Chapter Eight

Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.

Elisabeth KüBler-Ross

It was well after midnight when Peter finally escaped from the lab and sought refuge downstairs. He had been poked, prodded and subjected to every test short of actual vivisection that Egon could devise. The worse part of the whole ordeal was watching the lengths to which Egon went to avoid touching him directly, as if he found even the idea of such contact repulsive. Of course, never knowing when a casual brush against an innocent looking object -or a friend's bare hand- might trigger unwanted visions, Peter was hardly in a position to complain.

Now, Peter wandered into the deserted garage. Wary of his newfound psychometric abilities, he carefully skirted Janine's desk, certain to be a hotspot of psychic impressions, and eventually ended up in his office. He flopped down into his chair and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. Then he leaned back, hands behind his head, and stared blankly at the ceiling. He didn't know how long he'd been there when he heard hesitant footsteps and turned his head to find Winston standing at the gate that let into his office from the reception area.

"You okay, Pete?"

"Winston, m'man. Come on in. The more, the merrier," Peter said, in a decidedly un-merry tone. He watched from beneath a tangle of bangs as the other man took the chair across from his. "So… Ray's up to his eyeballs in musty old books, Egon's in the lab running tests… and you decided to keep an eye on me. Just in case. Am I right?"

"You objecting?"

"Not me." Peter heaved a sigh, slumping back in his chair and staring blindly up at the ceiling, again. "It's what I'd do. I wouldn't trust me for a minute."

"Look, Peter—"

"Don't go sentimental on me now, Zed." Another look, the barest slant of green eyes, before they were turned back to the ceiling. "I'm counting on you to look after those two for me."

"I always do."

Softly, Peter whispered, "Yeah. I know."

Peter closed his eyes. He was so tired, in spirit if not in body. But he didn't think any of them were going to be getting a good night's sleep tonight, no matter how much they needed it. With a sigh, he swung his feet off the desk and sat up. He plucked distastefully at his filthy jumpsuit. "I don't know about you, Winston, but I could definitely use a shower."

"Go ahead, man. I'll just go up and check on Egon." Winston got up and followed him to the stairs.

Great, thought Peter. My own personal shadow. Just as quickly, he stamped on the thought as unworthy. Winston was only doing what he felt was necessary to safeguard the guys. Peter couldn't fault him for that. Still, he didn't like being treated like a threat. Even if he did think he might be one.

Pushing that uncomfortable thought from his mind, Peter hit the shower.

Twenty minutes later, clean and dressed in his most comfortable set of worn, gray sweats, Peter wandered aimlessly into the kitchen. At the edge of his senses, he heard Winston talking quietly to Egon from the open doorway of the lab upstairs, and Ray shuffling back through the TV room with another armload of books.

Even though he wasn't hungry, Peter found himself prowling through the cupboards and digging in the refrigerator. He finally settled on heating a mug of milk, on the off-chance that the traditional drink would lull him to sleep. He dropped onto a chair at the table and stared blankly at the mug cupped between his hands. Carrying with it a faint hint of vanilla, warm steam from the milk wafted up into his face. He barely noticed the aroma; it certainly did nothing to entice him to drink. He was only slightly more aware of the heat of the ceramic mug against his palms.

"Peter?"

The hesitant voice brought Peter's head around, and he spotted Ray, half-asleep and puzzled, standing in the kitchen doorway. Ray's hair was standing up in short red tufts from where he'd run his hands through it. His shirt was untucked, and he was clutching an ancient-looking tome in one hand. From somewhere, Peter dredged up a weary smile for him. "Hey, Ray."

"Can't you sleep?" Frank worry in his eyes, Ray joined him at the table. "You want something to eat? Or maybe some warm-"

He faltered as he followed Peter's pointed gaze to the untouched mug resting on the table in front of him. Dropping onto the chair beside him, Ray gave a faint chuckle. "Wow. You really were desperate, weren't you?"

With a wry grimace, Peter shoved the mug away. "Never did like warm milk, not even when Mom used to make it for me."

"I could make you some cocoa, if you'd rather have that."

"No, thanks."

Ray cocked his head, waiting. When Peter didn't say anything more, he prodded gently, "What is it, Peter? You're not—" He swallowed. "You're not… in pain or anything, are you?"

That drew a startled look from Peter. "No. Nothing like that."

Not physically, anyway. Emotionally, was another story. He could feel the anger inside him threatening to tear him apart and it hurt like hell just trying to keep it under control. Not that he was telling Ray that.

At Ray's doubtful frown, Peter added, " I'm fine, Ray. Well... As 'fine' as can be expected, all things considered." He winced at the guilt that instantly flashed across Ray's expressive features. "What happened... None of it's your fault. You gotta believe that."

"If I'd only been- Maybe I could've-"

"Ray," Peter snapped, with an underlying current of anger that startled them both. He took a deep breath, forcing it back down, and chose his next words with care. "Just...don't, okay? If you'd been there, it might've been you that got tossed out the window instead of me. And you can't think for a second I'd want that."

"No, of course not. But I-" Ray stared blankly down at the mug of rapidly cooling milk in front of him, seemingly unaware that he'd locked white-knuckled fingers around it. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I just wish-"

Peter gripped his arm, demanding his attention. "Ray, don't."

Not now. Not when the restored memory of that night was a raw wound in his mind and a darkness festering in his heart. Don't do this, he pleaded silently, feeling his free hand curl involuntarily into a fist. God, Ray, please. I don't know what I'm capable of, what I might do. And it scares the hell outta me.

Still unable to meet his friend's gaze, Ray whispered, "I'm so sorry, Peter."

In horror, Peter watched his nails darken, black bleeding up from the nail bed, the skin around them growing grave-pale. No! Not now. Not ever again! Not with the guys.

He forced his fingers to relax, then carefully moved his hands out of sight beneath the table. In a deliberately light tone, he said, "Ray, I swear to God. If you don't stop apologizing to me, I'm gonna neutronize your entire Captain Steel comic book collection and your Dopey Dog doll."

For a single shocked moment, Ray simply stared at him. Then he snorted quietly, and some of the tension went out of his body as he leaned over to give Peter a quick, fierce hug. "I've missed you so much, Peter."

"Hey, what's not to miss?" Peter favored him with an outrageous grin that didn't quite make it into his eyes, and reached over to ruffle Ray's already tousled hair.

"Peter!"

At the familiar, scolding tone, Peter's grin slid into a more genuine smile. He nudged the mug into Ray's hands and said, "Here. Drink this, then go to bed, will ya? You need your beauty sleep, Stantz. Trust me."

"I always have." Obediently, Ray gulped the milk, then rose. When Peter made no move to join him, he asked, "Aren't you coming?"

"Nah. I'm not sleepy." Peter shrugged nonchalantly. Sleep was apparently among the many things he didn't do any more. Inconsequential things, like eating and breathing. What the hell. Breathing was overrated, anyway.

"I know it's hard, Peter. But you're here now, with us. And it... it's not all bad." Ray regarded Peter wistfully. "…Is it?"

The raw emotion in Ray's voice reached him as nothing else could have. Peter stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. Sometimes, he thought, I really am a selfish bastard.

"No," he said, and this time, the smile made it all the way into his eyes, briefly warming their shadowed depths. It didn't last, but Ray saw it, and his answering smile did more to warm him than any amount of heated milk ever could. "In fact, Ray, some of it's pretty damn good."

He cocked a thumb toward the door. "Now, go to bed before you fall over, will ya? Even your batteries gotta run down sometime."

Laughing, Ray obeyed. Peter watched him go – and was completely unsurprised to find Winston watching him from the doorway. Peter tossed him a mock salute. "Yo, Winston. Egon uncover the secrets of the afterlife, yet?"

Winston rolled his eyes. "At least give him 'til morning. The man's a genius, but he's only human."

Unlike me. Ruthlessly, Peter squelched the self-pity. Instead, he took refuge in the familiar, if strained, banter. "Morning it is, then. But I expect results or I want my money back."

Winston sat down in Ray's abandoned chair. "No guarantees in life, m'man."

"None in death, either." Peter sighed. "You should hit the sack, too. I promise to be a good little boy."

"I think I can hang in for another hour or two." Winston's gaze fell on the empty mug Peter was toying with. "Warm milk? Didn't think you could stomach the stuff."

"I can't." Peter ran a finger around the lip of the mug as he stared into it like he was trying to read his future in the dregs. Maybe he could invent a new form of fortune telling. Call it 'dairy-mancy'. He'd be famous. Well, more famous. He shoved the cup away. "I know you've got questions. I can practically hear them clamoring to get out of your head."

"So?"

"So, ask away." Peter spread his hands, as if offering him a gift. "I'm at your disposal."

Winston studied him for a second, then said, "Okay. Why don't you start by telling me what's rattling around in your head?"

"That's what I love about you, Winston. You always go straight for the jugular." His dry tone belied the narrowing of his eyes. "Don't think you really want to know the answer to that one, though."

"You think so?"

"Hell, I wish Ididn't and I am me."

"Fair enough." Winston rose and headed for the Mr. Coffee on the counter. "Regular or unleaded?"

Without waiting for a reply, Winston got the coffee from the cupboard –regular, Peter noted, with an inner smirk—and began filling the coffee maker. As he busied himself with filters and grounds and water, Winston said, "Let's try another one, then. What's the Other Side like?"

"Vancouver."

Winston shot him a look, then switched on the machine. "Very funny."

Peter shrugged. "I didn't really see much. Trees, river, fog. World's freakiest bridge. My feathered guide was more interested in getting me to take a swan dive into a crossrip than giving me the grand tour. Next time, I'm booking with a different travel agent."

Ignoring the weak joke, Winston persisted with his line of questioning. "Your dad was there?"

"There and gone. Like always." This turn of the conversation was leaving a sour taste in Peter's mouth, but he still found himself asking, "You said you'd seen him, too?"

"Yeah, at the cemetery." Winston was watching him closely. "He seemed worried about you."

"Better late than never." And you couldn't get much later than 'dead.'

Unable to argue with that, Winston chose a new tack. "Do you know who did it?"

The question froze Peter in place as nightmare images flashed like gunfire in his mind. He shook his head to clear it. When he found his voice, it was hoarse with the effort of control. "No. But I'm gonna find out."

"That's what Frump said." Winston set a full coffee cup in front of Peter. "I don't think he's having much luck, though."

"What a surprise." Peter stared at the unappetizing black liquid in his cup, then pushed it away. "We'll be lucky if he catches a clue sometime before the turn of the next century."

Winston snorted. "You think you can do any better?"

"You think I can do any worse?"

"…Good point."

"Besides, you know me. I've never been one to sit around and let someone else fight my battles."

Winston looked at him solemnly. "That's just the point, man. Do I know you?"

Not quite knowing why he did it, Peter straightened. Without warning, he reached for the other man, not even noticing when he knocked both cups to the floor.

"Let's find out," he said, and pressed his hands to Winston's temples.

…terrorpaingriefdarkness…

falling…falling through darkness…fog trees confusiongriefangerpain… A strange bridge stretching across a tree-lined gorge…Charlie Venkman…grief… anger old and new…

A crow.

Winston let out a loud yelp as the images flooded his brain. He jerked away from Peter at the same time as the other man released him. The unexpected lack of resistance sent him crashing ass over teakettle to the floor. Winston landed in a tangle of limbs in a puddle of cold coffee, the kitchen chair half on top of him. His head throbbed, though whether from collision with the tile flooring or from whatever Peter had done to him, he didn't know.

He blinked up at Peter, crouched half out of his own chair and worry written plainly across his face, and didn't bother trying to hide the outrage in his voice. "Shit, man. What the hell was that?"

"Well, Zed…" Peter's mouth twitched. "I told you you didn't want to know what was sloshing around in my head."

Winston glared, then relented and let Peter haul him to his feet. "Yeah. You did." He dusted himself off, then shook his head ruefully. "Remind me to listen next time."

Footsteps thundered down the stairs and a pair of disheveled Ghostbusters appeared in the kitchen doorway. Egon brandished a PKE meter like a weapon, probably the first thing he had been able to lay hands on in his mad dash from the lab. Ray had apparently been preparing for bed: dressed in striped pajamas and fuzzy slippers, he had a mouthful of minty foam, the green handle of his forgotten toothbrush clutched loosely in one hand.

Ray stared at the scene with wide eyes. "Gosh! What happened? Are you guys all right?"

"Yeah, Ray, we're fine." Winston stooped and hooked a finger through the coffee cup handles. "Just had a little spill, that's all."

"Winston… Are you sure?" There was unmistakable suspicion in Egon's piercing blue gaze as it settled on Peter. "He didn't?"

"I didn't attack him, if that's what you're thinking," Peter said softly. His eyes held a wealth of suppressed emotions, but his voice was flat. "I wouldn't, Egon. I…"

"I just got a lapful of hot coffee, Egon. It's nothing." Winston dumped the cups in the sink and came back with a handful of paper towels. He began swabbing up the mess. "We're cool."

"If you are certain…" Egon did not seem convinced, but he allowed Ray to herd him back out the door, though not before tossing a last, narrow look back at Peter. Ray gave the blond scientist a push toward the stairs and tossed them a foamy smile and a cheery "goodnight, guys" over his shoulder.

When they were safely out of earshot, Winston rounded on Peter with a determined look and said lowly, "Peter, if you ever do that again, I swear I'll replace all your shampoo with Nair."

"You decide I'm me, after all?" The voice was still flat, but there was hope in those green eyes.

"Well, you may not be live, but I'm pretty sure you're not Memorex. After what you just showed me…" Winston said, running his hand over his face. He met Peter's gaze head-on. "And Ray's sure. That counts for a lot in my book."

"Besides…" He gave Peter a sly, barely-there smirk. "I've never met a ghost even half as annoying as the real Peter Venkman when he sets his mind to it. Figure that means you gotta be the genuine article."

"Thanks, Z. Really. I'm touched," Peter deadpanned. Then he grinned, though it faded almost as swiftly as it appeared. "But, like Egon said, I'm not human. Not anymore."

"I don't care what you are, just as long as you're back where you belong." His voice caught and Winston paused, as if to force his composure back into place. "Coming home to find that...Man. That was the worst night of my life."

"Wasn't exactly a barrel of monkeys for me, either, Zed."

"You know I wish I'd been there for you. Maybe if I had been, things would've turned out differently."

"It wasn't your fault," Peter said. "There was nothing you-or Ray or Egon-could've done that you didn't do the first time."

"Yeah, right." The knowing look was back in Winston's eyes. "You tried listening to your own advice, homeboy?"

In a carefully neutral voice, Peter asked, "What makes you think I'm blaming myself?"

"The fact that I'm not stupid?" Winston shot back. He shook his head. "I know you, Pete. Well enough to know when you're packing your bags for a guilt trip. And I'd say this one's a doozy."

He studied Peter's face as if reading his thoughts, then added, "It wasn't your fault, either."

"Yeah, right."

"You saved Egon's life, you know."

Peter suddenly seemed to find the pattern of black and white tiles on the floor utterly fascinating. In a low voice, he mumbled, "Almost got him killed, you mean."

Winston regarded him with a mixture of brotherly exasperation and affection. "Peter, do not make me kick your ass on your first day back from the dead."

Almost reluctantly, one corner of Peter's mouth curved upward. "You and what starfleet, Zeddemore?"

"The day I need help putting you in your place, Venkman—" Winston let the mock threat hang in the air.

For a long moment, they held each other's gaze. Then something in the atmosphere shifted, some of the tension went out of Peter's shoulders, and he offered Winston the first genuine smile he had seen from Peter since this strange night began.

"I think you just did, Winston," Peter said, quietly. "I think you just did."

Eventually, Winston had convinced an exhausted Egon to retire for the night, then gone to bed as well, leaving Peter to his own devices. And if that wasn't a sign of trust, Peter didn't know what constituted one. His brooding thoughts were poor company, but he sat with them in the darkened kitchen, until the crow appeared at the window. The bird tapped on the glass, drawing this attention.

"You, again?" With a sigh, he rose and walked over to the window. "You aren't gonna leave me alone, are you?"

The bird tilted its head and studied him with one beady, black eye. He could almost hear its retort in his head. Not a chance, buddy.

Peter crossed his arms and glared at it through the glass, though they both knew how this was going to end.

"Fine," he said, exasperated, and opened the window. The bird hopped onto the sill, gave the room a once-over, then turned its attention back to Peter. It stretched its neck out, got a beakful of Peter's sweatshirt and tugged. Peter got a distinct sense of disapproval from the bird.

"What? Now you're a fashion critic?"

The crow pecked sharply at his arm.

Peter gave a muffled yelp and snatched his arm out of harm's way. He scowled at the bird. "Okay, I'll change! Anything in particular, Mr. Blackwell, or are you just not a Lions fan?"

He was almost willing to believe the bird smirked at him. Then it launched itself from the windowsill and headed for the stairs. The only thing upstairs was the lab…and the bunkroom, where three exhausted Ghostbusters now slumbered. Peter leaped to his feet and followed. He found the crow perched on the foot of Ray's bed, peering intently at the sleeping man. For one insane moment, he found himself wondering if the bird was gazing into Ray's dreams.

"Leave him alone," Peter said, in a low, determined voice. "Ray's off-limits, you got that? That goes for Egon and Winston, too."

The crow turned its head to focus its gaze on him and, for the first time, he thought he saw compassion in its alien regard. Then the moment passed and all he saw was glittering avian eyes, watching him expectantly. Well? it seemed to say. What are you waiting for?

Silently, Peter went to his closet. He had been only mildly surprised to find everything just as he had left it. Even though months had passed since his murder, the guys hadn't done much in the way of moving on. They would have to work on that, he decided.

He slid a glance at the crow. He could almost feel its impatience. Okay, they'd work on it later.

For now, he reached into the closet, his hand closing unerringly on the sleeve of a black dinner jacket. His choice was greeted with a soft clack of approval from the crow. Moving quickly but quietly, Peter pulled an armful of clothes from the closet. With a final look at the guys to make sure their sleep remained undisturbed, he retreated to the bathroom to change into dark slacks, a charcoal gray shirt and the black jacket.

No sooner had he re-entered the hallway than the crow fluttered over to land on the railing beside him. It cocked its head and stretched its wings, then gave an impatient rattle. Time to go.

They went.