Fifteen Years

ONE

The pizza box lay abandoned on the coffee table with three slices still left in it. At the firehouse, that never would have happened; between appetites honed by hard work and the ever-present embodiment of appetite known as Slimer, there was rarely any such thing as leftover food. Of course, this was Janine's apartment, and with only two of them to eat the pizza, leftovers were hardly an unexpected occurrence. Egon mused briefly on the quirks of psychology, that the presence of leftover pizza should seem so significant.

Nine dates. Nine evenings spent with Janine so far -- one excursion to a scientific presentation, which Janine had tolerated in good humor; Janine's cousin's baby shower, which Egon had managed to endure; a near-disastrous Knicks game at Madison Square Garden; an off-Broadway play and dinner, which had gone quite well; and four other evenings like this one, spent at Janine's apartment with a rented movie and take-out food. Initially apprehensive, Egon had grown to enjoy their evenings together. Away from the job where her tough-New-York-girl facade was as necessary to her work as her typing skill, Janine was almost a different person -- softer, warmer somehow, her sense of humor gentled from sarcasm to affection. That Janine was refreshing and delightful, and Egon had come to realize that he looked forward to the time they spent together.

She was a warm presence nestled into the curve of his arm, laughing at the light comedy they'd rented. Egon gazed at her fondly, appreciating the way her hair shone in the dim light from the kitchen. Janine, sensing his attention, glanced sideways and up at him inquiringly. She really was quite lovely, Egon realized.

And then realized something else. Nine dates, and they hadn't kissed, not even once. Gentle touches, yes; her hand on his arm as they walked together, his arm around her shoulders at the movies and so forth. But somehow the opportunity for a kiss hadn't arisen -- not even a kiss goodnight. For all her flirting up until the time he'd first asked her out, Janine's behavior since they'd begun dating had been surprisingly undemanding. Now... now, with her face upturned to his, seemed the perfect time for it. Egon leaned forward, closer, and kissed her.

Her lips were quite soft, lacking the heavy coating of lipstick she often preferred. Her breath tasted just slightly of pepperoni, not unpleasantly so. Janine was quite an attentive kisser, Egon mused, idly wondering if the floral underscent of her perfume was jasmine or honeysuckle. Yes, it was a perfectly acceptable kiss, nothing wrong with it whatsoever.

Oh, dear.

Egon pulled back, and sighed. It wasn't going to work, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.

"Egon?" Janine's voice formed the soft question. She didn't seem upset that he'd pulled away. She didn't even seem surprised.

"Janine." The name came out in another sigh, rather more morosely than he'd intended. "I'm sorry," Egon said heavily. "I've been unfair to you."

Janine cocked her head to one side, studying him. "What makes you say that, Egon?"

He found that he couldn't meet her eyes, instead let his gaze drop to her small slender hands folded around his own. "I believe that the current vernacular for this sort of confession is known as," and he found that he couldn't quite form the words easily, had to force them out, "coming out of the closet." And braced himself, dreading her reaction.

She didn't leap away from him in shock or disgust. Instead, her hands tightened around his just a little, her fingertips massaging little soothing circles against the back of his hands. "Oh, Egon," she murmured. "I was wondering how long it would take you to tell me."

Startled, he looked up, into her eyes -- into eyes that held no condemnation, no anger, nothing but acceptance. "I wasn't even sure you knew it yourself," Janine continued; and Egon knew, in that moment, how very much he loved Janine. And that it would never matter to him in the way that he had hoped it would.

"I've known since I was eleven. Since before I had the words to describe what I felt." It felt strange to talk about it, even so obliquely. So many years...

"Is it really... coming out of the closet? Doesn't anyone else know?" Janine probed gently.

"No, no one. Well... I told one person, once. But no one else, ever." One person, a long time ago. Only one.

"But... I mean, your, uh, y'know, the guys you go with..."

"What guys?" and Egon could hear the bitterness in his own voice, could taste the loneliness that seemed to sit like a lump, hard and crystalline-spiked, at the back of his throat.

"Oh, Egon," Janine sighed, in the same sad tone as before -- the tone of a friend, concerned and unhappy for him -- and something inside him seemed to loosen all at once in a long shudder; and Janine gathered him into her arms and pulled him close. It was the same sort of embrace Ray might have given him at a bad moment, all empathy and caring and a strong hand rubbing his back, comforting beyond measure, and it was exactly what Egon needed to banish the sudden desolation that had filled him in a single icy breath. He relaxed into it, rested his head on Janine's shoulder, absorbing the warmth she was offering, deeply relieved by the knowledge that he hadn't lost her friendship.

"It isn't so bad," he explained, a little while later, when he'd recovered his equanimity and could talk again. Janine had brought them cups of tea and lemon wafer cookies her aunt had sent her from England; the movie continued silently, its sound muted, its minimal plot forgotten. "After all, my research has always been a top priority for me..."

"Egon," Janine interrupted, "do the words 'repression' and 'sublimation' have any meaning to you?"

He expelled a sharp breath, annoyed. "Janine..."

"Deny it," she challenged him.

Egon paused, considered. "If I am truly sublimating my... unfulfilled urges in my work, it is equally true that the benefits gained from that work have been considerable," he responded finally, with only a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

"I'm not disputing your brilliance, Egon," Janine said gently. "Only your happiness."

And again, he couldn't reply at once.

"I have colleagues and friends who I value highly," Egon said at last, "a job which interests and challenges me, the freedom to pursue whatever avenues of research I wish, and a not-inconsiderable bank account. I am... content."

"But not happy," she observed.

"I'm not unhappy." Egon pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one fingertip. "Janine, I have observed the 'gay scene' from a distance, and I cannot even remotely imagine myself participating in it. Besides..." and his voice trailed off, unwilling to continue.

"Besides?" Janine prodded.

He sighed. "I was in love, once," he admitted, very quietly. "It... ended badly. I suppose I've never quite gotten over it."

"Egon..."

"Janine, please." After so many years of silence, the effort of talking about the part of himself he'd kept so rigorously hidden was exhausting. "I'd really rather not talk about this any more right now."

She smiled. "All right, Egon," taking his hand and squeezing it briefly. "But any time you do want to talk... I'm here. And it's okay."

"Thank you, Janine." Another rush of affection flooded him, and for a moment he couldn't speak. "I wish," he said, when it passed, "that things could have worked out between us. I had hoped..."

Janine shook her head. "You need to be who you are, Egon," she told him quietly, firmly. "Don't be afraid to be yourself."

If only it were that easy, Egon thought.

TWO

"Well, that sucked," Ray said as they got out of Ecto, his normally cheerful voice dulled by fatigue.

"You said it, homeboy," Winston seconded, with uncommon emotion in his voice. There had been some bad moments, when the Class Six had Ray trapped in the corner...

Egon's hair, normally as rigidly controlled as the scientist himself, was beginning to droop. In particular, one large curl had detached itself and was falling forward into his face. "I am going to unload the traps," he said, to the garage in general, "and then I am going to sleep," and headed off to begin his self-declared mission.

"Arrrgh," Peter complained blurrily. He'd fallen asleep on the ride back, and was having a hard time reacquainting himself with consciousness. "Nnggghhrrr," he told the car door severely, as he leaned heavily on it as a means of levering himself out of the back seat. "Gggnnnuh," he lectured his feet, encouraging them to trudge forward and into headquarters proper.

Ray and Winston were already on their way upstairs, and Peter dragged himself after them, but was brought up short by a single overheard snippet of conversation coming from Janine's desk. "Okay, Nick," she was saying -- no, cooing -- into the phone receiver. "I'll see you at eight. G'bye," and hung up, looking quite pleased with herself.

When she looked up, it was into storm clouds: Peter's face, already darkened by exhaustion, and twisted now by emotion into something ugly and almost frightening. "Who's Nick?" he demanded.

For a moment, Janine was intimidated by the sudden and obvious display of wrath -- then she remembered herself, and gathered cool confidence into an impenetrable shield. "Nick is my date for the evening," she said with dignity, and no small amount of hostility.

"Oh yeah?" Peter crowded closer, leaning forward on the desk, looming over her. "I wonder what Egon thinks of that."

"My private affairs are none of your business, Doctor Venkman," Janine said hotly -- then paused, remembering at what ungodly hour she'd rung the emergency bell, and how many hours of labor had followed it; remembering also the fierce bonds of friendship and loyalty that bound her employers together, and how ferociously they defended each other against even the mildest threat -- and continued, a moment later, in a gentler tone, "but Egon and I haven't been an item for a while now. I don't think he'll mind."

"Oh really," Peter retorted, "we'll just see about that," but anger dimmed to confusion as he headed downstairs to the basement.

Egon was just finishing up, the last trap cycling its contents into the containment unit. "Hey, big guy," Peter called out from the stairs, "got any plans for tonight?"

"No, thank goodness," Egon answered wearily, "for I doubt I would have the energy to pick up the phone and cancel them before falling asleep," pulling the empty trap free and lining it up beside the others.

"Mmm." Peter edged his way down another step or two. "I hear," he said casually, "that Janine has plans."

"Janine has not been busting ghosts since four forty-five this morning. I assume that a day of typing and answering the phones has been considerably less tiring." The stray curl had fallen forward into his face again; Egon pushed it back in a gesture that suggested that the effort of doing so was more than his fatigued body could endure.

"I think," Peter said, with studied nonchalance, "that she mentioned some guy named Nick."

"Not Steve? I wonder what happened to Steve." Egon didn't sound particularly curious. Or concerned.

"Egon..." Perplexed, Peter made his way down the rest of the stairs. "Y'know, you should be protecting your interests here, don't you think?"

"Peter, I appreciate your concern, but the condition no longer applies. Janine and I have decided to stop seeing each other." In the shadows, Egon's expression was hard to read. "It's for the best."

"How can you say that? You two were good together, you were happy together...!" There was an edge of uncommon intensity to Peter's voice -- almost frantic, almost pleading. "Egon, it's not too late, you can still sweep her off her feet, make her forget this Nick person... and Steve, whoever that is..."

"Peter." Egon's voice was deep and firm, and something else. "It's none of your business," and the sudden sharpness in his voice was a warning as eloquent as a traffic light flickering to bright red.

Uncomfortably, Peter turned away, unable to meet the vivid blue eyes that stared at him from the shadows. "I just want you to be happy, Egon."

"I see." The sharp edge had vanished; Egon's tone was smooth and utterly calm. Emotionless.

There was a prolonged, awkward silence.

"Do you need any help with the traps?" Peter asked finally, weakly, well aware that the task was already done.

"No, I'm fine. Go on, Peter, get some rest," and Egon sounded once more as he always had, with the normal veiled affection lurking behind the words.

But Peter couldn't meet his eyes as he turned away and headed back upstairs.

"You and Egon broke up?" Ray sounded mystified. "How come?"

"We had our reasons. It's not important." Janine hurried onward, deliberately changing the subject. "Look, I'm just telling you because, well, I thought Egon would've told you guys, but then Peter said... well, it doesn't matter what he said, but he obviously didn't know, and, well, I just didn't want there to be any more, um, awkwardness. So I figured I should make sure you knew. Ya know?"

Ray frowned. "I don't get it," he said, mostly to himself. "You were getting along so well."

"There were... extenuating circumstances," Janine said carefully, and it dawned on Ray that there was something here that wasn't being said, some hidden factor that Janine was concealing.

Instantly, he was intrigued. Ray had always loved a good mystery. And this was more than just an abstract puzzle: this was his friends' lives, and what more important problem could there be to solve? His curiosity was piqued; he had to get to the bottom of the story.

"I'll bet there were," he said lightly, feeling his way. "I mean, we both know how Egon is..."

Something flashed in Janine's eyes -- relief? "He told you?" she burst out.

Ray spent no more than a moment considering his options; I'm going to live to regret this, flashed through his mind as he spoke. "Of course he told me," he replied, doing his best to emulate his normal casual tone, "he's my friend, after all."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" Janine's pleasure at this statement was evident, and puzzling. "I know it can't be good for Egon, keeping something like this hidden from his closest friends, and for so long."

What the hell? Now Ray was deeply concerned; it was a struggle to keep his worry out of his voice. "Yeah," he agreed, "secrets like that aren't the kind to keep."

Janine nodded enthusiastically. "And you're okay with it?" she queried. "I mean... you don't have a problem with it, do you?"

"Of course not," Ray said agreeably, desperately trying to figure out what they were talking about before Janine caught on to his ignorance.

"I didn't think you would," Janine said, smiling at him. "I knew you of all people wouldn't freak out when you found out about Egon being gay."

Ray had been smiling and nodding at Janine as a way of covering his confusion, and reflex kept him smiling and nodding for a second or two before the impact of what she'd said hit him. Which, when it did, felt something like a sledgehammer. "Egon's gay?" he squeaked at her in disbelief.

Janine's smile faltered, reformed itself into a look of absolute horror. "You didn't know?" she gasped.

For a moment, they stared at each other in shocked silence.

"How could you?" Janine's whisper held the ragged power of a shriek. "Ray, how could you make me betray Egon that way?"

"I didn't know," Ray protested weakly, "I didn't, I just, I thought..."

"He trusted me! He trusted me with, with the biggest secret he ever had, and... and I trusted you, and..." Tears were forming behind the glasses, as Janine struggled to express the enormity of the betrayal.

Distraught, Ray had no idea what to do; and as such, simply reacted from the heart. With a quick step forward, he pulled Janine into his arms, held her tightly. "I'll never hurt him," he vowed. "Janine, I love Egon, you know that."

She was trembling, but after a few moments she seemed to calm down a bit. "I know," she murmured into his shoulder.

"I don't ever want to hurt him," Ray repeated, "and I don't ever want to hurt you, either. I promise."

The earnestness of his voice broke through Janine's dismay -- she did trust Ray, as they all did; she knew that what he was saying was true. She sighed, and let herself rest against Ray for a long moment before resolutely pulling away. "Ray, you can't let him know that you know," she pleaded. "He's never told anyone, I don't know what he'd do if he knew you'd found out..."

"But why? Does he think we won't care about him anymore?" Ray was honestly bewildered. "Doesn't he know us better than that? Doesn't he trust us?"

"I don't think that's it," Janine hastened to say, seeing Ray's hurt. "I mean... he's afraid, Ray, but not of you. He's just scared of everything."

Ray was still for a moment, then nodded, accepting it. Abruptly, his face changed, expression altering to one of curiosity. "Does he have a boyfriend?" he wondered.

Janine shook her head. "He told me there was one person in his life, once," she said, "and then nobody else, ever. Not ever, Ray."

"Oh, wow. That's..." Ray's face drew itself into a pained look. "That's not right, Janine. Somebody like Egon ought to have... well, somebody. Whoever. A guy or a girl or a bipedal fungus creature from Mars for all I care. But someone."

It was the image of the bipedal fungus creature that snagged Janine's imagination, and drew her lips into a wide smile. She giggled, and Ray caught the mood and laughed with her. But it didn't last long, and soon enough the two of them were sitting silently together again, considering their options.

"Isolating himself with this secret isn't going to do him any good," Ray said thoughtfully. "Janine, I have to do something."

Janine nodded grimly; she knew. Ray had to fix things that were broken, whether mechanical or people -- it was just who he was. "But what?" she wondered aloud.

"I don't know. But... if he finds out that I found out from you..." He reached out and touched her face lightly. "I'll make sure he knows that I tricked you into telling me. It was wrong of me, and I'm sorry."

"It's all right," she said, meaning it.

Ray smiled, and as always it was like a little piece of sunshine, glowing from inside him, impossible to resist. His fingertip brushed along her cheek, brushing away the single teardrop that had escaped her control earlier. "Go on," he said gently, "go on home. You don't want to keep your date waiting."

And after she'd done so, Ray sat thoughtfully in the darkened and empty front office, the fatigue of the day banished by this new dilemma, wondering what to do next.

In darkness, Ray awoke, unsure of what had brought him out of slumber. He'd gone to bed, eventually, yielding to his body's need for rest despite his mind's turmoil. Egon had already been asleep by that point, saving him the effort of having to practice his dubious acting skills twice in the same night. Now, blinking off sleep, Ray cast his glance around the moonlit room... Winston was out like a light and snoring quietly, Peter was sprawled across his bed in typical disarray and snoring counterpoint.

And Egon's bed was empty.

Blinking sleepily, Ray got up and headed out of the communal bedroom and down the hall. He stopped along the way to make use of the plumbing, then continued toward the lab, where a thin ribbon of light escaping through the crack at the bottom of the door testified to the room's occupancy.

He opened the door just a bit and peeked in. Yeah, there was Egon, studying readouts, taking notes, the usual familiar picture of absorption in his work. Ray watched him for a moment, idly turning his new knowledge over and over in his head, and wondering if knowing made anything any different. How many years, now, had he known Egon? They were beyond friendship; they were brothers. No, knowing didn't matter, how could it? Egon was Egon, still. Nothing had changed.

"Raymond." Quiet acknowledgement of his presence; and Ray drew up a lab stool and sat beside Egon. Glanced at the readouts, scanned the page of notes, recognizing the experiment in progress. Just another of the innumerable projects Egon always had going. Good ol' Egon.

"Hey," Ray said, when it seemed Egon wasn't in the middle of anything vital, "can I ask you a question?"

"Mm." Egon operated on several simultaneous levels of thought, Ray knew; he could be working on two separate experiments, holding down a conversation and debating the merits of chicken chow mein vs. sweet and sour pork for dinner, and track each of the threads separately without apparent difficulty. Despite the noncommittal answer, Ray could be sure that Egon was listening to him, despite all evidence to the contrary. And if Egon was paying a bit less attention to him than to the experiment... well, maybe that was for the best.

"I have this friend," Ray began, not quite sure where he was going with it, "and he has this friend, and, well, my friend found out something about his friend, something that his friend had been keeping secret from everyone for a long time. And my friend doesn't want to pry, you understand, but he wants to find a way to let his friend know that he doesn't have to keep secrets like that if he doesn't want to. So my friend asked me what I thought, and, well, I'm wondering if you have any ideas..."

Egon turned slightly toward him, the mild expression of annoyance on his face indicating that he hadn't untangled the web of friends-of-friends enough to figure out what was being discussed -- and then awareness struck, freezing Egon's face into a look of utter shock and barely-veiled terror. Ray couldn't bear it; it hurt to see Egon look that way. "You're my best friend, Egon," he offered, "you're my brother and then some, and I love you. You know that, right?"

The other man's eyes closed for a moment. "Thank you, Raymond," almost a whisper, riding on the back of a sigh of relief.

Very deliberately, Ray reached out and placed his hand over Egon's, exerting a gentle pressure. I can't let him feel weird about this! After a moment, Egon's hand moved, shifted to curl around his; blue eyes opened again, regarding Ray with affection. "Janine told you," he surmised.

"I tricked her," Ray said quickly, "she thought I already knew. Honest, Egon, it wasn't her fault."

But he could see Egon wasn't angry. "I'm rather glad it happened," he admitted, "although I should have told you myself."

Ray opened his mouth to say it was all right -- paused. "Why didn't you?" he asked instead.

Egon thought about it for a moment. "I was afraid, of course," he said. "But to be honest, Ray, it's not a part of myself I often consider. I don't generally socialize, outside of our group; I spend most of my time on my work, my research, and I am content to do so. The subject simply didn't come up." A soft sigh. "Until Janine entered our lives, that is."

"Why'd you start dating her?" Ray wondered. "I mean, if you knew..."

"But I didn't." Egon gave Ray's hand a small squeeze and let go, turned to adjust a setting on one of the meters, studied it for a moment, then turned his attention back to Ray. "As I said, the question of my... sexuality hadn't come up in my mind for some time. I found Janine attractive, her company enjoyable. It seemed to me that perhaps I might be capable of engaging in a relationship with her."

"And then..." Ray prodded, when Egon seemed disinclined to continue.

"And then I kissed her," Egon said, "and I knew that it wasn't right, and that it would never be right. And that Janine deserved better than that, and to know the truth." The voice was calm, measured, even, and did not hide the pain in the least.

Ray reached out again, recaptured Egon's hand. "That must've been a really awful moment for you," he remarked, all empathy and caring.

"Yes." The single word seemed to encapsulate all the turmoil, all the agony of the realization, the decision. As he had earlier with Janine, Ray reacted instinctively to the pain at hand; he slid off the stool, moved toward Egon. Would it feel different to hug Egon now, knowing that he was gay? Ray didn't think so. Well, he was about to find out... Egon seemed surprised, but didn't protest, allowing and even welcoming the embrace. Ray held him, patting his back lightly, comparing it in his mind to past hugs given and received. Not too many, given that Egon wasn't really the hugging type, but enough for a decent sample. Nope, no difference. Same ol' Egon, just as he'd figured.

It worked; when they disengaged, Egon seemed all right. The awful sadness had dissipated, and the tension had evaporated. "Thank you, Raymond," he said again, and Ray knew it was for more than the hug.

Then, suddenly, Egon's tone sharpened. "You haven't discussed this with Peter, have you?"

"No," Ray said promptly, surprised.

"Good. Don't." Egon seemed to relax again.

"Egon, Peter wouldn't mind," Ray protested, as a voice at the back of his mind wondered, would he?

"Just don't discuss it with him," Egon reiterated; and looking at him, Ray could see that he meant it. Why on earth...? but it was clear from Egon's expression that it was not a subject to discuss at the moment.

With great difficulty, Ray reined in his curiosity. That same impulse had almost been his downfall once today; he didn't think it was a good idea to tempt the gods by making the same mistake twice in such a short period of time. "Okay, Egon," he said, accepting the prohibition, and was gratified by the look of relief that passed across the other man's face.

But much later, after he'd shared cocoa and a plate of cookies with Egon and gone back to his bed, Ray stared across the room at the dark-haired man sprawled over his bed, wondering. Worrying.

THREE

Peter Venkman exited the subway at West 4th Street, inhaling deeply. The smell of car exhaust faded away behind the intoxicating scent of freedom. No jobs tonight, and the others all busy with one thing or another; enough time for him to get away, be on his own for awhile. Be himself, away from prying eyes.

He strolled past the boutiques and the townhouses, heading vaguely west. A couple passed him going the other way, both mustached and wearing leather, holding hands: and Peter smiled.

There was a little bar he was particularly fond of, on the corner of Christopher Street. A nicely mixed crowd, representative of the area, featuring a diversity of hairstyles and fashions. Peter wedged himself into a small empty space at the bar, ordered and received a drink, feeling the tension slip away from him. It had been far too long since he'd had any free time, and the gnawing hunger inside him had begun to sharpen toward desperation. Which, he had learned years ago, was a supremely bad thing; when he got desperate, he made dangerous mistakes, taking chances that had more than once almost led to disaster.

But it wasn't that bad, yet. He could still afford to be selective. His eyes roamed over the crowd, evaluating the clientele, seeking out intriguing prospects.

"Hi there." The voice was nicely deep, strongly masculine, and Peter glanced sideways and up into a pair of intent dark eyes. His gaze traveled down, and up again, taking in the stranger at a glance: two yards of lean muscles clad in inconspicuous khakis and polo shirt, vaguely curly sandy brown hair long enough to run fingers through. Nice, very nice. And very clearly interested. Good. Peter hated having to work very hard for anything -- least of all, to get laid.

"Hello," Peter purred, making his own interest just as clear. Maybe they could cut to the chase quickly, and Peter could be home again in time to catch the Conan O'Brian show and get a good night's sleep... "My name's Bill," he lied, as always.

The stranger cocked his head sideways. "Really? I thought it was Peter," he said, and Peter's heart sank. Damn it. The last thing he needed was to have his preferences hit the front page of the Post, or the Enquirer. Would he even be able to come back to this bar again safely? Damn it.

"My name's Lance," the stranger introduced himself. "I caught your lecture at the New School last month."

Lecture? Oh, yes... the school had offered him a ridiculous amount of money to speak for a few hours one evening about any subject of his choice. Peter had done what was essentially a two-hour comedy routine about what it was like to be a Ghostbuster, combining bits of science with reminiscences about past busts. Except for the malfunctioning of the PKE meter during his demonstration, it had gone well: the audience had seemed to appreciate it, and the fee had paid off one of his credit card balances nicely. Hardly a 'lecture', though, in any academic sense; and Peter felt unaccountably embarrassed. "Oh, that. That was nothing," he said reflexively, brushing it off.

"No, I thought it was very informative and entertaining." Lance favored him with an appraising, appreciative glance. "I also thought you were incredibly hot. I've wanted to meet you ever since."

Peter stared back, discomfort rising into horror within him. Was he really that transparent? Did it show? "What made you think I was interested in that sort of thing?" he parried, trying not to sound as frightened as he felt.

"Oh, I had no idea if you were or not. But hope springs eternal." The dark eyes were direct, their intent clear. "And in this case, it seems, accurately."

"I think you're mistaken," Peter said coldly. Time to end this, before it became any more complicated. Ruthlessly, he squashed the growing desire and arousal he felt, banishing animal instinct with cold logic. The danger was too great here.

Lance looked thoughtful. "No, I don't think I am," he said. "What I think is that you're afraid of the publicity you'd get if anyone found out what side of the street you walk on."

Peter's heart leapt into his throat and lodged there. Blackmail, it would be blackmail next. Or perhaps this was one of the ones who thought that people's preferences should be made known to the world regardless of the individual's feelings on the matter: 'Out of the closet, girlfriend, whether you like it or not'. Damn, damn, damn! how did he get himself into these things? He should have known better, should have just stayed on the safe side of the street; it wasn't as if he couldn't function perfectly well there...

"Peter." Lance's voice snapped him back to the here-and-now, and Peter had the uncomfortable feeling that the other man could see right through him, see everything he was thinking and feeling. "I'm studying for my master's in education," Lance said, very deliberately. "I'm currently working as an elementary school teacher for a private school in New Jersey. Second grade." He held Peter's gaze steadily for a moment, allowing the message to sink in -- then clarified it: "I have as much to lose by indiscretion as you do."

Peter absorbed that slowly, letting it sink in. Absorbed also the intensity of the dark eyes, and the feeling they provoked inside him. Lance's hands closed on his upper arms, and Peter felt the shock of that contact race through him, electric-quick and fierce. "You can tell me again that I'm mistaken," Lance continued, "if that's what you want. Or... you can come back to my place with me, and let me give you the best blow job you've ever had."

The words impacted on Peter's brain with the force of blows; synapses fired, forming tactile memories of what Lance was describing, resonating throughout his body. Instant hard-on. Logic fled, and with it all resistance.

"Fuck me and you've got a deal," Peter said huskily.

A slow smile spread over Lance's face, and Peter's jeans were abruptly way too tight. He ached to be out of them already. "Let's go," Lance said.

"Nice apartment," Peter said.

"Thanks," said Lance.

It was a nice place, just over the river in Jersey with a view of the New York skyline, decorated in a modern style. But Peter was less interested in Lance's apartment than in what he'd been promised -- and confused, because Lance wasn't following the rules he'd come to expect. Normally, when Peter got himself picked up this way, things went very quickly -- back to the apartment or rented room or even the back of a car: pants down, rocks off, done. But Lance had gone to the kitchen and brought back a couple of long-necks, was sitting on the sofa companionably, waiting for Peter to join him. Peter reined in his confusion and his impatience and took his place and his beer.

"According to the papers, you're a real ladies' man," Lance said conversationally. "Is that for show, or is that part of your preference?"

"Does it matter?" Peter returned.

Lance shrugged. "I've been known to go both ways myself, so no, it really doesn't. I'm just curious, I suppose."

"Let's just say I'm an equal-opportunity slut," Peter joked. His laughter felt false even to himself, though.

The other man studied him. "So you're not looking for anything permanent, then?"

Peter began to form another quip -- found himself instead gazing out at the Manhattan skyline, eyes instinctively drawn to the dark space where he knew the firehouse would be. "I have something permanent," he said softly. "It's called the Ghostbusters. The guys, Janine... they're what's permanent in my life. It's... it's a commitment. Almost like a marriage. There just isn't room for anyone else." He looked at Lance, wondering what on earth was compelling him to open up this way to someone he'd only just met. Something about those dark eyes...

Lance seemed to force a short laugh. "That's a shame," he said, "I would have liked to have swept you off your feet," and despite the light tone, it obviously wasn't a joke at all.

The dark eyes seemed to contain endless depths, Peter thought. One could fall in and drown. "I'm not so sure you haven't," he said slowly, uncertainly.

An answering light flared to life in Lance's eyes. "Shall we find out?" he inquired, leaning in closer.

Oh, yes, Peter thought, as Lance moved in.

Lips forceful on his, tongue slipping past his defenses, tangling with his own. Invading, conquering. The heat of a strong male body against his: flat chest, muscles, arms crushing him close. Utter surrender, giving himself over to the conqueror, and the sensation. Falling back onto the couch, pulling Lance down, the weight of the other man covering him. Yes. Yes. A hand snaked down between them, curving around the swollen flesh held restrained by tight denim, and helplessly Peter arched up and into the touch, whimpering into the mouth that still held his captive. Yes oh yes, please, more, please.

Lance unbuttoned Peter's shirt without ever breaking off the kiss, fingernails raking over Peter's chest. His thigh wedged between Peter's, applying pressure against his confined erection, pressing a sizable bulge against Peter's thigh in return. Rough but not too rough, just right. Heaven. Peter thought hazily that he should have been doing something more, showing off his own prowess at the art of foreplay, but it was all so good, so perfectly right, so exactly what he needed that all he could do was moan and writhe. Lance didn't seem to mind, though, instead taking Peter's response as encouragement. He pulled away after a time, studying the flushed and sweaty face beneath him, seeming to enjoy the evident need Peter could feel screaming from his every pore. "Let's go to bed, Peter," Lance said, and Peter thought that no one in his entire life had ever made such a thoroughly appealing proposition.

Well, once. But that... couldn't be allowed to matter anymore.

Even that much memory was a dash of cold water on his libido. Peter forced away the recollection, focusing instead on the evidence of Lance's arousal shoved hard into his thigh. Definitely big. And how that would feel... oh yes.

Taking the sultry look in Peter's eyes for assent, Lance disentangled himself from the other man and stood with difficulty. Then, to Peter's immense surprise, Lance bent over and lifted him off the couch, cradling him as if a child, supporting him easily. "Damn, you're strong!"

"I spend a lot of time in the gym," Lance said suggestively, making the double-entendre clear. Peter laughed -- then began to become aware of the sensation of being held by the other man. An exceedingly vulnerable position. But Lance's grip was firm, his eyes... oh, his eyes... Peter wavered on the edge, then fell in.

The other man carried him into a bedroom with an equally spectacular view of the city, the glow of the skyline casting an echo of itself on a huge pristine bed. Peter felt himself deposited on white satin as if sinking into a cloud. He lay there, spellbound, as Lance began to undress: flat muscles of his chest gleaming, khakis and briefs falling away to reveal, ah jeez, that was going to hurt so good, and Peter began to tingle in anticipation. He reached out toward that proud organ, was intercepted halfway. "No, Peter," Lance murmured, "I'm not finished sweeping you off your feet," and pressed him back against the satin, urging him to stillness.

Nude, Lance moved to the foot of the bed. Peter had kicked off his shoes during the first long kiss; Lance removed the socks with slow reverence, trailing his fingers along the sides and soles of Peter's feet. It didn't tickle -- it was wonderful, and Peter shivered. Next, Lance applied himself to Peter's jeans, fingers stroking as he eased open the fly, and Peter sighed in relief -- his newly freed erection ached, and he moved to touch himself, but again was stopped. "No, Peter," Lance said again, and Peter allowed the correction despite the insistent pulsing need. There was a delicious pleasure in submitting to another man's authority, one he rarely permitted himself -- too dangerous, to give up control that way to anyone. But this was too good to resist.

He lay back against the pillows, fingers digging into the satin spread to keep from disobeying Lance's gentle command, as the other man gazed at his newly naked body. "You are exquisite," Lance said softly, and Peter felt an answering flare of pride and desire.

Then Lance bent over him again, mouth stretching open, taking him in -- all the way in, a single wave of hot wet tight suction -- and Peter groaned and gave himself over utterly to the other man.

Best blowjob I ever had, Peter thought dimly. Wasn't kidding. But there was very little room for thought -- sensation was crowding out everything else. Blowjobs, he had had in abundance over the years, but this went beyond anything he'd ever experienced. The sensations were almost too intense to bear, and when Lance slid a saliva-slick finger into him, going straight for the pleasure center, Peter thought he was going to explode right on the spot. It didn't happen, though; somehow, Lance kept him just this side of the edge. The second finger was the same burst of almost-climactic ecstasy, and Peter wondered hazily if he could withstand this, or if his entire central nervous system would simply short out from the overload of pleasure. So close. So close. Oh, hell yeah, right there, just a little more... and Peter cried out as the skillful mouth pulled away, as the fingers withdrew, leaving him in an agony of helpless need.

"You wanted me to fuck you," Lance said breathlessly, his eyes seeming to drink in Peter's desperation. "Wouldn't want to disappoint you." And even in the midst of frantic desire, Peter couldn't help being amused at the predictability of the bottle of lube Lance scrabbled out of the bedside table's drawer; did everyone keep it in the same damn place? Apparently. He watched as Lance fumbled the cap open, preparing himself with shaking hands, his haste betraying his eagerness -- yielded happily as Lance leaned in for a long kiss, reveling in the anticipation as the other man positioned them both for entry. Finally, yes, what he had needed for so long...

It hurt to be stretched so wide, even after years of practice and despite any amount of preparation, it always hurt in those first moments. It hurt, and it hurt so good. Then came the second wave, overriding the pain: the sensation of being entered, of being filled. Perfect. Perfect. Lance began to move, and each withdrawal and thrust was a new shuddering wave of ecstasy; Peter whimpered and moaned helplessly, loving every moment of his own surrender. His cock throbbed, trapped between them, the pressure of Lance's taut stomach providing just enough friction to count, as the thrusting inside him grew faster, harder, bringing him closer and closer and yeah, oh yeah... and the orgasm burst through Peter, unbelievably intense, spasm after spasm of pure pleasure wringing cries from his throat.

Sometime later, Peter became aware that his legs were cramping painfully, still frozen in the awkward position made necessary by the mechanics of the missionary position. He moved faintly, and Lance -- previously a panting weight resting heavily upon him -- moved back and began to ease Peter's legs down, massaging the tense muscles as he did. Peter stretched luxuriously, grinned. "That," he said lazily, "rocked my world."

Lance grinned back at him impishly. "I noticed," he said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes; and Peter laughed merrily, still riding high on the endorphin rush of orgasm, and unaccountably delighted by the other man's humor.

"So may I then assume that we'll be doing this again?" Lance inquired, and Peter's laughter faded into a thoughtful silence. He hadn't had any sort of ongoing relationship with anyone in quite awhile, and nothing but one-night stands with men for over a decade... his eyes sought dark brown depths, and considered. It had been a long time since anything had felt as good as this night had, and Peter wanted more of the same.

"Oh, yeah," he affirmed, and Lance leaned in for another long kiss.

Peter whistled as he strolled down the street toward the firehouse. Lance had dropped him back at the West Fourth Street subway, only a few stops away from home. Better that way. More discreet. The glow from the windows was cheerful, welcoming. Freed most thoroughly from the tension that had driven him to the bar in the first place, Peter found that he was glad to be home.

Ray and Winston were still up, watching TV and polishing off Chinese takeout. "Hey, you're just in time for Conan," Ray said by way of greeting, and Peter remembered his earlier thoughts on the subject and couldn't repress laughter.

Winston looked up at Peter, taking in the hair still damp from his shower, the rumpled clothing and wide grin. "He shoots, he scores!" was the prompt assessment, tinged with admiration and envy.

Peter laughed again. He knew perfectly well that he was utterly transparent in that regard; his inability to conceal the post-orgasmic glow always made it very obvious when he'd gotten laid. That didn't concern him in the least -- in fact, it helped bolster the reputation of which he was so proud. As long as no one found out who...

"You leave any of that for me?" he inquired, plopping himself down on the sofa and digging through cardboard cartons. Egg foo young, even cold and half-congealed, seemed quite appealing at the moment. "Mmph, I'm starved," Peter commented, and began shoveling food into his mouth.

Winston chuckled. "So was she hot?" he wanted to know.

Peter's grin widened even more, with an odd little sardonic twist to it. "Hotter than you can imagine," he said.

FOUR

No one ever touched Egon's computer. Ever. Had they tried, the security defenses would most likely have stopped them cold. Nevertheless, Egon kept certain sites bookmarked solely in his head, and purged caches and memory most assiduously any time he indulged himself in this most private sort of research.

With the lab door securely locked, he typed in one of those URLs with fingers that trembled slightly. One of the few such sites that didn't require identification and payment, Egon still had to wade through several layers of garish advertisements that made him cringe inwardly. Objectively, he knew that there was nothing abnormal about his preferences -- but the secrecy of his efforts combined with the blatant, trashy advertising always made him feel deviant, guilty.

Finally, he reached the single image he sought. He'd sifted through seemingly endless heaps of pornography to locate this image and a few others like it, and always feared that the images would be removed or relocated upon his return -- but he didn't dare save the images to hard drive, or even a floppy. Even now that Ray knew, and Janine... there were still too many other reasons to be discreet. And one reason in particular that, even now, caused his heart to lurch dangerously at its merest contemplation.

Egon gazed at the image on the screen thoughtfully. In contrast to the rest of the gallery, this one was almost demure. A dark-haired man, leanly muscular, reclining nude on a couch. Not an especially erotic picture -- the man wasn't even fully erect. But enough to evoke a memory that Egon had nurtured, prevented from becoming too distant, despite all the intervening years.

Nobody had touched him that way in all those years, but if Egon focused on the picture to the exclusion of all else and let himself drift, he could still recall the sensation of eager, questing hands caressing him. Exploring his body, delighting in his responses. He disassociated himself from the knowledge that it was his own hand smoothing over his stomach, slipping beneath his waistband, and let his mind pretend that it was another hand touching him, surreptitiously reaching into his pants to coax a reaction from his swelling organ.

Those touches, needful yet hesitant, growing more assured as the owner of the hands gained confidence. Light soft kisses on his jaw, moving finally to his lips and probing deeper. His name, whispered silkenly into his ear by a voice that quavered ever so slightly with desire. Hands, touching him, stroking, more and more firmly, bringing all the repressed desire in him to a burning torment of need, swelling, abruptly bursting -- and Egon had barely enough presence of mind to grab for the Kleenex he'd prepared, catching the results of the explosion before his emission could splatter on the screen and keyboard.

The brief euphoria of his climax faded quickly, leaving him cold, sticky and vaguely depressed. He found himself recalling Ray's words of some nights before. "Well," Egon muttered to himself, "that sucked," and folded a clean tissue around the soiled ones, tucking the mess into an empty paper coffee cup before burying the whole thing in the trash, the better to conceal the evidence of his lapse.

For he considered it as such. What use was it, after all, besides the necessary alleviation of certain physical pressures? There was no joy in the exercise, no real pleasure aside from a few brief spasms. Pointless.

And lonely.

Egon arranged himself and zipped up, wincing at the sensation of fabric against flesh made newly sensitive by his exertions. Without looking at the picture that had so recently aroused his interest -- among other things -- he began closing browser windows disgustedly, suppressing an exasperated sigh at the windows that popped up in response to the ones he'd just closed, each portraying a lurid come-on. He supposed that such imagery was appealing to others; it completely failed to entice him. Bold, public portrayals of acts that for him had been private, intensely personal expressions of emotion... it seemed wrong, somehow. Ugly.

For a moment, Egon's chest and shoulders ached with the memory of being held and loved. Only a moment -- but the ache was so unbearable that Egon wrapped his arms around himself quite involuntarily, a poor substitute for the arms of another. He sighed. I am a fool, he acknowledged, to carry this feeling with me. I need to learn to let go. Perhaps even find something new. But that last thought was too intimidating to consider seriously. As he'd told Janine, he could not even remotely imagine himself becoming part of the gay subculture; it was another world in which he just didn't fit. In point of fact, Egon had never truly felt that he had belonged anywhere. Except for this place, this line of work, these people. Science. Ghostbusting. Ray, Janine, Winston.

Peter.

Damn.

Egon deleted his cache files, cleared the history of his browser, double-checked everything before shutting the computer down. Years of concealment had rendered the subterfuge automatic, routine. He glanced around his desk, checking to ensure that no traces of his activity remained to betray him, then turned out the light with another small sigh and exited the lab.

And nearly collided with Peter, coming upstairs.

"Oh... Peter." Startlement combined with guilt tinted his cheeks pink; Egon could feel the heat in his face. Ruthlessly, he fought it back. "I thought you'd gone out for the night."

"I did. I'm back now." Peter seemed unusually subdued -- unusual, because he had that just-fucked look again, Egon thought caustically. Normally, sex put Peter in at least a tolerable mood. "Say, what're you up to, Egon? You want to watch a movie or something?" and Egon's irritation faded at the plaintive tone of Peter's voice.

"All right," he agreed cautiously, and was rewarded by one of Peter's rarer smiles -- not the cocky grin, or the irritating little smirk, or any of the repertoire of expressions that made up his usual facade, but the shy little smile he reserved for the people he felt closest to. The real smile, the one that was far more appealing than any of Peter's practiced attempts at charm...

Egon felt his defenses crumble, and sighed.

Peter's tastes in entertainment were generally appalling, in Egon's opinion; but to his surprise, Peter merely handed him the remote upon their arrival in the TV room, and did not comment on any of the selections that flashed by as Egon scanned the channels. He paused at a PBS documentary on the insect life of the South Pacific -- glanced at Peter, expecting a reaction -- but Peter said not a word, merely settled himself more comfortably on the couch.

Egon made a conscious effort to relax, aware that the tension he felt was obvious in his posture. It had been a long time since he'd felt this uncomfortable in Peter's presence. He attributed his discomfort to the proximity of his earlier lapse, and the inevitable associations. Yet there was no denying that Peter's behavior was... strange, somehow. Briefly, Egon considered engaging Peter in conversation, perhaps trying to discern the reason -- but no, there were too many potential pitfalls along that road.

Peter had showered very recently, that much was clear from the still-damp hair, yet Egon fancied that he could smell the hint of musk, the telltale aroma of Peter's arousal...

All I can think of is kissing you. Does that mean I'm gay, too?

The memory of the voice was so vivid that for a moment Egon thought that Peter had spoken aloud. But no, it was just an echo of the past.

I don't want to be gay, Egon. But all I want is to be with you.

Fifteen years ago. Past, dead and gone.

You goddamn cocksucker, you turned me into a faggot, just like you!

No, Egon thought, anguished. It's over, it's done with, let it go!

But he couldn't. Had never been able to, neither the blissful ecstasy of the beginning nor the crushing betrayal of the end.

It's over. We've been friends, good friends, for years. What we are to each other now has nothing to do with our college days. Let it go, Egon told himself, as if it were a mantra, let it go. Let it go.

A few more deep breaths, and the past released its grip on him, returning Egon to the here-and-now. Involuntarily he glanced over, regarding Peter with a measuring eye. His hair, still damp, was tousled and wind-blown; his troubled eyes were the deep green of an evening forest, twilight-sad. The languor produced by his earlier activities lent a certain relaxation to his posture, yet there seemed a reticence in that apparent ease. It bothered Egon to see Peter so clearly unhappy -- yet there were liberties he dared not take. Years of friendship lay between them, still there were dangers in becoming too close.

"Peter," Egon said, "did you remember to take out the garbage today?"

The other man's eyes slitted in annoyance. "The bag wasn't full, there was no point."

"I see," Egon said gravely. "Interesting, how the garbage is never ready to be taken out when it's your turn to do so."

"Hey," Peter protested, "I do my share of the work! Usually," he added, a bit less vehemently.

"Yet somehow when it is my turn -- which coincidentally falls the day after your turn," Egon noted, "the garbage bag is always full to the brim, and nearly impossible to close, let alone carry."

"That's not fair! What about the time that thing with the slime exploded in the workshop, and I spent all day helping you clean it up, huh?"

"If you hadn't spilled Dr. Pepper into the slime," Egon said mildly, and did not bother to finish the sentence.

"That's not the point! What about the time you got food poisoning from Chang's Tuesday special, and I held the hair out of your face while you worshipped the porcelain god for forty-five minutes, and then did all those dishes so you wouldn't have to? Huh? What about that?"

"I'll admit, you do have your moments," Egon conceded, "however..."

"All right! I'll take out the damn garbage tomorrow morning. Satisfied?" Peter demanded.

Egon said nothing, merely waited.

And within the course of a few seconds, the anger faded from Peter's eyes, as the psychologist behind the bravado figured out what Egon had done, and why. Egon watched the transition from hostility to realization, enjoying the play of emotion across Peter's face far more than he suspected was wise.

"Thanks, big guy," Peter said finally, again with that rare, genuine smile.

The past is gone. But the present... holds benefits of its own. Let it go.

"Giant cockroaches, yuck," muttered Peter, grabbing for the remote. "This show sucks. Isn't there a ball game on or something?"

Egon exhaled, a long sound of resignation -- and smiled.

FIVE

"So, Ray, what do you think?"

"I dunno. He's cute, I guess. But isn't this the cousin you said was kind of a flake?"

"He's not that bad. And he is cute..."

The hushed voices coming from the living area intrigued Egon; he went to investigate.

Janine and Ray were studying a photograph together, but when Egon came in, both heads shot up to stare at him, wide-eyed and guilty. "Oh! Egon," Janine yelped, her face turning nearly as red as her hair.

"What are you doing?" Egon said pointedly, with the dismal feeling that he already knew.

"Um... we were just..." Janine stammered.

"We're trying to fix you up on a date," Ray answered, open and guileless as always.

"Oh, no," Egon groaned, and closed the office door behind himself. "Ray, Janine..."

"Hey, you said it yourself," Ray pointed out reasonably, "you don't get out much, so you don't meet people yourself. Besides, in many cultures it's customary for friends and families to help find suitable matches for each other. It's a time-honored tradition, going back for centuries."

"Raymond," Egon said sternly.

"So tell me, Egon," Ray continued cheerily, undeterred by the interruption, "'cause I don't really know -- is this guy cute, or not?"

Unwillingly, Egon glanced at the picture. "You want me to go out on a date with Janine's cousin Ronald?" Incredulity laced his tone.

"What's wrong with Ronnie?" Janine protested indignantly.

"Janine, at your cousin's baby shower he placed pointed party hats under his shirt and sang Madonna's 'Like A Virgin' wearing a pink feather boa," Egon reminded her disdainfully. "I think not."

"Well, then let's find someone else you might like," said Ray, and Egon was mortified to note that he had a copy of the personals column from the Village Voice folded on the corner of the coffee table. This had to be stopped.

"No, listen," he said desperately, "please... I appreciate your intent, and your concern. But my private life is my own business, and I wish to handle it myself."

"But you're not handling it," Ray said, "that's the point."

"But it is my choice," Egon said quietly. He looked at them each in turn. "Please... let it be."

Silence. Janine looked resigned; Raymond, subdued. But just as Egon was about to take his leave of them, satisfied that the situation had been resolved, Janine spoke.

"Egon," she said gently, "Ronnie is very good at the screaming queen act he does. It's a defense mechanism; it's not who he really is. I've known Ronnie since we were kids. We used to go rollerskating together. When my date stood me up for the junior prom, Ronnie came over with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates and sat and watched TV with me all night so I wouldn't feel so bad. He's always been like that -- just a nice guy, y'know?" Janine's eyes were very clear, very direct, and Egon could not look away. "You don't get out much, Egon. It wouldn't do you any harm to maybe go out to a movie some night... would it?"

They meant well, Egon knew. And perhaps... perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps he could think of it as a scientific experiment. Sociology. Something like that. At the very least, his acquiescence would please the two people who gazed at him so worriedly, and was it really such a great sacrifice for him to do so? Egon sighed. "All right," he said dismally.

"That's great!" Ray exclaimed, and Egon had to smile at the obvious exuberance. Janine said nothing, but her answering smile was serene.

No, Egon decided, not really such a great sacrifice at all.

"Another beer?"

"Please."

Peter gazed idly out at the Manhattan skyline. "How the hell do you afford a place like this, anyway?"

"Trust funds. Family money. Who could survive on a schoolteacher's salary?" Lance's voice had turned grim. He set another beer down on the table in front of Peter, settled down on the couch beside him. "Hell of a world, where the lowest status and the lowest pay is reserved for the people who take care of the next generation."

"Mm." Peter sipped his beer.

He felt rather than saw Lance's gaze on him. "You've been awfully quiet tonight," the other man remarked.

"Sorry." Automatically, Peter summoned up Charming Smile Number 23. "I'm just a little tired."

"Not too tired, I hope," Lance responded suggestively.

Seductive Leer Number 12. "Never that tired."

Lance nodded. "Cut the crap, Peter," he said softly, "what's going on?"

Startled, Peter's facade wavered. What is it with these people who can see right through me? Don't I have enough of them in my life already? "Lance... I..." He cast around frantically for an excuse, realized finally that the best response was the truth. "I really don't want to talk about it right now."

"All right, Peter." The deep voice was sympathetic. "But if you do, I'm here."

"Thanks." But I can't talk to you about it, Peter thought, because you're the problem.

I can't talk to anyone about it. The realization made him feel unaccountably lonely.

"Can I at least try to cheer you up?" A strong hand slid along his arm, up to his shoulder, and Peter let himself be tugged back to rest against Lance's chest. Yes, sex would be good. Sex isn't the problem here.

Actually, I think I'm the problem. The thought distracted Peter, made him sigh.

Some people spent their whole lives on a search for greater self-awareness. Peter was, by his own conscious choice, not one of those people. Self-awareness meant thinking about all the things he'd fucked up in his life, all the mistakes he'd made, all the ways in which he might actually be the worthless piece of crap so many people had accused him of being. Self-awareness hurt. Especially at times like this, when he was being forced to it against his will.

"Hey," said Lance in his ear, "you're not helping." He'd been nibbling on Peter's ear, and Peter hadn't even noticed.

"Sorry," Peter said again, meaning it. He tried to relax into Lance's arms, to still the thoughts running through his head. It didn't work.

He's a good guy, he really is. I like him. Not just for the sex. There could possibly even be honest-to-god relationship potential here. Am I really such a selfish son of a bitch that it doesn't matter to me?

But it doesn't matter to me.

Peter exhaled heavily, and extricated himself from Lance's embrace. "This isn't working," he said morosely. "Maybe I should just go home."

"Is that what you really want?" Lance's gaze was steady.

"I dunno..." Home. The firehouse. The guys.

Egon.

Shit.

"Peter..." Lance stood and extended his hand; for lack of a better idea, Peter let himself be pulled to his feet. "Come with me." And Lance led him decisively toward the bedroom.

Peter followed, relieved to have been freed from the necessity of a decision. Sex would take his mind off things. Except it seemed that Lance had something different in mind. He spread an oversized towel across the bed, withdrawing from the bedside table not the Astroglide but a bottle of massage oil. "Take off your clothes and lie down," Lance directed, and Peter moved to obey. In contrast to the familiar satin, the towel felt rough against his skin. "A friend of mine once taught me a few things about massage," Lance told him. "Now I'm going to demonstrate them to you. If you get turned on, that's fine. If you fall asleep, that's fine too. The main point is to get rid of some of that tension and relax." A warm smile. "No matter what's bothering you, that almost has to help."

"All right," Peter agreed dubiously.

He'd expected something sensual and erotic; but Lance's fingers dug into his muscles almost painfully, kneading away the knots, and after awhile it did feel better. Half-hard from the contact, Peter nevertheless felt himself drifting closer and closer to sleep. Even the whirlwind of his thoughts slowed slightly. I'm a lucky guy. Lance is... really something. I think... I think I could be happy with him. I think he could make me happy.

Couldn't he?

Sudden image of fair hair, pale skin, blue eyes sparkling behind thick glasses, twin jewels glowing in an expression filled with happiness and love as he had never beheld, neither before nor since...

Our continued association is contingent on your not mentioning that matter. Ever. Again. And nothing had ever been as cold as that voice had been. Ice. Stone.

Inwardly, Peter groaned, then sighed. You haunt me even now, he said resentfully to the memory-image, worse than any ghost.

But Egon would be at home, waiting for him. Oh, not waiting up for him. But there, probably with his nose in a musty old book or buried in some experiment or watching something weird on TV. The familiar face and voice and presence, solid and reassuring. His friend, Egon.

But never more than that.

So why was he considering walking away from the massage, pulling on his clothes and going home? Was spending a night sleeping alone in a place where Egon just happened to be really preferable to the physical and even emotional pleasure that he could obtain by staying right where he was?

The answer stunned Peter, and saddened him.

For the first time in years, he wondered what would happen if he tried to broach the subject with Egon again. Maybe enough time had passed that they could discuss things like adults. Or -- he remembered their brief exchange when he'd learned of Egon's breakup with Janine -- maybe not. The perils of ghostbusting had brought them closer than they'd ever been; Peter knew without question that Egon would risk his life for him without second thought. But there were still some lines that Egon wouldn't allow to be crossed. And to bring up the matter now... it was entirely possible that Egon would react as badly as he had the first time Peter had tried to apologize. It could... it could even break up the team.

Even the merest chance of that was too terrifying to risk.

Peter remembered the look in Egon's eyes, the one time he'd tried to discuss it. Remembered the ice, the stone. He had seen Egon in some towering rages since then, had in fact seen Egon in all shades of emotion. But never like that. That look was reserved for Peter and Peter alone: Peter the coward, Peter the betrayer. Over the years, it seemed, Egon had forgiven him enough to offer genuine friendship and loyalty and trust. Could he risk losing that again, by reminding Egon what a loathsome creature he was capable of being? I have a man here who cares about me, who wants to make me happy, and I can't even be bothered to give him my full attention. What the hell makes me think I have the right to fuck with Egon's head?

Face buried in his folded arms and hidden against the towel, Peter squeezed his eyes tightly shut, refusing to let the tears emerge.

You made your bed, now lie in it, Petey-boy. He couldn't let old history keep dictating his thoughts and actions. You fucked things up but good with Egon, and you're lucky he's mature enough to have accepted you as a friend after that. Leave it alone -- and start thinking about the one you can have. Or are you going to fuck this one up too?

Lance. Steady, solid, reliable, discreet. Good-looking, good sense of humor, amazing in bed. Didn't mind when Peter called at three a.m. after a night of busts, or when Peter didn't call at all. The only thing Lance seemed to want was for Peter to spend the night -- the hints had been getting stronger, every time they were together. Yet somehow, Peter hadn't been able to bring himself to do it, and his excuses were wearing thin. Maybe it's time I learned how to make someone else happy for a change. But what would it be like to sleep that way with another man, after all these years? Do I really want to find out?

Peter tried to envision what it would be like to wake up next to Lance, and realized suddenly that since they'd moved into the firehouse, despite all his dalliances, he hadn't actually slept anywhere but at home. It was comforting, in a deep-down sort of way, to always know what he'd wake up to, and that -- despite the eternal possibility of revenge-seeking spectres and Slimer wanting to snuggle -- he was safe, and among people who cared for him. Wouldn't it be similarly comforting to wake up beside Lance? Peter didn't know.

I don't want to know, said a rebellious voice in his head. I'm happy with my life the way it is. Isn't that enough? The hands massaging and caressing him were an eloquent answer. There's more to life than slime and science. Even... more than friendship.

Suddenly restless, Peter turned over, dislodging Lance in the process. "You said it was okay if I got turned on," he murmured, and pounced on the other man in a way that made further conversation impossible.

The sex was incredible, just like always; and when it was over, Peter was just as tense as he'd been before.

And then he showered, and dressed, and headed for home.

SIX

"King me," Ray announced smugly. "Want another cookie?"

"No thanks." Janine slid one of the captured checkers on top of Ray's, undisturbed.

Ray studied the board briefly. "So when did you set up Egon's date with Ronnie?"

"Next Tuesday night. Ronnie works on the weekends anyway -- and I thought that a weeknight would be much less conspicuous than a weekend." Janine's lips quirked in a grin. "Egon's embarrassed enough by all this as it is."

"Yeah. Poor Egon." Ray glanced at Janine selfconsciously, then away. "I have to say, I understand how he feels. It's hard enough dealing with this whole dating thing without having any extra... complications."

Janine sighed. "Believe me," she said, "I understand it well enough myself."

"You?" Ray said, in amazement. "But Janine, you're so beautiful...!"

Caught utterly off-guard by the statement, and by the earnest sincerity of it, Janine stared at Ray in wide-eyed astonishment.

"...what kind of problems could you possibly have, finding someone?" Ray finished, seemingly unaware of the reaction his words had produced.

Janine got herself under control fast, as best she could. Beautiful. Me? But that wasn't important now. "Ray," she said, "when I was in junior high school, I weighed fifty pounds more than any of my friends, and I had acne and braces and greasy brown hair. On Valentine's Day, someone put a dead rat in my locker."

"Aw, Janine," Ray murmured sympathetically. "I'm sorry..."

"Eh, it's all right, it doesn't matter anymore." But she felt warmed by his concern. "The point is that lots of people have a hard time connecting with other people. Egon's not the only one. He just thinks he is." Janine let her eyes rest steadily on Ray's. "There are a lot of really great people," she said, "really special people, who have that kind of trouble. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them. Ya know?"

Ray was blushing a little. "Thanks," he said, very softly.

"It's true," Janine said mildly, and let it go, before the pink tinge of Ray's face escalated any further. She studied the board, moved a checker forward. "I think I'm going to have a little talk with Ronnie before that date," she mused.

"What kind of talk?" Ray wondered.

"Oh, y'know. Girl talk." She grinned wryly, then sobered. "I don't want our Egon to get hurt, not even accidentally. Ronnie wouldn't do anything on purpose to embarrass him or anything, but... I think I'm gonna make sure."

Ray nodded sagely. "Good move," he said. Glanced at the checkerboard. "That wasn't, though," and jumped four checkers in a row.

"I never was any good at this game," Janine grumbled.

Heavy footsteps ascended the stairs. Ray looked up. "Hi, Peter," he said. "Have a nice night?"

"Yeah," Peter said, in a voice that indicated the opposite. "You seen Egon around?"

Ray glanced sideways and up, silently indicating the lab; and Peter nodded slightly and continued upstairs.

"I wonder what's up with Peter," Ray mused, when the footsteps had receded entirely.

"Hmph. From the looks of him, I can guess exactly what's been up," Janine said disdainfully.

"Yeah, but... usually, when Peter's, ah..."

"Getting some?" Janine supplied helpfully.

Ray nodded and continued. "...he's generally in a good mood, and lately it seems like he's been anything but."

"Well, there's a first for everything," Janine said dismissively. Peter, she felt, could take care of himself. Time had mellowed and broadened her initial impression of Peter, making her aware of the depth of his loyalty to the others, and even to her. But he still reminded her far too much of the smooth-talking wannabe Casanovas she encountered way too often, the kind who'd do anything to get into a lady's pants and then dump her without second thought afterwards, and Janine really couldn't make herself care too much about any hypothetical problems in Peter's lovelife.

But Ray cared; she could see that much. Good ol' Ray, Janine thought fondly. Peter had once described him as 'the heart of the Ghostbusters'. She hadn't been working for them long enough at that point to understand what Peter meant. She understood now, though -- and if Peter's problems mattered to Ray, she thought with a mental sigh, that was good enough for her.

"Somehow, I can't exactly see Peter being thrilled about anyone prying into his social life," she said dryly.

"Oh, you mean the way Egon was?" Ray said innocently, only the faintest hint of sly mischief behind his words. But the humor faded from his face quickly enough. "Trying to help Peter with anything is like hitting yourself in the head with a rock," he said grimly. "It feels so much better when you stop."

"Then why bother?" Janine heard herself ask, and wished she hadn't.

Ray looked puzzled. "But it's Peter," he said. "He's my friend."

Janine grinned. "You really are something," she said softly, "y'know that?"

"Who, me?" And Ray was honestly confused, she could see. He really didn't know just how unusual he was, with the unconditional caring and immediate support he provided to his friends. He truly didn't realize how rare and precious a gift that type of love was... or, it seemed, how much his friends might value him for it.

"Yeah," Janine said, "you." She covered his hand with her own briefly, then let go as she stood to head downstairs to check on things. Strictly speaking, her workday had ended hours before -- but she liked to make sure she kept up with the phone messages, lest some truly critical situation go unnoticed until morning. The guys depended on her, she knew; she liked to give them her best.

There were two messages, one from a former customer asking about a credit-card charge, another from a hysterical woman in Newark. Janine called the woman back, determined quickly that it was a low-grade infestation rather than a transdimensional crossrip; the woman was already out of the house, staying at her sister's place in Paterson, so Janine filed the work ticket to be done the next day. Then she called back the man who was claiming to have been double-billed, and questioned him until it became obvious that the second charge he'd blamed on the Ghostbusters had in fact been the man's wife on a shopping spree. The usual stuff.

But all the time, it seemed as though she could still feel the warmth of Ray's hand against her palm.

Egon checked on the status of the computer simulation he was running, absently aware of movement behind him at the lab door. It had to be some sort of physically-perceptible difference in the sound or movement of the opening door, he reasoned, rather than any sort of psychic awareness on his part, that he knew without looking and before the door had even opened that the visitor was Peter.

"Egon?" The voice was very soft, oddly tentative.

"Mm," Egon said as if distracted.

"Mind if I come in?"

"Mm," Egon repeated, carefully nonchalant.

Footsteps padded softly into the room; springs creaked, as Peter settled himself down on the old couch. Egon sensed the eyes on him, watching him, and tried not to think about the sudden crackle of tension along his spine.

He expected that Peter would speak, say something. Peter silent was an aberration. But the stillness of the room continued, making Egon acutely aware of every small electronic sound from the equipment, or distant traffic noise beyond the window... Finally, he turned; he had to. And yes, Peter was looking at him, his expression vaguely sad.

"Did you want something?" inquired Egon, doing his best to keep it from sounding defensive.

"Nah." Peter's eyes dropped. "Just figured I'd hang out here. If that's okay?" he queried belatedly, in a voice that worked hard to be casual.

"All right," Egon said slowly.

Peter had been out. And Peter had had sex. No question about that; the signs were, as always, conclusive. But again, Peter seemed unhappy. What did that mean? Do I want to know what that means? Egon asked himself.

For years, Egon had held his emotions and thoughts rigidly in check, allowing himself only the smallest lapses in occasional private moments. He'd become so accustomed to it that control was automatic. It would never do, for anyone to notice him react to Peter's presence. But now, he found the control slipping, as it had the time before. Peter always looked so appealing, after sex; and the sadness in his eyes, while troubling, was even more enticing somehow. A vulnerability, so rare in such a guarded man, a hurt that seemed to beg to be soothed...

Egon felt his body start to respond, and turned away fast.

Oh, no. This can't happen. Terror coursed through him. I cannot have this sort of reaction to Peter, I must not. How can I work with him if I can't maintain control? Absently, he noted that the fear was useful, at least; it chased away the troublesome physical response efficiently. But what happens if I forget to be afraid?

Peter's small sigh was barely audible. "Egon," he murmured. "I wish..."

The terror shot through Egon again -- terror, and more. Say it. No, don't say it. Don't say anything. Peter... and his heart felt as if it would burst out of his chest from the sheer force of its pounding. "What, Peter?" he said, more harshly than he'd intended.

Silence, for a long, long moment. "Nothing," Peter said finally, his voice dejected.

It took quite some time for the adrenaline response to fade; Egon kept his eyes fixed and focused on nothing, his breathing measured and even, his posture perfectly still. He felt, for a moment, as if any attempt to do anything more strenuous than breathing would result in his falling to the floor in a helpless, trembling heap. This would be undesirable. I might break my glasses in the process. Humor, yes. Humor is good, humor will help. Breathe, Egon, just breathe. Gradually, the intensity receded... replaced by slow despair. What would he have said? What would Peter have wished for? Not me, not after all this time. Impossible. The fury of Peter's voice so long ago, lashing out at him, returned to haunt his memory in dismal echoes. He never wanted to feel what he felt for me then; he despised what he had become. Apparently he was able to become otherwise. Peter had been confidently seducing and having sex with women for over a decade, and the thought that he might have once more come to desire the very man whose preferences he had so stridently opposed was, Egon acknowledged, patently ludicrous.

Wishful thinking.

A small sound came from the couch, and unwillingly, Egon glanced back... a light snore. Peter had evidently fallen asleep, curled up on the couch. Asleep, and relaxed in a way he rarely was while awake. Knowing it was foolish, dangerous, Egon still couldn't keep himself from studying the other man. Remembering.

Peter had been a suspicious, angry man when they'd first met. In the course of their brief relationship, Egon had watched that closed bud blossom into rare form, into a man who was open, trusting, loving -- at least, with him -- and the transformation had been breathtaking. After things had gone wrong, it had taken years before Peter had begun to open up to him again. But the memory of the man Peter had been for that brief time, and the exquisite intensity of the emotional and physical rapport between them... lingered.

For the first time, Egon acknowledged fully the true reason behind his closeted celibacy. I have always loved you. You, and no other. No other had ever captured him as thoroughly, or made him feel the same bursting tenderness that he was always so hard-pressed to conceal. Peter had touched a part of him no one else had ever reached, and had infiltrated that part of his psyche so thoroughly that no one else could ever hope to dislodge the remnants of that presence.

There can be no one else for me. I don't want there to be anyone else, Egon realized. And so I will spend my life alone, and probably die that way. It saddened him, but -- gazing at Peter -- not unduly so. Alone is a relative term. Peter is here. And sex is hardly my top criteria for a productive and successful existence. His lips quirked into a faint smile. Unlike some others, coincidentally present at the moment.

He stood and moved to the side of the couch, removing a folded blanket from its arm and spreading it carefully over Peter. His hand slipped -- accidentally? -- and brushed lightly against one warm shoulder... and Peter sighed in his sleep.

Greatly daring, Egon let his hand rest for one moment atop the tousled, still-damp hair. "Peter," he said softly, allowing his voice to slip from his control and speak of the love which he could not... just this once.

Unhearing, unaware, Peter slept on.

Quietly, Egon let himself out of the lab, dimming the lights and pulling the door near-closed behind himself, knowing that he would get no further work done that night.

SEVEN

Ray and Janine talking in low voices in corners, hushing up quickly whenever he passed by. Peter, going out every other night, coming home freshly-laid and depressed every time. Egon, so quiet you could forget he was in the room, and disappearing into the lab for hours on end without ever actually seeming to get anything done. It didn't add up.

And no matter who you asked, or how you asked it -- "What's going on?" or "What's new?" or "What's happening?" -- the answer was always, "Nothing," in the same furtive way.

Something is definitely wrong around here.

The only time things were normal was when they were busting ghosts, and that made it tolerable. On the job, they were the same sharp, efficient team, working together as well as they always had. But afterwards, there were the awkward silences, the odd subliminal sense of discomfort...

Winston didn't like it, not one bit.

Ray, he knew, was the one most likely to buckle under the right sort of pressure; and after a week of waiting, the opportunity finally arose. It was Janine's day off, and Egon had gone out to a movie with some guy named Ron, and Peter had disappeared to presumably indulge in his favorite pastime, and he and Ray were working on Ecto. The perfect time to do a little serious investigating. In the midst of casual small talk, Winston made his first move. "So," he said cheerfully. "Looks like Peter's got himself something steady going."

Ray paused for a moment, wiped a smudge of oil from his face with his sleeve. "Yeah," he mused, "it sure does. Hey, has he said anything to you about it?"

"Nope," Winston said. "You?"

"Uh-uh." Ray shook his head slightly. "It doesn't make sense, Winston. The way Peter's behaving..."

"Yeah," agreed Winston. Any other time, Peter would have been walking on air and happily bragging about his latest conquest.

"You think something's wrong?" Ray worried.

"I don't know, m'man. He hasn't been talking to me about it." And obviously Ray didn't know either. Strike one. "You think maybe he's talking to Egon?"

Ray's face flushed slightly darker. "I don't think so," he murmured, turning back to the engine.

Bingo. "Why," Winston said carefully, "what's up between Pete and Egon?"

"Between them? Nothing, I don't think." Ray seemed honestly surprised by the question. "But Egon..." The flush darkened. "Egon's going through some stuff," he said very quietly.

"Like what?" Winston wondered aloud.

Ray hesitated, seemingly caught in some internal struggle. Then, abruptly, his expression cleared. "Why don't you ask Egon about it?" he said, staring at Winston with uncommon intensity.

Winston stared back, puzzled... putting it all together. "All right," he said, after a moment, "I will," and the relieved look on Ray's face confirmed his preliminary deductions.

It took a couple of days, though, before a similar opportunity presented itself with Egon. Hard to strike up a casual conversation with someone who seemed intent on secluding himself away from everyone. Finally, Winston decided to just approach Egon in the lab, straight-out -- and was surprised, when he did so, to find Peter sleeping on the old couch there. "What's up with Peter?" he asked.

Egon shook his head slightly. "I've no idea," he responded. "He seems to have taken to sleeping here of late. Did you need something, Winston?"

Winston hesitated, feeling uncomfortable. "Wanted to talk to you," he said finally. "You're not yourself lately. What's going on, Egon?"

Blue eyes flickered to regard the sleeping man on the couch. "Not here," Egon said abruptly, leading Winston out of the lab.

They ended up on the roof, as the dying embers of daylight stained the city gold. Winston settled himself into one of the cheap lawn chairs they kept there for such purposes, studied Egon as he sat rigidly tense in another. "Come on, man," he said, "talk to me. What's up?"

Egon sighed, his gaze dropping to his feet. Uncharacteristically, he seemed to be struggling for words. "It's a difficult matter," he said vaguely, his voice drifting to silence. "I'm... not quite sure where to begin."

"It's all right," Winston encouraged, "just start at the beginning," with an increasing feeling of dread. If Egon was having this much trouble spitting it out, it had to be something bad.

Another long sigh. The streaks of pink in the sky deepened to crimson slowly. "Recently," Egon said finally, nearly inaudibly, "I have been forced to acknowledge the fact that I am... homosexual."

Winston waited, tense and scared, but Egon said nothing more. "And?" he prodded, after a few moments.

Startled, Egon looked up. "What do you mean, and?"

"You mean that's it?" Thank God, Winston thought, with relief. In the few seconds of silence following Egon's words, his mind had raced to a thousand possible conclusions, up to and including the terminal stages of some fatal disease. The discovery that being gay was the only thing bothering Egon was a huge relief. But what am I thinking? he realized, with another look at Egon's face. This has been chewing him up inside. This isn't 'only' anything. "Look, man, it's not the end of the world," he said steadily.

"Perhaps not," Egon said, "but it is a difficult realization to fully assimilate." His eyes focused on Winston's with grim intensity, seeming darker than usual in the encroaching twilight. "And not an easy subject to broach with one's friends."

"Yeah, I guess not," Winston agreed. He reached out and placed his hand on Egon's forearm, found that the other man was trembling -- and not from the breeze blowing in from the river. "But look, Egon... I don't have any problem with it." Do I? he wondered inwardly. This was a man he lived with, shared a bedroom with. In such close quarters, partial and total nudity wasn't uncommon; when your clothes were soaked in slime right down to the skin, the matter of getting out of said clothes and into something more comfortable tended to seem much more important than who happened to be in the room at the time. Winston had served in the military, was used to being casual about such things in a barracks setting -- it had never occurred to him to be self-conscious about it. But how's it going to feel now? What if Egon looks at me?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Winston knew it was ridiculous. Come on, this is Egon here. After all they'd been through together, and all they'd become to each other, he couldn't imagine being afraid of Egon for any reason. He looked down at his hand on the other man's arm, and was relieved to realize that he hadn't thought twice about reaching out to him. That's the way it should be. Anyway, what if he does look? Hell, I've changed clothes in front of Janine. "There's nothing wrong with being gay," he said aloud. "You're my buddy, Egon, and that's what counts."

"Yes," Egon said, "well..." in a voice that cracked a little, and heaved a sigh that seemed to Winston like a great big ball of worry dissolving. "Thank you, Winston," Egon said soberly. "Your acceptance means a great deal to me."

Winston grinned at the typical Egon contrast: words that were stiffly formal, spoken in a voice that was anything but. "Any time," he said.

For a while, they sat together and watched the sunset, and Winston thought about what he'd learned. So Egon was coming out of the closet; that explained his distraction and silence. Obviously, Ray knew -- and sifting through his memories of Ray's secretive conversations with Janine, combined with the fact that Egon and Janine had broken up just before it had all started, well, it seemed equally obvious that Janine knew, too. And Peter... Hmm, Winston thought. None of this explained Peter's behavior. Or did it?

"You tell Pete yet?" he said idly, and was taken aback by the way Egon's entire body seemed to tense at once at the words.

"No," Egon said emphatically. "And please don't."

"How come?" Was Peter some kind of raging homophobe? That didn't sound like the Peter he knew. And how would that have anything to do with Peter's depression, anyway?

"Because I don't want him to know." Egon's voice was definite in a way Winston had rarely heard -- even a little angry.

"But..." Winston took a look at Egon's face and raised his hand to stop the words he knew were coming. "You don't want to talk about it," he said, on Egon's behalf.

"That is correct," Egon said. "I have... reasons," and his voice and face were opaque, revealing only the faintest trace of sadness.

And in a sudden blaze of insight, Winston understood. Everything. Does Ray have any clue? he mused. Probably not. Somehow I can't see him figuring this one out on his own. "Whatever you say, m'man," he agreed.

The sunset continued, untroubled by the small drama transpiring beneath its glow. Winston sat in silence with Egon for awhile longer, digesting his revelation. It seemed unbelievable -- but the more he thought about it, compared his new knowledge with his memories of the past, it all made perfect sense. Must've happened a long time ago, Winston thought, for Egon and Pete to be friends again the way they are now. His respect for both men increased substantially. I don't know if I could ever be close with one of my ex'es the way those two are.

He found himself flashing back to the image of Peter stretched out on the couch in the lab. He goes out and gets laid, then comes home and falls asleep in the lab next to Egon. And Egon has no idea why. And both of 'em pretending as hard as they can to be straight... Shit. He exhaled heavily. That must've been one hell of a breakup.

At the sound of Winston's sigh, Egon glanced over inquiringly. "You hungry?" Winston improvised quickly. "We could order out for Chinese."

Egon nodded. Together, they headed back down to the firehouse. Even as they scanned takeout menus together, Winston's mind raced, forming and firming the hypothesis. A long time ago, echoed in his mind. Ray said once that those two met about a year before he got to know 'em, back when they were all in college, so it must have all gone down before then. I'll bet Peter was pretty surprised to find himself falling for a man. Couldn't have been easy on Egon, either. But it must've been something pretty damn special, for 'em both to still be pining for it after all these years. What the hell happened, he wondered, what could've gone so wrong between them to scare 'em both this bad?

And what am I going to do about it?

The thought startled Winston. Hell, I'm no matchmaker. This is Pete's business, and Egon's -- not mine. Except for the fact that both of them were his friends, and unhappy. But what can I do? I mean, Peter's nowhere near out of the closet, and ain't no way I'm dragging him out of it. Friend or no, Winston could easily envision Peter decking him for the merest insinuation about his manhood. Uh-uh. I'm not going there.

Ray joined them, eagerly perusing the menus. Winston saw Ray shoot Egon an inquiring glance, saw Egon raise his eyebrows in silent response, saw Ray correctly process the look with a wide grin. Ray could get away with it, he thought. Ray's probably the only one who could raise a subject like that with Peter and maybe not get a black eye for it. But he couldn't go telling all this to Ray, either. I know I'm right... but I can't prove it. And I can't let Ray go out on a ledge like that with Pete, not without backup. Ray's grin turned to include Winston, who smiled back, expertly concealing his inner turmoil. All Ray ever wants is for everyone to be happy. I can't stick him into the middle of a battlezone, wouldn't be right. 'Course, he's going to end up there sooner or later, just like the rest of us.

Peter stomped into the room; apparently his nap had left him feeling irritable. "Does it have to be Chinese?" he groused, reading the menu over Ray's shoulder. Whatever's setting Peter off, Winston thought, it's working his last nerve. Sooner or later, it's all going to explode. Maybe that explosion -- however it happened -- would bring the subject out into the open. Or maybe I can help arrange it to come out in the open. The sooner it does, the sooner everyone can deal with it. Then maybe things can get back to the way they were.

Or maybe not. It occurred to Winston suddenly that a confrontation between Peter and Egon might well be the worst thing to happen -- for both of them, and for the Ghostbusters as a whole. That must've been one hell of a breakup, he thought, for it to have affected them both so much, and for so long. What if whatever drove them apart in the first place is something they can't resolve? What happens to the business? Winston was suddenly afraid. What happens to the friendship?

But -- he glanced swiftly from Egon's tense body to Peter's taut anger -- the situation was going to blow. Sooner or later. The only question left was how it was going to happen... and whether the explosion would clear the air, or destroy them all.

No way, Winston decided. I don't care what their problem is, I am not going to let this drive us apart. Of course, he had no idea how he was going to prevent it. But I'll find a way.

The final verdict was General Tso's chicken, moo shu pork, shrimp fried rice and Peter's grudging order of spareribs; Ray left the group to make the call, and Winston sat back and watched Egon and Peter simulate small talk with stilted conversation about the annoying preponderance of Class Threes lately. Wondered if either of them had any idea how transparent they both were, to someone who had a clue as to what was going on. Wondered how Egon could fail to hear the wistfulness in Peter's voice, how Peter could miss the yearning in Egon's eyes. Wondered how on earth Ray could know them both so well, yet completely miss the entire subtext between them.

Damn, it was easier when I didn't know what was going on, Winston thought ruefully.

But at least now he had a chance at being able to make a difference, to help his friends sort things out. All things considered, that seemed worth the inconvenience.

With renewed determination, Winston began to mull over the various possible situations that might occur, and what he might do about them.

EIGHT

As it happened, the explosion came fairly quickly, and with very little warning.

A friend of Ray's had gotten some free baseball tickets through work, last-minute, and couldn't use them. "Want to go?" Ray asked Winston, who readily agreed.

The Yankees had been in the cellar all season, but they seemed to be rallying; Winston got into the spirit of it, and managed to forget everything but the game for awhile. It left him feeling much more relaxed than he'd been in ages, and therefore unprepared for any difficulty.

Like running into Peter on the way out of the ballpark.

Like running into Peter and his date on the way out of the ballpark.

As Winston evaluated the disaster potential of the coincidence, Ray was already off and running in full jolly-oblivious-Ray mode. "Hey, Peter!" he called out, eagerly waving, without noticing Peter's startlement or dismay. "I didn't know you were going to be here! Who's your friend? Hi, I'm Ray Stantz," introducing himself to the stranger at Peter's side without waiting for an answer, offering his hand guilelessly.

"Lance Hawkins," said the other man amiably, shaking Ray's hand, as Winston gave him the once-over. Good-looking man, 'straight-looking' for whatever that was worth. Seemed nice enough -- at least, he didn't give Winston a case of the creepy-crawlies. "And you must be Winston."

"If I must, I must," Winston said, before abandoning the old joke. Lance had a firm handshake, he noted. Introductions over, he glanced at Peter...

...who was staring back at Winston, eyes wide, hardly breathing, face absolutely white. He knows that I know, Winston realized. How? But Peter had always had that uncanny ability to read what was going on inside his friends' heads. He shouldn't have been surprised. Never mind how. Not important now. Damn, look at him, he's terrified. He returned Peter's gaze steadily, trying to convey with his eyes what would have been easier with words. It's all right, don't worry about it. And very gradually, the color began to return to the other man's face, and Peter began to breathe more easily. You ought to have more faith in your friends, my man, Winston thought mildly.

Ray was blithely rambling on, oblivious. "...great game, wasn't it? Nice to see our guys win one for a change!"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Lance replied, grinning. "I spent some time in Boston in my youth; I would have preferred a Red Sox win, myself." He and Ray seemed to be getting along, Winston noticed. Then again, who didn't get along with Ray?

"Not this time," Ray said good-naturedly. "Hey, me and Winston were going to grab a bite to eat. Why don't we all go? There's this great little Italian place on Eighty-Sixth, it's on the way home and everything."

Winston, watching Peter, noticed the flash of panic in his eyes, and hurriedly interjected, "Ray, maybe they have plans..."

"No," Lance said slowly, also glancing at Peter, "actually, Italian sounds great. Right, Peter?"

Peter opened his mouth to reply, seemed to think twice about it. "Sure, I love Italian," he said instead, mood and tone seeming to lighten. Winston could tell that it was false, but it might just slip by Ray...

"Great!" Ray said enthusiastically. "Let's go..."

The drive back to Manhattan was interesting, though not in any way Winston would choose to repeat. Ray and Lance kept up a steady conversation, about sports and cars and such, as the latter maneuvered his car through traffic; Winston stayed mostly quiet, watching Peter. Riding 'shotgun', Peter was wedged up against the door as far as he could be without actually leaving the car, as if by avoiding proximity with the other man, he could deny any claims that might be made about their relationship. Occasionally, Peter glanced back diagonally at Winston, as if afraid Winston would suddenly decide to spill the secret. Dammit, Pete, it's me, Winston thought. You really think I'd do that to you? But fear was a funny thing; once it got inside your gut, it could make you doubt even the things in which you were most certain. And Peter was gut-scared, no question about it.

But dinner actually seemed to go rather well. As the evening progressed, Peter seemed to finally come to the conclusion that his world wasn't about to come crumbling down around his head; he loosened up enough to participate in the conversation, with something approximating his usual good humor. And as Peter relaxed, so did Winston. It's going to be all right, he thought, watching Peter laugh at something Ray had said. It's all going to be all right. We'll be able to make this one work out. No problem.

And it did seem that way, right up to the point where Lance pulled up by the firehouse to let his passengers out. "It was really great to meet you, Lance," Ray said jovially. "We're going to have to do this again some time! C'mon, Peter, let's go."

Oh, shit, Winston thought, with a glance at Peter's face. Obviously, going back to the firehouse so early hadn't been part of Pete's plan for the evening. And just as obviously, Peter wasn't having any luck figuring out a way to get out of it.

Lance saved him from the necessity. "Yeah," he said casually, after a moment's hesitation, "give me a call tomorrow, okay, pal?" with a resigned look that Ray, already out of the car, missed completely.

Peter expelled an angry breath. "Yeah," he said, "right," got out of the car, and slammed the door hard enough to startle Ray out of his complacent good humor into a long, puzzled stare.

The car drove away, and for a moment, everything seemed to quiet into a curious stillness. Even the omnipresent noise of New York City seemed to mute itself. "Peter?" Ray said, clearly perplexed. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," Peter snarled, and stalked into the firehouse.

Ray followed, and Winston rushed to keep up, with a sudden sense of impending doom. "Peter, wait!" he called out. "I don't get it. What just happened?"

Peter stopped dead, whirled to face Ray. "Where do you get off rearranging my night for me, huh?" he shot back, with rising agitation. "Maybe I had other plans!"

"Well, then, why didn't you just say so?" Ray said reasonably.

"I... couldn't..." Peter shuddered, the anger in his face altering into the panicky, trapped expression of a wild animal in a cage.

This is it, Winston thought, now or never. "Peter," he said, as gently as he could, "it's all right. Tell us."

He sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath as Peter's eyes met his; the terror in the green eyes was unlike anything Winston had ever seen there before, and he prayed to never see it again. For a moment, the silence was absolute.

Then Peter let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "Lance isn't my friend," he said, not looking at either of them. "Lance is..." and couldn't finish the sentence.

C'mon, Peter, Winston willed him silently. It's okay. Just say it.

One more long shaky breath. "...my lover," came out finally, in almost a whisper.

Winston spared a quick glance for Ray, who was obviously taken completely by surprise. "You..." Ray began to say, then stopped short, and Winston just knew he'd been about to say, "You, too?" But Ray managed to avert that disaster, thankfully. "Peter," he said softly. "Jeez, I'm sorry, I didn't know. I wouldn't have gotten in the way if I'd known. I didn't mean to screw up your night, honest." All the while, Ray was moving closer to Peter in slow stages -- carefully, so as not to spook him; as if he really were that panicked wild creature. Good, Ray, Winston thought, yeah, just like that. "Maybe my friend can get another pair of free tickets," Ray offered. "So I can make it up to you two." And as he drew close enough to touch, Ray reached out with both hands, grasped Peter's upper arms lightly. "But y'know," Ray finished, quietly sincere, "you really could have told me," meeting the other man's frightened gaze with his own, offering acceptance and comfort at once.

For one awful moment, Winston thought Peter was going to burst into tears. But Peter managed to pull it together just before the seemingly imminent collapse. "You're okay with this, Ray?" he queried.

"Well, of course," Ray answered earnestly. Impossible to disbelieve Ray when he used that tone of voice. "You're my friend, Peter. I just want you to be happy."

Peter's eyes flickered to Winston, who nodded, knowing that it would be enough. Knowing, too, that any more of an emotional display would break Peter's precarious control completely. After a moment, the green eyes closed, and Peter swallowed hard, silently summoning his defenses into place. "Okay," he said finally, opening his eyes, "okay," sounding far more normal than he had in days. Weeks.

Thank God, Winston thought, immensely relieved. The danger was past, the worst was over...

"It is okay," Ray reassured Peter, smiling. "Isn't that right, Egon?" and Winston followed Ray's gaze with sudden horror to where Egon was standing in the shadows -- where Egon had been standing ever since the three had come in from the street -- still and silent and overhearing everything.

Oh, shit.

Peter spun around to face Egon in an electric instant, his face once again draining of all color. "Egon?" Ray said again, seeming confused by Egon's lack of a reply.

Then Egon stepped forward, into the dim light that spilled down the stairway from the second floor, and even Ray was shocked to stillness by the look on his face. Pure cold fury, unlike anything Winston had ever seen before, and so far removed from any expression he'd ever seen on Egon's face that he could hardly believe it was the same person. And focused squarely on Peter, to the exclusion of all else.

Trapped in that gaze, Peter seemed frozen. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged.

Then Egon moved, an aimed bullet, past them all, toward the stairs. Baffled, Ray made one of his rare mistakes. "Egon," he repeated, reaching to grab Egon as he passed, "what..." and Egon shook off the grip violently enough to send an astonished Ray sprawling to the ground, completing his retreat upstairs, not quite running.

Winston moved to Ray, offered him a hand up. "I don't get it," Ray said, "why..." making a move toward the stairs, to go after the retreating scientist.

Peter's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Don't, Ray," he said, his voice cracking, "don't," and Winston saw the first tear slide down Peter's cheek.

Ray saw it too... and Winston watched as Ray finally got it. "Oh, Peter," Ray whispered faintly.

And that was the final straw. Peter's expression wavered and crumpled as his last fragments of control shattered; he evaded Ray's grasp blindly and shot across the carport to his office, slamming the door shut behind himself.

Helplessly, Ray looked at Winston. Equally helplessly, Winston stared back.

From the lab upstairs came the sound of glass breaking -- not as if something had burst a test tube, as often happened, but as if someone had flung a tray of beakers across the room with all of their strength to impact with a wall.

From the office, there came the muffled but unmistakable sound of sobbing.

Winston dug a nickel from his pocket. "Call it," he said to Ray.

"Heads," Ray said.

The coin flipped end-over-end through the air and landed with a sharp metallic clink. Ray bent over to study it. "Heads," he announced wearily. "I'll take Peter," ruefully rubbing the part of his posterior he'd landed on.

Winston nodded, and headed upstairs to deal with Egon.

NINE

Control. Calm. Egon's hands were clenched into fists. He couldn't seem to unclench them, although his fingernails were gouging slices out of his palms. Stop this. This is unreasonable...

...my lover...

Furiously, Egon seized another beaker and flung it against the wall, where it shattered into fragments that fell to the ground along with the rest.

The door to the lab crashed open with force enough to startle him slightly out of his rage. "Get out!" he snarled at the intruder, not noticing who it was, not caring.

Hands reached out, grabbed him and shoved him up against the wall. The impact, along with the sheer unexpectedness of it, was a shock to Egon's system. Winston's face loomed before him, scant inches from his own, "Listen to me, goddamnit," he said angrily, "I don't know what the hell's going on in your head, but that was Ray you knocked to the floor down there. Ray. And anyone who hurts that man is gonna answer to me, no matter who it is."

Ray? Temporarily distracted from his fury, Egon sifted through his memory. "Oh, no," he said weakly. "I... I'm sorry. That was uncalled-for."

"You're damn right about that," Winston shot back. "And you can tell him yourself. After you and me have a little talk."

The anger swept through Egon again, unreasoning and fierce. "It is a long story," he said stiffly, "and I do not wish to discuss it."

"Well, let's make a long story short," Winston suggested firmly. "How long were you and Peter lovers? And what happened to screw it up?"

Startlement banished anger once more; Egon stared at Winston... and sighed. "Three months," he said, nearly inaudibly. "Three months, fifteen years ago. And they are three months that haunt me to this day."

He felt an arm slide around his back, supplying a gentle pressure. "Tell me about it," Winston urged, "tell me how it happened."

With another sigh of resignation, Egon began.

He hadn't wanted a roommate, had in fact paid extra for the privilege of having a room to himself. But when the pipe burst over at the other dorm, the student body president had made flowery speeches about helping one's fellow man in time of need, and now Egon had a roommate whether he wanted one or not.

His heart sank even further when his roommate arrived. Just what he didn't need in his life: someone who was almost exactly his opposite. Popular, well-liked, active in sports, a class clown, who littered his half of the room with dirty laundry and dirty magazines and pinups of nearly naked women. And it only made it worse that the newcomer had the most amazing green eyes, and a forelock of hair that curled into his face in the most appealing way...

There came the day when his new roommate failed a physics test, and came back to the room in a foul mood. Having heard the news from someone else earlier, Egon had braced himself to be 'shaken down' for test answers, as had happened once or twice in the past. Instead, his roommate had asked almost shyly if Egon might be willing to tutor him in the subject. Surprised and secretly pleased, Egon agreed.

Subsequently, there followed the day where, having passed his next physics test, Egon's roommate jubilantly offered to take his tutor out for a celebratory dinner. This time, Egon's agreement had been more tentative. It had become more and more difficult over the passing weeks to conceal his attraction to said roommate, and he feared that continued personal contact would lead to some incriminating slip on his part. However, the roommate had proven to be remarkably likeable -- and Egon, while aware of his preferences for some time, had never experienced anything like the reaction he was having to this man; he couldn't quite bring himself to refuse the prospect of spending more time in his presence.

After that, there were many more days, and evenings. There were television shows watched in congruence with six-packs of beer, and excursions to movie theaters and the occasionally raucously loud concert. Egon began to attend the sports events in which his roommate played. They developed the habit of meeting for lunch on days when their schedules coincided. And one day his roommate even showed up for a lecture that Egon had been anticipating for days, drawn apparently solely by Egon's enthusiasm for the subject.

Then there came a night when the full moon had found them half-drunk on cheap wine and intoxicated by the warmth of the evening, chasing each other playfully down narrow streets in the financial district, climbing up on the giant bull statue in the triangle in front of the exchange and laughing like children. They'd boarded the Staten Island Ferry together, and stood on the car deck gazing back at New York's downtown skyline fading away behind them like a dream upon waking. The night had been very clear, and the ferry nearly empty, and the only sound in the stillness had been the ferry's engine, and the water churning around the moving boat.

Peter had spoken, for the first time, of his father. In those emerald eyes had flashed anger, and sadness, and a great wounded vulnerability that Egon had ached to heal. Drawn by the confidence, Egon had shared, for the first time, his conflicted feelings about his own father, and Peter's empathy had warmed him in a way nothing else ever had. The night had been unlike anything he'd ever felt before, magical -- and it almost seemed as if the magic might extend to granting his fondest wish. He'd gazed into Peter's eyes, and wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

And then Peter had kissed him. Just the faintest brush of lips against his. But it had been enough to cause Peter to pull back a moment later, pale and stunned, and flee from Egon as if for his very life.

Egon had been afraid of his roommate's sometimes unpredictable temper, and of the condemnation he felt sure would follow. Yet he had never been to Staten Island, and was even more afraid of facing New York City in the middle of the night, alone. He sought Peter throughout the ferry, and finally found the other man huddled into the rearmost seat of the darkened top level, which was supposed to have been closed for the night.

Peter had gazed up at him, his face clearly displaying his turmoil. "What happened, Egon?" he'd said, voice trembling. "What did I just do?"

"You kissed me," Egon had replied, wonderingly. "You kissed me, Peter."

"Are you mad at me?" and the fear in Peter's voice was heartbreaking.

Egon had drawn a deep breath and said the words he'd never said before. "I liked it," he'd admitted, with quiet defiance. "I... I have known for some time that I am homosexual."

Peter hadn't flinched, not then. Instead, he'd huddled more deeply into himself. "I'm not gay," he'd muttered under his breath. "I'm not gay." Egon had watched him with concern, not knowing what to do next.

Then, unexpectedly, Peter's head had lifted, and the emerald eyes pinned him with a beseeching gaze. "But all I can think of is kissing you," he'd whispered. "Does that mean I'm gay, too?"

Egon had been unable to speak. The confession, the meaning of it, seemed almost too great to assimilate.

Peter had swallowed hard, his adam's apple forming a shadow that raced along his throat. His expression had remained fearful -- but his eyes, those amazing green eyes, had blazed with an emotion Egon had never witnessed before in anyone, let alone directed toward him. "I don't want to be gay, Egon," Peter had whispered, moving closer. "But all I want is to be with you."

Then Peter had kissed him again, a kiss that seared itself into Egon's heart and soul and brain, permanently branding him. They had made love there, on the closed upper deck of the ferry, in a clumsy tangle of limbs and inexperience, not bothering to debark at the Staten Island terminal, completing the reverse leg of the trip in a second round of spirited exercise to land back in Manhattan flushed and sticky and deliriously happy. They'd caught the train uptown, and ridden all the way back in the dangerous space between cars plastered against each other's bodies, kissing and groping each other as the train screeched through the tunnels, finally arriving back in their shared dorm room where the presence of actual beds had driven their exploration to previously-unheard-of levels of delight.

For three months, they had been friends and lovers, spending every spare moment together and savoring every moment of it, happy beyond all reason and common sense. Three months. Ninety-one days precisely.

Egon had never discovered who had found out and decided to make an issue of it -- had never known if it had been hatred, or simply someone's cruel sense of humor. A single word, painted in neon pink on the outside of their dorm room door. FAGGOTS! It sat there, visible all up and down the hall, branding the occupants with its message.

He'd sought out Peter, had found him standing in the parking lot staring at his car, which bore an identical message. "This is your fault!" he'd exploded at Egon. "None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for you, you goddamn cocksucker, you turned me into a faggot, just like you!" And stormed off at top speed.

Egon had been hurt... had been devastated. But he trusted Peter; Peter was his friend. When Peter returned, they'd be able to talk it out.

Except that Peter didn't return to the room that evening. Or the next morning.

He went to take a final exam, and when he returned, all of Peter's things had been removed.

Egon sought and found an off-campus living situation with another student he vaguely knew from one of his classes, moved into the apartment over spring break. His new roommate was inoffensive, but unable to keep up with his classes even with Egon's tutoring; two months later, he dropped out and went home to Montana, leaving Egon with the problem of locating a new roommate. After a worrisome search, Egon found one: a young man by the name of Raymond Stantz...

"And you never told Ray?" Winston asked.

"There was no reason to," Egon said. "Until, one day, he brought home a new friend..."

And Egon told Winston the rest of the story.

The day remained very clear in Egon's mind. Ray had come in, called a casual greeting through Egon's open door on his way to his own bedroom and stated that he'd brought a friend over, and did Egon want to share a pizza with them? Egon had agreed, and emerged from his room to find Peter Venkman standing in his living room.

Of course, he had been completely unprepared for this. Equally obviously, Peter was just as unprepared. Astonishment spread across his face -- followed by an expression that Egon had already come to know quite well: the closed, shuttered look that meant Peter's walls had gone up, completely impenetrable. Egon had not, in truth, expected any more favorable a reaction. Yet the reality of it had... distressed him. Deeply.

Ray had chosen that moment to pop back into the living room to ask what they wanted on their pizza; and to observe the recognition between them, if not the situation behind it. "Oh, you know each other?" Ray had asked.

"We've met," Peter had responded coolly; and Egon had thought, So be it. If Peter could so easily deny what they had once been to each other, then he could do the same.

It hadn't been easy, at first. Peter was Ray's friend, and Ray had so few friends... none, actually, aside from Egon. It would have been terribly unfair of Egon to interfere, and difficult for him to do so without divulging the past to Ray -- a past he'd become intent on forgetting. Which was hard to do, as Peter was often around the apartment with Ray. Over time, however, Egon had adjusted. Ray's presence served as a buffer between them, and after many, many months it was almost as if the brief love affair really had never happened.

"Except, of course, for the fact that I have never been able to love anyone else, nor even acknowledge my sexuality, for fear of reliving that rejection anew," Egon finished. From the sound of his words, he might have been concluding a scholarly lecture. But the tone of his voice was an open wound.

Winston ached right along with him; but this was not the time for empathy. He chose his words carefully. "Egon, Peter hasn't rejected you," he said cautiously.

"No?" Egon's eyes blazed. "All these years, I have been laboring under the misapprehension that Peter's rejection of me was based purely on my gender. Now I discover that it is in fact me specifically that he does not want." His hand twitched, and Winston moved sideways a bit, placing himself between Egon and the rest of the glassware.

"Are you certain?" he shot back at Egon; and maybe it was the edge in his voice, or just one last lingering fragment of wistful hope, that caused Egon to stop dead in his tracks and consider.

"Yes," Egon said finally, and Winston wondered if the man had any idea how miserable he sounded. "I am certain. In all these years, if Peter had changed his mind, surely he would have said something."

"Why haven't you?" Winston responded, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to tack on, and don't call me Shirley. This wasn't the time for humor, either.

Another moment's thought. "I do not wish to bare my soul and be rejected."

"Maybe Peter feels the same way," Winston suggested quietly.

This time, the silence was profound.

"Winston, those are dangerous thoughts," Egon said finally, wearily. "Do you know how many times I've considered them? I cannot take the risk. To venture so, and be wrong..." He drew a deep breath, sighed. "I... require Peter's presence in my life. No matter the cost." There was dignity in his voice. And tears in his eyes.

Winston leaned forward, pinned the liquid blue eyes with his own gaze. "Maybe Peter feels the same way," he said intensely. Hell, I'd bet my life on it. Listen to me, Egon!

There was another long pause. "And maybe not, Winston," was Egon's eventual reply. "And maybe not." He turned away, retrieved brush and dustpan, began sweeping up the broken glass.

After a moment, Winston joined him, using a discarded magazine to scoop up glass shards. But this is the least of the mess. And how were they going to clear up the larger problem? I hope to God that Ray's got a plan, 'cause I'm fresh out...

When the first teardrop splashed silently to fall on Egon's pile of broken glass, Winston glanced at the other man's face and decided that it would be kinder not to notice.

TEN

Ray crept toward Peter's office as silently as he could, opened the door soundlessly. Peter hadn't bothered to lock it behind himself. Peter hadn't been in any shape to consider locking the door.

Curled up in the corner next to the bookcase, a trembling shadow huddled into himself, shaking with helpless sobs half-muffled by the fist jammed into his mouth. Ray's heart lurched. I've never seen Peter like this before, what'm I going to do? He moved forward a little, carefully got down onto one knee, placing himself at the other man's eye level. "Peter," he said in his softest, gentlest voice. "Peter, it's me, Ray." He dared to reach out, place his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm here for you..."

A convulsive shudder raced through Peter's body -- and in a swift motion, he launched himself at Ray, fell against him, crying into Ray's shirt.

Ray spent a moment being astonished. Peter had never done anything remotely similar, had never actively sought comfort this way... then the reality of it dawned on him, and he wrapped his arms around Peter and held him close as he cried. Wow, Ray thought, inadequately. This was Peter, who could shrug off a near-death experience with a casual joke and a smile. Ray remembered the look on Egon's face, shivered. Egon's furious. And Peter's devastated. But why?

But why didn't matter. Peter's misery mattered. Ray rubbed his back soothingly, pleased to note that the intensity of Peter's sobs was diminishing. "Shhh, it's okay, I'm here for you," he murmured reassuringly. "Easy, Peter, it'll all be okay."

"Won't." The voice was small and hoarse. "He'll never forgive me, Ray, no matter how many years..." and Peter moaned into Ray's shoulder, a heartrending sound.

"Easy, Peter. Easy." Peter had been crying for so hard, so long, that his voice was all but gone; his breath hitched, and he couldn't seem to stop shaking. The first priority was to get him calmed down, Ray determined. Discussion could wait.

It took quite some time... but when Peter stiffened in his arms and pulled away, looking vaguely embarrassed, Ray knew he was close to his normal self. The mask crept back over Peter's face -- eyes red and swollen, but the same old facade nevertheless. Never thought I'd be so glad to see it, Ray thought, in relief. "Better?" he queried softly.

Peter hesitated, shrugged. "As much better as it's ever going to get," he said disconsolately, his voice rasping painfully.

"Want to talk about it?" Ray offered.

"No," Peter said. Sighed. "But I guess... I guess I should."

It all happened about a year before I met you, Ray. The plumbing went to hell in the frat house I'd been living in, so they shoved us all in with other students, and I got stuck with Egon. Pure random chance.

Ray, from the first moment I looked at him, I knew... something. Didn't know what. But something about him... just... It had always been the ladies for me, always. I knew there were other alternatives, they just didn't apply to me. I was a red-blooded, beer-drinkin', woman-chasin'... you know. That type.

But Egon hit me in a place inside that I didn't even know I had.

You remember, back then, how he was starting to let his hair grow? It was just getting long when I first met him, and there was this one little ringlet that fell over his collar right here... I used to stare at it when he wasn't looking. Like I was hypnotized or something. I wanted to touch it, twirl it around my finger. I didn't know what I was feeling, except that it was all very weird and I was uneasy about it. But Egon kept to himself, so it wasn't like he was in my face or anything, even though he was almost always at the dorm when I was. So I kind of didn't have to deal with it too much.

Then one night, I had this dream -- yeah, that kind of dream. About Egon. Woke up in the dead of night, all sticky, and just... terrified. I mean, I'd never felt that way for a guy, never. But then I stood over his bed, watching him sleep, and I, I... I just wanted him. Wanted to touch him. I wanted to know him, inside and out.

It really messed up my head, Ray. I mean, I'd always known who I was and what I wanted, I'd always been so sure of myself, and all of a sudden that went straight to hell. I couldn't concentrate in class, and my grades started slipping until I was in danger of getting thrown off the team, losing my scholarship, everything. I knew I had to do something, and fast.

So I asked Egon if he'd tutor me in some of the subjects I was screwing up. I figured, if I was around him more, I'd get to know him better, and there wouldn't be any great mystery about him anymore, and the feelings would stop... y'know? Actually, I think I was just making excuses to myself. I just wanted to know him better, no matter what the cost. But for awhile, it seemed to work. Egon turned out to be this really great guy, and I liked him a lot -- better than any friend I'd ever had. And I was thinking maybe that would be enough for me.

We started to hang out more and more, and I found myself starting to open up to him, y'know? I started to tell him things I'd never told anyone. Things I would've rather died than told any of my other friends. Egon always seemed to understand, and to care. When I thought about it, I was kind of ashamed I'd stayed aloof from him for so long. Like I'd thought that he wasn't cool enough to be my friend. Egon's friendship... taught me a lot about seeing people for who they really were, and what really mattered. At least, I thought it did at the time. Later on, I found out that the lesson hadn't taken as well as it should've.

But before that... there was this one night that was just golden, Ray. Perfect. Me and Egon had gone out for pizza, but we'd misjudged the time and the place was closed. So then I remembered this all-night place -- the one on St. Marks, you know -- and we headed all the way downtown on this mission for pizza, and then it just... It was like two in the morning when we stumbled out of the pizzeria, and it had rained a little while we were inside, and the streets were shining. And there was like no traffic, and everything was still and quiet. It felt weird, and wonderful, kind of like magic, and I said so to Egon, 'cause it wasn't something I would've said to any of my other friends -- they would've thought I was strange -- but I could always say things like that to Egon, and know he wouldn't laugh at me. And Egon was like, if it was so magical up in the Village, the Financial District was probably even better. I hadn't been down there all that much, but I trusted Egon, so we hopped the subway and went down there, and he was right, it was perfect. The same feeling like everything was shining and still, with these little old buildings sandwiched in between skyscrapers, and those little narrow streets we have so much trouble getting Ecto down, and statues all over the place... and it felt like we were the only two people in the world. I mean, I actually sort of started to feel that way. School, and the guys on the team -- it was like they weren't even there, at least not in my head. Just me and Egon.

We played tag on Wall Street, and climbed the Merrill Lynch bull, and... eh, don't look at me like that, Ray. I know, it's hard to picture Egon doing those things. I'd never seen him like that before either; I'd always figured he'd come out of the womb at the age of forty with a textbook in his hand. But that night... it was magic, like I said. And we were just kids together, Egon and me, and nothing else mattered.

So finally, we ended up on the Staten Island Ferry. The guy at the dock let us slide in through the car level, instead of going all the way upstairs. You remember the old ferries, Ray, and the way they had that little hidden alcove on the bottom level, next to where they load the cars, where they kept the lifeboats? Well, that's where me and Egon stood, leaning on the railing, looking back at the city as the ferry pulled out and headed across the bay. And we were talking about all kinds of things... you know, heart-things. Like his dad, and mine, and what it felt like to be alone, and to feel like no one understood you. Except Egon did understand. No one ever had before. And oh, Ray, he looked so damn good in the moonlight, and that one little ringlet was shining... and I just wanted to touch him. I just had to. And it seemed natural to just, kinda, y'know, lean over and kiss him.

And then... I just... freaked.

I just ran. I didn't know where. Away. I found the furthest, darkest spot I could find, and I just sat there and shook. I didn't know how I could face him again. How I could face anyone. 'Cause it felt like all the world had come crashing down around me. All at once, it all came back to me: the team, the cheerleaders, how could I face them knowing I'd just kissed a guy? ...I know, it sounds stupid now. But back then, it was like my life was falling apart. I was just so scared.

Egon came to find me. No one had ever really done that, y'know? Tracked me down to make sure I was okay. I was afraid he'd hate me, until he told me that he was gay. Then I was even more afraid. I mean... you remember how it was back then, Ray. Gay guys were these weird swishy people that everyone laughed at, at least in high school. I mean, faggot was what they called you if you were weak or different. It was what they called you while they were beating you up and stealing your lunch money. And... And I... I'd said it myself, Ray. Like it was nothing. How could I be one of those people?

But then there was Egon, sitting in front of me. And he looked so good, and his face was so sad. And... I just couldn't deny it any more, Ray. I just wanted him so much. Not even really in a sexual way, or at least not completely. I just wanted to be closer to him. I couldn't get close enough. And suddenly we were kissing again, and it was the best damn feeling I'd ever had in my life, Ray. Kissing someone who mattered.

Well, y'know, one thing led to another...

"On the ferry?" Ray said, astounded and faintly envious.

Peter grinned. "On the ferry," he said, "and on the train home, and in our dorm room every minute we could manage it, for the next ninety-one days."

"Ninety-one days," Ray echoed. Three months. "And then?"

"And then," Peter said somberly, "my world really did fall apart."

I guess it started a little before that, really, but it took me awhile to notice, 'cause it was kinda subtle. I was spending so much time with Egon that I didn't realize the guys on the team were avoiding me. Then there were the jokes, but there had always been jokes, and I was pretty thick-skinned about it, so I didn't notice that they were getting meaner. Then one day I walked into the locker room after practice, and I was right at that vulnerable point between uniform and street clothes when one of the tight ends says, "So, Venkman, how's Egon?" in this tone of voice... and everyone laughed. And I knew they knew.

Ray, I... it just freaked me out. I didn't know what I was doing, I really didn't.

I said some shit to the guys, I don't remember what, and then I got the hell out of there. I ran across the damn campus, just wanting to get away from them, and then I saw my car... I had busted my ass to earn the money for that car, it was the first really good thing I'd ever owned and bought for myself, and some asshole had painted FAGGOT across the side of my car in bright pink spray paint. I just...

...no, I'm okay, Ray. This is, I mean, we're not exactly rehashing my favorite memories here, okay? But I'm all right.

So I turn around, and there's Egon, looking as beautiful as he's always looked, and I just couldn't stand it. Like it was his fault for looking so good to me. I said... some things... that I wish I didn't remember.

I called him a cocksucker, and a faggot, and I told him it was all his fault...

I'm all right, Ray.

So then I got in my car and drove away. I just wanted to get away as far as I could. But people kept honking their horns and laughing, and I... I... well. I wrecked the car on the Garden State Parkway. Took her into a wall sideways. I wasn't exactly thinking clearly. I figured I could scrape the spray paint off her that way. The car was totaled, of course. I got out of it without a scratch. Some good samaritan gave me a ride to the next town, and I caught a train back to Manhattan, went back to the dorms and beat up four or five of the worst troublemakers. Of course, I got the crap beaten outta me, too. But I hurt the other guys bad enough that nobody was going to be able to say that Pete Venkman was a pansy. Which was pretty much the point.

After we all got back from the emergency room, I went back to my own dorm room. The first thing I saw was the word FAGGOT on the door. Someone had spent a lot of time trying to scrub it off. But it was still there.

I'd been afraid Egon would be there, but he wasn't. And then I wished he was. I lay down on his bed and cried for about a half hour, 'cause I knew what I had to do. And I didn't want to do it, Ray. I just didn't think I had any other choice.

A couple of the other guys on the team, who weren't such assholes, they were sharing an apartment off-campus and they said I could crash on their floor. They came by and helped me move my stuff while Egon was still away. I waited for awhile afterwards, in case he came back. Then I got afraid that he'd come back. So I left.

The guys were going down to the shore for spring break, and I went with 'em. It worked out just the way I hoped it would. We picked up some girls, and I was able to get my reputation back into shape, in front of witnesses. Back at school, it was the same way. I screwed my way through the female student body, leaving a wide enough trail of gossip behind me to kill any rumors that might still be hanging around.

I missed Egon so damn much, Ray.

But I wouldn't let myself think about him. I had to be straight, you know? Not just act straight, but be straight. It mattered to me then.

I think it was about five months or so until we met, right? Yeah, about that. And y'know, Ray, you never mentioned Egon's name until that day you brought me back to your apartment. No, you didn't. You talked about him, but you never mentioned him by name. I know that for a fact, because if you had, I wouldn't have been so freaked when I met your roommate.

Yeah, it makes a little more sense now, doesn't it? I didn't know what to do. I don't think Egon knew, either. For me, just seeing him again was like... this huge wave of fear, and guilt. And more than that. I think I can spare you the details, right? But let's just say, I was as hot for him as ever.

Ray, you're blushing. Look, if this is bothering you...

Are you sure? ...Well, okay then.

So when you went off to order the pizza, me and Egon had a little talk. Kind of like, well, you're Ray's roommate, and I'm Ray's friend, and we all might as well try to get along. And I told him I'd missed him, a lot, and he kind of thawed out a little. It wasn't as hard as I'd thought it would be, talking to him again.

And then, I tried... I tried to apologize. I got about as far as 'look, Egon, about the things I said,' and he just froze right back up, and said, "Our continued association is contingent on your not mentioning that matter. Ever. Again."

No, I'm okay, Ray.

I never did have the guts to mention it again. I mean... everything was all right between us, sort of. As long as I didn't do anything that hinted we'd ever been more than friends, Egon was fine. And... it was the three of us, then, and everything was different. And at first, I was kind of relieved, because it meant I could avoid dealing with it. Not just how I felt about Egon, but about the fact that I felt that way about guys at all.

Time went by. Years. We all got to the postgrad level, and things changed. It wasn't the old college life anymore, and the things that had mattered to me then didn't matter as much. I started looking at guys in clubs and at bars, and it didn't bother me so much that I was looking. After awhile, it didn't bother me at all. So I started... broadening my horizons. Figured out, finally, that I was bisexual...

I couldn't tell you, Ray, because I knew that if you knew, Egon would find out, and... that he'd freak out, just the way he did. Why? I guess... because it's a memory of the past, and because... after all the grief I gave him, I turned out to be exactly what I accused him of being. I don't know.

I just know that deep down, he's never forgiven me. No matter how close we've become in other ways. And I don't know... I don't know if he'll be able to deal with this, Ray. What if he can't stand being around me now? What if this breaks up the team?

"We're not going to let that happen, Peter," Ray said.

Peter glanced up at his friend. Ray's default expression was cheery good humor; very rarely did he wear the look of determination he wore now. When he was busting ghosts, or fixing Ecto, or working on some project. "How do you think you're going to prevent it?" he countered, feeling relieved despite his skepticism. When Ray wore that particular look of intent, he almost always managed to get the job done, whatever the odds.

"You and Egon are going to have to talk," said Ray firmly.

"Ray, I don't know if we can," Peter sighed.

"You have to." Ray said, rubbing Peter's shoulder gently. "When Egon's calmer, and you're less, ah, upset..."

"Eh, I'm fine. That," swiping self-consciously at his damp eyes with one hand, "was brewing for a lot of years. But you know me, Ray; I bounce back real good." Peter seemed to turn inward. "What can I even say to Egon, after all this time?" he wondered.

Ray hesitated, then decided to ask. "Peter... are you still in love with him?"

The green eyes refocused on him. Swollen and bloodshot from crying, the look in them was nevertheless direct and clear. "Still?" Peter said. "Always." And for a moment, the complexity and intensity of that love shone through his eyes, rendering Ray absolutely speechless.

After a long moment, he gathered himself to ask the question he'd rather not have voiced. "What are you going to do if he doesn't feel the same way?"

"If?" Peter laughed harshly. "Ray, did you see the way he looked at me, back there? Trust me, Egon couldn't care less at this point. I'll be lucky if he ever speaks to me again."

"Yeah," Ray said, "I saw the way he looked at you back there," and did not pursue it. "Peter, the two of you need to talk. Winston and I will arrange it, if we have to. But you can't just not talk about it and expect the problem to go away. For the sake of the team, if nothing else."

"Yeah," Peter murmured, "I know."

It was enough of a concession for now, Ray decided. "Let me go get something for your eyes, and your throat," he suggested, "okay?"

"Can you bring me a pillow and a blanket, too? I think I'm going to sleep here."

"Peter," Ray began.

"Don't ask me to face him now, Ray. I can't. I can't." Peter's eyes were pleading.

Ray sighed. "All right," he said reluctantly.

He met Winston in the kitchen, gathering bandages and alcohol and antibacterial creme. "Egon cut himself on broken glass," Winston said.

Ray nodded. "Peter's given himself laryngitis," he said. His eyes met Winston's, displaying the fear that he hadn't let Peter see -- that Peter might be correct, and this might be the one trauma that the team couldn't withstand. "Winston, what are we going to do?"

Winston shook his head. "I don't know, m'man. I just don't know."

ELEVEN

Peter slept on the floor of his office. Egon slept on the couch in the workshop. Ray and Winston slept in the bunkroom, a restless uneasy slumber. Fear seemed to permeate the firehouse like a shroud.

The next morning, Ray woke up early in order to intercept Janine before she entered the firehouse and apprise her of the situation. They discussed it in her car over coffee and donuts hastily purchased from a corner shop. Ray still wore his pajamas and robe and sleep-tousled demeanor, along with his concern. "Janine, you are so lucky you didn't stay late last night," he said somberly. "It was awful. You wouldn't have recognized either of them."

"But you think they're still in love?" Janine queried, still turning the concept over in her mind. Egon and Peter. Peter and Egon. What on earth has Egon ever seen in him? She couldn't imagine Egon falling in love based solely on Peter's admittedly good looks. And yet... and yet... she'd seen Peter at his best; and it was true that Peter at his best was truly something to behold. But on a day-to-day basis, he was such a pain in the ass... She abandoned that line of thought after a second glance at Ray's troubled face. "Are you okay with all this, Ray?"

"Well, yeah," Ray said instantly. "I think," he added a moment later. "I mean, it doesn't bother me that they feel that way toward each other, or that they're both interested in guys. But... I guess it would be a little weird, if they were together here..." His voice trailed off; he sat lost in thought for a moment. Janine kept quiet, sipped her coffee, let him think. "But it matters more for them to be happy," Ray said suddenly, firmly. "You didn't see Egon last night, Janine. He was enraged, but... there was so much more. I don't think he's ever stopped loving Peter, any more than Peter's stopped loving him." Another moment of stillness. "I've never seen Peter talk that way about anyone," and Ray's voice was very soft. "I guess I've never really seen Peter in love." He looked at Janine. "They should be together. I think... maybe they need to be."

Janine nodded. "So what are we going to do?"

"I don't know. Winston doesn't know, either. I guess a good start would be getting them together in the same room, maybe." But Ray looked doubtful. "It's not going to be fun here for awhile, Janine. Do you want the day off?"

"Ray," Janine said quietly, "this is my family, too."

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then, "Thanks, Janine," and Ray reached out, and Janine knew that this time he wasn't providing comfort but seeking it. She hugged him, giving consolation as best she could, while a small part of her mind lingered on how nice it felt. "It'll be okay," he said. "We'll just have to make it okay."

Winston, when he awoke, was glad to see the donuts. A little sugar rush in the morning was a good thing, after a night like that. They sat at the table together, not speaking much, sipping cup after cup of coffee. After a time, Peter joined them: he obviously hadn't slept much, was still red-eyed and unnaturally quiet. A short while afterwards, Egon entered the room, introducing a crackling tension to the silence -- poured himself coffee, took a donut, sat at the opposite end of the table from Peter. And still no one spoke. Strange, Ray thought. Body language was eloquent; none of them, particularly Peter and Egon, wanted to be there -- but none of them left. As if by maintaining physical proximity, they could keep from falling away from each other. We're not dead yet, Ray thought, oddly reassured. We're still a team.

After a long, long interval, Winston cleared his throat. "Janine got any work lined up today?" His voice sounded too loud, awkward, in the silence.

"Slate's clear so far," answered Ray, striving for a tone of normalcy.

"Good," Peter grumbled. "I like it best when it's slow."

"A quiet day would not be amiss," Egon agreed, carefully not looking at Peter, who carefully did not react to Egon's voice.

Ray's heart ached to see his friends so distant. But they're both trying, at least. "Maybe I can get some work done on that ectoplasmic analyzer we were building," he suggested.

Egon's face colored. "I, ah, there's been some disruption in the workshop," he said, too rapidly, "I'll need to... clear up a few things."

That's right, Ray remembered, mentally kicking himself, Winston said Egon was up there breaking things like some kind of maniac. Damn. "It's all right," he said hastily, "don't worry about it."

And silence settled back over the table.

"Maybe we could take in a movie or something," Winston suggested, very tentatively, casting a pleading glance at Ray for help.

"Yeah, or rent one or something," Ray piped in helpfully. His eyes met Winston's, and he drew a deep, deep breath. This may be a mistake, but... I've got to do something. "Peter," he said, very deliberately, "maybe you could invite your friend Lance over, and we could all hang out together."

Peter was just turning to Ray with a look of angry amazement, a 'what-the-hell-are-you-doing?' sort of look, when Egon spoke. "That person," he said, with an undertone of the same fury he'd displayed the night before, "is not to enter this residence."

Then Peter forgot about Ray entirely, jumping out of his chair and whipping around to stare at Egon, confronting him directly. "He's my friend," he said hotly, "and I live here."

"I live here too," Egon pointed out, rising from his seat as well, arms folded sternly. "And he is rather more than your friend."

Anger flashed in Peter's eyes -- anger, and something more. "What's the matter, Spengs?" he jeered, in his most obnoxious voice. "Jealous?"

For one moment, the previous night's cold fury blazed in blue eyes... and Egon punched Peter in the stomach.

Ray watched Peter fall backward to the floor in disbelief, unable to quite fathom that Egon had actually hit Peter. He stared at Egon, and saw that the other man seemed equally unable to comprehend what he'd done; his face had gone pale. Winston, too, seemed frozen in shock. Only Peter, sprawled on the floor and wheezing, seemed unfazed. "I'd call that a big yes," he said breathlessly, and his eyes were actually sparkling.

Egon extended a hand to help Peter up, seemingly in apology. Peter grasped Egon's hand, pulled himself to his feet -- and held on to Egon's hand fiercely, not letting go. Used the hold to pull himself closer, into Egon's personal space. "You never let me tell you," Peter said, in a rush. "You were afraid to hear it, and I was afraid to say it. All these years, I've been afraid. But I've always wanted to make things right between us, Egon. The way it used to be. I've never stopped regretting the things I said to you, and wishing I could take them back. And I've never stopped loving you, not ever." The cascade of words halted abruptly; Peter stared at Egon intently, as if silently urging him to listen, to accept, to believe.

Egon's face never changed. How can he, Ray thought in anguished disbelief, how can Egon hear Peter say these things and just stand there like that? Then he looked closer, saw the shock behind the seeming coldness, and realized that Egon wasn't being heartless, only astonished...

Peter, though, didn't seem to see it. His eyes dropped, defeated; he sighed and turned away disconsolately, releasing Egon's hand.

And Egon's hand shot out and grabbed Peter's wrist in an iron grip, as if hanging on for dear life.

Time seemed to stand still. As if in slow motion, Ray saw Peter's face shift from despair to surprise to sudden dawning hope. Egon's face never changed -- it was all in his eyes. Ray couldn't even begin to comprehend what was going on there. But Peter seemed finally to see what he needed to see; and very slowly his arm moved in Egon's grip, until Peter's hand was wrapped around Egon's wrist the same way. Fireman's hold. Hanging on.

The alarm bell rang.

Damn! But reflex had taken over; Ray was already moving, the others behind him, all conditioned by that sound to leap into action. Down the pole, and Janine had the information waiting -- infestation of Class Fives in an abandoned warehouse in Williamsburgh -- and they were in Ecto, sirens wailing, headed for Brooklyn, before any of them really had time to process the change.

But maybe this is for the best, Ray thought. With a job to focus on, everything else could be safely set aside for the moment, with no loss of face and maybe not a loss of momentum, either. Hopefully, it would all work out.

Once at the job, it was easy enough to see the problem -- the client hadn't used the word 'infestation' lightly. They donned proton packs and swiftly agreed on strategy. "So it's settled," Peter said, assuming the role of leader as was natural, "we'll go in two ways and try to surround 'em. Ray, Winston, you take the side door..." paused for a moment, realizing how he'd divided the teams. "Hey, uh, Egon?" Peter's voice was uncharacteristically hesitant, uncertain.

Egon glanced up from his study of the PKE meter. "Yes, Peter." It wasn't the rising inflection of a question. It was the firm solemnity of an answer to the question Peter hadn't asked.

Peter's eyes shone, for just a moment. "All right," he said, "we'll take the front. Ready? Let's go..."

The bust had gone well. They'd handled it with their usual efficiency and split-second teamwork. Just as always.

When they pulled back into the firehouse, Ray and Winston took it upon themselves to take care of emptying the traps by unspoken agreement. Janine, at her desk, assessed the situation and immediately vanished into the back, leaving Peter and Egon alone.

Egon looked at Peter. Peter looked at Egon.

"We should talk," Peter suggested.

"Yes," Egon agreed, and they made their way upstairs.

In the workshop, Peter looked around, at the wreckage of several experiments Egon and Ray had been nurturing carefully for some time, at the broken glass still littering the floor. "I was upset," Egon said defensively.

"You had cause to be," Peter muttered grimly, examining his boots for a moment before daring to raise his gaze to Egon's eyes.

Those eyes were opaque, revealing nothing. "Why didn't you tell me?" Egon demanded.

"Which part?" Peter countered. "That I was bi? That I had a boyfriend? That I still love you more than life?"

Blue eyes widened just a little at the last. "All of the above," said Egon firmly.

Peter sighed. "Because I was afraid," he answered honestly. "I didn't want to screw up the team. And I didn't want to lose your friendship. I mean... look at what happened," casting a glance at the wreckage of the lab.

"I lost control," Egon said uncomfortably.

"Why?" Peter wondered.

"Because it hurt!" It was so unlike Egon to shout that Peter actually jumped back a little at the sound of it. "All the years I'd lived with the knowledge that you despised me for my proclivities, and now I find out that you have a boyfriend? How do you imagine that felt?"

"Pretty damn lousy," Peter admitted.

"That is a pathetic and inadequate understatement." Egon's voice was morose. "You can't imagine how I've despised myself for what I felt for you..."

Peter's heart sank. "Felt," he said glumly. "Past tense?"

"All right, damn it, what I feel for you," Egon spat back, and despite the unusual venom in it, Peter's spirits lifted.

"What do you feel for me, Egon?" he inquired, barely daring to believe, to hope.

Egon was stubbornly silent for a moment, avoiding Peter's gaze. "I feel," he said at last, his voice unrelentingly hostile, "that you are a superficial man who goes from partner to partner in order to avoid any trace of commitment or intimacy."

"Yeah," Peter interrupted angrily, "you got that right. I've fucked my way up one side of Manhattan and down the other, more names and bodies than I can count or even remember. And all the time, I've been looking for you. Trying to find you in someone else, because I was sure you'd never want me in your life that way again." All at once the anger evaporated, becoming desperate anxiety. "Tell me," Peter begged, "please, Egon, tell me I was wrong."

The question hung in the air, unanswered, for a long moment.

"I don't know," Egon said finally, bleakly. "I don't know if it would be wise, or even possible, after all this time... You've changed, Peter. We both have. We're not the men we used to be."

"No," Peter agreed, "we're not. We're closer, now, than we've ever been before." His eyes met Egon's. "And I love you more than ever."

Egon expelled a long breath, looked away, apparently studying the wall. "And I love you, Peter," he said finally. His voice was the merest whisper, nearly inaudible, and held more than a touch of dismay... but the words penetrated Peter's soul as nothing else ever had.

"You're crying," Egon said in surprise, after a moment.

"Huh?" Peter blinked, hard. He hadn't been aware of it until Egon had mentioned it. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Egon's hand extended, uncharacteristically unsteady; his fingertips trembled as they brushed Peter's tears away. "I couldn't imagine that you might still care so much..."

Peter's smile was sad. "You thought you were the only one who fell hard? News flash, big guy: it was never that easy." Unconsciously, his head moved to settle against Egon's questing hand. "Egon, how can we not try again? How can I look at you now, knowing that you feel the same way I do, and not want..." His hand covered Egon's, pressing Egon's palm against his face as his voice trailed off, letting the contact speak for itself.

Contact. Egon swallowed hard. Peter's skin felt very warm against his own. And Peter's eyes -- gazing at him with longing, yearning, the way he'd never dreamed he'd see Peter look at him again. To even contemplate the possibility of feeling those strong hands caressing again, those lips, kissing him... and then, to consider the possibility of not experiencing those things... All at once, it seemed a very easy choice. "I agree," he said, somewhat unsteadily.

A moment of wide-eyed startlement; and then Peter's eyes shone at him, pure emerald love.

And then, inexplicably, he pulled away, his face suddenly distant and determined. "Peter?" Egon said, perplexed -- worried. Had he somehow completely misunderstood everything that had transpired between them?

"I have to go and see Lance," Peter said steadily. "I have to tell him that it's over. And I have to do it now, so that you and me can start with a clean slate. No loose ends." The aura of fear and doubt that had consumed Peter for so long was gone, utterly dispelled; there was a new air of confidence and certainty about him, a new energy that blazed from within. "Nothing's going to come between us this time, big guy," Peter said, with that lopsided grin, and left the workshop, closing the door behind himself.

After awhile, Egon began to clean up the remains of the wreckage of his earlier temper tantrum, feeling curiously light. It wasn't over yet, they still had a long way to go. He had no doubt of that. But that last gaze stayed with him, the love that had shone in Peter's eyes, warming him and healing old wounds that he'd believed could never be cured.

Surely, everything would be all right now.

TWELVE

The cab let Peter off in front of Lance's apartment building; and for a moment Peter just stood there, looking up at it with an odd sense of foreboding. Am I making a mistake? Having Lance in his life had been a good thing: companionship, sex pretty much on demand... That's it, really, Peter thought sadly. It was never about more than sex to me.

But it was good sex... and what if things with Egon don't work out? I'll have to find another guy and start from scratch... The idea of not having that backup plan ready in the background disturbed Peter. What disturbed him even more, though, was the idea that he was even thinking about backup plans. All these years, and all I could think about was getting Egon back. Now that I can, I'm already making plans for what I'll do when I lose him. What the hell is wrong with me?

I'll figure that out later, he decided uneasily, moving toward the door. A woman was just coming out; she obligingly held the door open for Peter to enter. Peter thanked her, thinking that the crime rate in Cliffside Park had to be a hell of a lot lower than in Manhattan, for tenants to be so casual about building security. On the elevator, though, he began to wonder if he should have rung the apartment from the front door and let Lance buzz him up. What if he's busy? What if he's got someone else over? Upon a moment's reflection, Peter decided that would actually make his mission easier; still, he felt uncommonly nervous as he exited the elevator on Lance's floor.

Lance lived at the very end of the hall, and every step of the journey felt like a mile to Peter. Apprehension filled him. Am I really doing the right thing? Finally, he could go no further; the apartment door stood before him, the last barrier. Here goes nothing, Peter thought, and knocked firmly.

A long wait and a second knock produced no results, and Peter was about to give up and leave, feeling vaguely relieved, when Lance's voice sounded through the door. "Yes?"

"Lance? It's me, Peter..." Lance's voice seemed odd, Peter thought. "Are you busy?"

"Not really," Lance said through the door. "Just give me a minute, okay?"

It was rather more than a minute before Lance opened the door. "Hello," he said, as always casually neutral in public. "Come on in," ushering Peter inside. Peter entered, eyes automatically searching the room to try to determine what Lance had been doing... So I'm paranoid. It's part of my charm. He turned around to confront Lance, abruptly found himself being drawn close by strong arms. "What a lovely surprise," Lance purred.

"Uhh, not really," Peter said, disengaging from the embrace.

"Uh-oh. This doesn't sound good." Lance indicated the couch. "Come on, sit down, let's talk. Beer?"

"No thanks," Peter demurred, not moving from his spot by the door. "Look... I... there's something I have to tell you."

Slowly, Lance's eyes darkened, the light in them dimming. "And I'm not going to like it, am I?"

"No," Peter murmured, "no, I don't think you will."

"Well, in that case, maybe I should have a beer." But Lance didn't move. "What is it, Peter?"

Peter drew a long, long breath. "I can't see you anymore," he said finally.

Lance's eyes closed briefly as if with pain. "May I ask why?"

"There's... there's someone else," Peter admitted.

"I see." Lance's voice was toneless. "And he wants you all to himself. Or is it a she?"

"He," Peter said. "Lance... I'm in love with him."

"Are you in love with me?" Still that flat, toneless voice.

"No," Peter said honestly, not without regret.

"I see." Lance turned his back on Peter, walked to the window. "I'm in love with you," he said, gazing out at the New York skyline in the distance.

"I... didn't know that." Damn, Peter thought sadly. There really could have been something here. Oh, God, please let me be right about Egon...

"Does it make any difference?" Lance wondered.

Peter thought about it for a moment. "No," he said finally, with a sigh. Egon.

There was a moment's silence. Then Lance turned, his expression calm. "How long have you known him?"

"Years," Peter answered. "Since we were in college." He has the right to know, I guess. "I didn't think it was something that would ever work out, but... I think now it is."

"Years," Lance repeated. "Years, and you're only getting together with him now? Why didn't it happen years ago, if it was really something that was right for you?"

The question troubled Peter, as it was one he'd pondered himself on the cab ride over. "Things happen when they're meant to, I guess," he said finally. "We both had a lot of growing and living to do before we could get to the point where we could be this close again."

"Again? So you tried once before, then." Lance's voice was pleasant, concerned. "What makes you think it will work any better this time?"

Peter opened his mouth to reply -- closed it, unable to summon a suitable defense. Had he changed, really? Or was he still the same selfish jerk the first time he'd drop-kicked Egon's heart into the trash?

"You and I are good together, Peter," Lance pressed his point. "I think we both know that. How can you be so sure that things will be as good with this other guy? Especially since they apparently weren't, last time." He took a step toward Peter. "You know I can make you happy," he continued, in the low purr that sent shivers along Peter's spine. "Are you really so certain that you want this to end?"

Peter gazed back helplessly, suddenly torn. Was he? Lance was right... there were no guarantees... maybe it would be better to just let things ride, for the time being...

I love you, Peter.

Years, he'd waited to hear those words. Years of longing, of aching inside to have that part of Egon back again...

"I'm in love with him," Peter said, feeling a curious sense of peace. "I'm sorry, Lance, but it's over." He extended his hand to his lover -- his ex-lover -- in a gesture of farewell.

Lance did not take it. "I can't accept that," he said quietly, "and I don't think you do either, Peter. I think you've got a lot more misgivings about this other guy than you're willing to admit. And I don't believe you really want to let me go."

The last statement stopped Peter cold, because it was true. Hadn't he just been thinking about how nice it would be, to have Lance on the side? But that's not right, he argued with himself. I can't do that to Egon. Yet still the sinister voice of temptation whispered in his ear: Egon doesn't have to know...

No! Damn it, you are not going to fuck this up!

"I don't want to let you go," Peter said honestly. "But I have to. I love him, Lance. I want to be with him... and if I'm going to be with him, I have to do it right. There can't be anyone else."

"And how long do you expect to be with him, really?" Lance pressed.

"Ninety-one days," Peter responded, quite without thinking -- then realized what he had said. Where the hell did that come from? But of course he knew. "No, I mean..."

"You're not sure," Lance said, with certainty. "In fact, you're expecting the relationship to fail."

"Then that makes it even more important," Peter retorted. "Don't you get it? Of all the things I've screwed up in my life, this is the one thing I don't want to lose."

"Why?" Lance wondered. "Can he really offer you more than what you already have?"

"His love is everything to me." It was true, Peter realized. Faced with the prospect of preserving his relationship with Lance, he found suddenly that the thought held no real appeal. Sure, it was nice to have the security of one on the side, but Egon was the only one he wanted... and I can have him again, Peter thought dizzily, as that realization slammed home as well. Oh god, Egon... What had he been thinking? Why the hell didn't I jump him before I left?

Anticipation made Peter impatient, anxious to be done with this and on his way home to Egon. "Lance, I'm sorry," he said, almost perfunctorily, "we're through, and... and this discussion is over. You're not going to change my mind."

Lance sighed. "You're going to make me save you from yourself, aren't you?" he said, not meeting Peter's gaze.

"Huh?" Peter didn't know what Lance meant, but he didn't like the sound of it. "Now, listen..."

"I hadn't wanted to tell you this way," Lance said, with a sigh, "but you leave me no choice, Peter. Not if I want to keep you from making the biggest mistake of your life. And of mine."

"Tell me what?" Peter demanded. "What are you talking about?"

Lance looked up then, and his eyes seemed... odd, somehow. "I went to such trouble to craft this lifetime," he said regretfully. "I liked it, too. My class is going to be upset when I don't show up for work on Monday. We were supposed to go on a field trip to the zoo." His voice was deepening, to a bass rumble; and the light, the light was changing, making his skin seem almost blue... "But all things considered, I'd rather lose a temporal incarnation than you." No, Peter realized, it wasn't the light. Lance was changing. Altering. Massive muscles stretched and tore the thin fabric of his shirt; clawed feet ripped free of the cheap tennis shoes. "And it will be well worth the loss," Lance concluded, "once you come to your senses," as huge bat-wings arched upward from his back, completing the transformation from human to...

"Oh, shit," Peter muttered, and dove for the door.

Before he could reach it, white fire blazed, blossoming forth, throwing him backwards...

Taloned hands caught Peter as he passed out.

THIRTEEN

"We got one!" Janine's shrill voice carried up the stairs, over the sound of the alarm.

Ray clattered down the stairs, meeting Egon and Winston who had descended via the pole. "Where's Peter?" he asked, almost fearfully.

"He went out," Egon said, in a voice that revealed nothing, "to see Lance," and Ray's heart clenched in sudden fear. "I believe he mentioned something about terminating their relationship," and for about half a second, Egon's eyes were bright with pure joy before fading back to their normal expression.

Ray grinned. "That's great!" he exclaimed.

"That... remains to be seen," Egon said critically; but a small smile lurked about his lips.

"It'll all work out," Winston said encouragingly. "Meanwhile, we'll just have to do this one without Pete."

"I don't know about that," Janine said worriedly, showing them the status sheet. "This one doesn't sound good, guys. If the guy on the phone gave me an accurate description, this looks like a Class Eight or Nine, at least. Maybe... even a Ten."

Silence descended. "Damn," Winston commented inadequately. "Where is it, Janine?"

"Cliffside Park, New Jersey," Janine answered, consulting the sheet; and all the color drained from Ray's face.

"Ray?" Egon inquired worriedly.

"In the car," Ray said, a seeming non sequitur. "Coming back from the ball game. Don't you remember, Winston?"

"Remember what, Ray?"

"Lance lives in Cliffside Park."

The statement hung in the air, in absolute stillness.

"Let's go," Egon snapped.

And Ray took the corner on two wheels as Ecto sped, sirens screaming, into the night.

Consciousness returned slowly; Peter blinked. "Please, let that have been a dream," he mumbled, and sat up.

He was in Lance's bedroom, lying on the white satin bed. Except that where walls had once been, now there was some sort of translucent barrier that quivered with electric light, just enough to see the wreckage of the rest of the apartment beyond it to one side, and the twinkling lights of Manhattan on the other. And Lance himself -- or rather, the creature Lance had become, was sitting cross-legged on the far end of the bed. "No such luck," it said; and though the voice itself was the kind of demonic rumble that sometimes haunted Peter's dreams, the humorous tone behind it was pure Lance.

Peter stared. It made it worse, somehow, that he could see echoes of his lover in the creature before him. Worse still that the thing wasn't actually all that bad looking. The blue skin wasn't a good look for him, and the wings were a little much, really. But the face was still Lance's. "I've been doing the horizontal tango with a ghost," he groaned.

"Ghost? Hardly." The creature regarded Peter with amusement. "You, sir, have been doing the horizontal tango with a god. Quite a different thing."

"Is it? I don't think so," Peter retorted.

There was something strange and wrong about seeing a nine-foot-tall blue-skinned bat-winged creature with glowing coal-black eyes raising one shoulder in a casual shrug. Too human a gesture, for such an inhuman being.

"This was a trap from the start, wasn't it?" challenged Peter. "All along, you were just sucking me in..." and winced at the inadvertent double-entendre.

The creature chuckled. "And rather well, at that. No, Peter, it isn't that simple. Truly, I was minding my own business, taking in an exhibit at the Met, when a young lady on the street handed me a New School brochure. The rest was as I told you."

"But you planned that encounter at the bar," Peter persisted. "This was all some kind of twisted revenge..."

"For what?" The being seemed genuinely surprised. "Your job? Honestly, Peter. Do you think that concerns me? Would a mortal seek revenge for the wrongs perpetrated against cockroaches by exterminators? No, our meeting was simply chance. If chance it was. Not even the gods know everything," the creature said thoughtfully.

"Then you're not all-powerful," Peter shot back, "are you?"

"I am powerful enough. Time and space bend at my command. Your ancient ancestors worshiped my kind as gods; it's a convenient term." The creature gazed at Peter intently. "You've no idea what I have to offer you along with my love. I can give you worlds beyond imagining, gifts beyond measure."

"Why?" Peter burst out. "Why bother? Why me?"

The expression on the creature's face was infinitely sad, and all Lance. "Because I love you, Peter. Don't you understand? This isn't about treachery, or vengeance. I love you. And I do not wish to lose you to your own misapprehensions."

Peter sighed. "But I don't love you," he said.

"Are you certain?" Eyes gleamed red, and the world shifted...

Power. That was the first thing Peter noticed: immense power coursing through his body, making him feel alive in a way he'd never felt before. Tall, jagged black mountains loomed ahead as he glided through the air on strong wings; beyond the mountains, a triple-sunned sunset stained the purple sky golden. Banking, he descended, landing on powder-soft iridescent sand, crystal seas lapping at his taloned toes. He turned, and there was the demon-creature who had once been Lance... except that the form didn't seem as horrific, now that he was wearing the same sort of body himself.

"Look," it said, gesturing, and Peter gazed out at the sunset unwillingly. "Look, Peter, and know that this is only one of the worlds I can give you." An arm slid around his shoulder, and the heightened senses of Peter's new body made the touch unnaturally acute. "Everything I have to offer, I will give to you," the creature said softly. "I will raise you up to be my equal, Peter, and we shall wander these realms together."

"But why?" Peter queried, marveling at the deep resonant timber of his new voice. "Why me? I don't understand."

"Your humor," said the creature quietly, "your zest for life, and for living. Your sarcasm, your paranoia, your infinite capacity for trust. You are the most amazing paradox of contradictions, Peter, and each one intrigues me and captivates me beyond anything I have felt in many of your centuries. I have lived thousands of lives in thousands of planes of existence, yet you are the first one in literally ages to touch me this way."

Peter gazed at Lance -- wondered when 'the demon' had become Lance again, to him. "I'm not that special," he demurred, "and anyway, it still doesn't make sense. If you have so much power at your command, why do you want someone who doesn't want you?"

"But you do want me," Lance replied.

Peter sighed, amazed anew at the bass rumble that emerged from his throat. "The sex was very, very good," he admitted.

"Just the sex?" Lance pressed his point.

After a moment's consideration, Peter conceded, "We were on our way to being friends, yeah."

"Hmm. I would have phrased it a bit more strongly, myself. But you do admit that there is a basic compatibility." The arm around Peter's shoulder tightened a bit, feeling like velvet-covered steel.

Uncomfortably, Peter shrugged it off, retreated a pace. "Basic compatibility isn't the same as love," he retorted.

"No," said Lance readily. "It's quite a bit more important. I have loved people with whom I was incompatible. In the long run, love wasn't enough to span the chasms between us. Compatibility is in the long run far more important than pure sentiment."

"But without love, what's the point?" Peter settled down on a flat rock, cross-legged, his wings automatically coming around and forward to cover him like a cloak. The tip of his tail dangled into the blood-warm waves that lapped against the rock. "Compatibility, yeah. I've been sexually compatible with probably a couple hundred men and women over the years, and you know what? None of them mattered to me. Compatibility is great, but it's not enough."

"I was referring to personalities and souls, not sexual habits, as you well know," Lance pointed out. "Sex is, after all, ultimately trivial. As you will come to know, over time."

The chill that raced through Peter had nothing to do with the sudden gust of wind that blew in from the ocean. "You make it sound as if you're not planning to give me a choice in the matter," he said.

"Well," said Lance, "that depends."

"On?" Peter demanded.

"On whether you can persuade me that you're choosing wisely."

Bullshit! Peter thought. "What makes you think you have the right to judge my choices?" he said hotly.

"The fact that I love you," Lance responded, just as sharply, "and I don't want to see you throw your life away! Don't you get it, Peter? This is only one world, one form. I can give you thousands, and a near-infinite timespan in which to savor them all. There are so many things I want to show you, so many experiences to share with you... You could be anything, do anything you want. Let me give you this, Peter -- my love, and so much more."

Thanks to his father, Peter knew a con job when he saw one. Unfortunately, he could discern sincerity just as clearly. Lance's voice, his handsome inhuman face, were heartbreakingly sincere. Maybe, he thought unwillingly, maybe Lance is right. Maybe it would be better... not just for me, but for Egon, too. He recalled only too clearly the dismay that had accompanied Egon's declaration of emotion. He loves me... and maybe he wishes he didn't. I'm a disruption in his nice, neat life. Very unscientific. And I've hurt him before. He'd be better off without me... after all, he managed for all those years...

You can't imagine how I've despised myself for what I felt for you. I did that to him, Peter thought miserably. I hurt Egon, not just once, but over and over, all these years. How can I do that to him again?

Lance was watching his face very closely. "Come with me, Peter," he whispered, "be with me. Don't let fear hold you back."

Don't let fear hold you back. The words seemed to echo in Peter's mind, resonating oddly.

Then, suddenly, blazing awareness. Fear. I screwed things up with Egon the first time because I was afraid of what other people thought of me. Now I'm about to screw it all up again because I'm afraid I'll screw it up again. How stupid is that? Yeah, I'm a disruption in Egon's life, just like he is in mine -- and maybe that's what love is really about. Learning how to make it work even if you're not so compatible. Learning how to make it work even if you're afraid. And not letting the fear hold you back.

Egon, I'm not going to run away from you again!

Peter met Lance's eyes. "No," he said quietly. "I want to be human. I want to be a Ghostbuster. I want to be with the one I love."

And the world shifted again, and Peter was once again sitting cross-legged on a white satin bed, facing the demon-creature... except that it wasn't so easy, suddenly, to view the other with such simplicity. Now it was just Lance, somehow; different, but still the same being who he'd caressed, kissed, made love to. "The one you love, this mortal man," said the being, "how can he value you as I do? How can he treasure the infinite complexity of your soul as I do?"

Peter noticed uneasily that his clothes apparently hadn't survived the transition from human to god-being and back again; they lay in shreds around his naked form. He tugged at the satin bedspread and pulled a corner of it across his lap. "He knows me," Peter answered. "He knows me for who I am. He loves me for who I am, even when I'm not much worth loving." It's true, he realized, with surprise. Egon's always been there for me, even when I was being a total asshole. "You don't know me," he shot back. "You could never know me the way Egon does."

"Egon?" said the Lance-demon, eyebrows rising.

And just then, with superlatively bad timing, the Ghostbusters broke down the door...

FOURTEEN

Class nine manifestation, Egon catalogued automatically, readings indicate temporospatial discontinuity, the logical part of his mind continuing to function even though all that really mattered was the look of startled horror on Peter's face. Peter. Naked in bed. And the... creature... If it has harmed Peter in any way, I shall, and Egon was aiming and firing his thrower at the manifestation before he could complete the thought.

The beam hit the white-fire edge of the discontinuity and rebounded at an angle, taking out a chunk of ceiling that just barely missed Ray's head. "Easy, Egon," Winston cautioned, "we'll get him outta there."

But the creature was looking at him. Gesturing toward him. And suddenly, Egon felt a wrenching sense of motion, almost like being turned inside-out...

...He was inside the discontinuity. Without his equipment, unfortunately. Thankfully, he still had his clothes. "Well, he's not much to look at, is he?" the creature said thoughtfully.

Peter was already moving, placing himself between Egon and the manifestation. "Don't you touch him!" he shouted at the being, not seeming to notice or care that he was naked. "You leave Egon out of this! This is between you and me."

The creature cocked its head to one side. "I'd say it's between the three of us," it said.

"Peter," Egon broke in, "what's going on?" He had an inkling, but that wasn't enough, and Peter's proximity -- and nudity -- was highly distracting.

Peter expelled a long angry breath. "Egon," he said, sounding resigned, "this is my ex," gesturing at the manifestation.

Egon looked it over thoroughly. "You have interesting taste," he said to Peter, sardonically.

"I met him in a bar. It was dark." Peter glanced sideways and back at him and grinned, and Egon felt himself fall in love all over again. Perhaps this won't be an unmitigated disaster, Egon thought. Perhaps Peter and I will actually be able to make things work, this time. Assuming we survive long enough to try.

He shot a covert glance through the barrier of the discontinuity, noticed Ray and Winston conferring intently. Gentlemen, please hurry, Egon thought. I would like to live long enough to make love to Peter again.

"'Interesting taste'," the creature said to Peter. "Nice way of putting it. Frankly, I don't know what you see in him. No offense," he added to Egon, quite courteously.

"None taken," Egon said calmly, hands itching for his thrower.

"What I see in him?" Peter echoed. "I see my future, and my past. I see my home, and my family, and... and everything that matters to me." He was trembling, and Egon could not stop himself from reaching out to grasp Peter's upper arms from behind, steadying him. "I've been waiting half my life, almost, for another chance to make this work," Peter continued, his voice perilously close to breaking, "and there's no way I'm letting anything stop us now!"

"Not even your own misgivings?" the creature inquired.

Misgivings? Egon wondered.

"Not even my own amazing talent for fucking up my life," Peter retorted. "Nothing."

"Not even the knowledge that you're foregoing a chance at eternal life?" the manifestation continued, very softly. "You still underestimate what I can grant you. Imagine, Peter, living forever. Being anyone, anything, you wish to be. Limitless realms to explore, in whatever form you choose... all in exchange for one short mortal lifespan." Inexplicably, it sounded worried -- concerned. "How can you choose death over life? How can I allow you to?"

"Death," Peter said uneasily. "But when we die..."

"There are realms upon realms of existence, innumerable," said the manifestation soberly. "When your kind passes into the light, you are lost to us. And to lose you..." Its eyes closed briefly, as if in pain. "I love you, Peter. How can I lose you?"

Looking at the creature, it was quite plain to Egon that the love it spoke of was genuine, and he experienced an unexpected feeling of empathy. Then he recalled that this was a creature almost certainly capable of taking Peter away against his will, and the wrenching sympathy within him transformed instantly into gut-clenching fear.

"But you've already lost me," Peter said, in the same quiet tone. "I want this life. And this man." The deep certainty in his voice struck a chord within Egon, nearly provoking an unseemly display of emotion. "You can take me away to some other dimension --" and Egon tensed sharply, "-- but you can't change how I feel. And nothing you can give me will ever compare to what you'll have taken away from me."

"Time," said the manifestation, "heals more wounds than you can imagine..."

Peter laughed bitterly. "Time?" he repeated. "Time heals nothing." One hand reached up and across his chest to capture Egon's fingers in his own. "Love," Peter said, "heals."

Egon succumbed finally to the urge to pull Peter close against himself, wrapping his arms around the other man firmly. Barely perceptibly, Peter sighed; and Egon felt his weight settle against him, yielding utterly. The feel of it... Egon pressed his lips against Peter's bare shoulder in a sudden, fervent kiss. This may be our last moment together, he realized, one way or another, and if it is, let this at least be my last memory.

But the manifestation hadn't made its move yet. Instead, it simply regarded them both with that same thoughtful, pained gaze...

And then the temporospatial discontinuity tore wide open, pierced by proton streams that crossed at the point where they met the wall between worlds, and reformed beyond into a snare that caught the creature squarely within its confines.

The force of the tearing threw them backward; instinctively, Egon moved to take the fall for both of them, cushioning Peter against impact with the ground. It knocked the breath out of Egon, and for a moment he could not move. Through the whirlwind, he could make out the creature struggling against the beams. The break in the worldwall was growing rapidly, but there was still no way for him to reach his pack... but no, Ray and Winston had it under control. Egon watched with relief as Ray tossed out the trap...

"Wait!" Peter called out, struggling to his feet. He managed it, and drew dangerously close to the ensnared creature. "Lance," he said.

The creature shifted to face him, its face unreadable. "So you do remember my name," it whispered.

"Yes. And more." Peter's face was almost as opaque. Almost, but not quite. "I can't feel the way you want me to feel," and his voice was surprisingly gentle, "I never could. But... you were good to me, and I... I don't want to hurt you." He drew a deep breath. "If you promise to let me live my life the way I choose, to let me be with the man I love," he said, "if you promise to leave me alone... I'll let you go."

Nobody spoke. The only sound in the silence was the crackling of the proton beams.

"You honor me, Peter," the Lance-creature said, at last, its voice very somber. "And you wonder how I could love you so?" The voice might have been a demonic rumble, but its tone was as human as a broken heart. "Time does indeed heal all wounds. I shall find a time and place far away here, and not return until after your lifespan has passed and gone. You have my word."

Peter studied the creature for a moment, then nodded vaguely toward the other two Ghostbusters. "All right," he said, "let him go."

No! Egon wanted to shout -- just barely managed to hold his tongue. Peter had to be permitted to handle this his own way, even if Egon's nerves were screaming danger warnings... With clear misgivings, first Ray and then Winston shut down the streams, leaving the manifestation floating freely.

It hovered where it was, regarding Peter solemnly. "You also have my love," it said. "Whether you want it or not."

Peter nodded. "Goodbye, Lance."

The creature nodded once in return, then turned toward the last of the rapidly-disappearing discontinuity; Egon felt himself begin to relax.

Then it turned back. "No," its voice suddenly urgent, "I cannot..." lunging at Peter faster than thought, faster than any human being could possibly hope to react...

Winston nailed it with a proton beam, held it long enough for Ray to join in; Egon, scrambling for his pack, was in time to cast the decisive blow.

And Peter stepped on the trigger that sucked it into the trap and out of his life for good.

The discontinuity folded in on itself and vanished. The room -- or what was left of it -- was very quiet, very still.

The trap blinked steady green, indicating that the danger was past. And Peter stared at it, his expression unfathomable.

"Peter?" Ray's voice was hushed. "Are you all right?"

Instead of answering, Peter glanced back at Egon; his face wore the same expression of desperation as during his startling confession in the dining area of the firehouse. His eyes were pleading.

And Egon, no more able to resist that plea than the urge to breathe, moved forward and pulled Peter into a fierce embrace.

Peter melted into him, holding on tightly, burying his face against Egon's neck. Lips and then teeth fastened onto Egon's skin in a sharp, passionate kiss as a sound that was almost a whimper emerged from Peter's throat. "Peter," Egon murmured softly into the other man's ear. "It's over now. We're safe."

"Egon." Just his name, two syllables, simple sounds. But the sound of it -- of the love Peter's voice wove into his name -- brought peace to Egon's heart for what seemed like the first time in forever.

A hand settled on Egon's shoulder. Egon glanced at its owner, saw that Ray had placed his other hand on Peter's shoulder, seemingly unfazed by the sight of his two oldest friends embracing. In fact, he was smiling. "Let's go home," Ray said.

FIFTEEN

The satin bedspread would have sufficed, but Egon was disinclined to take anything with them that had once belonged to the manifestation Peter had called 'Lance'. Winston retrieved from Ecto the old blanket they used for picnics and so forth, and Egon wrapped it around Peter's naked form firmly. It gave him a certain guilty, possessive pleasure to do so -- mine! -- yet he was troubled by Peter's passivity, and his silence. Any other time, Peter would have been cracking jokes at this point, as a defense mechanism if nothing else. Yet his uncharacteristic silence continued all the way down to the car.

He got Peter situated in the rear driver's side seat, went around the car to take the other side. "Peter," he began, as Ray started the car. But Peter was already moving, stretching out on the seat, settling himself against Egon as if it were something he did every day. "Mm," came the vague reply.

"Are you all right?" Egon persisted, as his arms rose to draw Peter closer, to enfold him and keep him close.

Peter twisted around in Egon's arms, gazed up at him and smiled -- and Egon's breath caught in his throat. Yes, he thought absently, breathtaking, that is exactly the right word. A genuine Peter Venkman smile was glorious to behold. "I'm fine," Peter said. "Everything's fine now," snuggling closer, arms slipping around Egon's waist, head coming to rest against Egon's chest.

Checking to make sure the door on his side was securely shut and locked, Egon turned sideways to lean back against it, to give all his attention to the man in his arms.

They hit traffic on the way back to Manhattan, a not-unusual occurrence. Egon didn't care. Peter was a solid warmth against him: a dream made real, and a promise on the verge of fulfillment. Ray was playing the radio quietly, a station of a variety with 'lite' in its name, and the music was gentle and inoffensive. Peter seemed to enjoy it -- most of time, he gave every appearance of napping, but every so often his foot would move idly in time to the music, or he'd sing a fragment of a lyric under his breath. There was no tension in him, Egon noted, as his hands moved in a slow, absent pattern over Peter's back; and the corners of his lips still held traces of that first brilliant smile. As if Peter were completely at ease, without a single worry in the world.

There were short intervals of conversation interspersed with silence -- and the silence was as comfortable as the conversation, Egon noted, as it had always been. Neither Ray nor Winston seemed particularly ill-at-ease with the fact that their colleagues were snuggling in the back seat. That suited Egon well enough: he had enough to handle, he felt, without the concern that he was causing his friends discomfort. Peter participated intermittently, even cracking the occasional joke, which mitigated Egon's worry somewhat. Truly, Peter seemed content enough -- and perhaps that was what was so strange about his behavior. Over the years, Egon had seen Peter in every shade of good mood from sarcastic humor to genuine joy... but never simply content. At least, not the way he was now. Certainly, it had been a very long time since he'd held Peter this way. Or had he ever held Peter this way?

No, Egon decided, things are different now. Their brief college affair had been intense, yet still shallow in comparison to the deep friendship they'd forged since then. In the interim, Egon had learned to trust Peter again, had come to value in him character traits that he'd not known existed before. He'd watched Peter grow from post-adolescence to true manhood, as he himself had grown, each of them acquiring dimensions of personality and experience that their younger selves had lacked. Now, he was capable of truly valuing the treasure he held in his hands -- literally and figuratively. And Peter... well, who ever quite knew what was going on in Peter's head? But Egon remembered Peter's tears at his declaration of love, and how startled he had been to discover them, and thought, I have been underestimating Peter for a great many years. And perhaps... underestimating myself as well.

It seemed right and proper to hold Peter in his arms. Part of the natural order of things. As if it had been this way forever. Egon's fingers toyed with the short strands of hair at the nape of Peter's neck, silently amazed at how easy it was to take such forbidden liberties. Even a day ago, it would have been unthinkable. Now it was nearly impossible to keep from touching Peter. He did not let himself think about the blanket, or Peter's nudity beneath it. His control was precarious enough as it was.

Traffic opened up a bit as they hit the George Washington Bridge, and Peter fell asleep in Egon's arms, snoring lightly. As usual, he was disinclined to awaken when Ecto-1 pulled into the carport, yawning hugely; and Egon was faced with the task of simultaneously stretching pins and needles out of his legs after the long interval of immobility, and trying to arrange the blanket around a sleepily-protesting Peter. "Le'me alone, Egon," he whined. "I wanna go upstairs, I don't care if Janine sees my cookies. Hi, Janine," as they passed her desk. "Wanna see my cookies?"

Janine glanced up at Peter over the top rims of her glasses. "In a blender," she said sardonically.

"Ow." Peter's hand moved protectively toward his crotch with an expression of injured vulnerability that Egon found both amusing and appealing; and Janine laughed.

As they ascended the stairs together, Egon heard Janine ask, "What happened to Peter?"

"He broke up with his boyfriend," Ray's voice carried up the stairs more faintly.

"You mean... the Class Nine...?" A short burst of sardonic laughter. "Doesn't anyone around here have a normal love life?"

Peter laughed softly, under his breath; and his hand found Egon's and wrapped around it.

On the second floor, they stopped at the kitchen so that Peter could grab a can of cold Pepsi. On the third floor, Peter headed into the bedroom, and Egon paused in the doorway long enough to note that he was retrieving his own pillow and Egon's, spare sheets from the closet... Egon ducked into the bathroom to regain his composure.

Resting his forehead against cool tile seemed to help. Egon took a few deep breaths, striving for calm. There is no cause for alarm. This is a perfectly ordinary occurrence. Sardonic amusement. Perhaps it is for Peter, but not for me. Anxiety. What if I am not as... as skilled as Peter expects me to be? It has been a great many years... A few more deep breaths coupled with a distinct determination to not think; and Egon put the facilities to use, shed the uniform coverall and straightened his clothing, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth. Twice. All right, enough of this, he admonished himself firmly, finally, and went out to face his future.

The lab was lit not by the standard bright lights, but by a single small lamp by the door. Egon had forgotten that the couch was a sleeper sofa; Peter had cleared enough floor space to unfold it, had made up the bed with passable neatness. Two pillows, his and Peter's, side by side. Even that small suggestion of intent was enough to turn Egon's pale skin crimson.

"Close the door," Peter said, and Egon did so, locked it. "This mattress really sucks, but it's the best we've got right now. At least it's a double. You okay, big guy?" in a casual voice, but there was concern in Peter's eyes. He drew closer, reached out, touched Egon's cheek with gentle fingertips. "Hey -- did I... did I read this wrong?" Peter made a small embarrassed gesture toward the bed. "Should I have not done this?"

"No, it's, it's, I'm fine." Egon forced himself to inhale deeply, to hold the breath an extra moment. Yes, that helped; he felt calmer, even if only marginally. "I am extremely nervous," he admitted.

Soft breath of laughter. "You too?" Peter said wryly.

"Yes, I... What have you to be nervous of?" Egon wondered, with sudden incredulity.

"Of screwing things up, mostly." The hand that held the blanket closed across Peter's chest twitched slightly. "Isn't that what I do best?"

"Not in my experience." Egon countered Peter's disbelieving look with his own certainty. "Would you like a list of all the things you have not screwed up? Or perhaps, a list of all the times you've saved my life would suffice."

Peter sighed. "That's not what I meant, Egon." His voice dropped, to nearly a whisper. "Ghosts and danger are a hell of a lot easier to handle than human hearts."

"Would you like a list of all the traits I have come to value in you over the years?" Egon inquired, just as softly. "Or shall I simply tell you how much I value your friendship?" He reached out, rested his hands on Peter's shoulders. "You've made mistakes," he murmured, "we both have. That's part of being human, Peter. But it's the past, and it's over. What we are now is what matters."

Peter's eyes searched Egon's face anxiously. "Does that mean you forgive me?" he said, in a bleak tone that indicated he expected a negative reply.

Egon hesitated, considered the matter carefully. "Yes," he said at last, with finality, "I forgive you, Peter," and knew that it was true. Finally true, after fifteen years. And it was as if a weight lifted from the other man; Peter's eyes brightened. "I only hope you can forgive me for holding my anger as a shield against you, all this time."

"Egon, there's nothing to forgive. I always understood." Peter's face creased into a sad little smile. "Why do you think I let you do it for so long?"

"Masochism?" Egon hazarded a guess, and was rewarded by a low chuckle.

"Possibly," Peter agreed. "Or maybe I was trying to make us both suffer."

"Well, don't do it again," Egon admonished him lightly, and Peter chuckled again. "I mean it," he continued, more soberly. "Do not allow me to shut you out like that again, for any reason."

"Not a chance, big guy," Peter said, with a grin that slipped away as he added, "but don't ever let me leave you again, Egon!"

"I shall not," Egon promised. "You can count on it."

"Good." Peter's eyes seemed very large, and very green; Egon gazed at him and fell in, into fathomless emerald depths, as all-encompassing in their warmth as summer seas. "So why are you nervous?" came to him, in Peter's voice, as if from a very great distance.

Regretfully, Egon floated back to earth to answer the question. "You do realize that I haven't had very much experience," he responded. He could no longer meet Peter's eyes; he suspected that he was blushing. "To be honest, I'm not sure I even remember how."

"Eh, it's like falling off a bicycle," Peter said lightly, "just do what comes naturally." Then, in a deeper, intimate tone, "Anyway, it doesn't matter what you do, Egon. Only that it's you. Y'know, just snuggling with you on the way home was better than any sex I've had in years. Just being with you is enough to make me happy -- anything else is gravy."

Egon's lips parted soundlessly; he had no idea what to say.

"'Course, if you're really worried, I can give you lessons," added Peter, with a wicked little grin. "All those years of meaningless sex ought to count for something, don't you think?"

"They count," Egon said. "They brought you back to me."

This time, it seemed, it was Peter's turn to gaze at him in speechless silence.

"Well," Peter said, after long moments, "that makes it all right, then," in a voice that strove to be casual and didn't make it.

He was right, Egon realized with surprise; it did seem all right now. All the old hurts and betrayals, all the anger and pain... the old memories had lost their sting, now. This truly was a clean slate, for them both. A fresh start. A second chance.

And Egon knew that he would remember these moments for the rest of his life; each scene etched itself into his memory, to be treasured and savored. The electric tension in Peter, anxiety and anticipation commingled. The way Peter's hand fell away from his chest where it held the blanket wrapped around himself, letting the fabric flow free -- not an erotic gesture, but a deliberate lowering of defenses. The blanket still hung around his shoulders, mostly concealing him; but now expanses of creamy flesh disappeared into tantalizing shadows. Despite that lure, Egon found himself drawn by Peter's eyes. Radiating love and uncertainty and desire, and so very green. Traffic-light green. Green for go... green for yes...

"Last chance to change your mind," Peter said, again trying hard for humor and failing utterly.

Very deliberately, Egon reached up and removed his glasses, folded them carefully, set them on the table, all the while watching Peter's Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed hard.

He took a slow step toward Peter, bringing him close enough to touch. Yet for another long moment Egon simply gazed at Peter, assimilating the reality of the encounter, and its implications for the future. Of course, there would be problems. Their work was perilous and often frustrating, and Peter was difficult to live with at the best of times. But looking at Peter, Egon could not imagine not making it work; could not imagine a future without Peter in it.

Hesitantly, he reached out to let his hand settle against the curve of Peter's jaw, thumb resting lightly against his lower lip, provoking a sharp tremor throughout Peter's body... He'd expected to feel awkward and clumsy at this moment, but his hands seemed to know where they belonged, one sliding back to the nape of Peter's neck while the other curved around Peter's waist under the blanket, drawing him close. Peter reached back; his hands gripped the edges of the blanket as his arms encircled Egon, drawing it around both of them, wrapping them in a snug cocoon. His body seemed to melt against Egon's, not merely pliant but eagerly willing; his lips parted slightly, silently inviting, impossible to resist.

Here we go, Egon thought, and kissed him.

Then there was no room for thought, no room for anything but Peter, and the soul-deep aching hunger of wanting more, more... A sound between a moan and a whimper emerging from Peter's throat as his hands clutched at Egon desperately; every inch of his body pressed up hard against him, and still he couldn't get close enough. More, he wanted more of Peter's sweet surrender, needed to claim him, to devour him, and somewhere in the maelstrom of emotion floated one small amused realization: his mouth tastes like Pepsi.

Eventually, the need for oxygen drove him to surface, gasping for air. His entire body seemed to be several degrees warmer and tingling, and Peter was gazing up at him breathlessly with wide, startled eyes. "You don't need lessons," he said huskily, and began to tear Egon's clothes off.

The blanket fell away from Peter as his fingers fumbled hastily with Egon's shirt buttons; his lips pressed quick, fervent kisses along the newly-conquered territory of Egon's chest as he worked his way down. Trembling, his hands found Egon's belt buckle, his zipper, pushed aside trousers and briefs... "Oh," Peter breathed, fell to his knees, and took Egon's erection deep into his mouth in one swift smooth motion. The sudden burst of intense sensation brought Egon to the edge of flashpoint in an instant, a harsh groan rising from him as he surged helplessly toward climax -- and turning into a cry of frustration as Peter released him. "Sorry," Peter muttered, "sorry, that was..." His hand wrapped lightly around Egon's throbbing organ, and the contact eased the ache of denial. "You okay?"

'I'm fine,' Egon attempted to say -- "Aaaah," was all that came out, though, as Peter leaned forward and took him into his mouth again, more gently this time. Even so, it was almost more than Egon could bear. His balance was failing him, his legs refusing to hold him, and Peter was there to catch him as he stumbled and almost fell. "Bed," the other man suggested, "bed is good," and the thin lumpy mattress of the convertible sofa felt like paradise as he fell into it with a double-armful of Peter in tow.

It took a moment for him to catch his breath; and as he did, the old doubts and fears began to intrude... Peter's palm settled against the middle of his chest. "Egon," in a voice soft as velvet, and Egon turned his head and fell into emerald pools of love again.

"You captivate me," he heard himself say.

The green eyes flared hot and bright with emotion. "You own me," Peter whispered.

Then Peter was in his arms again, full-body contact, skin to skin, as achingly hard as he was, and Egon lost himself in another deep, devouring kiss.

Time seemed to stretch like taffy. He was acutely aware of every small sound Peter made, breathless little sobbing sounds that went straight to his groin. Everything else was flesh and friction, the sweet warmth of Peter's body wrapped around his own, fervent caresses and passionate kisses and arousal vibrating within him, increasing steadily toward that razor's-edge Peter had shown him before... Egon wanted it to last forever, but his body demanded otherwise, aching for release; and when Peter's hand crept between them to wrap around his organ, the resultant stimulation was almost enough to bring him there.

He took Peter in hand the same way, and was rewarded by a soft, shuddering moan that drove him even closer. Peter: so beautiful, and not merely a fantasy anymore... That more than anything else brought the flames within him to a fever pitch. Peter's hands stroking him, Peter's lips fastened to his own, breaking free to cry out Egon's name as his body convulsed sharply, and Egon's world exploded, shattering into wave after wave of the most exquisite pleasure he had ever known.

Slowly, reality returned as his orgasm ebbed away, and idly Egon took inventory. He was lying on his back, blinking up at the ceiling indistinctly. Peter was curled up against his side, one arm and one leg thrown possessively across him. He was sweaty and sticky. He felt wonderful.

Peter was breathing. Not an uncommon occurrence, certainly. But Peter was breathing against his neck, and the warm brush of air against damp skin and hair seemed as intimate as anything that had passed between them so far. Somehow, Egon managed to summon the strength to turn his head sideways, and Peter roused himself with sluggish effort to meet him halfway in a languorous kiss.

"Was that... acceptable?" he found himself asking in the lazy interval afterwards.

Soft laughter met his query. "Acceptable?" Peter said. "Outstanding," and grinned at him.

Egon smiled back, rolled onto his side and gathered Peter into his arms. "As are you," he murmured into Peter's hair.

Peter nestled into him with a sigh of contentment. "Perfect," he said sleepily, "you're perfect," and was asleep in the next breath. Just the same way he'd always used to fall asleep after sex, fifteen years before. Equally fatigued, Egon was inclined to join him.

But he forced himself to stay awake just a little longer, in order to spend a few more moments savoring it all. How good it was to hold Peter this way, how perfect and right it felt. How fifteen years of yearning and solitude seemed to have melted away in the space of their lovemaking, and the pain of its memory eased by the sweet pleasure of its ending. If fifteen years of loneliness were required to bring us to this time and place, together, Egon thought, then perhaps it was worth the price we paid.

"I love you, Peter," he said softly to the man in his arms, oblivious in slumber.

And Egon smiled, and closed his eyes, and joined him there.

SIXTEEN

Egon. Yes.

It was the first thought that penetrated Peter's mind upon waking; he smiled.

He didn't bother opening his eyes. It was nicer in the dark, and besides, he didn't need sight. His other senses were telling him everything he needed to know. Egon's arms around him, holding him securely, and the scent of sex and sweat surrounding them both. Perfect. Absolutely perfect, and it was so good to lie in Egon's arms and just soak it all in.

Egon's hand was moving against his back. Not much, just a small slow caress, but it was very definitely a conscious movement. Peter moved just a little, kissed Egon's shoulder lightly, to let him know that he was awake too.

A moment later, Peter opened his eyes to find himself being gathered into Egon's arms; he gazed up into unfocused blue eyes and threw himself wholeheartedly into a lingering kiss. Oh yes. Oh yes.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, could feel his soul pounding, almost, with the realization that this was why sex had never been more than getting his rocks off, why none of the others had ever mattered -- it was Egon, it had always been Egon, and they fit together, they were right together. How could he have ever worried about this? It was perfect.

And when Egon's eyes met his, he could tell that they were feeling it together.

The scientist's hands roved over his face, his body: exploring, caressing, possessing. Peter had always loved Egon's hands, the elegance and the strength in them. Had always treasured, as well, the depths of emotion and passion that lurked beneath the staid and proper exterior. Now, that intensity was focused on him -- and it left him breathless. Egon's hands settled on either side of Peter's face, drew him in for another deep kiss, and Peter yielded happily. It had always been so hard for him to give up control to anyone else, even when he wanted it the most; but now, with Egon, it was easy. And wonderful.

He rolled back and pulled Egon with him, on top of him, and oh, that was even better, the weight of Egon's body covering him and pressing him into the thin mattress. Egon chuckled lazily and settled in comfortably, kissed him again deeply, and nothing had ever been so good, ever. Peter let himself drift, luxuriating in the feel of skin against skin and slow deep kisses and the knowledge that it was Egon. "Perfect," he murmured, in a space between kisses.

"Yes," Egon acknowledged, and latched on with tongue and lips and teeth to a spot on Peter's neck that had always provoked extreme reactions when kissed. Fifteen years later, and it still worked; Peter moaned softly, arching his neck to allow Egon better access.

"Vampire," Peter said breathlessly, as Egon continued to work his way along tender expanses of flesh.

"Merely a connoisseur," Egon disputed. Pulled back a little, blue eyes gleaming. "I happen to enjoy watching you writhe," he said, in a deep velvet voice that far surpassed any of Peter's practiced seductive tones, and demonstrated the truth of his words by applying a certain pressure two-fingered to Peter's left nipple. Peter's eyes closed of their own accord as a soft cry emerged from his throat; a fierce tremor raced through him. "Yes, exactly like that," Egon stated, in a voice that might have been taken for cool and dispassionate by someone who didn't know him well enough to discern the undertone of desire in it. I've got my very own Mr. Spock, thought Peter, his mind drifting back to some of the more interesting reading material he'd found at the last Star Trek convention Ray had dragged him to.

The similarity lingered as Egon began to demonstrate his recollection of all Peter's hot spots, with great precision and attention to detail. In fifteen years, no one else had ever found them all, or even seemed inclined to try... "You like seeing me writhe," Peter gasped, "well, damn, you know how to make it happen!" as Egon nibbled a particularly sensitive spot on his ribcage, just hard enough to make it arousing instead of ticklish.

"Good," Egon murmured when he came up for air, and again drew back just enough to survey his handiwork. Peter felt the heat of the flush suffusing his entire body, felt himself trembling breathlessly, felt his aching cock throbbing almost painfully -- and all for you, it's all about you, Egon, raced through his mind as Egon studied him with a gaze that was anything but clinical. No one else had ever looked at him quite that way, either: devouring, consuming, memorizing, savoring, treasuring, possessing... "You own me," he murmured, wanting Egon to know it.

"Do I?" Again, that sharp gleam in the cool blue eyes. "Very well. I accept title and ownership." Suddenly Egon was leaning over him, pressed close. "And don't you forget it," in a voice that was pure possessive passion, almost a growl, preceding a deep and forceful kiss that wrung another moan from Peter.

From that point on, Peter couldn't have managed conversation if he'd tried, as Egon commenced what seemed to be a full-fledged attack on his erogenous zones. The closest he came to coherence was the fleeting thought that no, Egon needed no lessons of any sort; the rest was one burst of intense pleasure after another assailing his central nervous system, spreading through him in waves as Egon devoted his attention to every area of Peter's body except for the one that needed it most. Peter's fingers dug into the thin mattress beneath him in a desperate attempt to keep from grabbing his aching hard-on -- the slow, methodical destruction of his defenses was as irresistibly gorgeous as it was torturous, and he didn't want to interfere -- but when a stray lock of Egon's hair brushed against his cock, Peter's body arched and shuddered uncontrollably from the sudden shock of sensation. "Really," he heard Egon say with interest. "In that case, this..." and Egon's tongue lapped very delicately at the head of his cock; and Peter managed somehow to clench his teeth shut in time to keep his cry from becoming a howl.

"Egon, please, oh god, please..." Begging shamelessly, and loving every moment of his own surrender.

"Yes." Low and soft and rough, and nothing had ever sounded as good as that word. "Oh, yes," and Egon's hand wrapped around the base of Peter's cock as his mouth took the rest.

From their experiences years before, Peter remembered Egon's overdeveloped gag reflex, and he tried, he really tried to keep his hips from thrusting upward, aggressively seeking more -- but it was a losing battle; and when Egon's free hand ventured lower, a single fingertip stroking slowly, sheer power of suggestion was almost enough to bring him off. "Please take me, please," almost whimpering, all but consumed by the sudden wave of yearning.

Egon drew back, and Peter nearly sobbed in frustration at the loss of that sweet sensation. "Yes." Again, that limitless affirmative, sending shivers down his spine. "I assume you've made suitable preparations?"

It took a monumental effort to speak, to deliver the information that seemed, at the moment, utterly vital to his continued existence. "On the table, next to the lamp," Peter managed finally.

The mattress shifted as Egon reached for the small nondescript bottle of lubricant. It occurred to Peter, as he watched Egon prepare himself, that he had not so much as raised a finger to pleasure Egon in return -- and it seemed that it hadn't been necessary; Egon was as ready as he was. He spread his legs and raised them impatiently, and Egon positioned himself; yes, oh god, yes, formed a steady exultant chant in Peter's head in that interval of adjustment and preparation, even that small delay rendered unbearable by the strength of his need.

Poised on the verge of entry, Egon paused -- caught and held Peter's gaze for a long moment. "I love you, Peter."

Peter blinked back tears. "I love you, Egon," reflecting that it was so like Egon to think to say those words at just that moment. Perfect. It's perfect. Everything is perfect.

Then Egon began to move with excruciating deliberation, the tip of his cock nudging Peter's entrance, stretching him slowly. A sobbing cry of helpless desperation escaped from Peter's lips; he couldn't take it, he needed more, needed all of him, now... His eyes opened to the sight of his lover, flushed and fevered, tense and trembling with rigid control, gazing at him with taut, hungry desire -- another slow rocking motion of Egon's hips, driving him a little deeper, and this time Egon's moan of frustration merged with Peter's. "You tryin' to make us both insane?" Peter gasped.

"Patience," Egon whispered. He leaned forward, placed a small soft kiss on Peter's lips -- moved a little bit more, with an involuntary groan at the feel of it. "You are incredible," spoken in a hoarse murmur. "My treasure..."

Another move, a little deeper -- right up against the pleasure spot, and the feel of that tore a whimper from Peter's throat. "Love me," he begged, "Egon, love me..."

"Forever." The word reverberated through Peter's soul. And Egon moved again, easing deeper, slowly, slowly, until he was all the way in. Oh, god, perfect...

Slow. So slow. Too slow. The barest hint of friction and pressure, fanning the flames, increasing very gradually in pace and pressure until it seemed as if the soft, sobbing moan had lived in his chest for an eternity. As if nothing had ever existed but the desperate, yearning ache within him; and Egon was at the center of his body, his soul, his everything, filling him and filling him with wave after wave of pleasure that fed the ache without ever assuaging it. More, and more, until Egon's cock was slamming into him forcefully, each stroke accompanied by a little rasping sigh that mingled with his own cries to caress his eardrums seductively. More, and more, and more, building to an intensity that was almost frightening -- so strong, so fierce, that its culmination seemed beyond endurance; yet the need was so great that Peter couldn't stop it, couldn't hold back, couldn't do anything but pull at himself in time to Egon's frantic rhythm and whimper helplessly as Egon drove them both relentlessly along that ascending spiral of ecstasy, closer and closer, oh my god oh my GOD and Peter's world exploded into wave after wave of shattering ecstasy. Wave after wave, endless pleasure, filling him, draining him, seeming to go on forever -- and then Egon cried out harshly and shuddered against him, and it began all over again for Peter, the spasms of pleasure intensifying to fever pitch once more before ebbing away finally into warm, lazy contentment.

Perfect.

"You're crying," Egon said softly, in a tone of wonderment.

"Again?" Peter blinked. "Sorry," he murmured huskily. "I just feel... so much..."

Egon leaned in close and brushed his lips against Peter's eyelids, his cheeks. Kissing away the tears. "Peter, my dearest love," he said, in a soft, earnest voice that brought forth more tears to be kissed away; and Egon gathered Peter into his arms and applied himself to doing just that.

It felt so good to lie in Egon's arms and luxuriate in the warmth of his body and his love -- and yet... "When you said 'forever'," Peter mumbled, "uh, what did you mean, exactly?" hating himself for asking the question, for the fear in his voice. Way to go, jackass. Hell of a time to start talking about commitment! But he had to know, he just had to.

"I meant forever, Peter." Egon's voice was level. "I intend to love you in perpetuity. For the rest of our lives, at the very least. You have, after all, granted me sole and exclusive ownership... have you not?"

"Yes," Peter breathed. An unlimited, eternal yes. Yes. You. Me. Everything. All of it. Yes.

Egon nodded, and seemed relieved. As if he'd thought Peter might change his mind. No way, big guy. You're stuck with me now! "Then you needn't worry," he said. "I have no intention of relinquishing my claim."

"Better not," Peter murmured. "Fifteen years was too damn long," his voice breaking on the last word; and Egon held him close and stroked his hair as he cried.

The tears didn't last long -- merely the last draining of a long-festering wound, leaving Peter feeling finally at peace. Content, and secure in a way he had never been. This is where I belong, Peter thought sleepily. Right here, in his arms. Perfect... nestled a little closer, breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of Egon's body, and fell headlong into blissful slumber.

SEVENTEEN

The first light of dawn was just beginning to color the sky when Peter next awakened, with the uncomfortable awareness that if he didn't get up and take a leak, he was going to explode. Carefully, he disentangled himself from Egon, found his robe in the pile of stuff he'd retrieved from the bedroom earlier -- unearthed Egon's, and left it where he couldn't miss it -- and limped to the bathroom. Later, he would savor the residual ache in his muscles as a reminder of the night before; right now, it just hurt.

A few minutes later, he felt much better. He stretched idly and contemplated the shower, decided that hot water would feel very good, and started it running. The mirror beckoned, and he took a look at himself -- was amused by the silly grin on his face. His fingers brushed against the reddened places where Egon had been chewing on his neck. He'd always hated it when sex partners left marks, but the sight of these hickeys made him tingle inside. God, Peter, how sappy can you get? Sheesh. But the silly grin lingered as he stepped into the shower.

For awhile, Peter just stood under the hot water with his eyes closed, letting the pounding spray ease away the aches. Bits and pieces of memories came back to dance pleasantly through his mind. The expression on Egon's face as he was coming, oh yeah, that was one for the books. Gentle lips on his eyelids, kissing away his tears. Yeah. An old Jefferson Starship song began to run through his head, and he sang very softly as he reached for the soap and began to lather. "Knew from the start, it had to be you..." Wish I could have remembered that. Fifteen years, wasted. Almost immediately, Peter reconsidered. Nah, not wasted. They've been good years. And maybe we needed those years, to make it work now. Anyway, it doesn't matter what could've been. We're together now. Now is what counts.

The small click of the door opening caught his attention, and Peter smiled. He'd been wondering when Egon would awaken. It could have been one of the others, true; with four people and one bathroom, it wasn't uncommon for one person to use the facilities while another was in the shower. But somehow, Peter couldn't picture Ray or Winston walking into the bathroom without knocking on this particular night. "Peter," said the familiar deep voice, confirming his suspicions, and a delightful shiver raced along his spine at the quiet intimacy in it.

"C'mon in, big guy," he said seductively, "the water's warm."

"In a minute," Egon said, sounding preoccupied; Peter grinned and waited, not very patiently.

After a few moments, the toilet flushed, and Peter yelped as the shower water abruptly got very hot. "Sorry," Egon said, as he drew back the shower curtain and stepped into the tub with an impish grin that belied the apology.

"You should be, you know better," Peter scolded him lightly, then forgot all about it as Egon drew him into his arms.

In Peter's world of one-night stands, the obligatory shower afterwards had been his way of separating himself from the person from whom he was planning to escape as quickly as possible; he'd always insisted on showering alone. He'd forgotten, over time, just how much fun it could be to shower with someone else. Soapy caresses and slippery embraces, the utilitarian business of personal hygiene transformed into a loving and erotic game. Peter got his hair shampooed and his back washed for him -- in the middle of the latter, the prominent evidence of Egon's arousal became too tempting to resist, and shortly Peter found himself on his knees, gripping the edge of the tub and biting his arm to keep from howling as Egon rammed into him, driving him to a swift and thoroughly satisfying climax. "You take me straight to eleven," he said sometime later, leaning back into Egon's chest and feeling the strong arms fold around him possessively as the hot water streamed over them both. "All you have to do is touch me, and I'm there..."

"Peter." Just his name, but that voice... Peter turned in Egon's arms and kissed him thoroughly.

When the water temperature could no longer be coaxed beyond lukewarm, they exited the shower, feeling marginally guilty. "It's still early, right? The hot water'll come back," Peter said uneasily.

"For our colleagues' sake, I certainly hope so." Absently, Egon reached for his comb and the jar of gel which he used to tame his hair into its usual unlikely style.

Peter reached out, rested his hand on the other man's arm. "Egon? Leave it down, will ya? Just this once."

"You don't like my hairstyle." The words were delivered in a curiously flat tone.

"Nah, actually... don't tell anyone, but I think it's kinda hot. But this is nice, too..." Peter's hands moved to the nape of Egon's neck, combed his fingers through the wet strands of hair that clung to the tender skin there.

Egon's fingers moved to touch a few of the more obvious marks on Peter's neck. "All right," he agreed.

Toweling each other off was another adventure, and even shaving became an intimate experience, Peter discovered, when someone else's hand held the razor. When at last they emerged from the bathroom, the firehouse was still quiet -- the light streaming from the lab door was still a soft glow, and the faint snores from the bedroom let them know that they had succeeded in not disturbing the others. Silently, Peter led the way downstairs to the kitchen.

In the far corner of the living room, a shadow floated in midair; awakened by the movement, it moved toward them, the baby blanket that had been covering it fluttering to the floor. "Hi, guys!" it crowed approximately.

"Hush, spud. People sleeping upstairs." Peter made his way to the kitchen, as Egon said a formal, "Good morning," to the little green ghost.

In the fridge was the remains of a pizza-with-everything, some ancient Chinese takeout, half a meatball parmesan hero, a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, a bottle of Maalox, a bottle of Imodium, maybe we should lay off the junk food, guys, Peter thought, and opened the milk to give it a hesitant sniff. Surprise: it was still fresh. Egon was absently going through the motions of making coffee; Peter poured the milk into a clean glass and took a sip. After a moment's reflection, he rummaged in the cupboard for the spices Janine had left behind after her last flirtation with cookie-baking. A spoonful of vanilla extract, a few drops of almond flavoring, some sugar and a pinch of nutmeg -- Peter tasted it and found it good.

He could feel the green gooper hovering behind him, watching him. "Peter happy," Slimer declared.

"You bet your ass I am." His lips twitched into a grin. "Peter is as happy as Slimer with a pizza," he told the little green ghost seriously.

"Pizza," Slimer said reminiscently, smacking his lips, and darting a nervous glance at the fridge. "Pizza?" he said hopefully.

Peter reached inside, grabbed the last few stale slices and tossed them toward the ghost, who darted to catch them eagerly. "Mmmm! Wow. Peter very happy!" Slimer said gleefully.

"You're spoiling him," Egon said severely, flicking the 'on' switch of the coffeepot. He cast an inquisitive glance at Peter's doctored milk; Peter handed him the glass, and he sipped -- surprise lit his face, and he drank more deeply.

"Eh, today's a special day," Peter said lightly. Egon moved to hand back the glass, but Peter motioned him to keep it, instead opening the fridge to mix up a second batch for himself.

"Uh-huh," affirmed Slimer, bobbing up and down vigorously. "Special day. Ray tell Slimer so."

Peter paused in the midst of stirring, traded a glance with Egon. "Oh really? And just what did Ray tell you?" he inquired sweetly.

"Ray say, everything better now. Peter and Egon together. Lovey-dovey stuff, make all the pain go away," Slimer babbled cheerfully.

Silence. "A remarkably lucid assessment," Egon said finally.

"From who, Slimer or Ray?" Peter tasted his milk and was satisfied with the mixture.

"Ray in trouble?" Slimer worried.

"Nah, spud. Ray not in trouble. And he's right, this is a special day." Peter moved sideways, closer to Egon, slipped his hand around the other man's waist. "A very special day. Hold still, big guy, you've got milk on your face," and Peter leaned in and licked away the milk mustache, pausing for a swift kiss along the way.

Egon's arm tightened around him. "A napkin would have worked equally well," he chided, humor sparkling in his eyes.

"And been so much less fun," Peter countered, planting another quick kiss on Egon's lips.

"Ooooh," Slimer said softly. "Lovey-dovey. Awww, so sweet..."

"Shaddup, spud, you're making Egon blush," Peter said, with cavalier disregard for the faint tinge of color on his own cheeks, and took his milk to the table. In the periphery of his vision, he saw Egon reach into the fridge and give Slimer the remains of the meatball hero. "I'm spoiling him?" he said under his breath, mildly.

"Hello..." A soft call drifted up the stairs: Janine's voice. "Anyone awake yet?"

"C'mon up, babe," Peter called back expansively.

Tentative footsteps, and Janine appeared, laden down with the morning paper and a cardboard box piled high with styrofoam containers. "I brought breakfast for everyone," she said, as Egon moved to relieve her of her burden. "I figured it'd be a good thing if you guys got some protein for a change, instead of that junk you usually eat in the morning. Especially you two. Gotta keep your strength up, ya know."

"Janine," Egon protested, in evident embarrassment tempered only by the small shy grin that lurked around his lips.

"Well, it's true. You've got to eat right if you want to play all night." Her eyes twinkled. "There's eggs and pancakes and waffles and sausage and bacon and..."

"Breakfast," Peter said softly, reverently. The smell of it beckoned; suddenly he was ravenous. "Janine, you're a goddess. I take back all the nasty things I ever said about you."

Her eyebrows raised in disbelief. "All of them?"

"Well, mostly." Peter leaned in, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, feeling good enough not to care if she tore his head off for it.

To his surprise, Egon moved to her other side and did the same. "Thank you," he said, very quietly, "for everything."

Janine's smile was luminous. "Any time," she said, turning to include Peter in her smile.

From the kitchen came the deathlike gurgle that the coffeemaker emitted when it was brewing the very last of the coffee; and the three of them settled down for breakfast together, while Slimer bobbed around the table to catch any scraps that might be tossed his way. Egon appropriated the science section of the paper immediately, along with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, while Peter claimed the sports section and a waffle with syrup and sausage on the side. Janine chose real estate, eggs and hash browns, and the three ate and read in comfortable silence for awhile.

"Hey, what's that smell, is that breakfast?" Ray's sleepy voice preceded him down the stairs.

"Janine," Peter informed him, "is a goddess," cleaning the last trace of syrup from his plate with a bit of toast.

"Well, I knew that," Ray said reasonably. "Oh, it is breakfast! Janine, did you really bring all this? Gosh, that's swell," reaching out to squeeze her shoulder in a friendly way as he passed her on his way to the kitchen. He came out a moment later with a cup of coffee, took a seat and began helping himself to scrambled eggs. Paused halfway through. "Uh... everything is okay now, right?" he queried, with a quick worried look from Egon to Peter and back again.

"Yes," Egon said, in that liquid-velvet voice; Peter glanced sideways at Egon, and felt himself dissolve into the inexplicable warmth of those ice-blue eyes. "Oh, yeah," he agreed happily.

When he tore himself away from Egon's gaze, he saw that Ray was grinning. Blushing a little, but grinning all the same. "Good," Ray said firmly. "'Cause I don't ever want to have to go through the last couple of days again, all right, guys? I mean, that just sucked."

Peter laughed. "I think I can safely say you speak for all of us on that." And risked another look into Egon's cool blue eyes, filled with enough passion to melt him to liquid on the spot. "But everything's all right now," he murmured.

"Lovey-dovey," Slimer concurred, and Peter threw a sausage link at the ghost in a vain attempt to shut it up. It worked, sort of; at least Slimer was too busy eating to continue the commentary.

Winston, when he came downstairs, didn't ask; one look at the two of them together apparently told him all he needed to know, and his answering smile conveyed his opinion of the situation with equal eloquence. Peter finished with the sports section and passed it to him as Egon got up to get another cup of coffee -- looked up in surprise as Egon set a fresh cup in front of him as well, and grinned his thanks.

Egon nodded acknowledgement, the cool and proper facade beginning to slide back into place. His hair was drying in an unkempt tangle, though, and beginning to curl just a little bit at the ends, giving his face a softer, less stern look -- and underneath the table, his bare foot moved to rest alongside Peter's companionably, providing a welcome warmth. Everything's changed, he thought, everything's different than it was before. Everything. And yet, everything's exactly the same.

It's perfect. And Peter sipped his coffee and smiled.

A beam of sunlight shone brightly through the window, illuminating the long space from one end to another, as the sun continued to ascend. Somewhere outside, a taxicab honked its horn stridently. Downstairs, the Ghostbusters' office phone rang, and Janine sighed. "Looks like it's time to hit the daily grind," she said.

"Don't hit it too hard," Ray cautioned her, "it might hit back." He stretched, pushed his chair back, headed idly for the TV. Slimer swooped down in his wake, to inspect his plate closely and see if there were any leftovers.

Peter finished skimming the financial section, reached for entertainment, as Ray had already absconded with the comics. A last strip of bacon protruding from one of the plundered containers beckoned to him; Peter reached for it -- and was an instant too late. "Slimer!" he yelled.

The ghost darted up to the ceiling, visibly upset. "Special day," it babbled, "special day, Peter said..."

"Peter," said Egon's quiet voice. With his fork, he indicated the last piece of bacon on his plate; and Peter took it with his fingers, smiling. He ate half of it and fed the rest to Egon, taking the opportunity to brush his fingers across the other man's lips.

Janine's voice sounded up the stairs. "Sorry, guys," she called out, "we got one in Riverdale."

Ray, who had barely settled himself down on the sofa, groaned. "Another day, another ghost," Winston said philosophically. And inexplicably, Peter found himself grinning.

Everything was different. And everything was the same. And it was perfect, all of it.

And life went on.

Peter took Egon's hand, and went upstairs to get dressed for work.

end of fifteen years.

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