"...and I'm telling you, Egon, boosting the power output on the psychometer
is not going to give you a better spectral analysis." Ray leaned across the
desk, tapping the rough diagrams with one forefinger, shoving his other
hand into the pocket of his pressed jeans. "According to those random psi
analyses Peter was working on, you're going to have to filter the emission
bands down from the broad spectrum before you can graph the results
accurately." He straightened, cocking his head at the hard faced physicist.
"I told you that last week."
"You told me." The tone itself was a denigration, the blond's voice no less brittle than his face. With blue eyes hard as chips of ice, Egon Spengler absently snapped one brown suspender strap, somehow making the sound a deliberate insult. "And I must say, Raymond, I'm becoming exceptionally fatigued at hearing a barely adequate mathematics student lecture me on psychonic multi-levels."
"Maybe if you listened once in awhile," Stantz retorted, smooth cheeks flushing at the unfair dig, "you wouldn't always be blowing up the lab."
Egon blinked, then straightened, drawing his dignity around him like a cloak. Without a word, he gathered up the schematics and withdrew to his lab, closing the door with a decided click.
Ray stared forlornly at the solid partition for some moments, then kicked savagely at an inoffensive chair leg that happened to be in range. His sneaker connected, sending the chair several inches. "Darn him!"
He was so upset that he never noticed the shadowy figure of Peter Venkman slip silently past the entry way, lean chin rested thoughtfully on his breast. For once not the center of one of the domestic conflicts that had plagued Ghostbusters Central since the Ramon Cerrito case, Peter had been able to stand back and observe this confrontation with some degree of detachment. He frowned, replaying the scenario again and again in his mind, deeply disturbed by what he'd witnessed. He'd known Stantz and Spengler for well over a decade now, had seen them work what amounted to technological miracles using that peculiar communion of knowledge and abilities unique to the duo and intrinsic to their relationship. They'd argued before --- over conclusions, over application, even ethics -- but their arguments had always been modulated by a deep affection as familial as any blood ties, and forged in shared blood and mutual respect. Not in all the time he'd known them -- neither despite heated debates nor cold logic -- never once had Peter seen that degree of malicious vitriol sere the air between the two close friends.
A mirror decorated the near wall of the hallway; he stopped to peer into it, meeting dark circled, dulled green eyes that barely resembled his own. "Egon wouldn't have tried to humiliate Ray," he told the image, even more astonished at hearing the concept spoken aloud. "He remembers the way it was back in college; he'd amputate his own tongue before he'd cut the kid down like that again. And Ray's never spoken to anyone like that in his life, much less to Egon."
The reflection offered a sympathetic shake but no enlightenment. Venkman took a moment to finger comb his thick brown hair into some semblance of it's usual style, then made his way down to the second floor living quarters, having to dodge Slimer's enthusiastic greeting en route. The green nether-entity drooped sadly but had learned that impeding the progress of his heroes was a very bad idea indeed of late; Peter left him behind with relief. The brightly lit and mercifully empty kitchen was almost a haven, and Peter breathed a sigh, closing his eyes briefly against the perpetual knot in his gut. Something sticky drew his attention to a large spot of green barely visible against his fortunately dark colored slacks. "Slimer's concentration is slipping again," he growled, snagging a dirty dishtowel off the rack. He dabbed at the slime, which was already evaporating, while pouring himself a glass of milk from the refrigerator. He drained it in one gulp, hoping against hope that it would calm his persistently queasy stomach. It helped -- slightly -- although Venkman feared that nothing short of declared peace was going to return gastronomic stability at this point in time.
He was putting the milk away when Ray Stantz entered the kitchen, rubbing his own stomach through his cotton shirt. The two stared at each other warily, Ray sullen, Peter brutally tamping down the irritation he felt at being disturbed. He broke the acidic spell then, refilling his glass and pushing it across. "Try this," he suggested, restoring the carton to the refrigerator. Despite a conscious effort, there was no way for him to control the irrational wave of anger he felt when the other man didn't obediently pick up the glass. "What's the matter?" he taunted, fixing his attention on the dripping faucet. "Afraid it's poisoned?"
Automatic regret tinged his irritation, and he did look up then, a tentative and hard-won apology on his lips, only to see the full glass go hurtling across the room to shatter against the wall by the stove. Milk dripped down the plaster, forming a puddle on the red-and-white checked linoleum floor.
"What the--?!" Peter spun, glaring, violence in his heart, but the youngest Ghostbuster had already disappeared. "You're going to clean that up, Stantz!" he bellowed, good intentions fleeing before this latest outrage. "I... I.... Oh, blast." Snarling oaths under his breath, Peter grabbed his jacket and left, preferring the drizzling New York weather outside the firehouse to the heavy oppression within.
***
The two calls that had been deferred in favor of the pack maintenance were scheduled for the next morning and turned out to be extremely routine, neither worthy of the 'immediate' response status they had been initially assigned. Two hours and two full traps later, the Ghostbusters returned to their base, disgruntled, hungry and out of sorts, Peter declaring that the next time a client cried "Emergency!" and it wasn't, he was going to neutronize said client on the spot, fee or no.
Fortunately, this dire possibility failed to materialize, along with any other possibilities. Dimensional breaches must have dropped off drastically, for the next several days saw no new calls coming in at all. The lack of purpose combined with a full scale bout of ennui, frayed tempers well past the breaking point. Even Janine, relatively unaffected by the increased resentment between her employers but hardly known for her sweet temperament, was involved in no less than two spiteful altercations by week's end. She stormed out early Friday, returning Monday wearing an icy civility which bespoke better than words the degree of indignation she still felt.
Egon retired to his lab after the final cases had been disposed of, appearing only rarely at mealtimes and tarrying not a minute. The winter frost he projected deterred them all -- even the infatuated and persistent Janine -- from seeking him out; thus, he was left alone to work on his spectral analysis project. His mood was not improved by his getting exactly nowhere on its development, as Stantz had earlier predicted.
The remaining three Ghostbusters fared no better. The warm relationship they'd shared for years seemed to have evaporated overnight, leaving in its wake a tidal morass of hurt feelings, anger, and resentment. No two words could be exchanged without a battle breaking out, and productive activity slowed to a halt. Tensions increased, coming to a head one day during dinner.
"I don't believe this!" Winston eyed his laden plate with an expression he usually reserved for one of Egon's mold specimens, turning the same look on his auburn haired colleague, seated to his left. "This is the third time in two weeks! Can't you cook anything besides this lousy chicken?"
A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only sign that Ray had heard the other's protest at all. A napkin lay neatly across his thigh, fork poised by his hand, but he made no effort to apply himself to his food. The enclosed room was slightly steamy and filled with cooking aromas. Having disdained the dining room as being too much trouble to set, they sat alone at the kitchen table; Peter was still washing his hands and Egon's only response to the meal call had been an incoherent grunt.
The black Ghostbuster watched his youngest colleague like a cat at a mousehole. Rather than mollifying, the younger man's continued silence engendered a hard gleam in Winston's dark eyes, providing a spark to waiting tinder. Not letting the point drop, he held his steak knife as though it were a dagger, and prodded the hated chicken with the point. Lumpy gravy spilled over the plate onto the tablecloth, staining the red a pale gray. "I said, I don't like this slop," he reiterated a little louder, grimacing at the mess. "Did you hear me?"
Ray regarding his own plate with studied disinterest, his uncut hair falling forward into his eyes. "It's all we have in the house," he replied tightly, rubbing his palms on the legs of his jeans. "You were supposed to go shopping--"
The spark caught. "Oh, it's my fault!" Zeddemore placed his hands flat on the table, using them to push himself deliberately to his feet. The salt shaker wobbled and fell over, its soft thump somehow ominous in the sudden hush. "You white boys are always ready to blame me for everything, aren't you?" he charged, circling the table with a measured tread. "Kick the only nigger here, is that right?"
Ray looked up, shocked by the unaccustomed enmity in that statement. Having grown up in a small, exclusively white farming community, race had simply never been an issue to him as a young boy, nor had it ever presented itself as a concept to the man. That it would matter to any of his friends had been inconceivable ... until now. "But-- but I never...." he stammered, visibly baffled out of his own flaring temper.
A six foot, one inch powerhouse and outweighing his opponent by twenty-five pounds, Zeddemore advanced inexorably, stopping when he was no more than four inches from Ray's tense form. "You've been wanting me off this team for a long time, haven't you, Stantz? Well, kid, you're gonna pay for that privilege."
Ray made it no more than halfway to his feet before Winston struck, his punishing right cross sending the smaller man clear out of his chair and slamming him hard against the stove. Pots rattled and one saucepan slipped off the burner to land with a clatter beside Ray's left foot. Stunned, the younger teammate could only stare, one hand coming up to the side of his face. Mechanically tugging his uniform sleeves up over muscular forearms, Winston stalked his prey, a juggernaut. "First installment," he sneered, rubbing his skinned knuckles.
That was all the further he got. One moment the black Ghostbuster was leaning forward, arm cocked to deliver a smashing coup de gras to Ray's unprotected face; the next, he was flying across the room himself, hitting the opposite wall with a thud; he slid down its expanse, blinking stupidly up at the unexpected source of this attack.
"Get up, Zeddemore." The tone was low and very deadly, delivered between teeth clenched tight. Despite the timely intercession, Peter Venkman didn't look at Ray, seemed not even to notice the younger man, who was struggling dazedly to his feet. Fists bunched and every muscle taut, the slim psychologist stood over Winston's sprawled form, rocking lightly on his toes, his eyes glittering like emeralds. "I said, get up!"
"Oh, I'll get up." Shaking his head to clear it, Winston pulled himself erect, blood streaming from his nose. He brushed at it absently, wiping his hand clean on his blue-grey jumpsuit. Like the other, he too ignored Stantz, his whole attention now fixed on this new, more potentially dangerous opponent. "I'm gonna take you apart, white boy." He started forward and the brown haired psychologist advanced to meet him, brushing past Ray's hastily interposed form as though he weren't there. Both street- tough fighters, neither Venkman nor Zeddemore would give a single inch until the other was unconscious ... or worse.
A movement from the doorway barely registered, but the deep bass came unexpectedly enough to distract the combatants from their first forward rush. As one, they turned to face the tall figure blocking the doorway, the animosity not muting with his appearance. "What's going on here?" Egon Spengler demanded, adjusting his glasses with his forefinger.
The quartet regarded each other warily for some seconds, then Winston's shoulders hunched. "So it's like that, is it?" he asked harshly, his glance flicking from Egon to Ray to Peter. "I suppose y'all are pretty tough when there's three of you." He made a disgusted noise in his throat, then stomped brazenly past the blond physicist and down the stairs. "I ain't stupid enough to take on all three of you at once," he offered as a parting shot.
"I don't need anyone's help to take you out!" Peter shouted, starting after him.
One hand clamped to his swelling jaw, Ray again stepped in front of his friend, waving the other one helplessly in the air. "Peter--"
"Shut up!" Venkman snarled so savagely that Ray actually fell back a pace. Louder, "Did you hear me, Zeddemore?"
"I hear you, white bread." Winston's hard voice echoed up the staircase from the proximity of the front door. "Watch your backs; next time it's my turf," and he was gone.
The only sound for some moments after was that of Egon's white lab coat rustling when he automatically moved to restore the salt shaker to its upright position. "Would somebody mind telling me what that was all about?" he asked, square jaw tightening upon spying the roasted chicken.
Neither of the others paid him any mind; they stood regarding each other blankly at first, expressions growing taut. "Peter...." The auburn haired engineer rubbed his jaw again, as though speaking hurt, then reached out to touch Venkman hesitantly on the shoulder. "Peter, I...."
Cold green eyes shifted, examining Ray's troubled features with distaste. "You really should learn to fight your own battles," he said contemptuously. Tucking in his shirt, he pushed his way past, disappearing in the direction of the bathroom.
That left only two. "Raymond," Spengler began, but Stantz only shook his head and fled for the stairs.
Egon watched him go, his blond curl shaking with his head. Without a word, he turned off the stove and retired to his own lab not to be seen again that night.
***
"You told me." The tone itself was a denigration, the blond's voice no less brittle than his face. With blue eyes hard as chips of ice, Egon Spengler absently snapped one brown suspender strap, somehow making the sound a deliberate insult. "And I must say, Raymond, I'm becoming exceptionally fatigued at hearing a barely adequate mathematics student lecture me on psychonic multi-levels."
"Maybe if you listened once in awhile," Stantz retorted, smooth cheeks flushing at the unfair dig, "you wouldn't always be blowing up the lab."
Egon blinked, then straightened, drawing his dignity around him like a cloak. Without a word, he gathered up the schematics and withdrew to his lab, closing the door with a decided click.
Ray stared forlornly at the solid partition for some moments, then kicked savagely at an inoffensive chair leg that happened to be in range. His sneaker connected, sending the chair several inches. "Darn him!"
He was so upset that he never noticed the shadowy figure of Peter Venkman slip silently past the entry way, lean chin rested thoughtfully on his breast. For once not the center of one of the domestic conflicts that had plagued Ghostbusters Central since the Ramon Cerrito case, Peter had been able to stand back and observe this confrontation with some degree of detachment. He frowned, replaying the scenario again and again in his mind, deeply disturbed by what he'd witnessed. He'd known Stantz and Spengler for well over a decade now, had seen them work what amounted to technological miracles using that peculiar communion of knowledge and abilities unique to the duo and intrinsic to their relationship. They'd argued before --- over conclusions, over application, even ethics -- but their arguments had always been modulated by a deep affection as familial as any blood ties, and forged in shared blood and mutual respect. Not in all the time he'd known them -- neither despite heated debates nor cold logic -- never once had Peter seen that degree of malicious vitriol sere the air between the two close friends.
A mirror decorated the near wall of the hallway; he stopped to peer into it, meeting dark circled, dulled green eyes that barely resembled his own. "Egon wouldn't have tried to humiliate Ray," he told the image, even more astonished at hearing the concept spoken aloud. "He remembers the way it was back in college; he'd amputate his own tongue before he'd cut the kid down like that again. And Ray's never spoken to anyone like that in his life, much less to Egon."
The reflection offered a sympathetic shake but no enlightenment. Venkman took a moment to finger comb his thick brown hair into some semblance of it's usual style, then made his way down to the second floor living quarters, having to dodge Slimer's enthusiastic greeting en route. The green nether-entity drooped sadly but had learned that impeding the progress of his heroes was a very bad idea indeed of late; Peter left him behind with relief. The brightly lit and mercifully empty kitchen was almost a haven, and Peter breathed a sigh, closing his eyes briefly against the perpetual knot in his gut. Something sticky drew his attention to a large spot of green barely visible against his fortunately dark colored slacks. "Slimer's concentration is slipping again," he growled, snagging a dirty dishtowel off the rack. He dabbed at the slime, which was already evaporating, while pouring himself a glass of milk from the refrigerator. He drained it in one gulp, hoping against hope that it would calm his persistently queasy stomach. It helped -- slightly -- although Venkman feared that nothing short of declared peace was going to return gastronomic stability at this point in time.
He was putting the milk away when Ray Stantz entered the kitchen, rubbing his own stomach through his cotton shirt. The two stared at each other warily, Ray sullen, Peter brutally tamping down the irritation he felt at being disturbed. He broke the acidic spell then, refilling his glass and pushing it across. "Try this," he suggested, restoring the carton to the refrigerator. Despite a conscious effort, there was no way for him to control the irrational wave of anger he felt when the other man didn't obediently pick up the glass. "What's the matter?" he taunted, fixing his attention on the dripping faucet. "Afraid it's poisoned?"
Automatic regret tinged his irritation, and he did look up then, a tentative and hard-won apology on his lips, only to see the full glass go hurtling across the room to shatter against the wall by the stove. Milk dripped down the plaster, forming a puddle on the red-and-white checked linoleum floor.
"What the--?!" Peter spun, glaring, violence in his heart, but the youngest Ghostbuster had already disappeared. "You're going to clean that up, Stantz!" he bellowed, good intentions fleeing before this latest outrage. "I... I.... Oh, blast." Snarling oaths under his breath, Peter grabbed his jacket and left, preferring the drizzling New York weather outside the firehouse to the heavy oppression within.
***
The two calls that had been deferred in favor of the pack maintenance were scheduled for the next morning and turned out to be extremely routine, neither worthy of the 'immediate' response status they had been initially assigned. Two hours and two full traps later, the Ghostbusters returned to their base, disgruntled, hungry and out of sorts, Peter declaring that the next time a client cried "Emergency!" and it wasn't, he was going to neutronize said client on the spot, fee or no.
Fortunately, this dire possibility failed to materialize, along with any other possibilities. Dimensional breaches must have dropped off drastically, for the next several days saw no new calls coming in at all. The lack of purpose combined with a full scale bout of ennui, frayed tempers well past the breaking point. Even Janine, relatively unaffected by the increased resentment between her employers but hardly known for her sweet temperament, was involved in no less than two spiteful altercations by week's end. She stormed out early Friday, returning Monday wearing an icy civility which bespoke better than words the degree of indignation she still felt.
Egon retired to his lab after the final cases had been disposed of, appearing only rarely at mealtimes and tarrying not a minute. The winter frost he projected deterred them all -- even the infatuated and persistent Janine -- from seeking him out; thus, he was left alone to work on his spectral analysis project. His mood was not improved by his getting exactly nowhere on its development, as Stantz had earlier predicted.
The remaining three Ghostbusters fared no better. The warm relationship they'd shared for years seemed to have evaporated overnight, leaving in its wake a tidal morass of hurt feelings, anger, and resentment. No two words could be exchanged without a battle breaking out, and productive activity slowed to a halt. Tensions increased, coming to a head one day during dinner.
"I don't believe this!" Winston eyed his laden plate with an expression he usually reserved for one of Egon's mold specimens, turning the same look on his auburn haired colleague, seated to his left. "This is the third time in two weeks! Can't you cook anything besides this lousy chicken?"
A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only sign that Ray had heard the other's protest at all. A napkin lay neatly across his thigh, fork poised by his hand, but he made no effort to apply himself to his food. The enclosed room was slightly steamy and filled with cooking aromas. Having disdained the dining room as being too much trouble to set, they sat alone at the kitchen table; Peter was still washing his hands and Egon's only response to the meal call had been an incoherent grunt.
The black Ghostbuster watched his youngest colleague like a cat at a mousehole. Rather than mollifying, the younger man's continued silence engendered a hard gleam in Winston's dark eyes, providing a spark to waiting tinder. Not letting the point drop, he held his steak knife as though it were a dagger, and prodded the hated chicken with the point. Lumpy gravy spilled over the plate onto the tablecloth, staining the red a pale gray. "I said, I don't like this slop," he reiterated a little louder, grimacing at the mess. "Did you hear me?"
Ray regarding his own plate with studied disinterest, his uncut hair falling forward into his eyes. "It's all we have in the house," he replied tightly, rubbing his palms on the legs of his jeans. "You were supposed to go shopping--"
The spark caught. "Oh, it's my fault!" Zeddemore placed his hands flat on the table, using them to push himself deliberately to his feet. The salt shaker wobbled and fell over, its soft thump somehow ominous in the sudden hush. "You white boys are always ready to blame me for everything, aren't you?" he charged, circling the table with a measured tread. "Kick the only nigger here, is that right?"
Ray looked up, shocked by the unaccustomed enmity in that statement. Having grown up in a small, exclusively white farming community, race had simply never been an issue to him as a young boy, nor had it ever presented itself as a concept to the man. That it would matter to any of his friends had been inconceivable ... until now. "But-- but I never...." he stammered, visibly baffled out of his own flaring temper.
A six foot, one inch powerhouse and outweighing his opponent by twenty-five pounds, Zeddemore advanced inexorably, stopping when he was no more than four inches from Ray's tense form. "You've been wanting me off this team for a long time, haven't you, Stantz? Well, kid, you're gonna pay for that privilege."
Ray made it no more than halfway to his feet before Winston struck, his punishing right cross sending the smaller man clear out of his chair and slamming him hard against the stove. Pots rattled and one saucepan slipped off the burner to land with a clatter beside Ray's left foot. Stunned, the younger teammate could only stare, one hand coming up to the side of his face. Mechanically tugging his uniform sleeves up over muscular forearms, Winston stalked his prey, a juggernaut. "First installment," he sneered, rubbing his skinned knuckles.
That was all the further he got. One moment the black Ghostbuster was leaning forward, arm cocked to deliver a smashing coup de gras to Ray's unprotected face; the next, he was flying across the room himself, hitting the opposite wall with a thud; he slid down its expanse, blinking stupidly up at the unexpected source of this attack.
"Get up, Zeddemore." The tone was low and very deadly, delivered between teeth clenched tight. Despite the timely intercession, Peter Venkman didn't look at Ray, seemed not even to notice the younger man, who was struggling dazedly to his feet. Fists bunched and every muscle taut, the slim psychologist stood over Winston's sprawled form, rocking lightly on his toes, his eyes glittering like emeralds. "I said, get up!"
"Oh, I'll get up." Shaking his head to clear it, Winston pulled himself erect, blood streaming from his nose. He brushed at it absently, wiping his hand clean on his blue-grey jumpsuit. Like the other, he too ignored Stantz, his whole attention now fixed on this new, more potentially dangerous opponent. "I'm gonna take you apart, white boy." He started forward and the brown haired psychologist advanced to meet him, brushing past Ray's hastily interposed form as though he weren't there. Both street- tough fighters, neither Venkman nor Zeddemore would give a single inch until the other was unconscious ... or worse.
A movement from the doorway barely registered, but the deep bass came unexpectedly enough to distract the combatants from their first forward rush. As one, they turned to face the tall figure blocking the doorway, the animosity not muting with his appearance. "What's going on here?" Egon Spengler demanded, adjusting his glasses with his forefinger.
The quartet regarded each other warily for some seconds, then Winston's shoulders hunched. "So it's like that, is it?" he asked harshly, his glance flicking from Egon to Ray to Peter. "I suppose y'all are pretty tough when there's three of you." He made a disgusted noise in his throat, then stomped brazenly past the blond physicist and down the stairs. "I ain't stupid enough to take on all three of you at once," he offered as a parting shot.
"I don't need anyone's help to take you out!" Peter shouted, starting after him.
One hand clamped to his swelling jaw, Ray again stepped in front of his friend, waving the other one helplessly in the air. "Peter--"
"Shut up!" Venkman snarled so savagely that Ray actually fell back a pace. Louder, "Did you hear me, Zeddemore?"
"I hear you, white bread." Winston's hard voice echoed up the staircase from the proximity of the front door. "Watch your backs; next time it's my turf," and he was gone.
The only sound for some moments after was that of Egon's white lab coat rustling when he automatically moved to restore the salt shaker to its upright position. "Would somebody mind telling me what that was all about?" he asked, square jaw tightening upon spying the roasted chicken.
Neither of the others paid him any mind; they stood regarding each other blankly at first, expressions growing taut. "Peter...." The auburn haired engineer rubbed his jaw again, as though speaking hurt, then reached out to touch Venkman hesitantly on the shoulder. "Peter, I...."
Cold green eyes shifted, examining Ray's troubled features with distaste. "You really should learn to fight your own battles," he said contemptuously. Tucking in his shirt, he pushed his way past, disappearing in the direction of the bathroom.
That left only two. "Raymond," Spengler began, but Stantz only shook his head and fled for the stairs.
Egon watched him go, his blond curl shaking with his head. Without a word, he turned off the stove and retired to his own lab not to be seen again that night.
***