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"What's for dinner?" Peter inquired as he opened the refrigerator door and stuck his head inside, scanning the contents.
"Not a heck of a lot," Winston answered in a disgusted voice. Sitting at the kitchen table, he was making a shopping list. It looked like a long one.
"No duh," Peter agreed, withdrawing from the fridge. "Did we forget to go for groceries again?"
"We didn't," Winston snorted. "Egon did. I reminded him Thursday and again yesterday but he's been so wrapped up in fine-tuning his latest invention he hasn't done anything outside the lab all week."
"And you're tired of doing his chores for him," Peter finished in an understanding tone, leaning against the refrigerator door with one shoulder and crossing his arms. He had more than a few suspicions of his own about the physicist's convenient ability to forget his share of the grunt-work that had to be done around the house when science called.
"What's for dinner?" Ray asked amiably, strolling in with Egon in tow.
"Not a hell of a lot until somebody goes shopping for groceries," Peter said, his glare at Egon pointed.
"Seems some experiment has been more important than food lately, and now we have a whole lot of knowledge and nothing to eat," Winston explained, also directing a severe look at the tall blond.
With at least the grace to look guilty, Egon temporized, "We can phone out for pizza tonight; I'll do the shopping tomorrow."
Even Ray's expression fell. "I'm awful tired of pizza," he said disappointedly. "Don't we even have some hamburger or hot-dogs in the freezer?"
Turning and pulling it open, Peter shook his head. "Nope. We got some really tired-looking ice cubes and half a bag of mixed veggies. Anyone know a good recipe for those that will feed four?"
"Well, I'll just go out and pick up some stuff, then," Ray offered.
"No, you won't. It's Egon's turn and he's gonna go do it." Winston folded his arms across his chest. "He's always getting out of things by doing cool stuff in the lab he claims is so much more important than laundry or taking out the garbage, and I think it's about time we stopped reinforcing that tendency."
His brow creasing, Egon protested, "But it is more important..."
"Objection overruled," Peter said sternly. "I'm with Winston on this one. It's your turn, so you're going."
"Oh, all right," Egon grumped. "Give me the list, I'll go now."
"I'll go along and help," Ray said cheerfully.
Peter shook his head. "Oh, no. Every time you two go shopping together we end up with nothing but sugar-loaded junk instead of real food. And it takes you hours to decide which brand of chips has the most sodium."
"This from the man who has a case of assorted snacks stashed under his bed." Winston smiled, holding the finished list out to Egon.
"That's to lure Slimer away from my pillow," Peter said defensively. He assumed a martyred expression. "I'll have to go with Egon. I want to eat tonight and if he's not supervised, the odds aren't good I'll get to."
"They're not good anyway," Egon said, looking up from the list. "Everything on this will take time to prepare once I bring it back. Wouldn't it be easier if I just went down to Alfalfa's deli for something fast tonight and made the major expedition tomorrow morning?"
"You seem real eager to put this off until tomorrow," Winston observed suspiciously. "Something big happening tonight we don't know about?"
"Not at all," Egon replied with an injured air. "I did want to catch the NASA channel feed showing the rotation of the shuttle's flying attitude at eight but, if everyone thinks it's more important the cabinets and refrigerator be full overnight then I will, of course, bow to group pressure."
Ray checked his watch. "Wow, I had no idea it was that late already, you sure wouldn't be able to make it back in time." He chewed his lip briefly, debating the options. "We could tape it for you," he decided.
"Only if we record over one of your movies, we're out of blank tape too." As Egon reviewed the list again, Winston added helpfully, "Third column, about halfway down."
"But we did that last time we ran out," Ray objected. "I don't have any more tapes left that don't have something I really want to keep on them."
Glancing out the window over the sink into the blackness beyond, Peter said, "Well, I don't mind if you pick up something at Alfalfa's tonight and do the rest tomorrow, but it's started raining again. How are you going to carry the food and an umbrella at the same time?" The store was so close and parking near it so nonexistent that taking Ecto was more hassle than walking, even when the weather was bad.
"You're coming along to supervise me," Egon reminded him sweetly. "Surely you could help by holding one or the other."
"All right," Peter scowled, knowing he had backed himself into a corner and would have to take a walk in the rain as a result. "Just stop calling me 'Shirley'."
Arms linked to keep them comfortably shoulder to shoulder under one umbrella, Peter and Egon strolled down the dark, wet sidewalk toward the gourmet grocery and deli five blocks from the firehouse. In the rapidly chilling fall evening air their breath was visible, faint white puffs that mingled as they discussed various dinner menus and laughed together at some shared joke. Gently falling rain pattered on the stretched fabric above them and only the occasional swish of a car's tires passing broke the muted murmur of the city. Enjoying each other's company and the clean smell of rain-washed concrete, neither man was paying much attention to the familiar surroundings, and so they were completely surprised when a powerful set of hands grabbed Peter's arm and they were unceremoniously hauled into the deeper shadows of an alleyway.
Jerking his arm free of the unwelcome touch, Peter sputtered indignantly as the umbrella was yanked out of his grip and thrown aside. "Do you know who you're messing with?" he snarled. Through his anger he registered the deep grunt of pain as Egon was slammed into the dirty brick wall next to him.
"I don't care if you're the fucking mayor of this stinking city, asshole. Just gimme your wallet and maybe we won't kill you both." For emphasis, the filthy-smelling mugger shoved the barrel of his small revolver into the corner of jaw below Peter's ear. Up close, his breath was as deadly as the gun and Peter gagged involuntarily.
"Let's waste the lousy faggots anyway," hissed another voice. Turning his head slightly despite the cold, steel pressure on his neck, Peter could see the shape of a second attacker outlined against the weak illumination of the street light. Holding a wickedly curved knife to Egon's throat, he grinned with a demented leer at his partner.
Drizzle was catching in Egon's hair and making the curl droop lower over his forehead. Maintaining his calm demeanor even while the smiling creep rifled his pockets and took away his wallet, he said, "There would be no point in killing us. Peter, give him what he wants, please." Pitched low and soothing, his voice carried no tremor of fear.
"Yeah, Peter," the thief with the knife sneered mockingly. "Give us what we want, or lover-boy here gets a new mouth to breathe through." Pushing the blade harder against the pale skin until a dark drop of blood trickled across the metal, the man's unpleasant smirk widened at the helpless rage in Peter's eyes.
"Take it, then," Peter said thickly, pulling his wallet from the breast pocket of his trench coat with a slow, careful movement and handing it to the thug in front of him.
"Thanks, sucker." Grabbing the billfold, he stepped back and lowered the gun to point at Peter's chest, knuckles whitening as he pulled the trigger. At the same moment, his accomplice drew the knife across Egon's throat in a sideways slash and the blond began to crumple, blood flowing blackly over his collar. Peter reacted with prescient speed, twisting toward Egon so quickly that the shot missed its intended target, going wide of Peter's heart and hitting him in the shoulder.
"NO!" Lunging to catch Egon's falling body, Peter barely heard the sharp report as the gun was fired or the retreating sound of running feet as the two muggers took off. None of it mattered to him, not even the hot splash of pain in his shoulder was as important as the burden he lowered quickly but carefully to the pavement. Cushioning the damp, shaggy head in his lap, he clapped one hand across the gash on Egon's throat, sliding his grip around until he could pressure the wound without impairing his friend's labored breathing. Hot blood leaked between his fingers, the metallic smell of it rising to mingle with the slowly dissipating acrid fumes of burnt gunpowder.
"Egon? Egon, don't speak to me, but open your eyes for a second so I know you're in there," Peter pleaded desperately. Rain continued to fall, beading on the physicist's glasses and making them totally opaque in the darkened alley. With his free hand Peter lifted the lightweight frames off Egon's face, folding them closed with a flick of his wrist and then tucking them in his own pocket. Leaning forward, he bowed his head over Egon's, sheltering his friend's face from the water that trickled coldly down the back of his own neck. "Come on, big guy, just let me know you're still breathing and I'll be happy."
Between the dark and the odd angle he was at, it was difficult to read the movement of Egon's lips, but Peter saw the word "Promise?" form there and breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Moments later the faint glow from a street lamp filtered through falling water shone on the blue of first one eye and then both as Egon blinked slowly up at him, able to focus across the short distance separating them. Egon's arms moved weakly at his sides, his right hand lifting to take a shaking grip on the lapels of Peter's sodden coat while the left fell back to the pavement, palm up as if to catch the rain that dripped from his curled fingers.
"Yes, this time I promise," Peter said softly. Approaching footsteps sounded on the street they had so unceremoniously left and he raised his head sharply, calling out, "Hey! Help! Please, we need help!" The footsteps accelerated and grew fainter as the pedestrian fled in the opposite direction. "Typical New Yorker." Peter grimaced in disgust, returning to his position sheltering Egon. He really hadn't expected any other result but there was no way he could have kept from trying. "What do you say next time I tell them I've fallen and I can't get up?"
A crooked smile competed briefly with the twist of pain hovering around the physicist's mouth. His breathing was so faint it was nearly imperceptible, but small wisps of steam rose like an afrit from his spilled blood. "Go for help," he husked faintly, tugging feebly on the front of Peter's coat.
"What, and leave you here all alone, prey to the whims of anyone passing by?" he demanded in mock umbrage. Even if he knew for sure help was only a block away, he couldn't leave; Egon would bleed to death in the time it would take to run to even the nearest phone.
The fleeting smile danced across Egon's lips again. "For yourself, idiot," he murmured as his eyes drifted shut. The stiffness of his shoulders laying across Peter's thighs began to relax as Egon' consciousness faded and his grip slackened, his hand falling loosely to his own chest.
"Stay with me," Peter ordered him fiercely, suddenly afraid if he let Egon pass out the physicist would never wake again. Shifting his shoulders to ease what felt like a burning cramp, Peter drew in a gasp at the flaring lance of pain the slight motion caused. Oh yeah, the bastard shot me. When he'd taken Egon's glasses off he hadn't noticed anything more than a faint numbness in his left shoulder as he moved, but now that the hot agony had been brought to his attention it would not recede. It was becoming obvious to him that they would both die of shock in the cold, wet confines of the alleyway before Ray and Winston even began to wonder what was keeping them so long. "If you don't stay awake and keep me company, I'll die of boredom sitting here waiting for the guys to come looking for us when the food is late," he explained, keeping the frantic edge from his voice with a conscious effort but knowing the strain in it would be obvious. Biting his lip against crying out with the pain of moving his injured shoulder he reached for Egon's hand, catching the cold, limp fingers in his own and pressing them against the warmth of his chest.
For moments the only sounds around them were the dripping of the rain and the rasping of Egon's breath as he struggled to remain conscious. The effort was palpable in the deepening of his breathing and the return of the pain-induced rigidity of his body. When he opened his eyes again there was a sad knowledge in them and his hand twitched powerlessly in Peter's grasp. Even as Egon had fallen he had heard the shot and he knew what it meant. "You hurt?" he finally asked, his gaze searching the face above him to determine the truth of the answer.
"Not so bad," Peter said shortly, but he could not keep up the pointless, stoic act for long with his face mere inches from the knowing, gentle rebuke in Egon's eyes. "Small caliber hole in my left shoulder," he admitted. "But it's just a flesh wound, really." He smiled back at the amused glint in the darkened turquoise depths. "Yeah, I know, even if he'd hit me in the head it would be a flesh wound."
"Peter..." All the usual affectionate exasperation came through in the blond's faint sigh, but the thread of pain laced with it made the sound into a plea for release Peter could not grant.
"Shhhh." Peter closed his eyes, unable to bear the fear and suffering in Egon's gaze. "Just trying to save you the effort of pointing out the obvious," he added, clutching tighter to the hand he held and willing warmth into the chilled fingers without result. Swallowing hard against the uncomfortable lump rising in his throat, he forced his eyes open, surprised at how dizzy he suddenly was. "You don't have to tell me this is bad, either, OK? Doesn't take a genius of your ability to figure that one out. So just lay there and stay with me." And don't die. Faintness swam through him and he swayed slightly in place, but he didn't raise his head to blink away the sparkling blue curtain that drew itself across his vision. Instead he took a deep, slow breath, concentrating all his awareness on the cold hand of his friend pressed to his breast. The edge of unconsciousness retreated reluctantly to bide its time in the slow, hot throbbing of his shoulder. A line from an old Stones tune ran through his head making him smile mirthlessly. We all need some one we can bleed on...
"I'm giving up tofu," he announced, as much to quell the repeating lyrics in his mind as to draw Egon's attention. Well if you want to, you can bleed on me... Then he had to search frantically for something to reply to the inquiring look he got when he realized he couldn't expound on the thought that had prompted the remark. "Eat healthy, live right, die anyway," was not the sort of sentiment likely to cheer up a man whose remaining life span was measured in minutes and ounces of blood rather than the years he should have had. Will still have, damn it, Peter vowed fiercely. "It's bad for you," he extemporized. "It's unnatural, that's what it is. Like the color of your hair. Did you know your hair is exactly the same shade of yellow as a post-it note?" The subject of his verbal meanderings grew farther and farther from tofu and brought a succession of alternating smiles and rueful frowns to Egon's expressive lips until at last Peter fell silent out of sheer exhaustion. Staring down into the pain-haunted eyes of the friend he could feel slipping away minute by minute, Peter could not bring himself to say the good-byes he could sense coming closer.
Cold and intrusive, the rain soaked Peter's hair and trickled around his face and down inside the collar of his coat. It diluted the blood slowly leaking between his fingers and washed an uneven dark film over his hand. He crouched over the physicist, sheltering him as if Egon were a small flame, the only one that could light and warm his life; as if, if he let the rain drench that tiny fire, he would freeze to death in the cold, lonely night of his own soul. Time became as glacial and merciless as the rain, broken only occasionally by the hopelessly distant swish of a car passing on the street. The soft, white clouds their breath formed, caught hints of light from the swift-moving headlights before dissipating into the darkness.
"I'm sorry," Egon sighed so faintly that had a car passed at that moment the sibilant words would have been lost in the splash of tires on asphalt.
The regret he heard frightened Peter as much as the fading strength of that deep, beloved voice, and he broke into panicked denial of the truth he knew those words were meant to convey. "Now what could you be sorry for? Not for blowing off the shopping until the last possible minute, you've never felt a speck of guilt about that before. Not for deciding to come out here on this idiot's errand for dinner instead of doing the right thing and spending the rest of the evening at Safeway like you should have been, no, we all voted on that one so you don't get the blame for it. You can't even be sorry for us getting mugged, those guys were acting on their own volition and you've never made a habit of assuming blame for other people's faults." Peter knew he was babbling but it didn't matter, the object wasn't to be intelligent or even particularly coherent, his need was for something much simpler. The sound of his own voice was his link to consciousness and to Egon's life, for he knew the fading of the one would lead inevitably to loss of the other. If he had to vocalize every passing thought his increasingly fuzzy mind had in order to have something to say, then he was prepared to do just that.
"No, the only thing you could be sorry for is dying on me. Well, I won't have it, do you hear me? You are not leaving me here with my hand coated with your blood while you traipse off to the spirit world on your own, damn it. How the hell would I explain this to Ray, huh? You give me a good answer to that and you can go, but not a second before." He shifted his grip on Egon's neck, alarmed at the contrast between the hot blood oozing from the wound and the chill of the skin around the cut. Shock was well advanced and he realized there was no chance they would be found before it was too late for Egon. He couldn't last another half hour, and Peter's rough estimate made it at least twice that long before the two friends they had left behind got curious enough to come looking for them.
The tears rising in Egon's eyes betrayed the fact Peter's deduction was not his alone. Ignoring the hellish pain in his shoulder, Peter brushed futilely with the back of his left hand at the warm salt water as it ran down Egon's pale cheeks. "Come on, big guy," he crooned, leaning over until his back creaked in protest as his forehead touched Egon's. "Hang on for us, we need you. We need you so much..." His voice cracked and failed and he felt the sting of tears coming to his own eyes. There was nothing he could do to stop them from falling in place of the cold rain he had been protecting his friend from. "Ray and Winston love you, Egon, you know they do. Damn it, we can't lose you like this. I can't..." The stabbing pain in his shoulder was lost under the wave of grief that constricted his heart at the thought Egon was going to meet death here, bleeding helplessly in a dirty alley with no more comfort than the hand of a friend wrapped around his throat. There was nothing more he could give, nothing more he could do, nothing that would make a difference. "No, god, Egon, you can't die, I love you too much." Unable to continue, he gave in to the sob clawing its way up his throat and shook with it, abandoning all thought but the one compulsion to keep his grip firm and steady on the faint pulse still beating under his fingers.
On the street footsteps approached again. Knowing it was useless but he had to try anyway, Peter raised his tear-streaked face and called, "Help! Please, god, my friend is dying." His voice broke and he fell silent, waiting to hear the fatal sound of another frightened citizen fleeing into the night.
"Peter?" The footsteps accelerated, but toward them instead of away, and the voice that called his name sounded like Ray's.
"Here, in the alley," he called hoarsely, and was nearly blinded by the beam of a small flashlight as two shadows came around the corner.
"Oh, my god," Winston breathed in shocked horror, the flashlight he held throwing the scene in the alley and its bloody crimson trimming into stark relief. Turning, he snapped at Ray, "Go get an ambulance! Hurry!" Before he'd finished half the order, Ray had torn himself away from the huddled forms of his friends and disappeared down the street, running for the nearest phone.
Quickly finding the umbrella lying a few feet away, Winston picked it up and held it over the heads of his friends, the rakish fedora he wore keeping his own head dry outside the umbrella's protection. Both Peter and Egon were soaked through, and he could not tell if the drops tracking down their faces were tears or the rain that matted their hair.
"I didn't think we'd last until you came after us," Peter said aimlessly, his gaze fixed on Egon's motionless features. Spengler had finally lost his hard-fought battle with unconsciousness seconds after hearing Ray's voice.
"You probably wouldn't have," Winston agreed, settling his flashlight down to the side, still on so it would light the way for the rescuers to come. "It would have been another forty-five minutes or more before we got worried; we just came out after you because Ray decided it was critical we have the double chocolate fudge cake after dinner and it hadn't been on the list you guys had." He shivered slightly and reached out to pick up Egon's hand, lifting it from the puddle it lay in and lacing his fingers through the cold, wet ones to warm them. "I tried to talk him out of it, I didn't want to go hiking in the rain for blocks just to satisfy an insatiable sugar craving of his, but he was as stubborn as always. He wouldn't even trust sending Slimer after you for fear the message would get garbled or ignored."
As if having his name spoken was an invocation, Slimer came fishtailing around the corner of the alley at high speed and splatted into the wall above Peter's head. Looking up as blobs of ectoplasm thumped on the umbrella, a feral gleam lit Venkman's eyes. "Those bastards nearly killed Egon. I want them." Suddenly it seemed overwhelmingly important that the men who had left Egon to die not get away with their crime.
"The cops will take care of it," Winston said soothingly, but Peter wasn't listening to him at all.
"Slimer, come here."
Trembling with fear that was only half dramatic show, Slimer reluctantly complied.
"Can you smell their scent on me?" Peter asked him. "There were two of them and they stank pretty bad. Can you pick it out?" For the sake of clarity he kept his request phrased simply, knowing Slimer would pick up the psychic "scent" of the two muggers as well as their physical stench and combine the two traces into a sort of odor only he could sense.
Sidling closer, Slimer sniffed around Peter, inhaling deeply several times before wrinkling his nose -- and consequently his whole face -- in an expression of disgust. "Pee-yeeew!" he declared. "Smells baaaaad!"
"Can you follow that smell and find them?" Peter asked doggedly.
"Uh huh, uh huh," Slimer nodded, bobbing in place.
"Then do it. And when you find them, you haunt them, haunt them good. Scare the shit out of them and keep scaring them until they come screaming for help. Can you do that? Will you do it for Egon?"
The spud's rubbery face settled into an expression of fierce determination. "Scare them," he agreed, and sprouted a drooling set of vicious fangs, gibbering through them while waving hooked, razor claws that had materialized on his hands.
Peter smiled an awful, cruel smile. "Good. Do it."
"Aren't you being a little extreme?" Winston asked gently as Slimer snuffled off down the street following an invisible trail.
"No." He looked down at Egon's pale features, thrown into sharp relief by the slanted illumination of the nearby flashlight so every eyelash threw a tiny black shadow across the high cheekbones. "You didn't spend a couple lifetimes holding your best friend's throat so he wouldn't bleed to death all over you in a stinking alley. Those animals nearly killed the most brilliant, compassionate, courageous man I know and they are not going to get away with it. They don't eat, sleep, or go to the bathroom in peace for as long as it takes before they have to call us. And when they do..." His savage expression made his thin features look wolfish, until the effect was spoiled as his eyes turned upward and he began to crumple over Egon.
Releasing Egon's hand and deftly switching the umbrella handle to his freed side, Winston quickly sought the pressure point below the wound on Egon's neck as Peter's grip finally fell away. Although it was only another minute or two before the escalating sound of sirens announced the paramedics' imminent arrival, he was grateful the time was so short because he had already begun to understand exactly how Peter felt. Sliding out of the way as the professionals took over, he stood nearby listening to their rapid, precise, assessment and looking down at his blood-covered hand. He didn't try to call Slimer back.
Peter woke again, to find himself lying in a hospital bed with his left shoulder pulsating with dull pain and an anxious, sleepy-eyed Ray sitting beside him. Blinking at the dull white ceiling above him, the first thing he felt was surprise at being dry. The second thing he felt was a crushing fear for Egon. His eyes widened and he flailed weakly with his free hand, drawing Ray's instant attention.
"He's OK, Peter, look," Ray said in a low, rapid voice, catching Peter's hand and nodding off to the right. "He's in the bed right next to you."
Twisting his head to the side, he could see a long, familiar form stretched on the other narrow bed occupying the small semi-private room. A moment's concentration allowed him to confirm Egon was breathing deeply and evenly, and he squeezed Ray's hand in thanks and belated greeting as he relaxed back against his pillows. "How long?" he asked hoarsely, and gratefully accepted the small cup of water Ray poured for him after releasing his hold. Once he had been propped up to something closer to vertical and downed the water, he asked more clearly, "How long have we been here? And how's Egon?"
"Almost a full day. They brought Egon up from intensive care an hour ago and gave him some painkillers that put him right to sleep. The doctor said he'd lost a lot of blood but will be OK, the scar will even fade in time. Winston and I were crazy with worry but you're both going to be fine." The lines around Ray's eyes testified to a sleepless night spent waiting to hear that diagnosis, and Peter could hear the faint tremor in his voice underneath the cheer.
"I never did get dinner, though," Peter pouted, and smiled at the way Ray rolled his eyes at that complaint.
"Always thinking with your stomach," Ray quoted, then smiled in return when Peter stuck his tongue out as a response. "Visiting hours are about over so I'll have to go soon. The new administrator has decided to get tough about those rules, they even took away the stash of snacks Winston was trying to smuggle in for you and wouldn't let him come up with me this time." He made a disgusted face, but kept his voice quiet enough not to disturb Egon's sleep. "At least they got so tired of us sneaking around every time one of us is in here, they put you together in the same room. I think they're gonna name this the Ghostbuster Suite and try to hit you up for a donation to keep it permanently available."
Peter matched Ray's disgusted look with one of his own. "The really sucky part is, we're in here often enough I might even consider going for it. Not having to skulk through the halls late at night to make sure one of you is OK would be an actual improvement in the usual procedure."
That made Ray grin and, by the tired look he still wore, it was the first real smile he'd cracked for some time. "I'm glad you're OK," he said with sudden intensity, leaning forward and taking Peter's hand again. His eyes sparkled with tears of tired relief and when Peter tugged him forward he came willingly to lean awkwardly against the uninjured shoulder in a brief half-hug.
"We're only OK because you're such a chocoholic," he replied, wrapping his good arm around Ray's back and holding him close for a moment. "You go home and eat a ton of the stuff, I won't ever rag you about it again."
"Promise?" Ray drew back, friendly teasing lighting his whole face and almost banishing the traces of fatigue. "No more whining about there being nothing left but empty brown paper cups by the time you get to the box?"
"Absolutely."
He might have gone on to make more rash promises but they were interrupted by a nurse who bustled in, clipboard clutched to her chest. "You." She pointed at Ray, then jerked her thumb back over her shoulder toward the door. "Out. Now."
Exchanging an amused but helpless look with Peter, Ray shrugged and complied meekly. It was apparent he'd had some experience with the current enforcement policy and wasn't eager to repeat the encounter. The dressing on Peter's shoulder was inspected and the other monitoring checks required expertly done, his supply of painkillers and the remote for the tv pointed out and explained, and he was soon left to the tedium of a solitary evening.
Even knowing ahead of time there was nothing on didn't stop him from channel surfing for half an hour with the volume turned way down. Giving up at last, he turned the lights out and lay awake in the gloom of the unlit room, listening to Egon's breathing but unable to let the life-sounds of his friend lull him to sleep. It should have been enough to have the sure proof they had both survived there and audible in the same room with him, but it wasn't. For some time he lay, exploring his worry and reviewing his memories, trying to poll his subconscious for precisely what reassurance he needed to have in order to fall peacefully to sleep. When it became clear to him what the answer was it turned out to be fairly simple.
It took him a few minutes to unlatch the wheel locks all around the bottom of his bed, and then he pushed the whole thing across the five feet that separated it from the one Egon lay on. Carefully he nudged it into place, then bent and reset the brakes on two of the wheels. After all that exertion he had to rest before he could climb back onto the high mattress and all the bending over had driven enough blood pressure into his shoulder he also gulped down one of the pills left for him in hopes it would tone down the throbbing pain. But once he was lying down again, he knew his intuition had been right. Rolling onto his uninjured side, he cautiously stretched his left arm out until he could rest his hand on Egon's chest. Under his touch the regular rise and fall of Egon's breathing was infinitely reassuring, and a small smile curled his lips as he drifted rapidly into slumber despite the pain in his shoulder.
Egon woke slowly several hours later. The first thing he was aware of was the residual pain in his throat, and the second was the warm weight laying across his chest. The room was too dark for him to see immediately whose arm it was, but he knew it had to be one of his three partners. What hazy memory he had of being brought to this room indicated it was most likely Peter, and a moment's deliberate listening confirmed the theory. Each of his friends had a snore as distinct and identifiable as their voice, and the sound of the slow breathing pattern attached to the arm was definitely Peter's. For a second the memory of the time they had spent in the alley flashed through his mind: Peter not just holding him but enfolding and protecting him, the cold and wet all around as his body slowly lost feeling everywhere except the agony on his neck, and Peter's words as they had drifted closer and closer to death together. "Peter," he breathed, lifting his hands to grasp the muscular forearm laid across him, overwhelmed with the understanding of why his friend had not been content to remain merely in the same room with him until they both awakened.
"Hmmrrh? Egon?" From a sleepy mutter to a hopeful whisper, Peter achieved coherency in waking in record time.
"Yes," he whispered back, momentarily tempted to ask who else was expected. But the tactile recollection of rain and desperate fear still clung to the edges of his mind, smothering the urge to respond with a wisecrack. Instead, he squeezed Peter's forearm, surprised to find his grip as weak as his voice, nearly as feeble as his control over the horrifying memories and their effect on his equilibrium. "Yes, I'm here."
With a sharp, indrawn hiss Peter shifted closer, leaning against the length of Egon's body and resting his head on the same pillow, nose practically buried in the fine, blond hair. The discomfort it cost him to stretch his arm over Egon and grasp the physicist's far shoulder was audible in the trembling catch of his breath, but once he had reached that position he sighed in contentment. "I'm glad you're here."
Shifting away slightly for a moment, Egon snaked his left arm underneath Peter, rigidly controlling his own breathing so as not to give away the effort it cost him to curl his elbow around the broad shoulders and hold him in return. It was amazing how all of his body seemed connected directly to his neck -- even the smallest motion hurt, pulling at the band of pressure on his throat until it flared hotly. That didn't matter, not half as much as reciprocating the reassurance of his survival and affection. If Peter needed his embrace only half as much as he found himself drawing succor from Peter's, then any minor annoyance of his wound was a small price to pay. Egon remembered the bite of the knife, his terror as the rapid loss of blood made him too light-headed to remain standing. It brought a cold sweat over him and he shivered with it, reaction overtaking him like a fever that chilled his body and confused his thinking. The urge to whimper rose and he swallowed it down, ashamed of his emotional frailty until he felt the subliminal shudder that ran through Peter.
"Oh, god, I was so scared for you." So barely vocalized the words didn't stir his hair where Peter's mouth was close to touching his ear, the confession proved to Egon he was not alone in his reaction. Neither of them was unused to fear, but the threat of rapid, glorious annihilation they often faced on the job was very different in kind from the slow, pointless draining of life they had experienced last night.
He turned his head, pressing his temple to Peter's forehead, his voice no more than an impression of speech on the quiet of the room. "I thought I knew before last night how you felt, what our friendship means..." he faltered, embarrassed even in the anonymous darkness that encouraged the opening of hearts and souls to sharing.
"You don't have to say it," Peter told him with kind understanding.
The offer to silence tempted Egon and unseen in the darkness his cheeks burned with self-consciousness, but he refused to take the easy way out and forget his intention. "Don't I? I thought I knew, but I didn't really, not the way I do now." Speaking almost recklessly, he paid little heed to the exact words, knowing if he didn't say them now he might not ever get another chance before it was too late to make Peter's heart swell with the same lambent certainty his own had now.
"I know how you feel, you idiot, you're my friend." Warm with fondness, the insult carried no more sting than his embrace.
Egon shook his head slightly, then returned to the gentle contact so well suited to confidences and spoke his feelings with clear sincerity, the heat in his face dying away as he spoke only the simple truth. "To know I am your friend is one thing, but to hear the words spoken out loud is another. I believe it made the difference between living and dying for me last night. I would greatly regret never taking the chance to tell you what you deserve to hear." Strained and vibrating with emotion, his voice quietly rumbled deep in his chest, hoarsening as he continued, "I need you in my life as much as you need me. I need your friendship to make me whole and keep me alive. I love you as the brother I never had, as the best friend I will ever have." When he fell silent only the soft sounds of their breathing disturbed the peaceful stillness around them.
"You're right, it does make a difference." The edge of tears roughened Peter's voice, giving it an extraordinary tenderness when he finally spoke. For a moment longer he pressed his head against Egon's, then released his hold on the far shoulder and rolled away to lie on his back next to the prone physicist. As he relaxed, the rustle of sheets brought the mundane world back into existence with a protesting murmur, and his shoulder reminded him of the abuse it had been subjected to, but even that pain didn't feel overwhelming now. "I think I feel good," he said wonderingly. "If I didn't hate those bastards so much for what they did to us, I could almost thank them for making us remember what life's all about."
Extricating his arm from underneath Peter's back, Egon grimaced slightly. "While this is an experience I really would rather not have had, I am forced to agree with at least part of your sentiment." His next sentence about what a pity it was to need such prompting to honesty was lost in a massive yawn that ended midway in an exclamation of pain. "Pills," he rasped instead, utterly wretched from the aggravated pain.
Peter squinted at the dim digital readout of the clock on the far bedstand. "One pill," he decided. "And you'll have to get it yourself, I don't think it would be good for either of us if I crawled over you and back getting it for you."
"Probably not," Egon agreed, pulling himself half-upright with a muted groan.
"As long as you're up..."
Restraining the sigh that would have hurt more than it was worth, Egon handed over a second painkiller and the water glass before settling himself back down. "Good night, Peter," he contented himself with as he slowly relaxed toward sleep.
"Good night, Jon-Boy," Peter returned cockily. After a moment's silence, he added very softly, "Thank you. For everything."
"I hear you still managed to break the rules, despite their best efforts to keep you in one place for your own good," Winston greeted them cheerily the next day as soon as visiting hours officially started.
"A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," Peter shrugged nonchalantly. The nurse who had discovered them peacefully asleep side by side that morning had been very irate about the unauthorized furniture reorganization, and he understood quite well now why Ray had been unwilling to buck the new enforcement regime the night before.
"Surely they didn't think mere common sense would keep Peter from trying to make his own condition worse," Egon inquired archly, though he didn't tilt his head to achieve the proper look down his nose.
"I'm sure they did, though previous experience should have convinced them otherwise," Winston said smugly.
"And stop calling him 'Shirley'," Ray put in, grinning widely and ducking the pillow Peter lobbed at him one-handed.
"Now they're stealing my lines, too," the psychologist groused with a smile.
"Speaking of stealing," Winston said seriously as Ray returned the pillow and arranged it comfortably behind Peter's back, "those two guys who attacked you came in this morning just after business hours started. The spud did quite a number on them; they were practically glad to see the cops Janine called. Stupid bastards not only were still carrying your wallets but they had the weapons on them too. They'll both be spending a few years in the House of Many Doors for this one."
Egon only nodded, but Peter came close to snarling. "Good."
"It hardly seems enough for what they did," Ray said unhappily. He'd tried to get Slimer in to see the guys too but the new management had decided nether entities were definitely against the rules. Before coming up, he had pointed out the executive parking lot to the disappointed ghost, explaining that the owners of those fancy, clean cars were responsible for the change in policy.
"What goes around comes around," Winston said philosophically. "With their personalities, odds are good they'll end up in the containment unit some day." Ray nodded reluctant agreement.
"Meanwhile, can we do something about the food situation here?" Peter asked plaintively. "How about smuggling in something with a little more substance than jello?"
"Sorry, man, they confiscated the lot I was trying to bring in yesterday from the Mini-Mart down the street, and we still haven't got anything at home." Winston studied the ceiling in an elaborate show of looking innocent. "Seems nobody's been grocery shopping for weeks."
Ray and Winston both had to sit on Peter's legs until he calmed down.