relied on them, for Ray's strength, speed and sheer determination had delivered Peter from the Reaper more times than he could count. But Ray's enthusiasm often got in the way of his common sense, his impulsiveness leading him to jump the gun in combat and to act before he thought. 'Not that I don't do that myself, Peter admitted wryly, especially when I'm p.o.'d. Then it's Ray that keeps a leash on me! On several levels he'd felt protective of the young man since college and Peter saw no reason to change now. Aren't friends supposed to watch out for each other?
Aloud he said, "No argument there, Zed. I don't like to see the kid hurt. Never have. Doesn't have anything to do with the fact that we all watch out for each other out of necessity." He swallowed hard, forcing the hated words past clenched teeth. "That's why I'm pulling out for awhile to ... give everyone a chance to get back to normal. You can call that Army buddy of yours, Eddie Kobart, to fill in so you won't be short--"
He broke off; Winston's fingers had ceased their massage and were now digging painfully into his arms. "Don't you dare," he stated in cold tones, piercing Peter with a scowl. "We're not going to let you run, Venkman. I'm not about to let you do that to Egon or Ray ... or yourself."
"I never run!" Peter snapped back, anger flaring again. Consciously, he tamped it down, remembering the admonition earlier. "I just think it might be the best thing for everyone involved."
Winston stared at him pityingly. "Putting your own feelings aside, can you sit there and tell me that either Ray or Egon -- or me -- will be better off without you around? Who drags Egon out to live a little whenever he starts thinking like a mushroom? Who keeps Ray from crushing down under the blame he keeps taking on? Or buoys me up when I'm down in the dumps? Have you the slightest idea how involved you are in all our lives?"
Peter opened his mouth to deny the words, then shut it again with a snap. Frankly, he did know and not only as a psychologist. While he admittedly had more than a few personal blind spots, the natural empathy he was blessed with gave him a pretty balanced view of the relationship the four of them shared, and a lack of false modesty allowed him to see the very integral part he himself played in the team, particularly with Egon and Ray. Without him, Egon would have long ago retreated into his fungus studies, becoming starchily stolid and so wrapped up in his scientific pursuits as to forget he had an actual life to lead.
It took very little effort for Peter to conjure up an image of Ray Stantz as he had been back in college. He closed his eyes and saw a boy whose self-image was so battered by childhood abuse and neglect that his sense of worth had been practically zero when he'd joined Egon's math class. It had taken conscious effort and support from Peter to coax that battered spirit into asserting itself; the present day Ray Stantz -- positive and reasonably self-connfident -- was proof of the success of his efforts though the kid was still prone toward accepting blame for things he had no control over. Good thing the kid's buttons are so easy to push; makes it easy to divert that guilt before it hurts him too badly. He stopped. Without Ray's trust, that function had officially come to an end.
Fighting the renewed ache, Peter looked up again into earnest chocolate brown eyes. Winston hadn't been with him as long as the others but he'd become family almost from the day he'd joined. The powerful black man might not have developed with them -- for the other three had grown from boys into men together -- but his warm, caring personality had provided a sound backing that the other three had lacked, and he'd brought the assets of a stable background and the experiences of open combat in Viet Nam to the team. More, of them all Peter and Winston most closely shared a similar history, city street life neither Egon nor Ray could ever fathom. When Winston got out of sorts, affected by the unfairnesses of society, Peter could understand, and invariably knew just how to make him feel better and offer sympathy. The black man returned the favor by being there for Peter whenever the psychologist needed to talk ... such as now. However, there was a more powerful motivator at work here, one Peter could not dismiss lightly.
"I know what you're saying," Peter pronounced carefully, "and I ... appreciate it. But that doesn't have anything to do with what I'm talking about." He straightened, pushing Zeddemore's hands gently aside and rising to face the man squarely. "We're talking about risking Ray's life in combat, and I think that puts what you're saying in a major different perspective."
Winston backpedaled, raising both hands palm up in a helpless gesture. "At least talk to Ray and Egon first, okay? Don't make a decision like this on your own."
Peter clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll talk to them, not that it's going to be easy." His lips turned downward of their own accord. "It's hard enough to look at the bandages on the kid's throat and remember what I did. It's harder to look into his eyes and know that he's remembering too. But...."
"But you'll do it?" Winston asked with weak hope.
Peter nodded, sorry he was putting his friend through the same anguish he was feeling himself. "First chance I get."
"You're about to get that chance," Winston remarked, cocking his head in a listening attitude. "I hear Ecto coming."
***