A Fairy Tale

by

Brenda Anders

Disclaimer: The Real Ghostbusters and its characters are the property of Columbia Pictures and DIC. This story is written for entertainment. Original author-created characters, stories and story ideas are the sole property of the author and should not be archived without permission from the author.

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time people of all countries and all walks of life believed in fairies. Belying the old adage 'seeing is believing', people believed in the existence of these little people without ever actually seeing them. It was said fairies had magical powers, that they could appear and disappear at will, that they could take the shape of humans or animals. They could even cast spells and change the shape of people. It was believed fairies lived for hundreds of years, perhaps even forever. Anyone who discovered a dark green ring in the grass of a meadow knew without a doubt it was a fairy ring. And it was through a fairy ring you entered the magical abode of these creatures, Fairyland.

It was a charming, innocent belief that produced countless stories and fables through the centuries. But eventually, as time passed, as man learned the secrets of the atom and expanded his universe, he began to forget about these creatures of the imagination. And, eventually, people simply stopped believing in fairies.

"Gentlemen, this could be very bad."

From his position leaning against Ecto-1, Peter Venkman crossed his arms and threw a sour look at the man who made that statement. "Egon, you know I hate it when you talk like that."

Egon Spengler raised his eyes from the readings he had been studying on his PKE meter and gazed solemnly at the psychologist. "Yes, Peter, I know," he replied, and returned his attention to the device in his hands.

Venkman scowled and returned his own attention to the wall of trees and wilderness that stretched in front of them as far as the eye could see. A frantic phone call yesterday had brought them to this remote area of upper New York state, an area that had at last fallen prey to spreading residential development. A narrow swath had been forged through the center of the forest, courtesy of the bulldozers and other heavy equipment now abandoned and dotting the landscape in various stages of ruin. Some of the machinery was upended, others were laying on their sides, still others looked as though they had been dismembered by the jolly green giant. Peter didn't even want to contemplate the type of power it had taken to do all that.

Venkman's narrow-eyed glare fell on the little lead box about the size of a small coffin that had been unearthed and cracked by the construction equipment. When the workers had exhumed this box all hell had broken loose. The machinery had gone crazy, running out of control, chasing workers and plowing into trees and over embankments. It was a wonder no one had been killed.

Peter's glare slowly dissipated as he let his gaze rest on Egon and their youngest partner, Ray Stantz, as the two of them conferred. If anyone could figure out the craziness going on around here, it was those two. He was still staring at the two heads, one blond, one auburn, bent over that little box when the last member of the Ghostbuster team, Winston Zeddemore, sauntered up to join him.

Crossing his arms to match the younger man's pose, Winston looked at the impressive scene that stretched in front of them. "'This is the forest primeval,'" he quoted softly.

Peter grimaced. "You had to say that," he muttered.

Zeddemore nudged him playfully in the ribs. "Come on, Pete. Primeval means--"

"I know what it means, Winston," he snapped, then immediately made a wry face. "Sorry, buddy," he sighed, running a hand through his wind-tossed hair.

Unoffended, the black man levelled a steady gaze at him. "What's eating you?" he asked seriously. "You've been edgy all day."

The psychologist drew in a deep breath of country air and let it out slowly. "I've got a bad feeling about this job," he said finally. "Just can't shake it."

Zeddemore nodded his understanding. "We've all had those feelings at one time or another."

"And we've all been right at one time or another," Peter pointed out grimly. "This feeling is worse than most."

Winston studied him a little longer, then grinned to break the tension. "I know your problem, nature boy. You just got too far from the bright lights of the big city."

Willing to let the other man coax him out of his dark mood, Peter flashed a weak grin, waving an expansive hand at their surroundings. "Yeah, give me the streets of New York any day."

"Just can't take good, clean living, can you?"

Before the psychologist could formulate an appropriate response to that, they were joined by their two colleagues. Ray's brown eyes were wide with excitement. Egon looked somber. Putting the two together, Peter decided this was very bad.

"This is incredible!" Ray enthused. "I can't believe it!"

Peter turned a long-suffering look on the physicist. "Translation, Egon. Just how much trouble are we in?"

"Plenty," was the succinct reply. "Ray and I have determined from some incised writing we found on that coffin--"

"Coffin?" Zeddemore interrupted.

"In a manner of speaking," Spengler qualified. "It was used to bury something, but nothing human."

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?" Peter muttered, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"It was an entity, Peter," Ray spoke up eagerly.

"You don't give ghosts burials, Ray," Venkman frowned.

"This was a very special burial," Egon said soberly. "That coffin was sealed with a spell. The lead itself would never have contained an entity; what kept it inside were the words inscribed on the box. When the earth-moving equipment damaged the coffin, the spell was broken and the entity was released."

"Who in the heck put a spell on a coffin to seal in a ghost?" Winston asked

"That's the really neat part." The occultist's eyes were positively shining with excitement. "Egon and I have determined it was Jedediah Tessing. Isn't that great?"

Peter exchanged a blank look with Zeddemore. "Yeah, Ray, that's great, all right. Isn't that great, Winston?"

"I think you're going to have to elaborate, Ray," Egon said pointedly, nodding at the blank expressions of their colleagues.

"Huh? Oh, sure," Ray agreed, although he looked surprised that Peter and Winston didn't recognize the name. "Jedediah Tessing was said to be a great warlock. He lived in the late 1700's and traveled all over the east coast, even up into Canada. He was a writer, a poet and a healer. He wrote the definitive anthology on--" Seeing the mild impatience on Venkman's face, he quickly got to the point. "Anyhow, it seems like he was a sort of Ghostbuster, too."

Peter's impatience blossomed into open skepticism. "Wait a minute. You're telling me some eighteenth century warlock/poet caught a ghost and sealed him in that thing--" he pointed at the box--"with a spell?"

"Precisely," Spengler affirmed crisply. "Ray is certain from the writing that it was Tessing. And the spell worked for two hundred years until the coffin was disturbed."

Zeddemore looked around uneasily at the heavy equipment scattered about like discarded toys tossed around by some giant child. "Just what was it that escaped?"

Egon's long face was grim. "At least a class six. And it is very, very angry." He turned his head, his blue eyes sweeping the destruction. "It was a miracle no one was killed here yesterday."

Peter sighed audibly and turned away, slipping his hands into his pockets. "A pissed-off class six," he grumbled, lightly kicking one of Ecto's tires. "A pissed-off class six that drives bulldozers." He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find a concerned Ray Stantz by his side.

"Are you okay, Peter?"

Behind Stantz, Venkman could see Egon watching him, his eyes asking the same question. Shaking off his gloomy mood with an effort, the psychologist shrugged. "Sure, Ray." Then he grinned. "I'm just thinking about that nasty class six and all the fun we're going to have catching him."

A wide grin split the younger man's face. "Yeah, won't it be great?"

Over the auburn-haired man's shoulder, Peter traded a resigned look with Spengler. "Yep. It doesn't get much better than this."

***

Peter scanned the crowd of on-lookers that had gathered on the other side of the police line and scowled as he shrugged into his proton pack. "I hope those state boys can keep a lid on all these civilians. I sure don't want any kids wandering around in the woods while we're trying to trap that whatever-it-is."

Egon donned his own proton pack and turned to the psychologist. "You've already had a word with the sergeant in charge," he reminded Peter, "and he assured you his men can contain the situation. You've also made an announcement to the crowd and asked for cooperation. You've taken all possible precautions. That's all we can ever do when we go on a bust." The physicist paused and took a long look at the tight features of his friend. "What is it that's really bothering you, Peter?" he asked quietly. "You've been..."

"Edgy? Tense? Uptight?" Peter interrupted, a little irritably.

The blond man nodded. "All of the above," he replied, unruffled by the psychologist's challenging tone. "Is something wrong?"

Venkman's green eyes slid away from Egon's face, rested on the dark forest they were about to enter, then returned to lock with Spengler's. "I don't like this place," he said flatly.

Egon nodded agreement. "I don't like it much, either." He paused, then prodded gently, "Are you sure that's all it is?"

The psychologist smiled faintly, reminding himself that he ought to know by now he couldn't keep anything from Egon. There were times when he was upset or worried that he could bluff Ray, but Egon wasn't so easily distracted. Spengler never backed off, no matter how hard Peter tried to push him away; he became the classic 'immovable object', placing himself firmly in the psychologist's line of fire and refusing to budge until Peter decided to unload whatever was on his mind. Sometimes that annoyed Peter but most of the time he was simply very grateful to have a friend who cared that much and knew him so well.

"I've got a bad feeling about this place," he admitted finally, repeating what he had told Winston earlier. "Nothing specific; just a real general, real bad feeling. I hate it when that happens." Venkman sighed heavily, shifting the proton pack on his back. "I tell you, Spengs, if we could just pack up and leave this gig..."

"But we can't," the physicist reminded him.

"No, we can't." Peter watched their other two colleagues suiting up on the other side of Ecto, then turned serious green eyes on the blond man. "So everybody be extra-special careful on this one, okay?"

Egon nodded solemnly. "We're going to have to split up to cover all the ground we need to, but we'll work in pairs and keep in contact via radio." He clapped the psychologist on the shoulder adding casually, "Why don't you come with me?"

Venkman shot a half grin at him. "Trying to keep an eye on me, Egon?"

The blond man looked at him over the glasses that had slid down to the end of his nose. There was dry amusement in his tone but nothing except unfeigned sincerity in his blue gaze. "Someone has to."

How Egon managed to walk through that thick woods of tangled underbrush and fallen tree limbs with his eyes glued to the PKE meter in his hand and not fall on his face was a mystery to Peter. He was having enough trouble himself and his eyes were everywhere--on the ground, ahead of them, around them, above them, even behind them. Venkman didn't know when or how that class six was going to manifest and he was determined the damn thing wasn't going to sneak up on them.

The psychologist let his eyes rest on his friend's back for a moment and sighed to himself. He would have felt a lot better if they could have all stayed together, but that wasn't feasible with all the territory they had to cover. At least he knew he could trust Winston to keep a watchful eye on Ray. Their youngest team member tended to look at each bust as a grand new adventure, and in his excitement he often overlooked his own safety. Ray was positively bubbling with enthusiasm over catching a ghost once trapped by that Jedediah Whoever, and Peter had a feeling the occultist's mind wasn't as focused as it should be on this job. Winston would look out for him, though. Peter trusted Zeddemore's battle instincts in the same way he trusted Egon's scientific genius and Ray's intuitive leaps of logic. They had all saved the team at one time or another. As for himself...he went on every bust with two rules in mind: don't let the gooper get away, and protect your team mates at all costs.

He glanced overhead to try to catch a glimpse of the sun through the leaves. He was no boy scout, but he at least knew how to keep track of their direction by the position of the sun, an important factor to make sure they were sticking to the route Winston had laid out. If one of the teams ran into trouble, Venkman wanted to make sure they each knew where the other was.

The sun was a lot lower in the sky than he liked. They had been out here since mid-morning and had nothing to show for it except some new blisters and, for himself, a growing feeling of uneasiness. There was something about this place... something he couldn't quite put his finger on... Suddenly he stopped, a prickling on the back of his neck making him freeze in his tracks.

Egon snapped around. "Peter? What is it?"

Venkman let his eyes travel over their surroundings, his grip tightening on his thrower. "I don't know. It felt like...someone--or something--was watching us."

The blond man looked around as well, then consulted his PKE meter. "Highly unlikely."

"I know it's highly unlikely, Egon," Peter retorted, a little testily. "I just said it felt like it." He gave his head a shake. "Come on, let's keep moving. Anything on that meter yet?"

Spengler shook his head as he started moving again, his long legs carrying him unerringly over and around obstacles he didn't see. "Residual readings for the most part. It's been through here, but--" Egon straightened suddenly, his entire body stiffening. "Peter, it's--"

The physicist never had the chance to finish. A blast of hot, foul air swept past them, nearly making Peter gag at the smell. Before he could catch his breath it was back again, faster this time, so strong it nearly knocked them off their feet with its ferocity. This time Peter saw it coming. It was dark and grotesque with eyes like glowing coals, a mouth displaying long yellow teeth, and deadly claws at the ends of its misshapen hands. He could feel the rage of the thing--a wrath that must have continued to grow and swell during its two centuries of captivity until it finally exploded with the creature's long-awaited release.

Venkman brought up his thrower immediately and even then was almost too slow. A stream of protons shot out of his rifle, deflecting the creature only seconds before it would have gouged him with those claws. A second stream joined his as Egon brought his thrower to bear, his long face set in grim determination. But even two throwers were barely enough to keep it at bay. The creature writhed and screamed as it fought its ion prison, and as its fury grew so did the stench that surrounded them. It burned their eyes and nostrils, and Peter gagged as he inadvertently inhaled a lungful of the rancid air. He could hear Egon coughing, too, as the foul odor engulfed them like a suffocating blanket.

"Peter! Increase your power! We can't--" Spengler broke off, choking. Eyes streaming, Peter fumbled with the switches on his rifle to comply with the physicist's instructions. "Peter! Look out!"

His vision blurred by watering eyes but alerted by Spengler's cry Venkman quickly threw himself to one side, rolling as he hit the ground, but he was too late and Egon's one thrower insufficient to stop the enraged entity. Instinctively, Peter threw his left arm up to protect his head and gasped in surprise and pain as claws tore furrows in his arm.

"Peter!" Proton fire crackled over his head and Venkman blinked his eyes open to see Egon standing over him in a protective stance, braced for the next attack. "Are you all right?" Spengler demanded, not daring to spare him even a glance as he scanned the area for the vanished entity.

Gritting his teeth against the searing pain in his arm, Venkman tightened the grip on his rifle and struggled to his feet. There were four distinct tears in his sleeve right above his wrist, each no more than an inch long. The wounds burned like fire, but they were bleeding sluggishly and wouldn't slow him down. He had a chilling moment of reflection as he realized the damned thing had been going for his eyes. "I'll live," he said, his voice grim. "Which is more than I can say for that gooper when I get my hands on it." The gagging stench had dissipated and he found himself gulping in deeper breaths of air to relieve his oxygen-starved lungs. "Where is it?" he panted, looking wildly around. "Where'd it get to, Egon? Is it running away?" he asked hopefully.

Spengler's face was tight as he played the PKE meter around. "It didn't feel like something that would run away." Eyes still on the PKE readings, he raised an arm and pointed. "It's gone off that way..." Breaking off, he looked up in alarm. "Ray and Winston--?"

"No," Peter interrupted hastily. "They're north. That thing's heading west." He snatched the radio from his belt. "Come on, let's get moving. You take the readings and I'll call the guys and tell them what's going on."

The physicist took a step, then hesitated, his eyes going to the shredded sleeve of Peter's jumpsuit and the slowly spreading patch of red there. "Are you sure you're--"

"Yes--GO!"

Although the blue eyes never lost their concern, Spengler gave a brief nod, then took off at a run, Peter on his heels. With Egon leading the way, the two crashed through the darkening forest as Peter alternately shouted instructions into the radio and cursed the underbrush that slowed his progress. With his longer strides Egon was making far better headway.

"The readings are getting stronger," Spengler called over his shoulder. "It's definitely a class six, Peter--a very strong class six."

"A very pissed-off class six," Venkman muttered as he nearly stumbled. "And it has teeth and claws and bad breath..." They were running up a steep incline, ducking tree limbs and hopping over exposed roots, and only the need to keep breathing kept Peter from enumerating the rest of the entity's nasty qualities.

The forest was thick here and the fading sunlight barely penetrated the dense leaves. Up ahead, Egon was becoming a barely discernible shadow as he plowed ahead.

"Damn it, Egon, slow down!" Sometimes Egon got so caught up in scientific fascination that it was as hard to keep a lid on him as it was Ray.

"It's close, Peter! The readings are almost off the scale!" Spengler disappeared over the top of the ridge.

That was the instant Peter felt the entity. It rushed past him in a blast of hot, suffocating air, going straight for Egon.

"EGON!" he screamed. "It's coming your way! Look out!" He scrambled for the top of the ridge, his eyes watering again from the fetid stench. With his thrower in his right hand and his radio in his left, he yelled for Ray and Winston. Jamming the communicator back onto his belt, he powered up his thrower and crashed through the thick underbrush. "Egon, get out of there!"

"Peter! Peter, it's--" Spengler's shout abruptly turned into a scream of surprise and terror.

"Egon!" Venkman suppressed an insane impulse to blast a path through the trees and growth as he raced to the top of the rise. "Hang on, Egon, I'm coming!" There was no answering shout from his friend and Peter wiped impatiently at his streaming eyes as he topped the ridge. "Egon! Egon, where--"

"Peter!" It was a gasp, and it came from somewhere below his feet, bringing Venkman to an abrupt halt.

Peter stopped just in time. He looked down and saw he was standing on the bare edge of a precipice, a sheer drop that ended in a rushing river some fifty feet below. About six feet below the edge, hanging on for his life, was Egon.

The first sight of that vertical drop sent a message from Peter's brain straight to his stomach, but he swallowed his nausea and dropped flat to the ground, his thrower falling unheeded by his side. "Hang on, Egon! I'll get you!" Stretched out on his stomach, he pushed himself dangerously out over the sharp, crumbling edge, straining to reach his friend's hand. The keen rocks bit deep into his arm as he dug his toes in and stretched out as far as he could reach. "Give me your hand!" He shifted slightly and the movement sent small stones flying over the edge like missiles.

Egon averted his face as the stones pelted him, and Peter could see the physicist's long fingers slide as his grip slipped.

"Damn it, Egon, grab my hand!" Peter shouted desperately.

Spengler made an effort to move his hand, only to lose more ground. "Can't," he panted.

"Don't you tell me you can't," Venkman ground out fiercely. "You grab my hand and you grab it now, or I'm gonna come down there after you!"

In the growing dimness, Peter could see the physicist's eyes, huge blue pools set in a face bleached white with fear and strain. The veins in Spengler's neck bulged with the effort as he laboriously inched one hand closer to Peter's.

"That's it, that's it, buddy," Venkman whispered. "Come on, come on, just a little more..." It took an eternity for the physicist to move the fingers of one hand close enough for Peter to make a reckless lunge. It paid off. He almost sobbed with relief as he felt Egon's damp, slender fingers in his. But it was a precarious hold, he barely had his friend's fingertips in his grasp. It was enough to buy them seconds, but it wasn't enough to keep Egon from plunging to his death. He eased out farther over the ridge, feeling the edge begin to crumble.

"Peter, don't! You can't hold me!"

"The hell I can't," he snapped, seeking for an anchor where there was none. Peter could feel Egon's fingers slipping in his and he struggled to regain his grasp. He couldn't. His friend's other hand was slowly losing its grip in the crumbling rock face and he knew if Egon lost that, his own tenuous hold could never support the physicist's weight. Egon knew it, too. They were close enough for Peter to look directly into Egon's eyes and see the terrible knowledge there. "Don't you dare let go!" Peter shouted, furious and scared all at once. "You hear me! I'm not going to let go and you better not either if you know what's good for you!" He felt himself slide closer to the edge as Spengler's weight, increased by that of the proton pack, pulled at him.

"Peter, no! I'll pull you over, too--"

"Shut up!" Venkman demanded hotly. "Just save your breath! I'm not gonna let go and you're not gonna let go! You got that? We can both hold on until Ray and Winston--" He choked suddenly as from out of nowhere that foul, suffocating blast swept down on him. "Oh, god..." This time he and Egon were both sitting ducks. Spengler was helpless and he was as good as helpless. He couldn't let go of Egon to fight off the class six, but if that thing attacked either one of them, Egon would certainly plunge to his death.

"Peter." The physicist's voice was hoarse from the strain of holding on and the burning air that was suffocating them both. "It's back. You've got to--" Egon's fingers slipped a fraction as he coughed. "It'll kill you. The thrower--"

"Save your breath for holding on," Venkman ground out, and flicked his eyes to the thrower laying by his side, an arm's length away, then overhead to see the entity turning to make a dive at him. If he could just squeeze one shot off to hold that thing away and buy some time to haul Egon up... In an act born of sheer desperation, he made a grab for his thrower. He never made it. This time he tasted death. Hot, putrid air, heavy with the stench of decay, enveloped him, paralyzed him, smothered him, distracted him for one precious fraction of a second...and in that one fraction of a second, Egon's fingers slipped from his grasp. He heard his friend's startled cry and his own scream of denial, and groped blindly and frantically at the suddenly empty air. When his vision finally cleared, Egon was gone. Somewhere in the distance Peter heard what sounded like maniacal laughter.

"NOOO!" His scream echoed through the forest. "EGON!" Desperately he searched the distant rushing waters down below, but there was no blond, bobbing head to be seen. Only water and rocks. He didn't even stop to think. Pushing himself up, he began to strip off his proton pack. Egon was down there, stunned or unconscious, fighting for his life. If he jumped, too, he might hit the same spot, and if he could get to him in time... His radio crackled to life.

"Pete! Egon! Mayday! Mayday!" It was Winston, sounding as harsh and grim as Peter had ever heard him. "We need back up! Ray's down. He's hurt bad. That thing's got us cornered and I can't hold it. We need--"

The radio went abruptly dead and Peter's mind went into a kind of numb, paralyzed shock. Ray and Winston needed help...but he couldn't leave Egon. Egon needed him. Egon. Egon... Egon is dead. He stared down at the water below, remembering the last glimpse he had of his friend, remembering the feel of Egon's slender fingers slipping slowly from his grasp, remembering with unforgiving clarity the very instant they had lost contact. His body began to shake, huge, wracking shudders that were almost convulsions. I couldn't hold on. God forgive me, Egon, I couldn't hold on.

Ray's down. He's hurt bad. Somehow Venkman managed to shake off the traumatizing shock and struggle to his feet, forcing strength into legs that felt like wet strands of spaghetti. If he allowed himself to think about Egon, if he let himself think about the friend he had just lost... Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying at the same time to squeeze out the memory of the sound of Egon's cry as he plummeted off that cliff. Ray. Egon was gone. But Ray was alive and Ray and Winston needed help. Protect your team mates at all costs. Running a dirty, torn sleeve across his stinging eyes, Peter compelled himself to turn away from the precipice and stumble toward Winston and Ray's last location.

***

Kneeling beside Ray, Winston pressed his hand against the side of the unconscious man's neck and frowned at the thready pulse beating under his fingers. "Come on, kid," he muttered, "stay with me. Help's on the way." Looking around in the growing darkness, he added under his breath, "At least, I hope so. Come on, guys. We've got big trouble here."

A sudden rush of hot, foul-smelling air announced the return of the entity that had attacked them, and Zeddemore jumped to his feet, assuming a protective stance over the downed man. He had already used up half his charge trying to fight off whatever that thing was, and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep it off Ray much longer with one thrower alone.

Positioning himself between Stantz and the dark, threatening mass churning around out there, Winston risked a look at the sprawled man. That class six had come out of nowhere, swooping down on them with a ferocity that had nearly taken them both out. But it was Ray, who had been standing at the edge of a ravine, who had received the brunt of it. He had taken a header into this rocky gorge, ending up crumpled and unconscious at the bottom. From a cursory examination, Winston guessed a concussion and possible internal injuries and was certain of broken ribs, the serious head laceration and the onset of shock. They had to get this boy some medical help fast.

The sound of an eerie non-human moan snapped his attention back to the threat at hand. Firming his stance over Ray, Winston gritted his teeth and let out a blast of protons as the dark, swirling thing hurled itself at them. The stench took his breath away, but Zeddemore dug in his heels, firing a full stream straight into the center of it. Yellow teeth gleamed and red eyes glinted with evil intent as the entity dove at him. Just when he thought it was going to engulf them both, another proton stream hit it dead center.

"Try one more, you son-of-a-bitch!"

Zeddemore looked up to find Peter Venkman standing above him like some wrathful avenging angel, his handsome features twisted in fury as he poured a full stream out of his thrower.

"How's Ray doing?" Venkman shouted down, not taking his eyes off the struggling entity.

"He's hanging in there," Winston yelled back. "But it's bad. We've gotta get this gooper on ice and get him some help." He glanced up again. "Where's Egon?"

Venkman's voice was as hard as granite. "Get the trap ready," he ordered brusquely.

The black man felt a tingling chill travel up his spine at the tone of the psychologist's voice but he forcibly pushed it aside, concentrating grimly on the job at hand. Snatching the trap secured on his pack, he tossed it under the wildly resisting ghost. "Trap out!"

"Bring him in," Venkman ordered curtly, and began lowering his stream toward the trap.

Winston followed suit, realizing it was taking them both every bit of experience they had garnered over the years to put this one down with only two throwers. Only two throwers. Zeddemore's jaw clenched as they eased the struggling class six into the waiting trap. Where was Egon?

Then, suddenly, it was over. The lid snapped shut on the trap and the entity was contained. Peter didn't wait for the flashing light that told him the unit was sealed. He came sliding and skidding down the side of the ravine, his eyes on the crumpled form of Ray Stantz. He stumbled over to the occultist's body and dropped down beside him, his hand shaking badly as he touched the younger man's neck, seeking a pulse.

Winston unfastened his proton pack. "It's bad, Pete," he said quietly. "I think he's going into shock. We've got to keep him warm." Joining Venkman, he quickly stripped out of his uniform to his tee shirt and jeans. "I'll go for help. I just hope those cops are still standing by."

Without a word, Venkman quickly shrugged out of his own uniform, stripping down to his sweatsuit underneath, and draped it carefully over Stantz' chest while Winston blanketed the occultist's legs. With the two jumpsuits they managed to cover the unconscious man, although Winston knew it wouldn't be enough. Venkman hadn't said a word since the class six was trapped. He had added his own handkerchief to Winston's hasty bandage to try to stem the flow of blood from the

laceration on Ray's forehead and his eyes were dull with shock and his face as white as Winston had ever seen it.

Zeddemore knew the need for haste, but before he stood he paused long enough to lay a tentative hand on the psychologist's shoulder.

"Egon?" he hazarded.

The shoulder under his hand trembled suddenly. "I couldn't hold on, Winston," Peter whispered brokenly. "I couldn't hold on."

Zeddemore froze. "Couldn't hold on," he repeated carefully. "Pete, what--"

"He fell," was the pain-filled answer. "Into the water. I couldn't hold on. He's gone, Winston. Egon's gone."

The black man's breath caught in a painful stab in the center of his chest. Egon...gone? His hand tightened convulsively. "Pete, my god--"

"We need help for Ray," Venkman interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut. "We need help for Ray," he repeated, his voice on the verge of breaking completely.

Winston swallowed hard, fighting an overwhelming wave of anger, grief and despair. Egon was gone. He wanted to take Peter by the shoulders and shake answers out of him, but he had already seen the answer to every question he could ask in the psychologist's pain-flooded eyes. Without a word, he eased his arm around Peter's shoulders and pulled him into a quick, hard hug. They didn't even have time to mourn. "I'll bring help," he managed, "and searchers."

Peter nodded once, his voice cracking, "Hurry."

Winston gave him one last squeeze, then jumped to his feet and ran like hell.

Peter barely heard him leave. He was numb. The numbness started in the center of his chest and spread out until his whole body felt anesthetized. He had pushed his emotions deep inside himself, sealing them off, pretending they didn't exist. If he allowed himself to feel even the most minuscule sensation of grief, he knew the pain would inundate him. So all he allowed himself to feel was the solid warmth of the body in his arms. The only sound he permitted himself to hear was the raspy, uneven breathing of the man who was fighting for his life. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed.

"I can't lose you, too, Ray," he whispered, tears sliding unnoticed down his face. "Don't let go. Please don't let go."

***

Winston stood on the bank of the dark, rushing river and stared at what was probably the grave of Egon Spengler.

In the distance he could hear the voices of the searchers who had gone up and down both sides of the water searching for any sign of the missing physicist. The officer in charge had not been optimistic...and after seeing the river, and where Egon had fallen, Winston could understand why. The waters of the river were angry and swollen from recent rains and even in the darkness he could see rocks protruding everywhere. Even if Egon had survived the initial fall, the rushing waters could have slammed him against any one of those rocks, rendering him unconscious or killing him outright.

"We usually lose one or two people in this river every spring."

Zeddemore jumped at the sound of the unexpected voice, then scowled at the uniformed officer, resenting the intrusion.

"Sorry, Mr. Zeddemore," the trooper apologized, "but I thought you should know--I'm calling in my men. It's too dark for us to search any more tonight. We'll start again at first light."

Winston looked abruptly away, his eyes stinging. "I know your men have been out here a long time," he said hoarsely, "but can't you--"

"Mr. Zeddemore." A light touch on the Ghostbuster's arm brought Winston around to stare into a pair of dark, compassionate eyes. "That's not the problem. My men would stay out here all night if they had to. The problem is, there are a hundred different places along the river banks where a body could get caught--" Zeddemore flinched, but the trooper continued steadily--"and there's no way we can search effectively until morning." He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out hesitantly. "We found these... Did they belong to Doctor Spengler?"

Winston watched his hand reach out and accept the broken red-rimmed glasses as if the appendage belonged to someone else. His fingers curled around the damaged frames. "Yeah," he said hollowly. "They're Egon's."

The officer tightened his hand briefly on Winston's arm. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and turned away. Winston heard him shouting orders to his men, but he barely registered it. Instead, he carefully tucked the glasses into his pocket, zipped it up, then turned around until he was staring up at the precipice from which Egon had fallen.

He had gotten the story from Peter in broken bits and pieces as the paramedics worked to stabilize Ray for transportation to the hospital. His hands curled into tight fists as he thought about the desperate life and death struggle that had taken place up there. I couldn't hold on, Winston. I couldn't hold on. He could still hear the raw despair in Peter's voice as the psychologist repeated that over and over again like some kind of litany. Zeddemore's eyes slid shut. When he had first taken the job at Ghostbusters, he had wondered at his own sanity. Trusting his life on a field of battle to three college professors? What could those college boys possibly know about covering their team mates' backs? But they knew. He discovered that on the first job he went on. Oh, he had taught them some practical moves and beefed up the security aspect, but the instincts had already been there and that was one thing that couldn't be taught. He may have feared for his life a few times on their jobs, but he never had to fear his back went unprotected.

Forcing his eyes open, he stared at the top of that ridge where tragedy had taken place. Peter Venkman would have hurled himself off that cliff without a second thought to save Egon's life; Winston didn't doubt that for a minute. If Egon fell to his death, then there was simply no humanly possible way Peter could have saved him. He knew that as truth just as surely as he knew Peter would never accept it as such.

With a moan that erupted into a sob, he turned away and began to stumble back to Ecto. Egon was dead. The realization lanced through him and he gritted his teeth, fighting the pain that threatened to tear him apart. He had to hold it together, he told himself sternly. He had to. There was still Ray to worry about and pray for. He still didn't know if the occultist was dead or alive. Oh, god...for all he knew he may have lost two friends tonight.

That thought sent an electric shock through his body and he broke into an uneven run. He had to get to the hospital. Peter had torn himself apart between desperately wanting to stay here to look for Egon and needing to be with Ray. Winston had finally packed him off in the ambulance with Ray, promising to do all he could here and reminding the psychologist that he would be the one Ray would be looking for when he came to. If he came to. Pushing that thought away with an effort, Winston jumped into Ecto and brought the engine roaring to life.

***

Idaville Community Hospital was the smallest hospital Peter Venkman had ever been in. The fact that the staff had been nothing but professional, efficient and kind had done nothing to ease his worry they didn't have the equipment or personnel to properly care for Ray. When he had raised that concern--rather loudly and forcefully--the ER doctor, a man a few years older than Peter with sandy hair pulled back neatly into a pony tail at his neck, had told Venkman in no uncertain terms to sit down and let him do his job. Then he glanced at Venkman's torn and bloody sleeve and shot a look at one of the nurses.

The nurse, a handsome woman with steely grey eyes and a no-nonsense attitude, had immediately taken Peter's arm as Ray had been quickly whisked away on a gurney. "Come along, Doctor Venkman, and I'll clean up that arm for you."

Peter had tried to pull out of her grip, a harder job than he had imagined. "It's nothing," he protested. He had all but forgotten about the gashes in his arm from the entity's attack. The initial sharp pain had long ago settled into a dull, aching throb. "What about Ray?" he demanded.

"There's nothing you can do right now except wait while the doctor examines your friend and runs tests," she pointed out, smoothly guiding him to a small examining room. "So why don't you do something useful while you're waiting and protect yourself against an infection?"

Venkman gave her his fiercest scowl as she firmly guided him toward the examining table, but she seemed impervious to it.

"I've dealt with harder cases than you," she said calmly, cutting his sleeve with a scissors. "So why don't you just relax and let me get this over with so you can get back to your worrying and I can get back to the patients in this hospital who want my help?"

Feeling like he had been put in his place by a couple of experts, first that long-haired doctor and now this Florence Nightingale, Peter endured her ministrations as ungraciously as possible. "Tough town," he observed sourly.

The nurse glanced up from cleaning the dried blood from his arm. "Yes, it is. This is a farming community, and a small one. We get some bad farm accidents in here and we know most of the people brought in. It's not always easy."

Peter felt his face burn with unaccustomed chagrin. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean--"

"I know." The nurse was silent as she applied antiseptic and then wrapped his wrist with gauze. "I understand, Doctor Venkman," she said gently. "I know you lost a friend tonight."

Venkman didn't dare look up. If he looked into her eyes and saw compassion there he would shatter. As it was, it was taking every bit of dogged determination he possessed to hold on to the shreds of his composure.

She seemed to understand. Finished taping his arm, the nurse gave it a little pat. "Doctor MacBride is an excellent physician," she told him. "He's the best this hospital has. And he's the finest surgeon I've ever worked with." Nodding his understanding but still avoiding her gaze, Peter climbed slowly to his feet. "Try not to worry about your friend. Doctor MacBride will do everything he can for him." When he still didn't answer, she lightly took his arm and led him to the door. "But it's going to be a while before we know anything," she said practically, "so why don't I introduce you to the coffee machine."

***

Peter was on his fourth--or possibly fifth--cup of coffee when he sensed movement in the doorway of the waiting room. He jumped up, nearly sloshing coffee onto the floor in the process. Winston was standing in the doorway of the waiting room. Venkman tilted his head, straining to see if he was alone, then abruptly slumped as reality crashed in on him. What had he been expecting? To see Egon standing there, alive and unscathed, blond hair immaculately styled in that unique coiffure of his, red-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of his nose?

"Egon?" It wasn't even a question, not really. He already knew the answer.

Zeddemore walked into the small room and stopped in front of him, his dark eyes dismal and edged with red. As if needing the physical contact, he laid a hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezed. "Nothing," he said quietly. "They called off the search until morning."

"Called off the search? Called off the search!" Anger gave him something to focus on besides his own grief and fear, and Peter focused on it with a vengeance. Knocking Zeddemore's hand away, he squared off against the bigger man, green eyes flashing dangerously. "You let them call off the search?" he shouted. "What the hell were you thinking? Damn it, Winston, that's Egon out there!"

Only the slight tightening of Winston's jaw muscles gave any indication Venkman's explosion affected him at all. "I know," he said quietly and deliberately reached out to again grip the younger man's arm. "How's Ray?"

At the mention of Stantz' name, the useless anger abruptly drained from the psychologist and he sank back down into his chair as if he no longer had the strength to stand. His hand still grasping Peter's arm, Winston went down, too, in the chair beside him. "They're still examining him and running tests," Peter replied, mechanically setting the cup of coffee on the small stand beside him. Then he dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his stinging eyes with the heels of his palms. "God, what's taking them so long?"

"These things take time, m'man," Zeddemore said gently and slid his arm around the younger man's shoulders.

Venkman nodded wearily and dropped his hands. "Yeah, I know, but that doesn't make the waiting any easier."

"No, it sure doesn't," Winston agreed.

After a moment, Peter lifted his head and turned to the other man. "I'm sorry, Winston," he whispered. "About what I said--"

The black man waved that aside. "Forget it, man," he said immediately. His dark eyes were filled with understanding as he studied Peter's face. "If it helps to yell..."

Venkman shook his head. "Doesn't help. Nothing helps." He dropped his eyes again, staring at the clenched fists in his lap. "Winston," he said carefully, keeping his voice steady with a massive effort, "there's still a chance, isn't there? I mean, you were out there. Egon could have gotten out of the water, right? He might just be hurt or unconscious, or..." He flicked his eyes up and pinned Winston with a stark gaze, silently pleading for reassurance.

Zeddemore met the gaze squarely. "They don't have much hope," he said quietly. "That river was full of rocks and..." He didn't finish the thought. He didn't have to.

Suddenly Peter slammed his fists onto the chair arms and jumped to his feet, so agitated he began pacing the small room in a jerky, frenzied stride . "I had him! I had his hand! Winston, I had his hand! Why couldn't I hold on!"

Zeddemore was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the psychologist by the shoulder to stop him. "Stop it, Pete," he ordered harshly, pulling Venkman around to face him. "Stop it right now. You barely had a grip on him, that class six attacked--there was nothing you could do."

The psychologist pulled out of Winston's grasp, turning away again and running a shaking hand through his already untidy hair. "I should have done something! If I had gone in after him--"

The black man grabbed his arm, yanking him back around, this time anchoring him with his hands on both shoulders. "If you had gone in after him, you would probably have gotten yourself killed too," Winston said bluntly. "And that gooper would've trashed me and then finished off Ray. Does that sound any better to you?"

The scenario flashed ruthlessly through Peter's mind and he flinched visibly. He couldn't save Egon, but he did save Ray. Or did he? What if he had lost Ray, too? Suddenly Winston's pain-filled face crystallized in front of him and it was brought home to him with some force that he wasn't alone in this, that the loss wasn't just his.

Stepping forward, he hooked an arm around Zeddemore's neck and pulled him into a tight hug. The other man reciprocated immediately and the two stood there in the middle of the waiting room, clinging to one another.

Finally, Peter loosened his grip and stepped back when Winston did the same. "Come on, buddy," he said huskily. "Let's wait this out together."

Nodding gratefully, Winston followed the younger man to the small couch and the two of them sank down. Zeddemore had known, of course, that losing Egon would devastate Peter. He knew how much he was hurting himself, and knew that pain must be magnified ten-fold for this man, whose relationship with Spengler had been cemented years before he knew them. That loss alone would have been crushing, but the risk of losing Ray, too, hung over them; and that meant Peter had been sitting here alone facing the possible loss of his two oldest and closest friends in one fell swoop. No wonder the man looked like he had aged years in the time he had been waiting here. At least Winston had been able to keep himself occupied up to a point in helping to search for Egon. Peter had been alone with nothing to keep him company except the dark, terrifying fear he may have suddenly lost the two closest friends in his life.

Winston turned his head, studying the granite-like profile of the man beside him. Peter was struggling so hard to keep it all together he was practically shaking with the effort. Winston was afraid Peter would shut him out, close himself off, and try to face this all alone. He had seen the psychologist do that before, had seen him put out a neon No Trespassing sign and retreat into himself when he was going through a bad time. But the one person he could never keep out, the one person who always managed to penetrate those walls, was Egon Spengler. Somehow the physicist always managed to get through to Peter, always seemed to be able to get him to talk and persuade him to share the pain he was harboring deep inside himself. Winston took a deep, ragged breath. Who would do that now?

His hand brushed against his pocket and he suddenly remembered Egon's glasses. Wondering if he should just keep them tucked away and not mention them to Peter, he shot a quick, sideways look at the psychologist. Peter, however, had noticed the movement and looked at him expectantly. With a little sigh, Zeddemore slowly unzipped his pocket and removed the frames from his pocket. Venkman stiffened immediately, his entire body going rigid at the sight of those bent, familiar glasses.

"They found these," Winston explained unnecessarily. There really didn't seem to be anything else to say, and he held the frames out.

The brown-haired man stared at them, his face expressionless, only the deep, terrible pain in his eyes giving his face any life at all. Finally, he reached out with an unsteady hand and took the glasses, touching the bent frames gently with one finger as if testing their reality. "Egon." That one word was spoken with such an impossible mixture of love, despair, guilt and anger it made Zeddemore's eyes fly to Peter's face. Venkman looked as if he could fall apart at a wrong word, so Winston kept silent, dropping one warm hand on the younger man's shoulder and gripping it tightly to anchor them both together.

"Gentlemen?"

Both heads shot up at once. There was a doctor standing in the doorway. Winston was surprised at the length of his hair, but the man had an air of quiet competence about him as he regarded the two Ghostbusters.

"Ray?" Peter was on his feet in an instant, Winston right beside him. "How is he?"

"He's stabilized," the physician answered carefully. Turning briefly to Winston, he added, "I'm Doctor MacBride," by way of introduction. Without waiting for an acknowledgement, MacBride waved at the chairs. "Why don't we sit down?"

"How is he?" Peter repeated, more insistently this time.

When it became obvious Venkman wasn't about to make use of a chair, the physician regarded him with serious eyes that were not lacking in compassion. "He was shocky when we got him in here, but we've taken care of that," MacBride explained, "and as I said, he's stabilized. Most of the injuries will heal nicely without complications. His ribs took a beating, two cracked and one broken--he's lucky he didn't puncture a lung. He's got a scalp laceration that thankfully looked worse than it was and a simple fracture of the left humerus," he concluded, pointing to his left arm, halfway between the shoulder and elbow.

Peter nodded impatiently. "Broken arm. You said most of his injuries will heal nicely," he pressed. "What else is wrong with him?"

MacBride levelled a steady look at Peter. "He's badly concussed, Doctor Venkman. He hasn't regained consciousness and that concerns me. His vital signs are pretty good, considering the trauma, but--"

"He's in a coma." Peter's whisper was so faint Winston barely heard it, and his face was strangely blank as if it was all too much for him to assimilate. Perhaps it was. At that moment Peter Venkman looked as lost and scared as Winston had ever seen him. "I can't believe this is happening."

Winston gripped the psychologist's arm and squeezed it gently in a gesture of silent support. Almost immediately he could feel Venkman stiffen in a palpable effort to pull himself together.

"I want to see him." Peter's voice was stronger now and there was a grim set to his jaw that told Winston he had managed to regain control, at least for the moment.

"Absolutely," MacBride said immediately. "I want you to see him."

"Then I can stay with him?" Peter sounded surprised, but his relief was so obvious it made the doctor smile.

"You'll have to sleep in a chair--"

"I'll sleep in the shower if I have to," the brown-haired man interrupted. "I just want to be with him."

MacBride nodded. "We still don't know what coma patients are capable of hearing or sensing, but I'm a firm believer in trying everything. Talk to him, read to him, sing to him, touch him, recite the Pledge of Allegiance if you want to; whatever it takes to let him know you're there."

Venkman nodded his understanding. "He'll know I'm there."

Even under those circumstances, Winston had to smile at the stubborn determination in Peter's tone. Venkman wasn't a person who liked being ignored, and there was no doubt in Zeddemore's mind the psychologist intended to plant himself by Ray's side and not leave until he was acknowledged. He silently cheered his friend on. Hang in there, Pete. If anybody can get through to Ray, it's you.

There was a flash of respect in MacBride's aqua eyes as he studied the psychologist. "Good." Then sympathy touched his expression and he shifted his gaze to include Zeddemore. "I know what happened tonight. I'm sorry about your friend."

Winston could feel Peter tensing by his side, but the younger man said nothing. Zeddemore murmured their thanks, but Venkman was already turning away. "Where's Ray?" he asked abruptly, prepared to start down the nearest hallway himself in search of the occultist.

MacBride exchanged a look with Winston, then silently led the way to Stantz' room.

Peter came to an abrupt halt in the doorway of the hospital room and stared at the slack, bruised face of his friend. Ray had looked bad enough in the growing dusk of the forest; but here, under the austere lighting of the hospital, Peter could see he was as pale as a corpse. Stantz' left arm was protected by a cast and there was a bandage covering the scalp wound that had bled so copiously in the woods. He looked like he was merely sleeping. But this was no innocent sleep; this was a coma...and that knowledge chilled Peter right down to his toes. But Ray was alive, he reminded himself firmly. Ray was alive and they'd get him back. They simply had to.

His eyes never moving from his friend's slack features, Venkman crossed the room and pulled a chair over to the side of the bed. Without a word, he sank down and took possession of the lax hand laying on top of the covers, encasing it in both his.

"Ray." His voice came out a hoarse croak and he gave himself an impatient mental shake. "Ray." This time his voice was firmer, more in control. "Ray, it's Peter. Can you hear me, pal?" He squeezed the limp fingers, trying to force warmth into his friend's cold skin. "I'm here now. And Winston's here." He looked up and Winston moved forward to stand beside him, laying his own hand on Stantz' arm.

"Hey, homeboy," Zeddemore said softly. "We're here for you."

"We got the gooper, Ray." Peter had to struggle to inject the proper amount spirit into his words. "You should have seen that sucker go--kicking and screaming the whole way down. But we got him. Nobody messes with a Ghostbuster and gets away with it." To his dismay, his voice broke on the last word and he had to take a moment to get his act together again before he could continue. "Come on, Tex," he whispered, his voice steadier. "Don't scare Uncle Peter like this. I need you to wake up." He raised questioning eyes to Doctor MacBride and was rewarded with an approving nod.

"That's it. Talk to him, let him know you're here."

The psychologist returned his attention to his unconscious friend, chafing the cold, limp hand with his thumb. "No problem," he said with quiet determination. "I'll make sure he knows I'm here."

"At this point you can do more for him than we can," MacBride conceded. "However..."

When the physician paused, Peter looked up, a frown narrowing his eyes ever-so-slightly. "However what?"

The doctor met his challenging gaze squarely. "However," he stipulated, "do it in shifts. I don't want to see you both in here together." Venkman immediately opened his mouth to protest that two friends working to coax Ray back to consciousness would certainly have more effect than one, but MacBride didn't give him the chance. "Look," he said quietly, "you guys have had a rough night. I know right now you think the best way you can help your friend is for all of you to stick together and not leave his side."

"Damn straight," Peter growled.

MacBride ignored the interruption. "And I know right now this is the last thing you want to hear, but you're going to hear it anyway: get some rest, both of you." As if seeing the stubborn defiance in Peter's eyes, the doctor aimed his next words at him. "I know what you're going through," he said in a softer tone. "Believe me." He nodded toward Ray. "But getting him back is only half the battle. He still has everything you're going through to face himself and he's going to need your support for that. You can't help him if you end up in here yourselves." He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway and looked back. "In shifts," he repeated, his voice serious. "I mean that." Then he left.

Winston watched the doctor leave, then turned his attention back to the other two men in the room. MacBride had made good sense, but he doubted Venkman had listened to a word he said. Peter had already dismissed the physician and was bent over Stantz, clasping the occultist's hand in his, speaking to him in a low, insistent murmur. Zeddemore took a breath, then laid a hand on Venkman's shoulder. "The doc's right, Pete. We should spell each other--"

The brown-haired man nodded impatiently. "You go ahead. I'll stay with Ray."

Zeddemore hesitated, noting the dark shadows in Venkman's eyes and the wiry tautness of his muscles that only hinted at the strain he was under. "Why don't I take the first shift," he suggested gently, "and you can--"

"I said I'm staying," Venkman interrupted sharply.

Instead of snapping back, Winston only tightened his hand on the taut shoulder under his hand. "This is me, Pete," he said softly. "Remember? We're in this together."

The shoulder under Zeddemore's hand quivered, then abruptly sagged. Reaching up, Venkman covered Winston's hand with one of his own. "I'm sorry, buddy," he whispered, his voice rough with fatigue and fear. "But I can't leave him. I just can't."

Winston could almost hear the unspoken words: This time I won't leave. This time I won't let go.

Suddenly Venkman's face scrunched up in pain. "Oh, no," he murmured, dropping his head. "Janine."

That one name drove all the other thoughts out of Winston's head. "Oh, shit," he mumbled. They had both been so caught up in their own emotions and in their fear for Ray they had forgotten their secretary, who had been in love with Egon practically from the first moment she had seen him. The fact that Spengler had not returned her affections as ardently as she wished had done nothing to dampen her passion or daunt her hope for the future. This would tear her apart.

"I have to tell her."

Winston leaned over until he was looking directly into the psychologist's fatigue-lined face. "Maybe we should wait," he suggested, "until..."

Venkman shook his head. "Can't." He drew a deep, shaky breath. "Half the town was out there, Winston," he said in a weary voice. "By now the other half knows what happened. There was already some clown here from the local press--I damn near had to ram his tape recorder down his throat to get him out of here." With his free hand, Peter rubbed at his damp eyes. "I don't want her hearing it on the news or getting a call from some tabloid."

Winston nodded reluctant agreement, then brought his dark eyes up to meet the psychologist's. "You want me to call her?" he offered. Janine was going to be devastated no matter who broke the news to her, but he wasn't quite sure Peter was up to it.

Sincere gratitude warmed the dulled green eyes, then shifted almost immediately into something Winston couldn't quite identify. "Thanks. But that's my responsibility." Pushing himself to his feet with all the agility of an arthritic old man, Peter carefully transferred Ray's hand to Winston's grip. "Don't let go of him," he ordered, his gaze locking with Zeddemore's. "He has to know one of us is here all the time."

The black man encased Ray's hand in both his as Peter had done earlier. "I know," he said solemnly. "I'll stay with him."

Peter nodded once, as if he barely had the strength to make the gesture, then mumbled, "I'll be back in a few minutes," and left the room.

Winston watched him go, then sighed unhappily and lowered himself into the chair Venkman had vacated. He spent a few moments studying the peaceful features of the unconscious man, then squeezed the fingers he held captive. "It's Winston, Ray," he said softly. "We need you back here, homeboy. Peter needs you. He's trying to handle all this by himself, trying to blame himself for Egon...wants me to blame him, too. You can be damn sure he's gonna make certain Janine blames him." This time when tears stung his eyes he didn't bother to brush them away. "He's not handling this, Ray. I'm not handling it, either, but it's even worse for Pete. And you know how he is; he won't let anyone help him." He squeezed the younger man's hand again, this time massaging it between his two. "But you could help him, Ray. You could get through to him. You've got to... because I don't think he could take losing you, too."

***

"Hello."

Her voice was raspy with sleep. Peter glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was after midnight. Time seemed to stand still in a hospital; it was a little amazing to find that the world outside kept turning regardless of personal tragedy. "Janine, it's Peter."

"Peter?" She was alert now, probably sitting up and switching on a bedside light. "Are you guys back from Idaville?"

"No, we're still up here."

There was a brief pause. "Peter, are you all right? You sound a little funny. Is something wrong?

He tightened his grip on the pay phone. "Janine," he said carefully, "we ran into some trouble."

"Is everyone all right?" she demanded. "What happened?"

"Ray's been hurt," he answered steadily, and told her about the class six and Ray's injuries.

He heard her gasp over the phone. "Oh, Doctor V, that's terrible! He's in a coma? Do you want me to come--"

"No, no, that's not necessary," he said hastily. "I don't want you driving up here."

When he didn't continue, the first notes of fear crept into her voice. "Peter, where's Egon? I want to talk to him."

Peter dropped his forehead against the pay phone, squeezing his eyes shut. He could almost see the look in her eyes, could imagine her gripping the receiver and holding her breath as she waited for his answer. "Janine..." Despite his best efforts, his voice broke. "Oh, god, Janine, I'm sorry. I couldn't hold on..."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the phone, followed by Janine's fearful, "Peter, what are you talking about?" Her voice was practically vibrating with the effort it took to keep it steady. "What happened?"

Venkman took a deep, ragged breath and swallowed hard. "Egon and I were teamed up," he said, only his iron control keeping his own voice steady. "The class six attacked us, then disappeared. We tracked it. Egon...Egon got too far ahead of me. I couldn't keep up. I heard him scream and..." Despite Peter's best efforts, his voice broke and he bit his lip, hard.

"And what?" Janine sounded nearly hysterical.

"When I found him, he was hanging from a cliff; there was a thirty-foot drop to a river below. I-I tried to pull him up, but..." His hand tightened around the receiver until his fingers ached. He could still feel the strain in his muscles from his desperate attempt to haul Spengler up. "The entity attacked again. I tried to grab the thrower, thinking I could hold it off, but when I did that, I...I lost my grip on Egon. I...let go and he fell. The cops have been searching the river, but they haven't found his--him."

"You lost your--you let him go? You let go of Egon?!" Janine was sobbing openly now, anger and despair making her voice so shrill Peter winced as it blasted through the phone. "How could you? How could you? He trusted you!"

The receiver clattered to the floor as it slipped from his suddenly nerveless hand. It took him several stunned moments before he managed to clumsily retrieve it and press it to his ear. "Janine? Janine, I--" He broke off as the dial tone sounded in his ear. Automatically, he replaced the receiver on the hook, then continued to sit there, staring at the pay phone. He trusted you! "I know," he whispered. "I know, I know, I know..." The sobs came from deep within him. Dropping his forehead against the pay phone, he squeezed his eyes shut and cried.

***

Winston looked up when Peter came back into the room, and what he saw on the psychologist's face brought him abruptly to his feet. A glance was all it took to see Venkman had been crying, although he had probably tried to wipe away all traces of his breakdown. But his face was so white the redness of his eyes stood out like a beacon to his grief. Without a word, the psychologist sank down into the bedside chair and reclaimed Ray's hand, his own shaking badly.

Zeddemore gripped the younger man's shoulder. "I'm sorry, man," he said softly. "That must've been rough."

The brown head nodded jerkily. "About what you'd expect." Peter raised his free hand suddenly and wiped at his eyes. "I called her parents, too, so they'd know what was going on. She's going to need a helluva lot of support."

"That was a good idea, Pete," he said approvingly. He probably wouldn't have thought of that himself, but of course Peter would. Peter Venkman might present a facade of irreverence to the rest of the world, but Winston didn't know of anyone with more compassion and natural empathy than this man. He just hoped Peter allowed some of that compassion to extend to himself.

"I called Egon's Uncle Cyrus, too." Peter's voice was dull and without inflection, as if he were afraid to allow himself to show any emotion at all. "He has a right to know what's going on." Winston remembered suddenly that Egon's mother had left recently on a tour of Europe. "He doesn't know how to get in touch with Egon's mom. He said when she goes off like that, she can be gone weeks without checking in. I remember once Egon--" Peter's voice cracked then and he squeezed his eyes shut. A few moments later he continued, once again in control. "Once she went on a safari to Africa and was out of touch so long Egon thought she was eaten by lions or something." He was silent for a long moment, then drew in a deep, ragged breath and sat up a little straighter. "Why don't you go get some rest, Winston. I'll be okay here."

The black man knelt beside the chair so he was eye level with Venkman. "I'll go back to the motel room," he said, keeping his voice slow and careful, "and grab a change of clothes and a shaving kit for us both. Then I'll come right back. I'll spend the night in the waiting room. If you need me, I'll be right outside."

Peter nodded. "Okay," he agreed, but his voice sounded lifeless and distant, and Winston wasn't sure Venkman had even heard what he just said. He gently shook the shoulder under his hand and the younger man looked at him blankly, tears shining in his eyes.

"Pete--"

"I can't believe he's gone, Winston. I can't believe he's really gone."

Winston felt his own eyes begin to burn. "I know," he murmured, moving his arm to drape the psychologist's shoulders. "But the cops are going back out first thing tomorrow--"

"Don't bullshit me, Winston." Unlike Peter's earlier outbursts, this one contained no anger, only pain, incredible, soul-deep pain. "You saw that river. And I saw where he fell." He looked down at his hands, his mouth tightening, and Winston knew he must be reliving the moment Egon's hand had slipped from his grasp. Venkman dropped his head suddenly, a shudder running through his body. "He's gone," he whispered. "Just like that, he's gone."

Zeddemore ran his hand back and forth across Peter's back in a helpless gesture of comfort, then pulled him close in a quick, hard hug. "I know how much you loved him, Pete."

Venkman turned his head then and looked at him, his haggard features softening. "You loved him, too." He gave his head an impatient shake. "I'm not being much help, am I? Shit," he muttered, "I'm supposed to be better at this."

"Nobody's good at losing a friend, m'man," Winston said quietly. "And nobody ever gets any better at it."

"Yeah." The psychologist heaved a sigh. "I just never thought it would be Egon who went first. I just never thought..."

An image flashed through Zeddemore's mind, of Egon bent over his workbench in his lab, glasses riding on the tip of his nose, completely engrossed in some experiment Winston could never hope to understand. At first glance Egon Spengler, genius, physicist, scientist, college professor, had seemed the last man Winston would have expected to go charging out to enter into combat with demons, ghosts and goblins. He sighed heavily, "Yeah, me either." Winston squeezed the shoulder under his hand. "I'm going back to the motel now to pick up those things. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You're going out tomorrow morning, with the cops?"

He nodded. "First light."

Peter's eyes returned to Ray, but not before Winston saw the agonizing conflict in them. "I want to be there, too, to help look...but Ray..."

"This is where you belong, Pete," Winston said immediately. "If anyone can get through to Ray, it's you." That was true. But it was also true Winston didn't want Peter anywhere near that river. If or when they found Egon's body, Winston had a pretty good idea what kind of shape it was going to be in and he wanted to spare Peter that at all costs. He had seen things in Vietnam that had prepared him in a way for what they might find, but he doubted there was anything in Venkman's background that had equipped him to deal with it. Winston knew what memories he still carried from seeing the broken bodies of his buddies on the battlefield, and he didn't want Peter to have to carry that kind of memory with him for the rest of his life.

"I guess you're right," Venkman conceded reluctantly. "I just wish there was something I could do...for Egon."

"You're doing it," Winston insisted softly. "You're taking care of Ray."

Venkman nodded slowly and reached out with his free hand to brush a stray strand of auburn hair back into place. "Yeah," he whispered, "taking care of Ray."

Winston hesitated. "Pete, I should go now..."

"Go ahead. I'll be fine."

That was so patently untrue Winston simply ignored it. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

As he left the room Winston could hear Peter's voice, quietly insistent, "I know you can hear me, Ray Stantz, so you just quit pretending you can't. I'm going to sit right here and I'm not leaving until you tell me to go. You're going to get so sick of hearing my voice..."

***

"...And you remember how Professor Burton always carried his lecture notes around in this little binder, right? So he gets up in front of this huuuge audience of alumni and fellow professors and the Board of Regents and he goes up to the lectern and clears his throat--you remember how he always had to clear his throat before his presentations--and opened up his binder all prepared to give his speech...only it's not his lecture notes. It's a picture of Miss April 1976. And the next page was Miss June and then there was Miss December... You should've been there, Ray. It was the best lecture old man Burton ever gave."

Peter paused to take a sip of Coke to ease his dry throat, then set it aside and rubbed the limp hand in his.

"Come on, pal," he said softly. "I'm running out of stories here. You're going to force me to start reading to you out of those two-month old Time magazines out there in the waiting room."

There was still no response from the unconscious man and Peter closed his eyes, sighing. Aside from the time he had taken to shower and change, he had remained here by Ray's bed, keeping up an almost constant patter of one-sided conversation. Winston had spent the night in the waiting room, coming in every hour or so to check on him, bring him coffee, offer him bathroom breaks and generally keep him from going crazy. Then he had left at dawn to resume the search at the river.

Still clasping Ray's hand, Peter got to his feet and tried to ease the kinks out of a back that was protesting the fact he had spent the night in a chair. Doctor MacBride had not been pleased to find him pulling a sit-in, but aside from a disapproving frown had kept his opinions to himself. His eyes fell on his half-eaten lunch, courtesy of Ms. Kathy Wardenfelt, the nurse who had taken charge of him when they brought Ray in. She really wasn't a bad sort. So far he had discovered she was divorced, a single mom with two kids--one boy, one girl--and had lived in Idaville all her life. When it became obvious he wasn't going to leave his vigil to get himself something to eat, she had brought him breakfast from the cafeteria. Then, later, when she came back to change his bandages, she brought lunch. And she had been in and out regularly to check on Ray--and, he suspected, to keep his spirits up. Their conversations had gone a long way toward keeping him from falling apart completely when Ray continued to ignore his repeated demands to wake up.

"Never known you to be this stubborn, Tex," he murmured. "But you want stubborn, you're gonna get stubborn. You ain't seen nothing yet."

"Well, you've got my vote." Peter's head snapped around as Doctor MacBride entered the room on silent soles, clipboard in his hand. The physician walked over to the other side of the bed and lifted Ray's eyelids as Peter had watched him do a dozen times before. "How're you doing?" he asked, directing the question at Venkman.

"I'm not the patient here."

MacBride glanced up. "Do you mind if I ask anyhow?"

Venkman dropped back into his chair. "I'm fine. How's Ray?"

"Has there been any reaction? Any movement, any sign of restlessness?"

"I think his hand moved once," Peter told him, remembering that brief moment of excitement, "but I couldn't get him to do it again."

"It may have been something, or it may have simply been muscle reflex," MacBride commented, straightening. "Sometimes it's hard to tell." He studied Peter for a moment. "If I ask you again, will you give me a straight answer?"

At first Peter didn't know what he was getting at, then as the message sank in his shoulders gradually lost their defensive hunch. "I'm hanging in there," he said finally. "Although don't ask me how."

The doctor flipped a page in his chart and scribbled something. "I had a long talk with your friend, Winston," he said casually. "He's worried about you." Peter focused his attention on Ray, refusing to comment. When it became obvious Venkman wasn't going to encourage any further conversation, MacBride cleared his throat. "You're a psychologist, Doctor Venkman. You don't need me to tell you the kind of stress you're under or the dangers of trying to deal with that stress yourself-- "

"That's right," Peter said flatly, "I don't."

To give MacBride credit, he wasn't a quitter. Laying the chart aside, he walked around the bed and came to a halt beside Peter, folding his arms over his chest. "You know," he said seriously, "sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger in a situation like this. Winston's going through the same thing you are and you don't want to add to his burden--that's understandable and commendable...but it's not helping you. So if you want to sound off to someone or talk things out or throw a few breakable objects around and just yell and scream a little... I'll be glad to listen."

Peter lowered his eyes. It was a generous offer from a compassionate man. He recognized that and appreciated it while at the same time he had to fight his initial impulse to tell the man to mind his own business. In fact, he very nearly did that. But he didn't. Instead he looked up and met the doctor's steady gaze squarely. "Thanks," he said quietly. "Maybe I'll take you up on that later." MacBride nodded and Peter managed a small, tight smile. "Especially the part about throwing breakable objects."

There was a knowing look in the doctor's eyes. In an apparent non sequitur, he said, "My brother was my best friend. He was two years older than me and I looked up to him my whole life. I was the wild one; he was the sensible one, the logical one, the prudent one." There was a soft smile on his lips when he said that. "And he always knew when I was keeping things inside or going through a bad time. Even long distance. When I was in med school and things would get to the point where I was starting to wonder if I had the stuff to be a doctor--" He shook his head--"I don't know how he did it, but the next thing I knew the phone would ring and it'd be Roger and he'd give me one of his patented pep talks. He was real good at that."

Peter nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said softly, "Egon was like that, too. He always knew. And he must've had as many different pep talks as I had moods."

MacBride grinned. "Yeah, that was Roger. He had quite a repertoire."

It was impossible to miss the way MacBride continued to use the past tense. Peter hesitated, then broached, "'Had'?" although he already knew the answer.

The grin faded from the other man's face. "He was killed last year in a motorcycle accident," he answered quietly. "And I still miss him like hell."

Venkman let out a long breath. "I'm sorry."

"And I'm sorry about Doctor Spengler." MacBride paused, then added, "Winston says you two were real close." Not trusting himself to speak, Peter only nodded. "How long had you known each other?"

Peter knew exactly what MacBride was doing and why he was doing it, and while a part of his brain urged him to resist it, another part realized how badly he needed to talk to someone, how badly he needed to talk about Egon. Gently massaging Ray's hand in a gesture that had become second nature during the long hours, he began, "We met back while we were both attending Columbia. I took one look at him and decided he was the classic egghead; he took one look at me and decided I was something out of Animal House." Peter dropped his head, unconsciously tightening his fingers around Ray's limp hand. "God, I would've been such a mess if it hadn't been for him," he murmured.

"How so?" MacBride pressed gently.

One side of the psychologist's mouth curved upward in a rueful smile. "When I first met Egon, my major was partying; Psych came in a distant second. My grades were okay, but I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with my life so I was doing as little as possible with it." He shrugged. "Between the fraternity and football and girls and parties...well, that didn't leave a whole lot of time for studying or deciding on a direction for my life." He lapsed into silence then, gazing at Stantz' peaceful face.

"And then Egon came along?" the doctor guessed.

Peter nodded. "It wasn't exactly love at first sight," he said dryly. "We were complete opposites, from our upbringing and our families to our economic background and course of studies. He was a hard scientist; I hated anything that had to do with test tubes. He was completely focused on what he wanted to do and what he wanted to be...and who he was. I had never met a man so totally assured with himself, so completely at peace with who he was." He grinned. "It was a little irritating. I on the other hand didn't have the faintest idea of what I wanted to do or what I wanted to be...and it turns out I had it all wrong about who I really was." Something like wonder entered his tone. "I still don't know how he did it, but he helped me figure all that out." His eyes slid shut and he felt fresh tears gather behind his closed eyelids. "Yes, I do know how he did it, too," he said softly. "He became my friend, and he stayed my friend--and he taught me how to be a friend. Everything I know about being a friend I learned from Egon." Blinking his eyes open, he gazed at Ray for a long moment, then brushed at a stray strand of auburn hair on the unconscious man's forehead. "And from this guy here. I never trusted anyone before I met Ray and Egon. They gave me that...that and so much more." Tears were flowing freely down his cheeks now, but he didn't even notice. Without a word, MacBride offered him a handkerchief and he took it, first mopping his eyes and then blowing his nose. When he thought his voice was functional again, he whispered, "Thank you."

"No problem," MacBride said quietly. "Doctor Spengler sounds like an exceptional man."

Venkman raised his eyes, meeting the doctor's frankly compassionate gaze. Everything he felt about Egon, every bit of love and respect he felt for his friend came to the fore in one simple/complicated statement of fact: "He was my brother."

Comprehension flooded the other man's face and for an instant his eyes sparkled with the hint of dampness. Then he nodded. "I understand." MacBride had taken up a position leaning against the wall while Peter was reminiscing, and pushed away now. "I've got other patients to see, but later, if you want to talk some more, I'll stop back."

Venkman nodded.

The doctor clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed and Peter turned as MacBride reached the door. "Hey, do you have a first name--other than 'Doc', that is?"

The physician turned, his mouth curving in an easy smile. "Alan to my friends."

"Peter to mine. And if I can ever return the favor...I'm a pretty good listener, too."

"I might take you up on that...Peter." MacBride lifted his hand, then disappeared through the doorway.

Venkman turned back to Ray with a shaky sigh and affectionately brushed at the tangled auburn hair, careful to avoid the bandage that encircled his friend's head. "You remember those days at Columbia, don't you, Ray? We were quite a team, weren't we? Remember the time all three of us went to that homecoming party and--" He broke off as Stantz' head moved under his hand and a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan escaped the occultist's lips. "Ray?" he said urgently. "Ray, can you hear me?" Without taking his eyes off the stirring man, he shouted, "MacBride! Alan! Get in here!" Lowering his voice, but not losing any of the intensity in his tone, he continued to harangue the younger man. "Ray Stantz, you open your eyes and you open them now, you hear me? This is Peter Venkman talking, Stantz, and I'm not kidding." Someone thudded into the room behind him.

"What happened?" MacBride demanded.

"I think he's coming around." He shot a pleading look at the doctor. "Tell me what to do. I almost had him--"

MacBride leaned over Stantz and tapped his cheek briskly. "Doctor Stantz," he called loudly. "Wake up." He shot a look at Peter over Ray's supine body. "Talk to him again."

"Ray? Come on, pal. Wake up. This is important. I want you to wake up." To his everlasting relief his friend's eyelids fluttered. He squeezed Ray's hand, holding his breath as the lids slowly raised, revealing confused brown eyes.

"Peter?"

Ray's voice was a lot weaker than Peter wanted to think about, but at that moment it sounded positively wonderful to him. "Yeah, pal, it's me," he said softly. Finally releasing his grip, he gently rested his hand on top of the younger man's head, threading his fingers through the tousled hair. "Welcome back, Tex. I missed you."

Stantz had focused his somewhat dazed eyes on Peter and he was blinking rapidly as if to clear his vision. "Peter...what happened?"

Venkman didn't have to look to MacBride this time to know how to proceed. He reclaimed Ray's hand and squeezed it gently, never moving his gaze from his friend. "You're in the Idaville hospital, Ray," he said carefully, "but you're okay. You've got a concussion, a broken arm and some broken ribs, but you're okay. Understand me?"

Stantz nodded slowly, then grimaced. "Bad idea," he mumbled.

"Bet your head hurts like a son of a gun, doesn't it?" Peter asked sympathetically. "And your stomach probably doesn't feel too good, either. That's what a concussion does to you, buddy." He eased down onto the side of the bed, careful not to jar the younger man. "What's the last thing you remember?"

The occultist's face creased in concentration. "Don't know..."

"Think, Ray," Venkman pressed, injecting some firmness into his tone. "Come on now. We're in Idaville--"

"Tessing!" Ray cried suddenly, his face clearing. "Jedediah Tessing! And the class six we were chasing!"

Peter broke into a huge grin. "That's my boy."

"We were in the woods and Winston--" Ray broke off suddenly, alarm flooding his eyes. "Winston! Is he okay? And Egon--"

"Both fine," the psychologist broke in hastily, studiously avoiding the sharp look MacBride threw him. "We'll talk about them later. Right now I think the doc here wants to poke and prod you some." Leaning over, he gathered the younger man in a very careful hug. "I'll be right outside," he whispered.

Ray caught his arm in a weak grip as he straightened. "How long was I out?"

"Day and a half, give or take."

Brown eyes studied him intently, then warmed. "You were here the whole time, weren't you?" Stantz tightened his hand. "You look awful."

"Yeah, well, remind me to bring you a mirror, kiddo," Peter retorted, falling gratefully into the old comforting banter. "You wouldn't win any prizes yourself." Still refusing to meet Alan's disapproving gaze, he gave Ray's hand a little pat, then got to his feet, forcing his thoughts away from the questions Ray would soon ask... and the answers he would have to give. "I'll be right outside," he repeated, offered the brightest smile he could muster, and left the room.

As soon as he stepped into the corridor and the door closed behind him, Peter sagged against the nearest wall, closing his eyes in sheer, overwhelming relief. Ray was okay. He whispered a prayer of thanks to whatever deity or being that happened to be listening or who looked after Ghostbusters in general or certain brown-eyed occultists in particular.

"Doctor Venkman? Are you all right?"

He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the concerned--and not unattractive--face of Ms. Kathy Wardenfelt.

"Is it Doctor Stantz? Has something happened--"

"I'll say something's happened," he crowed happily. "Ray's awake." He had to share his joy with someone and she happened to be the one within reach. Throwing his arms around the nurse, he hugged her soundly. "He's awake, Kathy!"

After her first startled moment, the woman returned his embrace with almost his level of enthusiasm. "That's wonderful, Doctor Venkman," she said warmly.

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" Venkman held her at arms' length and grinned. "That kid's a helluva fighter."

"And he has good friends," she retorted, giving him such a direct look he almost squirmed. "That helps a lot." She patted him on the arm as he reluctantly let her go. "I hope this means you'll get some rest yourself now; we'll look after Doctor Stantz." With another smile, she turned and continued on her way.

Peter leaned back against the wall, too tired to keep on his feet but too wired to sit down. Ray was okay. Maybe things really were going to be all right. Maybe Winston would call any minute and say there had been a miracle, that Egon had somehow survived, that they had found him alive and...

"Pete?"

Peter's head shot around at the sound of Winston's voice. Zeddemore was standing stock still a few feet away and Peter knew instantly from the despair in his dark eyes and the way his usually military-straight shoulders slumped there had been no miracle. Without a word, he stepped forward and grabbed the bigger man in a tight hug. Winston's arms closed around him immediately.

"I'm sorry, man," Zeddemore said hoarsely. "We looked everywhere. We just couldn't find him."

"I know, Winston, I know." And deep inside, he had known, Peter realized. He had known it all along. They were never going to find Egon's body. Winston had finally told him last night that the river emptied into an even larger one a few miles downstream. If Egon's body had been carried that far they had little hope of recovering it. "You did everything you could." With a determined effort, he fought down his own massive despair and tucked it away deep inside to be dealt with later. He gave the older man one last squeeze, then pulled back, gripping Zeddemore's arms tightly. "Winston," he said carefully, "Ray's awake. He's gonna be okay. Ray's gonna be okay."

The sorrow for Egon didn't fade, but relief flooded Winston's features. "Oh, man," he breathed. "He's awake? Pete, that's great."

"Yeah, it is." For a moment his eyes locked with Zeddemore's and he saw the same mixture of anguish and relief he felt himself. "We're gonna be all right, Winston," he burst out, trying to mask the desperation in his voice. "We're gonna be all right because we have to be all right." He had to force himself to focus on the fact Ray was alive and safe; if he allowed himself to think about Egon, if he allowed himself to touch the pain that was spreading through his body, he knew he would fall apart.

As if reading his thoughts, Winston laid a hand on the side of his neck and squeezed gently. "That's right, Pete. We will be all right... because Egon would want us to be."

Venkman took a deep, shaky breath, but nodded. "Yeah, he would."

The soft thud of a door closing behind them brought them both around to see Doctor MacBride stepping out of Ray's room.

"How is he?" Peter asked immediately.

"He's sleeping now, which is exactly what he needs. We'll be keeping a close eye on him, of course, but everything looks good."

Venkman felt himself smiling and realized even though Ray had awakened from the coma, he had still been mentally holding his breath until he got the all-clear from MacBride.

"And you gentleman," the physician continued, giving them both a steady look, "have just had your unlimited visiting privileges revoked. Visiting hours have been carefully prescribed so a patient isn't tired out and his recovery slowed by well-meaning friends and relatives. Come back at six tonight, and if he's awake, you can see him for two hours."

Peter wanted to argue the point, but had to admit MacBride made sense. The last thing either he or Winston wanted to do was keep Ray away from the rest he needed.

The doctor turned to him and said in a carefully neutral voice, "He asked me about Doctor Spengler and Winston."

Peter felt Winston's eyes on him, but kept his own eyes on MacBride. "What did you tell him?" he demanded.

"Nothing."

Venkman relaxed a little. "Pete?" He looked around and finally met Winston's questioning gaze. "Did you tell him about Egon?"

"No, I did not tell him about Egon," he retorted shortly.

"You told him Doctor Spengler was fine," MacBride reminded him with a little frown.

"You told him Egon was fine?" Winston was incredulous. "Pete, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking about Ray," he snapped, his ragged nerves finally fraying completely. "What was I supposed to say, 'Oh, by the way, Ray, Egon's dead'?" Venkman looked away, running a hand recklessly through his hair. "He just woke up from a coma, Winston," he said tightly. "He wouldn't be able to handle it." He was aware of Zeddemore and MacBride exchanging a look behind his back and it irritated the hell out him. Turning back to Winston, he said decisively, "It's my call and my responsibility, and I'll tell him when I think he's ready to handle it."

MacBride took a step closer. "If you like, I could talk to him--"

Peter rounded on him, furious. "I said it's my responsibility. I'll decide when to tell Ray and what to tell him. You're not the only doctor around here, MacBride. I've got a doctorate in psychology--"

"I know what your credentials are, Doctor Venkman," the physician interrupted without anger. "But don't you think in this situation you might be a little too close to the patient to make an objective judgment call?"

"What I think," he said coolly, "is that I'm the one best qualified to make this judgment call because I'm so close to this patient." He paused, then repeated what he had said earlier, this time with a lot more firmness. "I'll tell him when I think he's ready to handle it."

MacBride looked at him a long time before nodding, although he clearly didn't agree with the decision. "All right, Doctor Venkman, it's your call. But are you sure your friend's going to thank you for keeping the truth from him?"

"That's between Ray and me," he said flatly. The physician gazed at him a moment longer, then turned and left. As soon as he was out of earshot, Peter turned on Winston. "You have a problem with that?" he demanded.

His face strangely unreadable, Winston shook his head. "No, I don't have a problem with that. In fact, I think you're right."

Venkman felt some of the tension drain from his body; the last thing he wanted to do right now was fight with Winston. "Okay," he sighed, realizing suddenly how utterly exhausted he was, "I guess we'd better go back to the motel and grab some sleep. I want to be here as soon as visiting hours start.

But before he could move, Zeddemore clamped a large hand on his shoulder with surprising force. "Before we go anywhere," the black man said grimly, "we're having a talk, Pete, and we're gonna clear something up once and for all." The psychologist was so surprised by Winston's actions that before he knew what had happened he found himself being firmly pushed down into a chair.

"Winston, what the hell--"

"Shut up," Zeddemore said flatly, "and listen." Peter tensed, but made no move to get to his feet. Winston slowly relaxed his grip but didn't remove his hand. "Okay, now you listen because I'm only going to say this once. If you think it's your responsibility to tell Ray about Egon because he knows you and you know him better than I ever could, then I agree with you. If you think it's your responsibility to tell him because he'll take it better from you than from anyone else, then I agree with that, too. And if you think it's your responsibility because you've got the training and the skills to handle this, then I'd say you're right again." He knelt down by Peter's side, his dark eyes as serious as Peter had ever seen them. "But if you think it's your responsibility to break the news about Egon to Ray--or to Janine, or the press, or Egon's mother or anyone else--because you've got it stuck in your mind that any of this was your fault--" Peter made a sudden move to jump to his feet, but Winston tensed his arm, keeping him pinned--"then think again, Pete. That's just plain crazy." He gave Peter's shoulder a little shake. "I called Janine a couple of hours ago. Just what the hell did you tell her anyhow?"

Peter's head shot up guiltily. "I told her the truth."

"The hell you did. What are you trying to do, Pete? Make us all blame you for Egon's death?"

The pain and guilt he had tried so hard to smother, to tuck away in the deepest recesses of his soul, suddenly broke through his defenses and sent his emotional system into overload. "I was there!" he burst out. "Winston, I had his hand!" His voice broke, "Oh, god, why couldn't I hold on?"

Zeddemore eased an arm around his trembling shoulders. "Because it was impossible, Pete," he said gently. "And anyone who knows you knows that. Janine knows, I know--and Ray will know-- there was no way you could have saved Egon." He tightened his arm, his voice so soft he could have been talking to a frightened child. "And Egon knew it, too."

An image flooded his mind. He saw Egon's face, white and pinched with fear, his eyes huge behind his red-rimmed glasses... and then he felt his friend's fingers slip from his grasp. He squeezed his eyes shut with a choked sob. Peter wanted to believe it hadn't been his fault, he wanted to believe there really hadn't been anything he could have done to save his friend. He wanted to believe that more than anything. But he couldn't. He couldn't help believing that if it had been him hanging by his fingertips, Egon would have found a way to save him.

"Peter. Look at me." Winston tightened his arm until Peter finally opened his eyes. "Egon would hate what you're doing to yourself, man," he insisted softly. "You know that."

Venkman drew a shaky breath, then conceded the point with a slow nod. He could almost hear Egon's deep bass voice and that patiently reasonable tone the physicist used when he was trying to get through to Peter during those times when Peter was being less than reasonable. "I miss him, Winston," he admitted in a hoarse whisper. "I miss him already."

"So do I," Zeddemore said softly, and moved his hand back and forth across Venkman's shoulders in a comforting massage. "We're going back to the motel now," he continued in a tone that brooked no argument. "You're out on your feet, m'man, and if you expect to get back here by visiting hours, then you've got to get some sleep." Standing, he tugged the younger man to his feet and waited for him to comply.

To Peter's everlasting surprise, he allowed Winston to lead him out of the hospital without so much as a murmur of protest.

***

It turned out to be the following morning before they were able to see Ray. The occultist slept peacefully through the evening visiting hours and although Peter and Winston returned to the hospital and remained in the waiting room during that time, they finally had to leave without seeing him.

It was nearly eleven, the start of visiting hours the next day, when Winston and Peter returned to the hospital. They had called first thing in the morning, relieved to learn Ray had had a good night, awakened early, and eaten enough breakfast to satisfy the nurses on duty. Winston glanced at the silent man by his side as they walked through the automatic doors that led them to the now-familiar nurses' station on the first floor. Ray's night had apparently been a great deal more tranquil than Peter's had been. He had heard the psychologist tossing and turning all night, then finally get up before dawn and go outside, presumably to take a walk. Even now, at mid-morning, Venkman looked drawn and haggard, as if he hadn't slept in days.

They stopped at the nurses' station and Peter smiled when he saw it was Kathy Wardenfelt on duty. She, in turn, had a bright smile for both of them. "Doctor Stantz has been asking for you. He's feeling much better this morning."

"That's real good news, Kathy," Peter retorted, the relief evident in his tone. "Thanks." Turning away from the desk, he began walking down the hallway toward Ray's room, then stopped, his shoulders slumping as if some impossible weight had just been dropped on them.

Concerned, Winston laid a hand on his shoulder. "Pete?"

The psychologist turned, his emerald eyes pleading. "Do you mind if I go in alone, Winston?"

Zeddemore tightened his hand in understanding. "You're going to tell him," he said gently, making it a statement.

The brown head nodded. "I have to. Last night...last night I did what I had to do--"

"And you did the right thing," Winston interrupted quickly. "Ray was in no shape to handle it last night."

"None of us are in any shape to handle it," Venkman murmured, "but we don't have a lot of choice." He sighed shakily, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. "I honest to God don't know what I'm going to say to him, Winston."

"You'll find the words," Zeddemore assured him, then grimaced at how inane those words sounded. "What I meant--"

"I know what you meant." Dredging up a weak smile, Peter patted the hand on his shoulder. "I'm not sure I will find the words, but thanks."

The black man looked at him doubtfully. "Pete, are you sure you want to do this alone?"

"No," Peter answered with complete honesty, "I'm not." He turned his head slightly, staring down the hallway that led to Ray's room. "But if the two of us go in there without Egon, he's going to know something's wrong. If I go in alone...I just want the chance to talk to him a little first...you know..."

"I know." Zeddemore clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll be right here."

Venkman nodded. "Thanks." Then he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders and fixed a smile on his face that would have been convincing to anyone who didn't know him as well as Winston. Taking a quick breath, he strode the rest of the way down the hallway, hesitated for an instant outside Ray's room, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The way Ray's face lit up when Peter stepped into the room made the psychologist's forced smile soften. There was none of the disorientation or pain in Ray's eyes that had been so evident the last time Peter had seen him, and a hint of healthy color had returned to his cheeks. For a moment, Peter felt heartened by the sight, then almost immediately his delight faded as he realized he might soon be dashing any progress Ray had made since last night. But, for now, he plastered the brightest smile he could muster on his face.

"Well, you sure look better than the last time I saw you," he observed.

Stantz' smile nearly matched his, but Peter could feel the occultist's eyes sweeping his face. "Wish I could say the same for you. Didn't you get any sleep last night, Peter?"

Venkman shrugged as he snagged a chair and brought it around to the side of the bed. "Too keyed up, I guess," he retorted, and immediately changed the subject. "So how're you feeling this morning, pal?" Leaning closer, he dropped a hand on the younger man's arm, all humor dropping from his tone. "Gave us a helluva scare, you know," he said seriously.

Ray's smile faded. "I know. I'm sorry."

Peter squeezed the arm under his hand. "Yeah, well, just don't do it again," he said gruffly.

That brought the smile back to Stantz' boyish face. As Peter watched, Ray's head shifted on the pillow and his eyes lifted to glance at the door. "Where are Egon and Winston?"

Venkman feigned indignation. "You mean my own wonderful presence isn't enough to keep you fully and completely entertained, Stantz?"

Ray's eyes warmed. "It usually is," he said dryly.

They chatted for a few more minutes and Peter carefully noted Ray's reactions and responses, watching him for signs of fatigue or pain. Ray still looked tired, but he was alert and, aside from the nagging headache he admitted to, seemed free of pain. Finally, Venkman had to concede there was no reason to avoid telling him about Egon any longer. Last night it had been 'withholding information', today it would be lying.

"Peter?" Venkman snapped sharply alert, finding himself staring into a pair of concerned brown eyes. "Are you all right?"

Silently cursing himself for woolgathering, Peter took a moment to mentally square his shoulders. Without answering the question, he again laid his hand on Ray's wrist and forced himself to meet the younger man's gaze. "Ray," he said carefully, "how much do you remember about our bust?"

A little perplexed frown gathered Stantz' eyebrows, but Peter sensed it was more because he didn't understand why the question was being asked rather than because he was trying to remember. "Most of it has come back, I think," he answered slowly. "I remember the part about Jedediah Tessing and splitting up in the woods. And then you radioing for help. Then the class six coming after Winston and--" Ray's eyes widened suddenly. "Winston! Did something happen to Winston? You said he was all right! It slammed into me, but I don't know what--"

"Winston's fine," Peter interrupted quietly. "You were knocked into a ravine, but Winston managed to hold out until I... got there." He waited for the significance of that deliberately qualified statement to hit Ray. It didn't take long.

"Until you got there," Ray repeated slowly, his eyes on Peter. "What about Egon?"

Even though he had known from the beginning this question was coming, and even though he had tried to brace himself for just this moment, Peter still faltered. And in the instant he hesitated he saw the terrible realization in Ray's eyes. "Peter." Stantz' voice quivered and he twisted his hand out from under Peter's and grabbed his arm. "What about Egon?"

Venkman dropped his eyes, aware of Ray's fingers digging painfully into his wrist. "That class six came out of nowhere, Ray," he said hoarsely, feeling fresh tears sting his eyes and tighten his throat. "It got to Egon before I could. I couldn't save him. I couldn't--" His voice caught. "Oh, god, Ray," he whispered brokenly, "I couldn't save him."

"Egon's...dead?" The hollow shock in Ray's voice brought Peter's head back up. Stantz was staring at him, his face drained, his eyes filled with horror. Then, almost immediately, the auburn head shook stubbornly. "No, he can't be. He can't be."

Peter slid one hand behind the younger man's neck, as much to stop his insistent head-shaking as to offer support. "He fell into an ice-cold river, Ray," he explained, steadying his voice with an effort. "They've been looking for two days, but they haven't even found his body--"

"No body?" Hope flashed in the brown eyes. "Then he might still be alive! He might--"

"Don't, Ray," Venkman broke in sharply. "Don't go hoping for miracles." The younger man stared at him in stunned despair at the harshness of his tone, and Peter slumped suddenly as fresh pain squeezed his heart. "They've searched the river banks for miles," he whispered. "They don't have any hope..." His voice gave out and he swallowed hard, tasting new tears. Forcing himself to meet Stantz' shell-shocked stare, he offered the only thing he had left: "I'm sorry, Ray. I'm sorry. I couldn't save him."

The next thing he knew Ray was in his arms, clinging to him like a child, his face buried in Peter's chest as he sobbed out his grief. Mindful of Ray's damaged ribs, Peter held him, pulled him close, rested his cheek on the auburn hair and cried, too. He didn't think he would ever run out of tears for Egon. Last night after his worry about Ray had been relieved and he no longer had a reason to avoid turning inward to touch his own grief, he had stood in the shower back at the motel, letting the sound of the beating water muffle his sobs as his sorrow exploded. This morning he had retreated there again, pounding the walls of the shower stall as anger erupted along with the tears. He raged at Egon for his defection to the Otherside, at himself for his helplessness, at Winston for not being there to help, even at Ray for his blessed ignorance of their loss. All those tears, and still there were more and always would be. There would never be enough tears, he knew, to cleanse him of the pain of losing Egon.

He held Ray as the younger man cried, offering what comfort he could, feeling every tear Ray shed soaking through his shirt. Eventually, the occultist's sobs lessened into silent weeping. The intensity of Ray's reaction hadn't surprised him, but he was worried about the effect on Stantz' physical condition. Raising one hand, he laid it on the back of the auburn head and stroked the soft hair in an automatic gesture of consolation. "I'm going to call for the doctor, Ray," he said gently. "I'm going to lay you down now and--"

"No!" The younger man tightened his one-armed grip around Peter. "Don't leave!"

"I'm not going anywhere," Peter assured him immediately. "I just want the doc to check you over."

Stantz' head moved against his shoulder. "Not yet. Please. I...can't..."

Biting his lip, Venkman slid a hand up and down the younger man's back. "Okay, not yet. We'll just sit here a while longer, just you and me." He could feel the other man quivering against his body and he automatically shifted to try to pull him a little closer, taking care not to put too much pressure on Ray's damaged ribs. "Winston's outside," he murmured. "He's okay."

Ray's arm around his neck tightened to the point where it nearly choked off his air supply. "I'm glad. I'm glad you're both okay." Suddenly Stantz pulled back, staring at Peter with red-rimmed, empty eyes. "Egon's gone, Peter," he whispered. "What are we going to do without him?"

In the flash of an instant Peter thought about how intertwined their lives had been for so long. He remembered Egon as he had been when they met at Columbia, how at first glance he had dismissed Spengler as just another boring egghead. And he remembered how he had quickly discovered the sharp, dry wit that lay under Egon's phlegmatic exterior, the mischief that could spark in his eyes without warning, the intellect that blazed so brightly, the deep caring and ready understanding he had always offered unstintingly. He loved that man, respected him, looked up to him, depended on him, and trusted him in a way he had never trusted anyone before. Ray had enhanced their relationship, had strengthened it and brought his own special qualities to it. It seemed as if the three of them had been together forever. It had seemed as if they would always be together.

Venkman drew a shaky breath. "I don't know, Ray," he said hoarsely. "I just don't know." He studied Stantz' tear-stained face for a moment, then leaned over and snatched some kleenx from the bedside table. Ray accepted them and silently wiped at his eyes. Peter squeezed his arm. "I'm just going to slip into the bathroom; back in a sec." Striding across the room, it only took him a moment to locate and dampen a washcloth in the tiny bathroom. Back by Ray's side, he dropped down onto the edge of the bed and gently pushed the younger man back down onto the pillow. "I want you to lay there and rest for a while," he ordered quietly. "Close your eyes." Hesitating only an instant, Ray did as he was told and Peter folded the cloth and gently laid it across the occultist's closed eyes. Ray flinched at first at the coolness of the rag, then visibly relaxed, a broken sigh escaping his lips. Dropping his hand on the younger man's arm, Peter sighed, too, a sigh that came from the depths of his soul.

"How did it happen, Peter?"

Venkman stiffened. "What?"

"How did it happen?" Without removing the cloth that covered his eyes, Ray laid his hand on top of Peter's. "I want to know."

"Maybe later, Ray, when you're--"

"Peter, please." Stantz' hand gripped his and squeezed. "I have to know."

Closing his eyes, Peter nodded to himself. And you have a right to know. His eyes still closed, Venkman braced himself and with a voice as steady and detached as he could manage, he told Ray about the attack on the cliff and how Egon had been lost. When he was finished there was nothing but silence. Peter didn't dare open his eyes. He couldn't bear to see the look on Ray's face. Then there was a rustling of sheets and suddenly Peter found himself engulfed in a tight embrace.

"It wasn't your fault, Peter," Ray whispered in his ear. "It wasn't your fault."

As badly as he needed to hear those words, as badly as he needed to believe them, Venkman shook his head, denying the absolution. "You weren't there--"

Stantz moved his hand to the back of Peter's head, gently pressing it down against his shoulder, effectively cutting off the words. "I didn't have to be there. I know you, and I know there wasn't anything you could have done to save Egon."

Peter would argue that point with himself until the day he died, but he would not argue it with Ray. Ray didn't need a friend consumed with guilt and self-disgust at his own helplessness; he needed a friend who was strong enough to help him through his grief. He had failed Egon when Egon had needed him most; he was determined he would not fail Ray.

Pulling carefully out of Stantz' embrace, he held the younger man at arms' length and studied him for a moment. All traces of color had fled from his face and Ray looked drained and empty. "How're you feeling?"

Ray looked as though he was about to insist he felt fine, but something he saw in Peter's eyes must have changed his mind. "Not so good," he admitted reluctantly.

"I'll bet." Gently, but firmly, Peter pushed him back down flat. "This time I am getting the doctor." Laying his hand on the younger man's forehead, Peter brushed at the tousled hair. "Winston's outside. He wants to see you. You up to that?"

Ray gave a little nod. "Yeah. But you--"

"--won't be far away," he promised. "You just lay quiet for a while, okay?"

Weariness and pain etched into his youthful face, Ray nodded, his eyes sliding shut. "Okay."

Peter hesitated a moment longer, then gave Ray's chest a gentle pat and left the room.

Winston all but pounced on him as soon as he stepped into the hallway. "Is Ray okay?" Then, before he could answer, Zeddemore frowned and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"No to both questions," Peter answered, subdued. "Ray's pretty wiped out and I'm going to go find Alan to get him checked out." He briefly rubbed at the moisture in his eyes. "He wants to see you."

Zeddemore nodded. "I'll stay with him." He gave the shoulder under his hand a little squeeze. "Take some time if you need it, man," he said gently.

Peter nodded his thanks, then turned and headed toward the nurses' station to track down Doctor MacBride. Whatever he might need himself would have to wait.

***

Winston slid a supporting arm around Ray's back and squeezed lightly. "Come on, Ray," he urged gently, "let's get you back to Ecto. You've been on your feet long enough."

But the occultist continued to stare at the rushing waters of the small river, tears sliding down his face. "Egon," he whispered.

His mouth tightening, Winston firmly turned Stantz away from the racing waters and forced him back toward the parked car. Ray had only been released from the Idaville Hospital that morning, and only then because Peter had talked long and hard, finally convincing MacBride that Ray would convalesce better at home with his friends around him offering support twenty-four hours a day. The fact was, Ray wasn't bouncing back from his injuries the way MacBride felt he should and the doctor was concerned. And Peter, Winston knew, was worried sick. Egon's death seemed to have crushed Ray's normally buoyant spirit, knocking all the fight out of him and slowing his recovery to a snail's pace. Peter hoped getting Ray back to the firehouse where he could devote all his time to getting the occultist back on his feet would make the difference.

They were supposed to be heading home now, but Ray had begged to be brought out here to the river to see for himself where they had lost their friend, and to say good-bye to Egon. Under the circumstances Winston had been reluctant, but Peter had agreed so he didn't argue. Where Ray was concerned, Winston trusted Venkman's instincts implicitly.

"Peter's still up there."

Ray's soft voice brought Winston out of his thoughts and he looked up at the cliff that towered above them as they reached Ecto. He could see the solitary form of the psychologist standing by the edge.

"He's never going to forgive himself."

Knowing Peter, that was probably true, but Zeddemore said, "It's just going to take time, Ray."

But the younger man shook his head, his eyes never leaving the figure outlined against the bright morning sky. "No," he whispered, "he's never going to forgive himself." He gripped Winston's arm with his good hand. "Go bring him down, Winston," he implored. "He shouldn't be alone."

Winston hesitated. As much as he wanted to get them all away from this place, he was reluctant to intrude on Peter's very private grief.

The occultist's hand tightened around his arm. "Winston, please." Ray finally tore his gaze away from the man on the cliff and turned to Winston, his eyes reflecting the pain each of them were feeling. "None of us should have to be alone now."

That was true enough, Winston admitted. "Okay, I'll go get him," he conceded, "but you get in the car and wait."

Ray probably would have argued the point at any other time, but he was too worn out now to make the effort. Nodding, he allowed Winston to help him into the back of Ecto. Zeddemore waited to make sure he was settled comfortably, then turned and jogged away.

A short time later Winston slowed to a halt, as much to catch his breath as to observe the solitary man ahead for a few moments before approaching him. Peter was standing near the edge of the drop-off, staring at something he was holding in his hands. Zeddemore felt something in his chest twist as he recognized the broken remains of a PKE meter.

The last few days had been a waking nightmare for them all, but while Ray had retreated into emotional lethargy and Winston had been silently struggling to deal with the reawakened feelings of losing a friend in combat, Peter had apparently assigned himself the role of caretaker. He was with Ray every minute MacBride allowed him to be, encouraging, entertaining and assisting the injured man, alternately cajoling or stern depending on Ray's responses. When he wasn't with Ray, he was with Winston. Perhaps sensing the ex-soldier was trying to deal with a strange overlay of grief, Venkman made himself available, probing gently, carefully urging him to talk or to explore his turmoil of emotions. Zeddemore shook his head sadly. Sometimes he wondered if Peter was even aware how often he slipped into his 'psychologist mode' when one of his friends was going through a rough time. But when Winston tried to return the favor and get Peter to open up, Venkman had pulled back, stating tersely he wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Winston wondered if Peter would ever be ready to talk about it or whether he was going to seal his grief inside until it slowly destroyed him. He didn't want to see that happen...but he wasn't sure what he was going to be able to do about it. When Peter decided to shut himself away, and shut others out, he did it with a vengeance, and the only person Winston had ever seen who could really get through to Venkman at those times was Egon Spengler.

Closing his eyes, Winston thought briefly of the madness that had swirled around them yesterday. Deciding they could no longer avoid the issue, Peter had made a statement to the press about Egon's death. First he had called Janine to tell her to avoid the firehouse in case the place was besieged by press in New York, then he made all the proper calls and set up a press conference here in Idaville. Determined that Ray wasn't going to be hounded by reporters or anyone else, he asked Winston to stay with the occultist at the hospital, then set up the conference at the community center. As he had with every other aspect of the aftermath of this tragedy--dealing with the hospital, the police, Egon's relatives--Peter had thrown himself out front to act as a buffer for the other two. Winston had known the confrontation with the press was unavoidable, and he knew it would be hard on Peter, but he had no idea how hard it had been until he saw it for himself on the eleven o'clock news that night.

Zeddemore shook his head, remembering what he had seen on the screen. Somehow Peter had managed to hold himself together through the whole thing, even after he had finished his statement and the press began firing questions at him from all sides. Peter had made it very clear from the outset that he would be making a statement, but would take no questions afterward. That, of course, had not stopped the attending journalists and scavengers from the New York tabloids from shoving microphones in his face and blinding him with flashes from their scores of cameras as they hurled questions at him. Despite the obvious strain he was under and his well-known temper, Venkman had remained poised and in control...right up until the end. Winston couldn't hear the question that had triggered it, but the TV camera had captured the look of absolute fury on Peter's face as he erupted. It had taken three members of Idaville's police force to pull the enraged psychologist away from the journalist Winston recognized as being employed by the Post. He understood then why Peter had engaged Ray in a marathon session of checkers that night to keep the television-loving occultist occupied until he was drowsy enough to fall asleep.

"Damn you, Egon!"

Zeddemore's eyes snapped open in time to see Peter hurl the broken PKE meter in a high arc into the air out over the edge of the cliff. He could see the psychologist's chest heaving as ragged sobs began to consume his body. "Oh, man," he murmured, and ran toward him. "Pete?"

The younger man spun around, tears streaming down his cheeks. As soon as he saw Winston he tried to choke back his escaping grief, but Zeddemore saw immediately this time it couldn't be contained.

Slowing to a walk, he carefully approached the brown-haired man and stopped directly in front of him. Without a word, he wrapped strong arms around his friend and pulled him to his chest. "Let it go, Peter," he whispered. "It's time."

Venkman's voice was a shaky whisper by his ear. "C-can't."

Zeddemore rubbed the quivering back under his hands. "It's time," he repeated gently.

Peter struggled valiantly against the sobs, but this time he was no match for his spiraling emotions. He had spent the last few days tending to everyone else's needs, but finally it was time to recognize his own. Winston felt Venkman's arms tighten around him convulsively as he finally surrendered to the inevitable. Zeddemore held him, steadied him, rocked him, and let him cry.

"I miss him, Winston," Peter choked. "I love him and I miss him and I can't believe he's really gone!"

Zeddemore squeezed his eyes shut, holding back his own tears with an effort. "Yeah, me too, buddy," he said hoarsely. He sighed shakily, tightening his grip around the younger man. "Just let us help, Pete," he whispered. "Just let us help."

It was some time later when Peter's sobs finally died down and he relaxed his stranglehold on Winston. Taking his cue from the younger man, Zeddemore loosened his own grip and stood back as Peter stepped out of the embrace.

The psychologist pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes, then took a long, shaky breath. "Wish I could say I feel better now," he said hoarsely, staring down into the rushing waters below.

Nodding in understanding, Zeddemore laid a hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezed gently, saying the one thing he knew would get through. "Ray's pretty tired. As soon as you're up to it, we'd better get moving..."

At the mention of Ray's name, Peter's defenses seemed to snap into place. The brown-haired man straightened, and Winston could almost see him sealing his emotions and grief away inside. "Then let's get moving," Peter said abruptly and turned away, heading back toward Ecto. Winston stood for a moment, gazing at the psychologist's stiff, retreating back, then followed.

***

"Hey, pal, we're home." Peter very gently shook Ray's good arm, coaxing the drowsing man awake. "Come on, Ray, rise and shine." Brown eyes, blurry with sleep and confusion, blinked open, and Peter managed a bright smile. "We're home," he repeated softly.

"Home?" Ray echoed the word without interest.

Venkman tightened his mouth but refused to give in to the occultist's apathy. "That's right, Tex," he said crisply. "Time to get you upstairs and settled into bed." Climbing out of his side of Ecto, Peter hurried around the car and carefully eased Ray out of the back seat.

"You need some help?"

He shook his head at Winston's inquiry. "No, I can manage." A slow clicking sound caught his attention and he looked around to see Janine walking steadily across the garage area toward them. His eyes met hers briefly, then he quickly returned his attention to Ray. As he got Ray on his feet he could hear Winston and Janine embracing behind him and Zeddemore's deep murmur.

"Ray?"

Stantz' dulled eyes lifted at the sound of Janine's voice. "Hi, Janine," he whispered, his voice cracking.

The red-headed woman's eyes were shining a little too brightly, but she stepped forward and carefully engulfed the occultist in a fierce hug. "I'm so glad you're all right, Ray."

Stantz returned her embrace with his right arm, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Thanks, Janine."

When the first tears began to leak out from under Ray's closed lids, Peter stepped in. "Come on, Ray." His voice was a little too husky and a little too abrupt, but he set his jaw and firmly pried Ray out of Janine's embrace. "Let's get you in bed."

"I'm not really sleepy, Peter. Can't I just go lay on the couch or something?"

Peter sighed wearily. "Look, Ray, don't give me any grief on this, okay? The doctor said 'bed rest' and that means rest in bed." He gave the arm in his grasp a little tug. "Now come on."

Ray looked like he wanted to argue, then his shoulders abruptly sagged. "Sure, Peter," he mumbled. "Whatever you say."

The uncharacteristic defeat in the occultist's voice stopped Venkman in his tracks. It wasn't like Ray to argue for the sake of arguing; but it wasn't like him to meekly give up, either. "No, not whatever I say," he countered with a forced rueful grin. "If you feel up to it, I guess couch rest is as good as bed rest." Turning the younger man away from the other two, Peter guided him to the stairs. "And if you play your cards right, I'll bet Winston and Janine'll wait on you hand and foot, too."

Venkman's deliberately light tone had the desired effect and coaxed a small smile out of Stantz. "Winston and Janine?" he echoed, trying to match Peter's inflection. "What about you?"

"Me?" Relieved that Ray was responding, Peter contrived to look affronted. "I'll have you know the terms 'manual labor' and 'Peter Venkman' are mutually exclusive, Doctor Stantz..."

Several minutes later, Peter stood in the doorway of the TV room, his eyes resting on the curled up figure on the sofa. Despite his protestations, Ray was already asleep. Sighing deeply, Venkman turned away and left the room. Instead of going downstairs, though, he slowly climbed the stairs to the next floor.

Within moments he stood in front of the closed door to the lab that occupied the large room opposite the bedroom. Hesitating, he stretched out a hand, grasped the handle, then slowly swung the door open. He didn't know how long he stood there in the doorway staring at the immaculate interior of Egon's lab. He didn't remember walking inside, but he suddenly found himself standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the products of Egon Spengler's fertile imagination and incomparable genius. Everywhere he looked he saw Egon.

Over there in the corner sat his microwave emitter, the device he had used to rescue Egon, Ray and Winston from Nexa, the sea creature that had swallowed them. Even though the thing had blown up when he tried to demonstrate it on the dock afterward, it had served its purpose by saving the guys, and Egon had been duly impressed by his ingenuity--and had told him so. Peter felt a little smile form on his lips at the memory. Egon had even come to him later and offered to help him rebuild it. That was the only time he and Egon had ever worked together on a technical project like that, and Peter came to realize why Ray enjoyed working with Egon in the lab so much. Spengler was patient, thorough, and a total professional. He didn't just rebuild the device; he took the time to show Peter what had gone wrong and how to correct it. Peter's grasp of the technical was far below what Egon was used to working with, but he never made Peter feel he was anything less than an equal while they were working together.

Venkman let his gaze travel over to the workbench. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blond physicist sitting there at his lab table, head bent, glasses resting on the tip of his nose...

"I haven't been able to come in here since it happened."

Peter froze at the sound of Janine's unsteady voice directly behind him. He had been so lost in his memories he hadn't even heard her walk into the room. His fingernails bit into his palms as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, Janine," he whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't save him." He stiffened as small, slender fingers curled around his arm.

"I know you tried."

His fingernails drew blood. "Not hard enough." A sharp tug on his arm brought him abruptly around. Janine's eyes were huge in her white, pinched face, but there was none of the condemnation he expected to see there. There was only desperate grief...and deep understanding.

"I'm sorry, Peter, for what I said that night--"

He shook his head, looking away. "You were right," he said abruptly.

She gave his arm a shake, bringing his eyes back to lock with hers. "No, I wasn't," she said firmly. "I was wrong. You would have done anything in your power to save Egon and I know that. We all know that."

That look of sympathy and shared pain in her eyes was almost too much for him to bear. Without a word, he opened his arms, gathering her in as she fell against him with a sob. Holding her tightly, he rested his cheek on her hair and drew a ragged breath. "I will miss him every day for the rest of my life."

Janine's voice was muffled against his chest. "I know. I know how much you loved him."

Lifting his head, Peter dropped a kiss on top of her hair. "And I know how much you loved him," he said softly. Janine's arms tightened around him abruptly, her slender frame shaking with the intensity of her sobs. His own eyes stinging, he gently stroked her hair, his dulled gaze resting on the microwave emitter in the corner.

Spengs, ol' buddy, do you have any idea how many people loved you--or how much we loved you? Closing his eyes, he once again rested his cheek on top of Janine's head, shifting to wrap his arms even more securely around the grieving woman. I hope you knew, big guy. I hope you knew.

***

Graem was a healer. His father had been a healer, as had his father's father and his father before him. As far back as their genealogy had been recorded, in fact, his family had been a family of healers. During his lifetime he had been called upon to treat all types of injury and illness, but never before had he been called upon to treat a human.

The healer of this community of fairies walked slowly around the stretched-out form of the blond giant they had brought into their world. They had rescued him from the rushing waters of a river an instant before it would have been too late. Ordinarily, fairies did not interfere in the lives of humans--it was strictly forbidden by their Law--but this situation was special.

Graem's sea-colored eyes darkened as he recalled the circumstances that had brought on this unique rescue. First there had been those monstrous machines of the humans, tearing the precious earth, shaking the ground, roaring with their power. That had been bad enough. But the machines had apparently awakened some dark force, some evil spirit from another age. The thing had erupted from its sleep, catching three of their number unawares. Slipping his glasses off, he rubbed at his tired and stinging eyes. Fairy communities were small and tight. To lose three friends like that had shaken them all badly.

Replacing his glasses on his nose, Graem studied his unconscious patient. Then more humans had come, humans who fought that dark, murderous spirit. But this one, the one called Spengler, according to the nametag on his clothing, had fallen into the river and would surely have died if they hadn't rescued him. Their leader, K'el, had shouted the orders and they had all scrambled to obey. Some of their community had questioned bringing a human into Fairyland, but K'el had silenced them, reminding them all that more of them would likely have been destroyed by that creature if not for this human and his comrades. They owed him for that.

As it was, Graem hadn't been sure he could save his special patient. Oh, he knew something of human physiology, of course-- fairies had the ability to change forms and at one time or other they had all mingled undetected among that race in the guise of animals or other humans--but this surface dweller had been in bad shape when they brought him here. All the healer had been able to do was try to make this man comfortable and administer a potion that all but suspended his bodily functions, placing him in a state of near stasis while it worked its magic on his injuries. But it was fairy magic, designed to heal fairy bodies, not humans. He wasn't even sure of the dosage he used--was it too much, or not enough? Not enough, and it would not heal. Too much, and it could weaken him further, to the point where he would never recover. Graem sighed wearily. It had been a long, tiring vigil watching over this man, but he had become quite interested in seeing to his survival. Spengler had lived far longer than expected at the outset, and he had a feeling the fact this human was still alive at all wasn't due so much to the magic in the potion as it was his apparent stubborn will to live.

"Graem?"

He turned at the sound of his name, dipping his head respectfully as K'el stepped into the chamber. That formality out of the way, the two lifelong friends clasped hands warmly.

"You've been spending all your days here," K'el observed, concern evident in his brown, solemn eyes. "You should rest, let one of the younger ones keep watch for a while."

Although he appreciated the solicitude, Graem smiled. "And would one of the 'younger ones' know what to do with a human if he needed help?" he asked pointedly. "No, this is where I'm needed, K'el." He nodded toward the blond man. "The effects of the sleep potion are wearing off. He's showing signs of coming to."

K'el took a step closer to the human. "Do you think he's a danger to us?"

Graem gave his friend a searching look. "It's a little late to be worrying about that, isn't it?" he questioned mildly.

K'el was a fairy of unusual height for their race, but his normally straight posture was bowed somewhat by the awful burden of responsibility that weighed on him. "We had no choice but to bring him here," he said, his eyes resting on the stranger. "We owed him that."

"Of course we did," Graem agreed instantly. Turning to face his leader, he studied the handsome, still youthful face. "You're worried," he observed quietly.

K'el conceded the point by meeting Graem's gaze. "The safety of the community is my responsibility. If I've brought danger to it..."

His face softening, Graem touched his friend's arm. "You blame yourself for Falin, Jern and Rouri, don't you?" he asked gently.

"I sent them out to see how close the humans' machines were," K'el answered, his voice tight. "I sent them out. It was my fault--"

"It was no one's fault." Graem squeezed the arm under his hand. "I know how much it hurts, K'el, but you are not to blame. Who's to say that creature wouldn't have found us all if it hadn't been for this human and his friends?"

Very slowly, Graem saw some of the tension drain from K'el's face as his words took effect. At that moment, Egon Spengler stirred restlessly, mumbling something before falling silent once again.

K'el frowned. "What did he say?"

Spengler was stretched out on a bed of blankets the fairies had spread out for him and Graem walked up to him, placing his entire hand on the human's wrist to check his pulse. It had been gaining strength steadily over the last few hours. "Peter," he replied. "He's called out that name several times."

"One of his friends?" the other fairy guessed, moving up to join him.

The healer nodded. "Probably."

"Do you think he should be restrained?"

Graem shot a sideways look at his friend, smiling faintly. "If and when he comes to, he'll be as weak as a kitten. He's no danger, K'el."

K'el sighed heavily, then nodded. "Keep me informed. I'd like to be here when he comes to." He turned to leave, then hesitated in the chamber doorway. "And get some rest," he ordered sternly. "You're not as young as you used to be, you know."

Graem's shaggy eyebrows climbed at this statement. "And who is?"

For an instant K'el's face lightened, and Graem saw a lifetime of shared memories in his friend's dark eyes. "Certainly not us, old friend," K'el grinned ruefully. "Certainly not us."

***

Ray Stantz opened his eyes slowly, wincing as the early morning light hit his eyes. At least his head didn't explode now every time he blinked. That was an improvement anyway. He still had that little nagging headache, but that wasn't more than an annoyance. He sat up carefully, pressing his good arm against his ribs, and eased his legs over the side of the bed to take stock of the situation. Winston's bed was already neatly made, as it usually was at this hour. Peter's bed was empty, blankets still showing the indentation Venkman had left from the scant time he spent there last night. He hadn't even bothered to get under the covers; that made it easier when he got up in the middle of the night to do whatever it was he did during the long hours between midnight and dawn. Winston had finally confided that Peter had barely slept the whole time they were in Idaville, and Ray knew for a fact the psychologist hadn't slept more than a couple hours a night since they had been back at the firehouse.

Ray sighed heavily, rubbing his aching eyes. He didn't feel like getting up, and he certainly didn't feel like eating breakfast; in fact, he didn't even feel like making the effort to shave or dress. He would make the effort, though; but he wasn't making it for himself, he was making it for Peter. Even though Venkman was determinedly putting on an up-beat front for his benefit, Ray knew the psychologist was deeply worried about his recovery, and he refused to add to his friend's concern. Straightening his shoulders, the occultist forced himself to his feet and waited for his various aches and pains to settle before making his way to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he stared at his pale, drawn face. The bruises were all faded now, but his eyes looked like they were covered with some sort of dull coating, making him look tired and lifeless. Part of that was the lingering aftereffects of his injury, he knew; but a larger part of it was the painful ache inside him gnawing away at his soul.

His eyes filled, as they did every time he thought of Egon. He missed him more than he even thought possible. Everywhere he looked, he saw traces of Egon. It seemed nearly every good memory in his life somehow included his friend. A shaky little sigh escaped his lips. He had known all along, of course, that in their line of work a tragedy of this nature could happen on any bust. But deep inside he had harbored a belief it wouldn't happen...it couldn't happen to them. But it had.

With unsteady hands, he began the task of preparing himself to face the day.

Peter and Winston were in the kitchen when he finally made his way downstairs. Zeddemore was picking at a plate of scrambled eggs and Peter was staring blankly into a cup of coffee. Although Venkman made sure Ray's plate was always filled at mealtimes, Stantz couldn't remember Peter sitting still long enough to take more than a bite or two of anything, and more often than not the psychologist simply opted for black coffee.

Both men looked up with welcoming smiles as he walked in and he responded with a wan smile of his own. Winston had been quiet and withdrawn these last few days, but Peter said he was slowly working through his tangle of emotions. Ray was concerned about Winston, of course, but his sharpest worry was for Peter. Whereas Winston was doing his best to be quietly supportive and Janine was trying hard to lose herself in work, Peter seemed to be an explosion of nervous energy. There were an incredible amount of details to be seen to in the aftermath of Egon's death--more than Ray would have imagined--and Peter set about seeing to every one of them himself. Ray had thought at first he was simply trying to keep himself too occupied to think about anything else. But he had come to see that, as usual where Peter was concerned, things went deeper than that.

Peter was trying to be everywhere at once, striving to be everything to everyone. It was as if he had assigned himself the responsibility not only of running Ghostbusters, but of seeing to their emotional health as well. Ray had even seen the psychologist off in a corner talking patiently to Slimer. Their resident ghost had always been surprisingly aware of the emotions of the group and he had responded accordingly to the recent subdued atmosphere around Ghostbuster Central. Egon's death had upset him greatly and Venkman had spent nearly as much time with him as he had the rest of them. Peter always seemed to be with one of them, talking, listening, encouraging, supporting. Ray knew a part of it was simply Peter's training coming to the surface as it often did in times of upheaval; but he also knew Peter had assigned himself the blame for losing Egon and this frenetic non-stop activity on his part was as much his way of punishing himself as it was dealing with his guilt and grief.

"Hey, Ray." Peter jumped to his feet, his previously blank eyes suddenly lit with false light. "Just in time for an omelet � la Venkman."

"Yeah, it's a brand new recipe for Pete," Winston spoke up, grinning. "An omelet without the shells."

Venkman turned around from where he was busy cracking eggs into a bowl. "Hey, I like my omelets crunchy!"

Ray settled down at the table, smiling at the banter. It still sounded a little forced, as if no one was quite sure whether they had a right to make jokes, but the fact they were at least trying to sound normal was a good sign.

Still concentrating on fixing Ray's eggs, Peter spoke without turning, "Ray, Winston and I have been talking. We're going to have to start taking busts again if we want to keep the wolf from the door. Janine has volunteered to help out, so we're going to try it with the three of us for a while." His voice dropped as if he were talking to himself. "I don't really like the idea of taking her along on busts, but she wants to do it, and I couldn't come up with a better idea. We'll just have to screen the calls and only take those we think we can handle." Turning around, he triumphantly presented a respectable looking omelet. The rest of them liked to kid Peter about his cooking--and Peter always did his best to squirm out of kitchen duty--but the truth was, he was a more than adequate chef. "Here you go," he announced cheerfully and turned the whole mixture out onto the occultist's plate.

Ray withheld his sigh as Peter proceeded to add bacon to the mound. "That's fine, Peter."

"You sure? Well, there's more where that came from."

Ray eyed the heaping plateful of omelet and bacon. "I'm sure." Venkman dropped down into the chair opposite and watched him expectantly, so he picked up a fork and began cutting the omelet into small pieces. "I'm going on the busts, too," he said quietly.

Across the table, Peter levelled a steady gaze at him. "No, Ray," he said firmly, "you're not. You're still under a doctor's care. And with Janine out of the office, we'll need someone to answer the phone and--"

"I'm going," he insisted fiercely, dropping his fork with a clatter. "You're not going on busts alone! If you think I'm going to sit back here answering the phone while you guys are out there risking your lives and maybe--maybe--" His voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut to hold back the sudden tears gathering there.

"And maybe," Peter finished gently, "getting killed."

Ray felt familiar slender fingers encircle his wrist, then another, larger hand rest on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered shakily

"Nothing to be sorry for," Peter said in that same gentle voice. "We all miss Egon. And I think right now we're all a little scared, too."

Blinking his eyes rapidly, Ray brought Peter into fuzzy focus. "I just don't want anything to happen to you," he managed. "Either of you. I want to be there with you."

The brown-haired man nodded solemnly. "I know. I should have understood. We'll get a temp to handle the phone. You can come along on the busts, but you stay in Ecto, pal." When Ray opened his mouth to protest, Peter added firmly, "I'm not taking any chances with you, either." Realizing that was the best deal he was going to get, Stantz nodded agreement. Venkman tightened his fingers in one final squeeze, then got to his feet. "I've got some paperwork to see to."

After he left, Ray returned his attention to his heaping full plate and sighed. "What does Peter think I am?" he asked plaintively.

"A growing boy?" Winston guessed with a smile. When Ray grimaced, Winston's smile turned sympathetic. "He's just worried about you, Ray."

Stantz nodded and obligingly poked his fork into the cooling omelet. "I know." Raising his head, he locked his gaze with Zeddemore's. "I'm worried about him, too."

The older man's smile was humorless. "I guess that just about makes it unanimous. We're all worried about each other; that's normal right now. But we can't let it get in the way of getting on with our lives and doing what we do." He paused, then added gently, "Egon wouldn't want that."

Stantz dropped his eyes to stare at his plate, then nodded. "I know," he whispered. "I know we have to go on with things. It's just...hard."

"I hear you," Winston said softly. "It's going to take time, m'man. It's going to take time."

Taking a long breath, Ray held it for a few moments, then exhaled slowly. "I think," he said finally, "we need to do something before we can do that, Winston."

Zeddemore obviously knew what he was referring to and he nodded agreement. "Do you want me to talk to Peter?"

"No, I'll do it." He looked down at his plateful of food and threw Winston an apologetic smile. "I think I'm going to have to give this to Slimer. Don't tell Peter, okay?"

The black man cocked one eyebrow. "On one condition." When Ray looked at him expectantly, he added, "You eat whatever I make for lunch today. Pete'll have my head if he finds out I let you get away without breakfast."

Peter concentrated on the paper displaying Egon's neat handwriting, trying to decide on which pile it belonged. He had assigned himself the unhappy job of going through Egon's papers and files, sorting them into categories of personal, business, experiments in progress, research and miscellaneous. Unfortunately, the miscellaneous pile was getting rather large. Some of Egon's theories were coated in jargon so far beyond his scope of knowledge that he was forced to put them there temporarily. Someday in the future he might ask Ray to fine-sort them, but that could wait. Ray's pain was still too fresh to throw this on him and Winston didn't have the scientific background. With a sigh, he added this paper to the miscellaneous pile. He had gotten enough out of it to know it involved quantum physics, and that was enough to tell him Ray would have to explain it to him later.

The next file lay on his desk, waiting, and he stared at it, absently running his finger over the label on the tab. Even though Egon was gone and this had to be done, it still felt like an unforgivable invasion of privacy. It wasn't that Egon had ever tried to hide anything from any of them, or they from him, but they all accorded each other their right of privacy. He would no more have gone through Egon's files than the physicist would have come in here and gone through his desk.

With a sharp shake of his head, he picked up the next file and as he did so something small and square fell out. Automatically registering the fact it was a photograph, he picked it up and turned it over. And froze. He found himself staring into three smiling, youthful faces ... himself, Ray and Egon as they had been at Columbia. He recognized the captured moment instantly: they were standing in front of Weaver Hall, their coats snow-splattered from the snowball battle they had just engaged in. Egon's blond hair was tousled, his cheeks red from the cold and the exertion of the battle. Ray's eyes were shining with excitement and Peter's own hair, usually impeccably styled, was in wet disarray from a particularly large snowball Egon had lobbed so that it had landed squarely on top of his head.

The memory of that afternoon came back in a rush and that memory opened the floodgates for a thousand others to pour through. Peter suddenly felt like a drowning man whose entire life was flashing before his eyes. His life had been so intimately intertwined with Egon's for so long it was nearly impossible to remember what his life had been like without his friend. And it was utterly and completely impossible to think about what his life would be like now and in the future with Egon gone from it forever.

With a broken sigh, he traced one finger lightly over the images of the three grinning young men in that picture, three men whose friendship had been cemented and completed even back then. "I'm sorry, Egon," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Peter, can I talk to you for a minute?"

The psychologist quickly dropped the photo into the open file on his desk and closed it, bestowing an easy smile on the man standing in his office doorway. "You can talk to me as long as you want, Ray. What's up?"

The occultist entered the office slowly, his eyes taking in the pile of papers and folders that were stacked everywhere. "How're you coming?"

"Slow, but you know Egon--he wrote everything down."

Ray nodded and sat down in the visitor's chair, which Peter had just cleared a few minutes ago. "If you need some help..."

"Maybe later," he said hastily and rested his elbows on his desk, leaning forward slightly. "So, Ray," he continued, his tone softening, "what do you want to talk about?" The younger man shifted restlessly in the chair and Peter frowned. "You feeling okay? Are those ribs are still bothering you--

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Ray assured him quickly. "It's not about me."

Peter nodded understanding. Then it must be about Egon. He kept his silence, waiting for Stantz to make the next move.

The occultist frowned at his shoes for a moment, then lifted his head, meeting Peter's concerned gaze. "I want to have a memorial service for Egon," he said finally.

Peter had been expecting that, of course, and had planned on broaching the subject himself in the near future. He was almost relieved Ray was the one who brought it up. "So do I. I'll take care of it. I'll try to--"

"Peter." Venkman stopped at the interruption. "I want to take care of it."

Venkman sat back in his chair, studying the drawn, bruised face across the desk. "Are you sure, Ray? Are you sure you're up to it?"

The auburn head nodded immediately. "I want to do this, Peter. I want to do something for Egon."

The psychologist understood that all too well. "Okay, pal," he said softly, "you take care of it."

"I'll try to make it something Egon would have liked."

Peter felt a genuine smile touch his lips, the first one in days. "I'm sure whatever you come up with would make Egon proud, Ray."

Relief flooded Ray's face, easing some of the lines of tension that had aged his youthful face and adding a brief sparkle to his dulled eyes. "Thanks, Peter." He stood up to go, then paused and turned back, his troubled gaze resting on Peter's face. "Are you okay?" he asked hesitantly. "I mean, really okay?"

Peter had done such a good job of convincing himself it was his duty to be okay that the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Sure. I'm fine."

Ray turned away as if he'd been slapped, but not before Peter saw a flash of pain in his eyes, as if Ray knew very well that was a lie and those words had been a personal rejection. Venkman felt something twist inside his chest. What the hell had he been thinking? He had tried to bury his own pain to concentrate on helping the others deal with theirs, but in doing so he had, in effect, made support a one-way street. Giving comfort was as much a way of working through grief as was learning to accept it, and he had denied Ray that.

He was on his feet in an instant. "Ray." The younger man paused in the doorway, his shoulders slumped, but didn't turn around. Rounding his desk, Peter stepped up behind him and turned him around so they were facing, resting both hands on the occultist's shoulders. When Ray wouldn't meet his eyes, Peter placed a finger under his chin and gently raised his head until he did. "No, I'm not okay," he admitted. "I'm not okay by a long shot, and I don't know when I ever will be okay again." He sighed heavily. "I guess I will, but it doesn't feel like it right now."

Ray nodded, his brown eyes bright with compassion and unshed tears. "Let me help, Peter."

Peter's eyes swept over the youthful, earnest face, his features softening with genuine affection. "You have helped, pal. More than you'll ever know." He pulled the younger man to his chest in a sudden, fierce embrace. "God," he whispered, "if I had lost you, too..."

"You didn't," Ray insisted immediately, hooking his good arm around Venkman's neck and squeezing tightly. "You didn't, Peter. I'm here. I'm always here for you. Please don't forget that."

Peter tightened his arms. "I will never forget that, Ray," he promised. "But just bear with me, okay? I'm not ready to... let go yet. I know I should, but I just can't. Not yet." A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. "Some psychologist, huh?"

Ray's hand gently squeezed the back of his neck. "You've said it to me a hundred times, Peter," he whispered. "We each deal with things in our own way and in our own time."

Venkman smiled faintly. "Maybe I should start listening to myself when I talk," he murmured, with a flash of dry humor.

"Maybe you should." Ray eased his grip and pulled back, studying the psychologist's face. "You give some awfully good advice, Doctor Venkman."

Peter lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. "So I didn't sleep though all my classes."

"You didn't sleep through any of your classes, and you know it," Ray objected immediately, responding to the familiar banter. But the brief reference to Columbia brought back memories for both of them, and Peter saw his own reflected in Ray's shadowed eyes.

He moved his hands back to the younger man's shoulders, squeezing gently. "Don't ever think I'm shutting you out, Ray. You're my family, just like Egon was, and we're in this together. I could never make it through this without you."

Ray's face lit up, and for the first time since they entered that forest in Idaville Peter saw a spark of enthusiasm in his eyes. It was as if someone had stripped away the lifeless mask that had covered his face since he woke up in the hospital to discover Egon was dead. For the first time in days, Peter saw 'his' Ray Stantz and the reason why was so clear to him he could have kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. He knew deep within himself the reason he made the effort to get up each morning and face life head-on was standing right here in front of him. The pain of his loss was an ever-present companion, but when he looked at Ray he somehow managed to bear it. If Ray was the reason he got out of bed each morning, then he saw instantly the reverse was also true.

The younger man reached up and covered one of Peter's hands with his own. "You're my family, too," he stated firmly, his face reflecting the truth of his words.

Peter nodded. "I know," he said solemnly. "And we'll get through this, Ray. We'll get through it together. I promise."

Stantz drew in a shaky breath. "I know we will. But right now...it just hurts!" Peter gently massaged the tense shoulders under his hands, nodding in unhappy agreement. The younger man dropped his eyes. "Sometimes I don't think I even want to bust ghosts anymore," he admitted reluctantly. "It just doesn't feel right without Egon." He looked up suddenly, eyes wide with remorse. "Is that terrible, Peter?"

Venkman shook his head, smiling sadly. "Not terrible, Ray. Human. Sometimes I feel that way myself." He had felt that way, and it had taken a long, harsh argument with himself to get past it. "But Egon put his heart and soul into this business, and he was no quitter. I don't think he'd want us to quit just because we miss him, do you?"

The auburn head shook slowly. "No."

"I think we owe it to Egon to at least give it a try," Peter continued gently. "Then, if we decide we don't want to keep the business going without him, it won't be giving up--it'll be moving on. And Egon would understand that."

Relief flooded the expressive brown eyes and the first genuine smile Peter had seen in days touched Stantz' lips. Ray had apparently been struggling with his feelings for days, convincing himself that his reluctance to go on busting ghosts was some kind of betrayal to Egon's memory. Peter wasn't looking forward to their first bust, either--he wasn't sure he was going to be able to hold it together the first time he looked around and didn't see the tall physicist by his side, trusty PKE meter in his hands--but he knew he had to try, and he knew Ray, Winston and Janine had to try, too. If they didn't, that would be a betrayal of Egon's memory.

Suddenly he found himself caught up in a tight embrace. "Thanks, Peter," Ray whispered next to his ear.

He smiled, reaching up to tousle the auburn hair. "Any time, Tex."

Stantz gave him another squeeze, then stepped back, his eyes solemn. "You look tired," he observed with disarming directness. "I know you haven't been sleeping," he continued, picking up speed, "and I know you don't like taking any kind of drugs, but maybe you should call Doctor Michaels and--"

"I think I'll just try some warm milk tonight," Peter interrupted, then added with a teasing smile, "Or maybe borrow Mr. Stay Puft."

Probably realizing he wasn't going to make any headway in this particular subject, Ray punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Only if I have a camera in my hands." Then the tentative humor faded almost immediately from his eyes. "Seriously, Peter, try to get some sleep, okay? If we're going to start going on busts..."

He didn't finish the thought, and Venkman nodded his understanding. "If we're going to start going on busts, we all have to be at our best. Come on, Ray, you know me. Sometimes I have insomnia, but I always work through it." He shrugged. "This time might take a little longer, but I'll be okay."

The younger man studied him intently for a moment, then nodded his acquiescence. "I'm going to hold you to that," he said quietly, then turned and left.

Peter stood there for a good long moment after he had left, then sighed and returned to his desk. Back in his chair, he re-opened the file he had closed so hastily and picked up the dropped photograph, staring at the three familiar images frozen in time. It was a long time before he opened another file.

***

I'm dead. That was Egon Spengler's first coherent thought as he slowly returned to awareness. He must be dead. That would explain the total lack of pain and feeling in his body. If he were still alive, there would definitely be pain. Lots of it. Even though his mind was still playing catch-up, the memory of his last moments alive came back with incredible clarity. He could almost feel the texture of the brittle rocks beneath his fingers, could see Peter's face, white with fear and horror, and hear his friend's frantic scream mingling with his own as their fingers lost contact and he plunged to his death.

His memory locked onto that image of Peter, the fear in his eyes, the desperation on his face as he struggled to maintain their precarious contact. Then the class six had attacked again and Peter... A sudden sharp pain lanced through his soul. Oh, Peter. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault.

"Mr. Spengler? Mr. Spengler, can you hear me?"

Egon's eyes flew open at the sound of the unfamiliar voice by his ear. Voice? If he could hear a voice, then perhaps he wasn't dead. Somehow he had managed to survive his fall. He must be in a hospital. Fuzzy white assaulted his vision and he registered the fact he wasn't wearing his glasses at the same instant he remembered he couldn't feel his limbs. The shock of that realization sent fear racing through him. "I'm paralyzed. My god, I'm--"

"No, you're not paralyzed," the voice broke in quickly. "The numbness will subside in time; for now it is necessary. The weakness will also pass. They are both results of the... medication."

Egon tried to turn his head toward the voice, but a wave of dizziness made him squeeze his eyes shut with a moan.

"Slowly, slowly," the voice chided gently. "You've been badly injured, Mr. Spengler, and your body is still healing. You must take things in their own time."

He kept his eyes tightly shut, fighting to regain his equilibrium. "My friends," he managed. "Where are my friends? Are they all right?"

"I'm afraid we don't have that information."

This was a different voice, a deeper voice and it made Egon's eyes snap open again, although he still couldn't make out anything except the blurry image of what must have been a white ceiling above him. "I fell into the water," he said urgently. "Was there anyone else?" Oh god, what if Peter...?

"You were the only one in the water," the new voice assured him hastily. "We managed to get you out, but we don't know what happened to your friends."

It took every ounce of what precious little strength he possessed, but Egon forced himself to turn his head very slowly in the direction of the two voices. He blinked several times trying to bring everything into a sort of fuzzy focus. He wasn't sure he succeeded. All he could make out were two tiny human-like forms standing about a foot away.

"Who are you?" he rasped. "And where am I?" Without thinking, he tried to raise his head. "And where are my friends?" Dizziness hit him again and he dropped his head back with a frustrated groan. "Damn."

"Mr. Spengler, you must--"

"Where are Peter and Ray and Winston?" he ground out. "Are they all right? What have you done with them?"

"We have done nothing with them, I promise you." It was the deeper, authoritative voice. "If you promise to lie still, we will tell you everything we know.

It seemed he had little choice. "Tell me," he ordered, wondering why his voice sounded so weak.

"My name is K'el; this is Graem. I am the leader of this community and Graem is the healer. He is the one who saved your life."

Despite his promise to say still, Egon turned his head again, squinting at the two tiny figures. His hand itched for a PKE meter. "What...are you?"

He made out the beginnings of a smile on the face of the one with dark eyes. "Your ancestors, Mr. Spengler, probably would have called us Fees."

Fees. The German word for ... "Fairies," he murmured. "You're fairies. Of course." He had been rescued by imaginary creatures out of ancient folklore. That news might have shaken a lesser mortal, but Egon Spengler had seen and experienced too many supernatural occurrences in his lifetime to let something like that throw him off his stride. "How long have I been here?"

"Five days. You and your friends fought the evil creature that killed three of our people. When we saw you fall into the river, we rescued you and brought you to our world so Graem could treat you. We owed you a great debt for ridding us of that monster. After we brought you here, I sent out others to see if we could locate your friends, but they were already gone." Spengler felt a very light touch on his arm. "I'm sorry. All we know is they left this forest."

"Then...they were all right?" he asked hopefully. "They weren't injured or--"

"We don't know," K'el repeated. "All we know is they are no longer here." He paused. "I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you more."

That wasn't good enough. "I've got to get in touch with them," he said suddenly, trying to push himself up. "I've got to make sure they're all right. I've got to let them know I'm all right. I've got to--" He fell back as his strength abruptly gave out. As hard as he struggled against it, he could feel his consciousness slipping away. "I've got to talk to them," he insisted, his voice a faint shadow of its usual deep bass. "Peter...Peter thinks... He'll blame himself. And Ray..." With the last of his rapidly waning strength, he moved his hand, trying to reach out to the two fairies who were watching him with growing concern. "They think I'm dead," he repeated frantically. "You've got to help me. Please." Then, suddenly, his strength was gone. Somewhere far away he heard his own voice, very faint, pleading, "Please help me. Please help..." And then he heard nothing.

Graem laid a hand on the human's wrist and frowned at the rapid, weak pulse he registered. "Another session like that," he murmured, "and we'll lose him. He's fighting the healing."

"He was worried about his friends," K'el said quietly. "They believe he's dead." He sighed heavily and turned away, clasping his hands behind his back. "I can't bring them here, Graem. I've already placed our community in possible danger by bringing one human here; I will not compound that."

Graem nodded. "I understand, K'el. But isn't there something we can do? We understand about friendship, you and I. We understand about loss and grief. It doesn't seem right to let those humans grieve when their friend is alive and will be returned to them."

"No, it doesn't." K'el's tiny body shook with another sigh. "But what would you have me do? I could send someone after them in the guise of another human, but what would that accomplish? They wouldn't believe us if we told them he was alive without some kind of proof. And, as I said, I will not bring more humans here--not for any reason." Walking up behind K'el, the healer squeezed his shoulder in support. He knew how difficult that decision had been for K'el. They both wanted to help this man, but the welfare of the community must prevail. "However..." K'el straightened suddenly and turned, his dark eyes sparkling with new life. "There may be something we can do. When will he awaken again?"

Graem glanced at his human patient. "No more today," he decided. "Perhaps tomorrow, but he may not be completely lucid. He's even weaker than I had anticipated." His mouth tightened. "It was a risk using our medicine. Perhaps I shouldn't have--"

"You saved his life," K'el interrupted firmly, then added with a slight smile, "It's up to him now, and from what we've seen so far he doesn't seem like a quitter."

Graem conceded the point with a nod of his head and a brief smile of his own. "You had an idea," he reminded his leader.

The brown-eyed fairy nodded. "Perhaps there is something we can do, at least to ease our guest's mind about his friends." When Graem looked at him expectantly, K'el's eyes twinkled. "Do you think Laena would fancy another 'adventure'?"

Graem broke into a broad grin, chuckling softly. Of all the fairies, his daughter, Laena, most enjoyed her forays into the world of the humans. She called those journeys her 'adventures' and went whenever she could cajole K'el into granting her permission. Laena was headstrong and fearless, but carried with her a sense of fun and mischief that endeared her to all. But even without those traits--and even despite the fact she was his daughter--Laena was special. She had been blessed with The Gift that only touched a female of their race once every fifth generation.

"I think Laena can be persuaded to take another journey," Graem said dryly. "It's a good plan, K'el," he added, the humor fading from his tone. "She can bring word back about the other humans, and perhaps she can even find some way to ease their minds--without compromising the community."

K'el nodded. "I hope so," he said seriously. "I don't like to think of them mourning or in pain when there is no cause." He turned away, heading for the door. "I'm going to send for Laena. As long as your patient is asleep..." He paused in the doorway, turning to level a stern gaze at the healer. "Why don't you take the opportunity to get some rest yourself?"

Graem cocked his head, studying the lines of weariness etched into his friend's face. He doubted their leader had had any more sleep or rest than he had over the last few days. "Why don't we both take the opportunity?" he asked pointedly.

His only answer was a tilted grin as K'el disappeared through the doorway.

***

Gently lowering the eyelid she had just raised, Laena stood on the shoulder of the sleeping man and studied his long, thin features. This one was tall, even for a human, but he had a pleasant face and his eyes were the clearest blue she had ever seen. Fairies' eyes were blends of all different colors, but Spengler's eyes were as blue and clear as the sky on a beautiful summer's day.

She let her eyes travel over his features. But all that, of course, was only the outside of the man. Nothing could be told from his appearance. Unlike many others of her kind, Laena did not fear humans; rather she relished her contact with them in her various guises. She had known many humans who looked pleasant and friendly who turned out to be not that at all. There was only one way to tell with them.

Leaning forward carefully, she stretched to place her tiny palms against his temple and closed her eyes.

Much later, she climbed down from his shoulder and sank cross-legged to the floor. These sessions always drained her somewhat, and Spengler's mind was the most complex she had ever explored. K'el would be delighted to discover their guest was a physicist; he had an insatiable curiosity about science. She had been seeking information and memories that would lead her to Spengler's three human friends, but along with that she had tapped into other memories as well. Laena frowned slightly, playing the images through her mind. There were incredible scenes of four men fighting all manner of creatures and beings, things even her vivid imagination couldn't begin to conceive. That would bear looking into--apparently there were more adventures in the human world than she was aware of; but for now she put those images aside and concentrated on the matter at hand.

Laena massaged her temples, grinning ruefully at the headache these sessions always precipitated. She knew them all now--Egon Spengler, Peter Venkman, Ray Stantz and Winston Zeddemore. She knew what they looked like, where they lived, what they liked to eat, even the books they liked to read. From her careful probe of Spengler's mind she knew that Ray, the one who so enjoyed comic books, was the youngest of their team and the one whose emotions ran closest to the surface. She knew that Peter, the psychologist, had been this man's friend since they had been in college and it was he who had been with Spengler when he had fallen into the river.

Laena closed her eyes as that particular memory washed though her mind. One vivid scene remained impressed on her mind: the image of a man with dark hair, his green eyes filled with desperation, his handsome face white with fear as he strained to maintain his grip on Spengler. She sighed. Egon Spengler was deeply worried about his friends and what they might be going through in the aftermath of his presumed death. And he was particularly concerned Venkman would be blaming himself for not being able to save him.

Opening her eyes, she climbed to her feet and studied the stretched out form of the blond human, her features softening. His love for his companions was great, the bond that linked them as strong as any she had ever seen. This, indeed, was a man worthy of their help. With a determined spring to her step, she left the room to report to K'el.

***

"How're you holding up, son?"

Winston looked around as a large hand dropped on his shoulder and managed a wan smile for his father. "I'm doing okay, I guess." He looked across the firehall to where Peter and Ray were standing. "I'm more worried about how Peter and Ray are doing."

'Big Ed' Zeddemore followed his son's gaze, nodding in agreement. "Losing a friend is never easy," he said, squeezing Winston's shoulder, "but those college boys..." He shook his head. "They were closer than most, weren't they?"

Winston nodded, his eyes still on his two friends. This had been a hard day for them all. He thought they had said good-bye to Egon when they left Idaville behind, and he hadn't thought it was possible to hurt more than he hurt then...but he'd been wrong. Today at the memorial service he had hurt worse. And so had Peter and Ray.

Ray had planned a beautiful service. Winston knew Egon would have loved it. At first Stantz had wanted them all to say something about Egon, but Peter had gently talked him out of that, realizing perhaps that Ray would never be able to handle it. So at Ray's request, Peter had given the eulogy himself. He had stood alone in front of the friends and relatives who had gathered and spoke eloquently and lovingly about the man they had all lost. Zeddemore didn't think he would ever forget the look on Venkman's face or the sound of his voice as he delivered that eulogy. Peter Venkman was a master at designing fa�ades to present to the world at large, depending on what he wanted the world at large to see on any given occasion. He wore a cloak of invincibility like a second skin, often using humor and irreverence to conceal deeper feelings. Everyone in that room knew that, just as everyone knew today there had been no disguises, no masks, no camouflage of his feelings. No shields protected Peter from the grief of the others or concealed his grief from them. And that, Winston reflected, may have been the finest and most loving tribute Peter could have given his lost friend. Egon would have been proud of him.

Winston shifted his gaze to take in the considerable number of people milling around the firehall. Peter had introduced him to several of their acquaintances from Columbia, but he had already forgotten their names. He knew Egon's Uncle Cyrus, of course, but none of the Spengler cousins who had flown in from the midwest. Something that weighed heavily on them all was the fact they hadn't yet been able to get word to Egon's mother. Earlier Winston had overheard a heated discussion between Peter and Uncle Cyrus about who was going to break the news to her when she finally did call. Peter had been fiercely determined it would be him--"That's the way Egon would want it," he had insisted privately to Winston--and Cyrus had finally acceded.

Winston was glad Janine's family and Ray's Aunt Lois had come, and was grateful his own parents had come. They had tried to locate Peter's dad but, to no one's surprise, had been unsuccessful. Winston felt a flicker of irritation that the elder Venkman wasn't here. Unless he had been holed up in a cave somewhere he had to have known what happened to Egon, and it would have meant the world to Peter to have his father here.

Winston glanced around at his own father, grateful for the support he was showing today. His dad was bluntly unenthusiastic about his choice of a career, but when he needed him, Big Ed was always here.

Reaching up, he gave the older man's hand a quick pat. "I'd better go see if Peter and Ray need anything."

Ed nodded, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "And I'll be around in case you need anything."

"You guys okay?" Winston slipped between his two friends and draped an arm across each man's shoulders.

Venkman glanced at Ray before answering. "Winston, do you think we can start moving people out of here?" he asked in a low voice. "I think Ray's had about as much as he can take, but I can't get him to go upstairs and get some rest. He's not gonna leave until everybody else does."

Zeddemore nodded. "Sure," he said immediately. "I'll talk to some people, and my dad will, too."

"So will I." Janine moved up to stand beside Peter, her chin held determinedly high. "Everyone will understand, Doctor V."

Peter took her hand and squeezed it tightly. "How you holdin' up, Melnitz?"

Janine's eyes were a little too bright but she was in control, just as she had been all day. She had done everything she could to help Ray with the reception and Winston didn't think she had stopped moving all day. Once everyone was gone and there was nothing left to be done, it was all likely to come crashing down on her.

"I'm okay," she said staunchly. "Come on, Winston, let's see what we can do about clearing out this place."

As she and Winston moved away, Ray seemed to come to life. He grabbed Peter's arm. "Don't tell them to go because of me--"

"You're out on your feet, pal," Peter broke in, gently pulling his arm free and slipping it across the occultist's shoulder. "And it's not just you. Janine looks like she's about ready to drop, and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure how much more of this I can take, either." He looked around at the blur of faces. "If one more person walks up to me and says, 'I'm so sorry...'" He gave his head an impatient shake. "I know that sounds pretty lousy--"

"No, Peter." Ray turned slightly so he could see Venkman's face. "I know what you mean." He sighed heavily. "They mean well; I guess they just don't know what else to say. And they are sorry."

"Yeah, I know." He tightened his arm, bringing the younger man closer. "But they don't understand," he murmured. "They can't understand." Then he forced that thought out of his mind and looked down at the occultist. "Will you go get some rest now? Please?"

Ray looked at the crowd which, due to the efforts of Janine and Winston and his father, was beginning to thin. "What about you?" he asked turning back to Peter. "You need to get some sleep, too."

"I know." The psychologist flashed a quick grin. "And maybe tonight will be the night. But I'm not the one recovering from a concussion and a pile of broken ribs. So will you please go grab some sack time? I'll help Winston and Janine straighten up, then I'll be up, too."

Ray didn't look like he believed that for one minute, but he was probably too tired to argue. With a reluctant nod, he turned away and headed for the stairs. But Peter saw him stop and say a few words to Winston before continuing on his way, and from across the room Zeddemore gave him a look which told him he was probably going to be going upstairs fairly soon whether he liked it or not.

With a sigh and a polite smile, he turned back to the guests who were waiting to say their good-byes.

***

Peter woke with a gasp, his sob catching in his throat. For long moments he lay motionless in the darkness listening to his uneven breathing and the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. When he was satisfied he hadn't disturbed Ray or Winston, he raised a hand and wiped away the wetness on his face, then sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. And, like every other night when his sleep had been shattered like this, he came to face to face with Egon's empty bed.

Dropping his head, he squeezed his eyes shut and threaded his fingers through his tangled hair. He had come to hate the night, to dread the thought of sleep. The sound of Ray's soft snoring told him the occultist, at least, was getting some much-needed rest, and for that he was grateful. Ray's sleep had been erratic these last few days, riddled with nightmares, but he was so tired tonight Peter hoped he'd sleep the night through without incident.

He grimaced. No such luck for him. His 'incident' had appeared right on schedule, just as it had every night since...since he had let Egon die. He tightened his fingers, ignoring the pain as he squeezed thick strands of hair. "Why?" he whispered, choking on the word. "Why couldn't I save him?"

"Aww. Poor Peter." Venkman's head shot up as a cold, ectoplasmic hand awkwardly patted his shoulder, and found himself staring into Slimer's big, sad eyes. "Peter okay?"

Slimer bobbed anxiously in the air, wringing his hands as he waited for reassurance that at least a part of his world was still all right. Peter drew a deep, shaky breath. Ray needed him to be all right, Janine needed him to be all right, and even Slimer in a way needed him to be all right. Therefore, he was all right. "Yeah, Spud, Peter's okay," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

The green ghost studied him closely. "Sure?" he asked nervously.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Now go on back to sleep before you wake the others."

Slimer floated in the air in front of him a few more moments, then turned away with a little sigh. He had recently taken to sleeping above Egon's empty bed and he returned there now; within seconds, he was asleep again.

Peter looked around to make sure Ray and Winston were still asleep as well, then eased his feet into his slippers, grabbed his robe and silently left the room.

The late night air was cool and damp and Peter shivered a little deeper into his light robe while all around him the lights of Manhattan vied for attention with the stars overhead. He walked slowly across the roof of the firehouse, stopping at the ledge, and tilted his head to stare at the sky, remembering how Egon had liked to come up here to study the stars.

This was a favorite haunt of his, too, but for a different reason. He had begun coming up here when he needed to think or wanted to be alone. Sometimes, of course, he only thought he wanted to be alone. A small, sad smile touched his lips. Egon always seemed to be able to tell the difference.

The stars blurred suddenly as his eyes filled. "God, I miss you, Spengs," he whispered. "You have no idea what kind of hole you've left in my life." Dropping his head suddenly, he stared unseeing through the darkness at the sidewalk below. Almost of its own volition, his right hand stretched out and curled tightly around invisible fingers. "Why?" he exploded. "Why couldn't I hold on?" He slammed his fist down on the top of the ledge, ignoring the splinters of pain that shot up his arm. "If I had just held on!"

Something brushed against his ankle from behind. Startled, he swung around, raising his hand to snag the proton rifle that wasn't there, and came face to face with empty air. He had just let out a breath when an insistent "mew" brought his eyes down with a snap. There, sitting in front of him, head cocked and tail flicking insistently in a bid for attention, was a small, sleek calico cat.

"What the hell..." Crouching down, Venkman reached out and gently scratched behind the cat's ears. Immediately, the feline rubbed its head against his hand, purring contentedly. "What's the matter, pal," he asked softly, "are you lost, too?" The cat seemed to bob its head in agreement and Peter smiled, scooping up the small animal into his arms. Standing, he watched in some amusement as it made itself at home. "How the heck did you get up here, anyway," he murmured. "Fly? Fall off a witch's broomstick?" He glanced overhead. "Wouldn't be the first time," he said to himself, remembering the time a witch's familiar had literally dropped into their lives. "Well, no matter how you got here, I can't leave you up here, can I? What would you say to a bowl of milk?" It must have been his imagination, but Peter could have sworn the cat's purring got louder. "I'll take that as a yes," he decided and headed for the door.

He had the cat nestled warmly against his chest as he crept past the open bedroom door, but a low moan from inside stopped him in his tracks and he turned abruptly, striding quickly into the room. Dropping the cat onto his own bed, he headed straight for Ray's. The occultist was moving restlessly, moaning softly as tears leaked out from under his closed lids.

Peter's jaw was tight as he eased down on Stantz' bed, remembering how they had played out this scene every night since their return home. "Ray? Ray, come on, wake up. You're having a dream." Gripping the younger man's right shoulder, he gave it an insistent shake. "Wake up," he repeated, firmly this time.

Ray's eyes flew open and, still not awake, he stared at Peter, his eyes blank and unfocused. "Egon?" he whispered hopefully.

"No," Venkman said quietly, "it's Peter. Come on, Ray," he repeated, giving the shoulder under his hand another shake, "wake up."

Stantz blinked a few times and Peter felt the younger man's shoulder sag as awareness abruptly settled in. "Peter," he whispered and quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I was dreaming--"

"Yeah, I know," Venkman broke in gently. "So was I." Rousing himself from his memories, he managed a bright smile for the younger man. "Hey, I've got a surprise for you." Without giving Ray a chance to react, he jumped to his feet and scooped up the cat from his bed. "Look what I found on the roof."

Ray sat up in bed, hastily wiping away the remainder of the tears lingering on his face. "You found her on the roof?"

Pleased the diversion was working, Peter settled back down on Ray's bed and held out the purring creature. Stantz gathered it in immediately, smiling with delight when the ball of multi-colored fur snuggled against his chest. "She likes me."

Peter smiled, stroking the soft fur with one finger. "How do you know it's a she?"

"Bet me," Ray grinned and carefully turned the animal over.

Venkman cocked an eyebrow. "Okay, but that doesn't tell me how you knew."

"I can just tell," Ray replied, rubbing his cheek against the fur. "How'd she get on the roof?"

"Beats me. Guess it wouldn't hurt to run a PKE meter over her just to make sure she really is what she appears to be."

"I can do that," Stantz agreed. "Can we keep her, Peter?"

The psychologist pretended to consider the request. Actually, if Ray wanted to keep a pet cow on the premises at this point, as long as it kept him focused on something other than his grief, it was okay with him. "Why don't we talk about it in the kitchen," he whispered, nodding toward the snoring Zeddemore. "I promised our guest here a little midnight snack."

Nodding happily, Ray clambered out of bed and, still cradling the cat, padded out of the room. With an affectionate shake of his head, Peter followed.

By the time Peter made it to the kitchen, Ray already had the cat on the counter and a PKE meter in his hand. "She's clean," he announced, his brown eyes shining. "She's just a cat."

"Well, I don't know about her being just a cat," Venkman murmured, rubbing the feline under her chin. "I'd still like to know how she got on that roof." Bending down to eye level, he gazed into the solemn emerald eyes. "Don't see any cape, so I guess you're not super cat."

Ray was busy pouring a bowl of milk. "People were in and out all day. I guess she could have slipped in and we just never saw her."

Peter didn't bother to point out that even if that were so, it didn't answer the question of how she got to the roof when he was sure no one had opened that particular door. "Yeah, I guess so." He watched as Stantz sat the bowl of milk down on the counter. The calico trotted over, gave the milk an experimental sniff, then lowered her head and daintily lapped the white liquid.

"Wow, she was really hungry," Ray commented. "There's no tag or collar; she must be a stray. Can we keep her?"

"She looks awfully well-cared for to be a stray," Peter mused, "but..." He looked at Ray's hopeful face and grinned, "Why not? We'll watch the papers and if no one's advertised any lost cats in the area, I guess she's ours."

His boyish face alight, Ray gently stroked the soft fur covering the cat's spine. "You hear that, Patches? You've got a home with us now."

"Patches?"

Ray looked up, an embarrassed smile on his face. "She reminds me of a cat I had on the farm when I was a kid."

"Oh, when you were a kid," Peter teased, ruffling the tousled auburn hair. "Okay, Patches it is." He studied the small creature for a few moments, somewhat nonplussed when Patches stopped drinking and looked up, apparently returning the favor with her knowing emerald eyes. After a moment of seeming intense scrutiny, she returned her attention to the milk.

"What the matter, Peter?"

Venkman gave his head a shake. "Nothing, I guess. It's just...she almost seems to understand what we're saying."

"Cats are like that," Stantz told him. "Some of them even think they're human." He grinned when Patches finished drinking and sat back to take a bath. "See. She's even got better table manners than you do."

Peter's reply died on his lips as Patches paused in her washing to look up at him. Venkman could have sworn she was laughing.

"Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?"

All three heads in the kitchen turned as Winston sauntered into the room.

"Did we wake you, Winston?" Ray asked immediately. "We didn't mean to--"

"Woke up on my own," Zeddemore said easily. "What've we got here?" he asked, scratching Patches behind her ears. "Hi there, little lady."

"How come everyone can tell but me?" Peter complained.

"Isn't she great?" Stantz said eagerly. "Peter found her on the roof."

Winston turned a questioning look on Venkman, but Peter only shrugged. "Don't ask. She must have suction cups on her feet." He watched as Ray again picked up Patches and the cat nestled snugly against his chest. Glancing up, he caught Winston's eye and shared a smile with the older man. It was good to see Ray smile again.

"You guys planning on making a night of it?" Zeddemore asked with a barely perceptible nod toward Stantz.

Peter was fairly certain his own sleep was shot for the night, but he was satisfied Ray had been removed from his nightmare long enough now so he could probably go back to sleep easily enough. "Nope, just being hospitable to our guest here. How about it, Ray? Ready to hit the sack again? We'll have to find a place for Patches to sleep--"

"She can sleep with me," Ray told him. "I don't mind. Come on, Patches. I'll introduce you to Slimer while we're at it. You'll like Slimer..." He paused in the doorway and turned back, his gaze resting on Venkman. "Peter?"

"I'll be up in a few minutes."

Stantz looked at him a moment longer, then glanced at Winston. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Zeddemore nod.

After Ray left, Winston cocked an eyebrow at Venkman. "Okay, Pete, where did you really get that cat?"

"I really got that cat on the roof," Peter informed him with a wry smile. His eyes traveled to the empty doorway, his smile fading. "I wish I'd've thought of it sooner."

"Hey." Zeddemore walked over and clamped a hand on his shoulder, shaking it gently. "Will you stop trying to carry the whole world on your shoulders? You can't think of everything and you can't do everything yourself. We're in this together, you know."

Venkman conceded that point with a rueful grin. "I know."

"I know you know it," Winston retorted pointedly. "Try to remember it." Ducking his head slightly, he gave the psychologist a critical once-over. "You're starting to look like shit, man," he observed. "Why don't you come on back upstairs and try to get some sleep?"

The brown-haired man shook his head. "I can't go back up there, Winston. Not tonight." He looked away, drawing in a deep breath. "Just can't do it."

Winston's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Been having some bad ones haven't you, Pete?" he asked with quiet understanding. Peter hadn't slept a night through since Egon had been killed, and Winston was sure he knew why. He had been having a few nightmares himself, as had Ray, but Peter's situation was beginning to worry them both. He had known Peter long enough to know the psychologist had two modes of sleep--twelve hours at a time or none at all--and they had all seen Venkman through bouts of insomnia, but this time it was going on far too long.

Venkman flicked his gaze to lock with Zeddemore's for an instant, then let it slide away, but not before Winston saw the haunted look in his green eyes. "Just one," he answered tightly. "The same one, over and over and over..." He laughed suddenly, a short, bitter laugh. "Can you believe it, Winston? All those years spent in dream research--I was pretty good, too. Hell, I taught classes on dream control. And here I am having the same dream over and over again like clockwork, and all I want to do is..." His voice faltered. "All I want to do is change the ending, and I can't. All I want to do in this damn dream is to save Egon." When Winston opened his mouth, Peter held up a hand to stave him off. "And before you say it, I know I can't change what happened by changing a dream. I just thought if I could change what happened in that dream..." Faltering, he let his hand drop limply to his side.

"You thought you could find some peace?" Winston suggested gently.

The psychologist nodded tiredly. "Yeah, I guess."

Winston spent some time studying Venkman's fatigue-lined features. He knew Peter was still grappling with what he imagined as his culpability in Egon's death, and he very much doubted anything he or Ray said or did was going to ease that burden. Only time could do that...and he wasn't even sure of that.

"I think I'll just go crash on the sofa for tonight." Venkman forced a grin. "Maybe I'll get lucky and find a Bogart movie on the late, late show."

"Want some company?" Zeddemore offered.

Peter looked at Winston for a long moment, then produced a rueful smile. "Thanks, pal," he said sincerely, "but I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company tonight."

Zeddemore tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You gonna be okay?"

"Insomnia is only a temporary situation, Winston--"

"I'm not talking about insomnia. I'm asking if you're going to be all right."

Peter drew a deep breath and let it out shakily. "I don't think I've ever hurt so much in my entire life," he admitted, his eyes dark with shadows. "But I'll be okay. We'll all be okay." He managed a brave smile. "And that's a promise from Doctor Venkman."

***

Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce were the only real Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, Peter thought drowsily. Accept no substitutes. Stretching out, he settled a little deeper into the cushions on the sofa as the second installment in the Sherlock Holmes all-night movie marathon began. His body was positively screaming for sleep, but his mind wouldn't slow down long enough to allow him to let his guard down. Raising a hand, he rubbed his eyes wearily. If he didn't get some sleep soon...

A gentle thud on his stomach brought his head up with a snap and he found himself staring into a pair of solemn green eyes.

"Patches. What the heck are you doing down here?" The calico cocked her head as if studying him for a moment, then calmly walked up his chest and settled down in the space between his head and the back of the sofa. After the first startled moment, Peter just grinned and shifted a little to give the cat more room. It looked like he was going to have company tonight whether he wanted it or not.

The first yawn hit him a few minutes later. Soon after that his eyes slid shut. The last thing he remembered was feeling a gentle pressure against his temple.

***

Peter woke slowly, indulgently, stretching his muscles with a deep, gratifying sigh. He hadn't slept like this in days. He actually felt rested and refreshed, a pleasant change from what had become his normal sluggish state. Sighing once again, he slowly opened his eyes, expecting to find himself stretched out on the sofa in the TV room. But this wasn't the TV room.

Venkman sat up abruptly, his eyes darting quickly around, then cursed under his breath. So. He wasn't awake after all. This was just another dream. His jaw tightened as he recognized his surroundings. He was back in Idaville, just outside that cursed forest. Well the hell with this. As far as he was concerned he'd made this trip once too often already, he'd be damned if he was going to make it again.

But before he could force himself out of his dream, something landed in his lap with a soft thud. Somehow he wasn't too surprised to find Patches sharing his dream. She had been with him when he fell asleep and his subconscious must have simply taken her along for the ride. Still, it made a deviation from the way the dream usually started out.

Patches leaped off his lap, trotted a few feet ahead then turned back and looked at him expectantly, the tip of her tail flicking impatiently. He shook his head stubbornly. "Forget it, lady," he said flatly. "I'm not budging. I've already seen this movie and I don't like the way it ends."

With an irritable shake of her head, the calico bounded over to his side and took a swipe at his pants leg. "Hey!" he protested. "Stop that!" But instead of stopping she sank her teeth into the material and actually gave it a tug. Then she again trotted away and waited for him, prowling back and forth agitatedly.

Venkman frowned, watching the cat's movements. He had started to believe if he had this dream one more time he'd go insane. But even though it was starting out like the same nightmare that had been plaguing him night after night, Patches was a new element. And the dream itself felt...different somehow. Maybe it could be different this time. Maybe this time when he ended up on top of that cliff with Egon's hand in his...maybe this time it would be different. Or maybe...maybe this was something new. "All right, Doctor Venkman," he muttered, "let's just take a little stroll through your subconscious and see what might be growing there."

Swallowing hard to steel himself, Peter slowly climbed to his feet. If this turned out to be just one more replay of his failure, he wasn't sure he could take it. "Okay, Patches," he said grimly, "it's show time." The cat's green eyes locked with his briefly, then she quickly turned and led the way into the forest.

Peter could feel perspiration breaking out on his face as he followed the cat's brisk pace, but he knew it wasn't due to exertion. Neither was it exertion causing his palms to sweat or his heart to beat like a sledgehammer. He would be deep in REM sleep now, his eyes moving rapidly under closed lids, and he was probably moving restlessly on the sofa, maybe even muttering to himself. The forest was just as dark and cloying as he remembered it and it seemed to go on forever. Patches changed course suddenly and waited impatiently for him to catch up. He jogged after her and fought his way through some tangled underbrush. The path was a little different, but soon, he knew, he would burst out of the forest and find himself on that ridge. That was always where he ended up.

Then, suddenly, he did burst out of the forest. Only this time he wasn't standing on the ridge. This time he found himself standing in a beautiful meadow of wildflowers. The grass was green and lush under his feet and every color imaginable burst forth from the myriad flowers that seemed to cover every inch of ground. Nearby he could hear the burbling sound of running water. He caught his breath, not from any lack of oxygen but from sheer astonishment. This wasn't his dream. It wasn't--

"Peter."

The sound of that familiar bass voice nearly killed him. He reminded himself harshly this was just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. Slowly, steeling himself with every ounce of strength he possessed, he turned. There, standing on the bank of a small stream, was Egon. He was in his blue uniform, just as he had been in Idaville, but his proton pack was laying in a heap by his feet and his glasses were gone. There were bruises and healing cuts on his face and he seemed to be standing upright with an effort.

"Egon." That one simple word caught in his throat and dissolved into a sob. He had seen Egon in his dream every night since his friend had died, but he had been unprepared for seeing him like this...alive. What the hell was his subconscious trying to do to him? He clenched his hands into fists, repeating harshly, "It's just a dream, just a dream, just a dream..." It didn't matter. With a choked cry, he lunged at the image of his friend.

The form he slammed into stumbled at bit at the force of impact, but it was solid and the arms that immediately wrapped around him, pulling him close, were substantial. But it was a dream. No. It was Egon. "Egon," he breathed, squeezing for all he was worth. "God, I miss you." The warmth of the body he was clutching couldn't be dreamt, could it? He felt his throat close with fresh tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry--"

The arms around him tightened abruptly. "Don't be an idiot, Peter," the familiar bass voice rumbled calmly, warm with affection. "It wasn't your fault, and you know that." He felt long, slender fingers gently stroke his hair, then tighten. "You must know that."

Venkman scrubbed his face against the material of his friend's uniform. "If it had been you," he whispered, his voice muffled against Egon's chest, "you would've found a way to save me."

"You're being an idiot again," Spengler chided gently and pulled away, holding Venkman at arms' length. He was squinting slightly to bring Peter into focus, but that blue gaze was level and intense...and it was one Peter had never thought to see again. "It wasn't your fault," he said firmly, his fingers tightening on Peter's arms. "No matter what happens, Peter, remember that and believe it." Egon's eyes lingered on the psychologist's face for a moment longer, then he suddenly pulled him to his chest once again. "Come back for me, Peter," he whispered urgently. "I'm still here. Come back for me."

Peter felt something like hysteria bubble up inside him. Was Spengler reproaching him for not trying harder to locate his body? "Egon, we tried to find you," he explained desperately. "We tried. Winston, the police, they looked everywhere for you. But they couldn't find you!"

"Promise me, Peter. Promise me you'll come back."

Venkman raised his head to stare at the image of his friend, looking into the face he thought he'd never see again, and he nearly broke. Was this Egon's way of communicating from the Otherside, trying to tell him his body was there to be found, asking him to go back to Idaville to put his earthly remains to rest?

Tears blurred the well-known likeness and Peter dashed them away quickly, determined to keep this entire scene as clear as possible in his memory. "I promise, Egon," he said firmly, surprised at the steadiness of his voice. "I'll go back and I'll find you. You've got Doctor Venkman's word on that."

A soft smile touched the other man's fatigue-lined face a brief instant before the image abruptly disappeared.

The solid arms around him were gone. The reassuring body supporting him was gone. Egon was gone. Peter stared at the empty space in front of him in horror. He was gone. Just like that, he was gone. It wasn't fair. Damn it, it wasn't fair! He needed to talk to Egon, to say things he hadn't had a chance to say before, he needed to assure himself his friend was at peace. "No! Egon! Egon!"

He came awake with a gasp, the sound of his shout still echoing in his ears and he could feel wetness on his cheeks.

"Peter! Peter, wake up!"

Someone was shaking him, pleading for attention. His vision slowly focused and he found himself staring into the worried face of Ray Stantz. "Ray?"

The occultist squeezed his arms. "Are you okay? You were yelling and--"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Peter struggled to sit up and found himself tangled in a blanket. He didn't remember doing that. Ray helped pull the confining cover away and he swung his legs off the sofa, sitting up and dropping his head into his hands. God, what a dream.

"We wanted to let you sleep, but you sounded like you were having an awful nightmare." Venkman felt Ray's arm ease around his shoulders. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Peter nodded automatically, surreptitiously wiping the remnants of tears from his face. "Yeah, I'm fine. Really." Calling up a smile, he reached up and patted one of Ray's hands. "Thanks for the rescue."

The younger man smiled. "Just returning the favor." He studied Venkman's face for a moment, his smile softening. "I think you got more sleep last night than you've gotten all week. Maybe your insomnia's over now."

Peter wasn't so sure, but he forced a smile. "Yeah, maybe. What time is it?"

"Almost noon. Coffee's on, and Winston's making hamburgers for lunch." As if on cue, Venkman's stomach growled for attention and Ray chuckled. "Sounds like he's just in time, too." When Peter didn't respond, Ray tightened his arm and gave the psychologist's shoulders a little squeeze. "Maybe you ought to talk about that dream, Peter," he suggested gently. "The way I talk to you about mine."

Venkman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Not right now, pal," he said quietly. "But thanks." He clambered to his feet before Ray could pursue the topic. "I'm going to grab a shower, then I'll be ready for those hamburgers."

He stood in the shower, head bent, letting the hot water pound his back. All dreams seemed real. That was a given. But this particular dream felt... different. He raised his head and allowed the water to hit him full in the face. There were a number of possible explanations for this particular dream: The memorial service hadn't been easy on any of them and that could certainly account for his active dreaming state. Guilt almost certainly entered into it, too; but then, that was a given. Then there was the added despair of not finding Egon's body. Having earthly remains to care for and lay to rest was in most cases the last thing you could do for anyone. They had been denied that and, even during the memorial service, it had lent an air of unreality to everything that had happened since Idaville. Having Egon appear to him in a dream to ask him to come back for his body could easily be explained by the remorse he felt at being forced to leave his friend's body behind.

Reaching out, Peter turned off the water and pushed the hair out of his eyes. Those were all possible, logical, perfectly rational explanations. So why was it he didn't believe any of them? Why was it he knew he had to go back to Idaville?

***

Peter moved silently in the semi-darkness of the garage area, gathering up the supplies he thought he might need. After a moment's consideration, he added a length of rope to the other items in the back of Ecto.

He hadn't been able to think about anything else all day except going back to Idaville. He had shut himself up in his office all afternoon on the pretext of going through Egon's files, but all he had done was think about that dream and what it might--or might not--mean. But no matter what explanation he came up with, the results were the same: he had to go back and he had to search for Egon's body. By now he knew would never be able to rest until he at least tried. Besides, he had promised Egon. His mouth twisted wryly. Or had he? Perhaps he had only promised a manifestation of his feelings of guilt. With an impatient shake of his head, he carefully closed the car door.

He hadn't told Ray or Winston, of course. They would both only think the same thing he would have thought if either of them had come to him with a story like that. Venkman leaned his arms against the back door, dropping his head with a sigh. "So you're overreacting to a dream," he murmured. "You're grasping at straws. You're in a heavy state of denial. You're out of your mind." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "So what else is new?"

The room suddenly burst into light and Peter spun around to find Ray standing at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the light switch.

"Peter? What are you doing?"

Venkman's eyes slid shut. So much for a clean getaway. "Nothing, Ray. Go on back to bed."

But Ray padded into the room in his slippers. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Peter retorted, a little too sharply. "I just couldn't sleep, that's all." When the younger man glanced into the back of Ecto, then turned a questioning gaze on him, Venkman shrugged. "I was just going to go for a drive." But the lie sounded flat even to his own ears and he saw immediately Ray hadn't bought it for a minute.

"A drive?" Ray took his eyes away from Peter and spent some time studying the supplies in the back of Ecto. When he turned back to Venkman, Peter saw the bewildered hurt in his brown eyes. "Just how far were you planning on driving, Peter?"

Venkman made a helpless gesture with his hand. "Look, Ray, I just needed to get away for a few days, that's all." That part was pretty much true, but he couldn't hide the edge of desperation in his voice. Being caught here like this made him feel like he was running out on his buddies, and he hated lying to Ray. "You can understand that, can't you?"

The auburn-haired man nodded slowly. "Yes, I could understand that," he said quietly, "if that's all it was. But that's not what this is all about or you would've told me; you wouldn't be sneaking out of here in the middle of the night."

"I'm not sneaking out," Peter protested, then fell silent at the steady look Ray was levelling at him. "Okay, I am sneaking out," he admitted wearily, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for lying and I'm sorry for..." He made a vague gesture toward Ecto. "...this."

Taking a step closer, Ray laid a hand on his arm. "You don't have to apologize," he said. "Just tell me what's going on." He tightened his fingers in a supporting squeeze. "I know how awful this has been for you."

"It's been awful for all of us," Venkman said flatly.

"I know. But you've been trying so hard to do everything yourself so Winston and I don't have to."

The psychologist smiled wryly. "Therapy, Ray, not heroics. Keeps me too busy to think."

Stantz' brown eyes shone with affection. "Tell that to someone who believes it." Then his face sobered. "Peter Venkman doesn't run out on his friends in the middle of the night," he said in a voice firm with absolute certainty. "Talk to me, Peter. Please. Just tell me what's going on." His voice caught slightly. "I want to help you, but I don't know how."

"Hey, hey, none of that," Peter insisted immediately. "You are helping me, Ray, every single day. Believe that."

The younger man nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Venkman's face. "Okay. Then let me help this time, too."

Peter dropped his head and heaved a sigh. "Ray, I'm not sure...I mean...I don't think..." Looking up, he saw the determined set to Stantz' jaw and sighed again. "This one isn't easy," he warned.

"I didn't think it was," Ray said simply and waited expectantly.

The psychologist hesitated a moment longer, then nodded reluctant acquiescence. "Okay," he agreed. "Let's go to my office and I'll tell you all about it."

"...and that's where I was going. Idaville." From behind his desk, Peter raised his eyes and looked at Ray for the first time since he had sat down and begun telling the occultist about his dream. Ray's normally expressive face was carefully composed, but Peter saw the shock in his eyes.

"Do you think..." Ray's voice was a whisper. "Do you think it was really Egon...reaching out...?"

Venkman dropped the pen he had been fingering and rubbed his aching temples. "As opposed to just another nightmare or my overactive imagination or cold pizza for supper?" He shook his head wearily. "I don't know, Ray. It just seemed so...real somehow." He dropped his hands suddenly. "Hell, it even felt real."

"You think it was real, don't you?"

He shook his head. "I honest to God don't know," he answered, and picked up the pen again, frowning at it as he clicked the refill in and out. "All I do know is that I've got to go back there. And before you tell me that's crazy, I already know it. But I've got to go back."

"I know."

Peter's head shot up at that quiet declaration. Ray was watching him steadily, his brown eyes serious. Venkman let out a silent sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging slightly. This hadn't been as bad as he had feared. "Thanks, Ray," he said softly. "I didn't want to involve you in this--"

"But I'm going, too."

"No." He shook his head firmly. "No way."

The occultist sat forward in his chair, his mouth set in a determined line. "You're not going without me," he said flatly.

Venkman tossed down the pen and stood up. Walking around the desk, he pulled the other visitor's chair over in front of Ray and dropped down into it, leaning forward. "The odds are," he began carefully, "we aren't going to find anything. Winston was out there with the cops for two days, and you know he would have done everything possible." He paused and took a bolstering breath, then continued gently, "And even if we do find Egon's body, it's been over a week, pal. Think about...about what we'd find."

Peter saw the terrible knowledge in Stantz' eyes and could see it terrified him, but the occultist only lifted his chin a little higher. "I know. And if you think I'm going to let you go there alone, then you're crazier than everybody thinks you are."

It took Peter less than a heartbeat to decide Ray meant exactly what he said. This time all his coaxing and wheedling and bluffing would do no good. This time Ray wasn't about to budge. He felt his affection for this man spread warmth through his chest. Losing Egon had dealt him a blow from which he wasn't sure he would ever recover. But if he did eventually heal from that terrible wound, he knew without a doubt it would be due to Ray. Reaching up, he clapped a hand on the younger man's shoulder and gave it a little shake. "You're a good man, Ray Stantz," he said with real pride, "and I'm glad you're my friend."

Ray's whole face lit up at this declaration and he sat up a little straighter in his chair. "And I'm glad you're mine," he said earnestly. "What do we do first?"

Raising his eyes, Peter cast a rueful look over his head. "I guess we do what I should have done all along and call this team together for a conference." He started to climb to his feet, but stopped when Ray laid a restraining hand on his arm.

"Even if it was just a dream, Peter," the younger man said evenly, meeting his eyes, "and we don't find anything, I still think we have to try. But if we can't find anything, I know Egon would never blame us for that." His fingers tightened slightly. "You know that, too, don't you?"

"Yeah, Ray," he answered honestly, "I do know that. But we owe it to him to give it our best shot." He stood and Ray came with him. "Let's go wake Winston. If we leave in a couple of hours we can be in Idaville by daylight."

The two men left the office and climbed the stairs, neither of them noticing Patches had been sitting just outside Peter's office, head cocked as if listening to every word.

***

Egon Spengler's first conscious reaction was a sense of overwhelming relief. He drew a deep breath, held it for a few moments, then released it slowly, savoring the sensation. His mind was clear. Finally. He had disturbing, jumbled memories of a mind that couldn't hold one coherent thought for more than a few seconds at a time and a body that refused to respond to his commands. He had feared he was paralyzed, or that his mind might always be as sluggish and confused as it was then. But each time he had awakened for brief moments, he had been reassured by two male voices--the fairies Graem and K'el, he recalled--that it was only the effects of the 'potion' and would wear off in time. His eyes still closed, Spengler curled and uncurled his fingers, wincing at the stiffness in his joints. At the time, he had not believed them. He knew he had been drugged--or perhaps even placed under some sort of spell to slow his body metabolism down to barely functioning--and he hadn't been certain he would survive the 'cure'.

"Doctor Spengler, you are awake."

Egon opened his eyes slowly and blinked to clear vision that refused to sharpen, remembering only then that his glasses had been lost. Sighing, he turned his head in the direction of the voice and squinted, bringing two tiny figures into semi-focus.

The one with gold-rimmed glasses resting on his nose walked closer and laid a hand on his wrist, presumably checking his pulse. "You should be feeling better."

Egon nodded carefully, pleased when dizziness didn't overtake him. "Yes, much." While his limbs still felt heavy and he felt generally listless and weak, his mind was as sharp as ever. "Thank you," he added solemnly. "You saved my life."

The brown-eyed fairy smiled. "It was a life worth saving," he replied. "You and your friends may have saved countless lives in our community by your actions."

"My friends," he said immediately. "You said--" He frowned, grasping desperately at a fleeting memory. "You said you were contacting them--you said you'd let them know I was all right--"

"Slowly, Doctor Spengler, slowly," Graem cautioned as Egon struggled to sit up. "You're still very weak."

"Do they know?" he demanded, falling back in disgust as his body gave up the effort. "Do they know I'm all right? Have you brought them here?"

K'el stepped up to join Graem, his eyes solemn. "We can't bring them here, but they are coming back to the area where you were...lost."

"They're coming back here? Then they know I'm alive?" Egon felt relief wash over him. "Thank God," he breathed. "You don't know them. You don't know what they would have been putting themselves through. And Peter," he added, wincing at the thought. "You don't know him. You have no idea what he would be doing to himself--"

"They don't actually know you're alive," K'el explained carefully, "but they are coming back."

Egon frowned in some confusion. If they didn't know he was alive, then why on earth would they be coming back?

"They're coming back to search for your body," K'el told him, reading his puzzlement correctly.

Spengler drew in a sharp breath. "Oh, no--"

"It was the only way," the fairy leader broke in quickly, compassion in his dark eyes. "I could not risk bringing them here, so we had to devise some way to bring them close enough so we could return you." Reaching out, he patted one of the physicist's bare arms. "I know they have been through a terrible ordeal, but it will soon be over."

"How soon?" he asked hoarsely. The thought of Peter, Ray and Winston going through--how many days had it been?--thinking he had been killed, curled his stomach in knots. And the thought of Peter blaming himself... "How soon?" he demanded again, pushing himself up on his elbows. This time he managed to balance himself there and he maintained the position with grim satisfaction.

"As soon as you're well enough," Graem began.

"I'm well enough now," he said flatly and with a flourish threw the cover off. To his total mortification he discovered he hadn't a stitch on. Feeling his face flush, he quickly replaced the blanket, avoiding the amused smiles on the fairies' faces.

Graem cleared his throat. "We had to remove your wet clothes when we brought you here," he explained, barely managing to keep a straight face. "They've been repaired and I'll have them brought to you immediately." With a muffled chuckle, he turned and left.

"Thank you," Egon mumbled. Smoothing the wrinkles of the cover with one hand, he cleared his own throat. "Sorry. I didn't realize..."

"We had to collect every spare blanket in the community," K'el told him, trying not to smile, "and it took nearly a day to stitch them all together. I'm afraid we're simply not prepared for human guests."

"This human guest," Egon told him seriously, "is very grateful. I would have died if not for you." A sudden thought flickered through his mind and he peered anxiously at the fairy. "I seem to remember...you told me my friends were all right."

K'el nodded. "Yes. One was injured, but--"

"Who?" he asked immediately. "How badly?"

The fairy frowned slightly as if trying to remember something. "The youngest one. I can't remember his name."

"Ray," he supplied. "But he's all right?"

Again, K'el nodded. "I'm told he is healing and will be fine." A slow smile touched his face. "Otherwise, the others would not allow him to make the journey they are now making."

Feeling his strength returning slowly, Egon pushed himself up so he was sitting up, careful to keep the blanket where it belonged. That much was true, he was certain. Peter would never allow Ray to undertake the journey back to Idaville if he weren't up to it. "How do you know all this? And how are you getting them here? And how do you know their names? And how--"

"So many questions," K'el said dryly, "but I'm afraid I can give you few answers. We fairies must have some secrets from you humans, if for no other reason than to protect ourselves."

Spengler considered that for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Of course." He hesitated, then asked hopefully, "I don't suppose, after this is all over, that I could possibly come back here to... study you further?" What he wouldn't give for a PKE meter!

The brown-eyed fairy shot him a look of surprised amusement. "Turnabout being fair play?"

It was Egon's turn to look surprised. "You mean... Of course," he murmured, comprehension dawning. "I remember from my folklore that fairies are supposed to have the power to change shapes, and can appear as humans or even animals."

The leader of the fairies eyed him craftily. "In my studies," he returned, "I have found folklore often has a basis in fact."

The blond man nodded his understanding. "I see." He was beginning to wonder if he had ever encountered any of these little creatures before in other guises. "You said you were going to take me to my friends." He looked around, squinting to try to bring his surroundings into focus. "I'm not sure where I am."

K'el smiled. "Where few humans have ever been, Doctor Spengler. You're in Fairyland."

Egon grimaced. The scientific opportunity of a lifetime and he couldn't see it and had no instruments to evaluate it. "And how do I get out?"

"Do you believe in magic, Doctor?"

The physicist's eyebrows climbed. "Not usually," he answered warily.

***

Peter eased Ecto to a stop and turned off the ignition, silencing the engine. Without really planning it, he found he had pulled into the same spot Winston had parked the day Ray had been released from the Idaville Hospital and they had come out here to say good-bye to Egon.

Earlier when he and Ray had gone to wake Winston back at the firehouse, the black man had listened in silence as Peter told him about the dream and his plans to return to Idaville. When he finished, Winston had climbed to his feet, announced he would be ready in ten minutes, and began dressing. There had been no questions, no trying to talk him out of it, no asking him to reconsider. Like Ray, he had offered his total and unconditional support. Peter took the keys out of the ignition and slipped them into his pocket. He didn't know what he would do without these two guys in his life. He had known all along, of course, how important they were to him. But since losing Egon, he had come to a new awareness of just how much they meant to him and how much he depended on their support.

"Pete?" A warm hand on his shoulder started him out of his thoughts as Winston leaned up from behind. "You okay?"

Now they were finally here, Peter was strangely reluctant to make the first move. He didn't consider himself even the least bit psychic, despite his almost uncanny knack of sometimes knowing when the phone was going to ring, and he had clinically reasoned out the emotions that had probably triggered his dream. But deep inside himself he knew--he knew--they were going to find Egon's body here today; and he knew he was going to be the one to discover it. He bobbed his head briefly. "Yeah," he lied, "I'm fine." He turned to the silent man by his side. "Ray?"

The auburn-haired man nodded firmly, although Peter could sense the tenseness fairly radiating from him. "I'm ready."

"Okay, then." Peter took a breath to bolster himself, then opened the door. "Let's do it."

Standing on the riverbank, Peter was only too aware of the cliff that loomed behind them. Beside him, he saw Ray glance over his shoulder, then quickly turn back. He couldn't bring himself to look.

"We'll cover more ground if we split up." Before Ray could protest, he continued briskly, "Winston, you keep Ray with you and see to it he doesn't overdo anything." Turning to Stantz, he silenced the younger man's protests with a stern look. "You haven't been out of the hospital long enough for me to let you run around out here by yourself, pal." Gesturing toward the bridge that spanned this part of the river, he said, "I'll take the other side. Winston says it widens about a mile downstream and there are some pretty steep banks and little coves we'll have to check, so keep in touch with the radios."

"Peter." A light hand on his arm stopped him and he turned around to confront solemn brown eyes. "Are you sure about this?" the occultist asked, his gaze locking with Venkman's. "I could come with you..."

Peter felt a sad smile touch his lips. Reaching out, he gripped Ray's good arm and gave it a squeeze. "Not this time, Tex," he said softly. "But thanks." Before he could change his mind, he spun around and quickly strode away.

Peter walked like a man driven. Head down, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, mouth set in a grim line, he set a brisk pace for himself, eyes searching every inch of ground for some kind of sign. It hadn't escaped him that a carpet of wildflowers seemed to stretch out in every direction. There had been wildflowers in his dream, too. But what of it? It certainly wasn't unusual to find wildflowers at this time of year. What if his 'vision' had been nothing more than a grief-inspired dream? What if he had dragged Ray and Winston out here--and raised Ray's hopes for finding Egon's body and laying him to rest--all for nothing?

Nearly out of breath from the gait he had forced upon himself, he stumbled to a halt, bending over and dropping his hands on his thighs. All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. The words of Edgar Allan Poe's poem flashed through his mind and he sighed brokenly, suddenly feeling tired beyond belief. Time to face reality. That's all it had been, really--just a dream. He fought down the urge to cry. "Congratulations, Pete, ol' boy," he muttered. "You've finally lost it for real this time."

Weighed down with despair, he straightened wearily, momentarily too drained and dispirited to move in any direction. When he sensed rather than heard movement behind him, he turned, expecting to find some furry woodland creature nibbling at the grass. But what he saw sent his heart skidding through his chest. Standing behind him--where he himself had been only minutes before--was Egon Spengler. He was dressed in his uniform, but it had been patched and stitched in several places, and the physicist himself was missing his glasses and looking around dazedly. Just as it had in Peter's dream, Spengler's proton pack lay discarded by his feet.

Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream... He was losing his mind. He had to be. "Egon?" Peter's uncertain voice caught in his throat, but the sound made the blond man's head turn quickly in his direction.

"Peter? Peter, is that you?" Spengler was squinting furiously in an apparent attempt to bring the world into focus, but Peter was rooted to the spot in shock, afraid to answer, and afraid not to. "Peter?"

The physicist took an unsteady step in his direction and stumbled over the unseen proton pack. That spurred Peter into action. Rushing to the fallen man, he dropped to his knees and grasped Spengler's arms, feeling solid flesh and bone beneath his fingers. "Egon? Talk to me, Spengs," he demanded, not able to control the quiver in his voice. "If I find out this is just another dream or a hallucination or that I really am going crazy--"

"It's no dream, Peter. It's really me." Both men were on their knees facing one another and Egon reached out an unsteady hand and clamped it on the psychologist's shoulder, gripping it tightly. "And it's really you," he breathed, the relief making his normally steady voice quaver.

Peter's eyes swept the familiar features, taking in the healing cuts and bruises and the unnatural paleness of Spengler's skin. Emerald eyes locked with blue as he searched urgently for affirmation this was no hallucination or dream or even some ghost. But no ghost could emulate the desperate hope and relief he saw in those blue eyes. And no dream would be shaking his shoulders like this, slender fingers digging into his flesh as if testing his reality. It was Egon, alive. "But how--" It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. It was Egon--alive. With a cry of relief and joy, Venkman flung himself at the older man, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he felt Spengler's long arms close around him. "Tell me you're really alive, big guy," he whispered, his voice breaking completely. "Tell me you're really okay."

He felt Egon's hand move up his back to grip his hair, giving it a gentle tug. "I'm really alive, Peter. I'm really okay."

The psychologist buried his head in Egon's shoulder, reveling in the feel of the warm, solid body in his arms. "Promise."

Egon's fingers tightened in his hair. "Yes, Peter," he said gently, "I promise."

Peter let out a long, shuddering sigh that dissolved into a sob. Egon was alive. "Oh god, oh god, oh god..." That was all Peter could get out as the grief he had been living with for so long finally erupted with all the severity to be expected from a man of his deeply-felt emotions. His throat closed and his mind blanked and all he could do was cling to the physicist, hardly daring to believe it was over, it was okay, Egon was alive.

The intensity of Venkman's sobs shook them both, and Spengler bit his lip until he tasted blood as he held the younger man, trying to help him ride out the storm of his emotions. He had known his friends would be grieving as deeply for his loss as he would have been for one of theirs. It had pained him acutely that he had been unable to spare them any measure of that anguish. But while he had worried about them all, his sharpest concern had been for Peter. Even if he had not understood this complex and caring man so completely, even if he had not known Peter Venkman so well and so thoroughly, he would have worried. And with good cause, he noted grimly. The loss of any one of their team would be a devastating burden to bear; adding guilt for imagined culpability in that death would make it unbearable.

"Oh, Peter," he whispered, dismay at his friend's suffering mixing with real awe at the reaction his reappearance had triggered. He ran a hand up and down his friend's quivering back. "It's all right. It's over now. It's over."

"I missed you."

Venkman's muffled voice brought a sad smile to Egon's lips. Raising a hand, he gently ruffled the already untidy brown hair. "I missed you, too."

Peter's body shook as he gulped in a huge, unsteady breath. "God, Egon, when I saw you go off that cliff, I thought--I thought--" His voice cracked.

"I know," Spengler said quickly. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm so sorry."

"I thought you were dead!" Venkman pulled away from the other man, his overwhelming relief and joy at finding Egon alive and well suddenly mutating into a surge of anger. Peter's face reflected his own surprise at the outburst, but it was if a dam had burst and he was unable to hold back the torrent of angry words. "We all thought you were dead! Where the hell have you been! Why didn't you call? Why didn't you let us know?" Venkman's voice rose to a near-shout. "Do you have any idea what we've been going through?!"

Spengler's eyes locked with Peter's and the stark combination of confused anger and despair he saw brought on a fresh wave of sorrow. "I couldn't." His fingers dug painfully into Venkman's arms as he tried desperately to explain. "I was unconscious until just recently, and there was no way..." His normally calm voice suddenly cracked. "I tried to get word to you, Peter, I wanted to get word to you, but I couldn't. Please believe me--"

Venkman's face drained and he abruptly pulled the physicist into a hard hug, effectively cutting off his apology. "Of course I believe you. It's okay, Egon, it's okay," he insisted quickly. "I didn't mean all that crap. You know that, don't you?" He sighed shakily. "You know how I get when I'm...scared."

A soft smile touched Spengler's lips. "Yes, Peter," he said, knowing very well, "I know."

"All that matters," Peter continued in a firmer voice, "is that you're alive and we got you back. That's all that matters." Then he stiffened suddenly. "Oops. Ray and Winston."

"Ray and Winston?" Egon pulled back, his face brightening with anticipation. "They're here?"

"You bet they're here." Quickly, the psychologist retrieved the radio from his belt. "Ray. Winston. Come in."

"Peter?" Ray's voice came back instantly. "Are you okay? Did you find...something?"

"I found something all right," Venkman retorted cheerfully, "and I'm going to let him tell you all about it." With a flourish, he handed the radio over to a grinning Egon. "Tell 'em, big guy."

Still weakened from his ordeal, Spengler's hand shook as he gripped the radio and Peter immediately steadied it by wrapping his fingers around the slender wrist. "Ray? Winston?"

There was a moment of stunned silence from the radio, followed by a burst of excited voices and questions falling over one another. Shooting Spengler a smile, Peter reclaimed the radio and broke into the clamor. "It's really Egon, guys, and he's really alive. I didn't believe it either, but he's here. Just find yourself a bridge, then follow the river like I did and you can't miss us. We'll wait right here for you." When the other two assured him they would be there within minutes, Venkman sat the radio down by his side and turned back to Egon, his face tightening in worry. "You look like you've had a pretty rough time of it," he observed quietly, gripping the physicist's shoulders tightly. "You sure you're okay?"

"Just tired," the blond man assured him.

"Then rest," Peter ordered promptly, and shifted around so he was behind him. He pulled the unresisting Spengler back so he was supporting him, wrapped his arms around him, and sighed in sheer contentment.

"I wish I could have gotten word to you that I was all right, Peter," Egon said regretfully. Reaching up, he squeezed one of the arms encircling his chest. "I know how I would have felt if it had been one of you."

Peter was silent for a long time, then rested his forehead against the thick blond hair. "Let's just say you should never underestimate how important you are to us, Spengs," he murmured. "Or to me," he added, his voice still holding a slight tremor.

Egon tightened his grip around the younger man's wrist and the two revelled in the comfort of familiar companionable silence for a few moments. Then Peter shifted slightly, and Spengler could almost sense him preparing to shift the mood as well.

"So, Egon," Peter spoke up brightly, "you want to tell me why you're still alive? Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but if you're going to tell me you were rescued by little green men from outer space..."

Egon grinned to himself. Leave it to Peter to know just when they both needed a reprieve from the flood of emotions engulfing them, and leave it to him to find a way to provide it. "Actually," he retorted in his best professorial tones, "I was rescued by fairies."

Peter ducked his head around to try to get a look at him. "Fairies, Egon? I think I'd be more likely to believe the little green men."

"Fairies, Peter," Spengler repeated firmly. "They pulled me out of the river, took me to their world and kept me alive by placing me in some sort of stasis condition. Actually, it was quite fascinating. Well," he amended, "what I can remember of it anyway. And what I could see."

"Ah, that reminds me." Peter dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out Egon's spare pair of glasses, settling them carefully onto the physicist's nose. "Better?"

Spengler sighed. "Much." Then he twisted around, one brow lifted inquiringly. "Peter, you couldn't have known you were going to find me here alive." He gestured toward the glasses. "Why did you...?"

A wry smile twisted Venkman's lips. "Who knows? I'll tell you about it later, when you're up to it."

"Speaking of people being up to things...is Ray all right?"

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "How did you know about Ray?"

"I'll tell you about that later. Is he okay?"

Venkman's smile softened. "He got banged up on the job and gave us one helluva scare, but, yeah, Ray's okay."

Egon's eyes were still on the psychologist's face. "And what about you, Peter?"

Venkman's smile faltered a bit, but he reclaimed it almost immediately, giving Egon a little squeeze. "Peter's okay, too. Now."

"Egon!"

"It is Egon! Egon, my man!"

First Ray and then Winston fell on him with cries of elation. Tears streamed down Ray's face as he threw his arms around him. "You're alive, Egon! You're really alive!"

"Yes, Raymond," Spengler said gently, raising his hand to lightly stroke the auburn hair, "I'm really alive."

Ray gave little ground when Winston, his dark eyes shimmering with tears, eased a muscular arm around Egon and pulled him into a fierce hug. "Oh, man," he murmured, "I don't know how you did it, but I am so damn glad to see you."

Peter, who hadn't loosened his own hold on Egon from behind, spoke up with a grin. "Egon was rescued by fairies, guys."

Ray's head flew up, his eyes shining with excitement. "Fairies? Really? Wow, Egon, that's great!"

Stantz' delighted exclamation caused them all to burst out laughing and they tightened their holds on one another. It was a long time before any of them let go.

"...and the next thing I knew, I was standing in that meadow where Peter found me." Egon paused in his narrative and took a sip of hot tea. He was comfortably ensconced on the sofa back at the firehouse after a stop at a hospital at his friends' insistence. While he was being checked out, Peter had placed a call to Janine and she was waiting for him when Ecto pulled into the garage. He felt a self-conscious smile tug at his lips as he recalled how she had flown into his arms; then his smile faded as he remembered her tears...and the tears of the others. He felt warmed and awed at the same time by the knowledge of how deeply he was loved and how much pain they had all suffered because of his presumed loss.

He let his gaze travel around the room, taking in the faces that surrounded him. Janine was snuggled up beside him on one side and Ray and Winston were seated on the other. Slimer was so excited he was bobbing up and down in the air all over the room, sometimes literally bouncing off walls. Across from him, in a straight chair turned around, sat Peter, arms resting on the back of the chair. Peter. His eyes were resting on Egon, as they had been ever since the two of them had been reunited in that meadow, but Egon sensed the psychologist's thoughts were turned inward right now. Spengler's brows furrowed slightly. Peter had been unusually quiet on the ride back from Idaville and even now he was silent, not jumping in with any of the usual outrageous remarks Egon would have expected from him.

"How do you think they did it, Egon?" Ray's eager question broke into his thoughts. "You said you were in some sort of stasis. Do you think it was some kind of fairy magic?"

"Most likely," he agreed, then sighed. "I wish I could have had the opportunity to study them further."

"It doesn't matter how they did it," Janine proclaimed, snuggling up even closer, if that was possible. "All that matters is they saved your life, Egon."

"She's right, m'man," Winston spoke up, leaning across Ray to pat Spengler's arm. "We thought we lost you for good. Personally, I don't care how those fairies did it as long as we got you back."

"Winston's right about that," Ray agreed immediately, "but I'd still like to know more about them. Like, where did they keep you, and how did they get you back to that meadow? How did they know so much about us? And how did they know we were going back to Idaville--today?"

"Yeah, that's right." Zeddemore sat forward suddenly, his face thoughtful. "It's almost like they knew about Peter's dream."

All attention suddenly shifted to Peter and Egon saw the same question in the psychologist's eyes that Ray had just raised.

"What do you think, Peter?" Ray asked eagerly. "Wow," he exclaimed, his eyes widening with a new thought, "do you think your dream was some kind of fairy magic? Do you think they somehow made you have that dream so we'd go back to Idaville and find Egon? Maybe they--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Peter protested, holding up a hand. "Slow down, Ray." Stantz obediently clamped his mouth shut and waited impatiently for an answer. Venkman sighed and admitted grudgingly, "Okay, the fact Spengs is alive and well and sitting here in front of us is enough for me to believe in fairies. I'll even clap my hands to prove it." Resting one arm on the back of the chair, he pointed a finger at the occultist. "But you are not going to make me believe Tinkerbell came in here and put a dream into my head. No way."

"Maybe not," Winston conceded, "but how do you explain it, Pete? You have to admit that dream was one helluva coincidence."

"Yes, Winston, I will admit that." Venkman's eyes rested on Egon. "The truth is," he said, suddenly somber, "I can't explain it."

Ray looked from Peter to Egon, then back at Peter. "Do you think," he asked hesitantly, "it was Egon...communicating with you?"

"What about it, big guy?" Peter asked with a strained smile. "Were you sending me little psychic messages while you were being held captive in Fairyland?" His tone was deliberately light, but Egon knew it was no casual question. Peter could be cavalier when it came to ferreting out answers to the kinds of questions Egon and Ray raised in the name of science, but when it came to his own profession, he knew Peter wouldn't be able to rest until he came up with a satisfactory answer to explain that dream. So far, there were no explanations.

Spengler shook his head. "I don't remember much of it, but even when I was conscious, I was disoriented and the times were so brief I can't believe that could be the answer."

Something flickered across Venkman's face, but it was gone so quickly Egon wasn't sure what he had seen. "There you have it, Ray," Peter said and lapsed into silence.

"But what if a fairy really was here?" Ray suggested. Peter shot him a sharp look and he continued quickly, "They can change forms. That means they could appear as humans or animals--"

"Animal!" Zeddemore snapped his fingers and he, Ray and Janine all chorused, "Patches!"

In turn, Peter and Egon echoed, "Patches?"

"She was a stray cat who showed up one night," Ray explained eagerly.

"And come to think of it," Winston added, "where is Patches? I haven't seen her since we got back."

Stantz' eyes were as big as saucers. "Hey, do you think Patches--"

"You ran the PKE meter over her, Ray," Peter reminded him. "Remember? She was clean."

"Oh." Ray's face fell. "I forgot." He looked to Egon for confirmation. "If she was a fairy, we should have been able to pick up some sort of reading, shouldn't we?"

"I would say definitely," Spengler retorted.

The occultist sighed in disappointment. "I guess that leaves Patches out."

"Even if she was a fairy, that still doesn't explain the dream," Winston murmured.

Again, all eyes traveled to Peter who made a wry face. "If you're looking for answers, guys, I don't have any."

"You will, Peter," Ray spoke up, his voice full of conviction.

One side of Venkman's mouth curled upward. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal. I hope you're right."

"I don't know why you're so upset about that dream, Peter," Janine said, her adoring eyes on Egon. "Who cares why you had it? All that matters is it led you to Egon."

Peter's eyes locked with Egon's and Spengler saw the warmth in their green depths. "When the lady's right, she's right," he said softly. "That's all that really matters." Then he straightened, his tone lightening. "And I think, ladies and gentleman, that we have kept Doctor Spengler away from his bath and bed long enough. What do you say, guys? Let's let the big guy get some sleep."

"He's right, Egon," Janine agreed immediately. "You should rest." Throwing her arms around him, she hugged him fiercely. "I'm so glad you're back," she whispered.

Without hesitation, the physicist wrapped his long arms around her slender frame and pulled her close. "Thank you." Remembering her tearful welcome earlier, he tightened his arms. "And I'm sorry you had to go through all that, Janine."

The secretary clung to him as long as she thought she could get away with it, then reluctantly pulled back. "As long as you're okay," she said, standing and quickly wiping her eyes, "that's all that matters."

Standing also and moving to her side, Winston draped a friendly arm around her shoulders. "Come on, Janine, I'll walk you to your car."

"And I'm going to go start that bath for you, Egon," Ray announced, and jumped to his feet.

Spengler stood, too, albeit more slowly, surrendering to the stiffness of his joints. "That's really not--" But Ray was already bounding up the stairs. Turning to Venkman, Egon sighed. "All this really isn't necessary."

"Sure it is," Peter said and walked over until he was standing in front of the physicist. "And so's this." Without another word he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around Egon, and pulled him into a hard hug. Immediately Egon reciprocated, smiling in contentment. It was good to be home, and it was good to know his friends' ordeal was over. Peter's arms tightened until Egon's bruises protested, but the physicist rode it out in silence, his smile fading. There was something urgent about Venkman's embrace, something almost desperate in the way he seemed to need the reassurance of Egon's presence.

"Do you know how many times I saw you go off that cliff?"

That choked whisper in his ear made Egon abruptly tighten his own arms. Not for the first time he thought about how much worse this whole experience had been for Peter. As bad as it had been for Ray or Winston or even Janine, it had been Peter who had been with him in those final moments, it had been Peter's fingers grasping his, it had been Peter's scream that had sounded in his ears when they lost contact. And it would have been Peter who blamed himself for not being able to save him.

"Do you know how many times I felt your fingers slip through mine?" Peter's voice broke. "Do you know how much I hated myself for letting go?"

"Letting go?" Egon heaved a sigh that was a mixture of exasperation and affection. "Peter Venkman," he chided softly, "is this what you've been doing to yourself while I was gone?" He moved his hand up and down the younger man's back, feeling the quiver as Peter strained to keep control of his emotions. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

"Nope." Venkman's voice was muffled against his chest and Spengler smiled sadly.

Then his smile faded. "Peter, you know--you must know--there was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened."

Peter's breathing was becoming ragged as he fought against breaking down completely. "I should have tried to save you!"

"How?" Egon asked immediately. "By jumping off that cliff after me?" Gently, he peeled the younger man away and gripped his shoulders tightly, ducking his head to peer into the glistening, haunted eyes. "Do you honestly think that's what I'd want--for you to throw your life after mine?" He saw the reluctant acknowledgement in Peter's eyes and continued firmly, "You made the right decision. You went to Ray and Winston's assistance; because of you Ray is alive and that class six is safely contained where it won't hurt anyone again. It wasn't just the right decision, it was the only decision possible under the circumstances." Flexing his fingers, Egon gently kneaded the knotted muscles of Venkman's shoulders. "And I know how hard that was for you, Peter. I know how hard it would have been for me if I had been forced to make such a decision."

"It wasn't hard," Peter whispered tonelessly. "It was impossible. To just leave you like that..."

Spengler nodded his understanding. "I know," he said solemnly. "But you had no choice." He searched Peter's face, seeking answers from someone who knew how to conceal them better than anyone he knew. "It's important you understand that, Peter."

The brown-haired man sighed shakily. "I think a part of me did, Egon...at least after a while. But..."

When he didn't complete the thought, Egon finished it for him. "But understanding it wasn't enough. And knowing I wouldn't blame you wasn't enough either." Slowly, the brown head shook. "So the only one who needs to forgive you is you." He paused. "Peter." When Venkman reluctantly raised his eyes, Egon met his gaze squarely. "Forgive yourself for whatever it is you imagine you are guilty of. Right now. Please." When the psychologist started to take an involuntary step backward, Egon tightened his hold and raised one eyebrow expectantly. "For me."

Peter looked surprised, then scowled. "You play dirty, Spengs."

"Some people don't give me any choice," Egon retorted mildly.

Venkman bit his lip hard, but Egon saw the gathering moisture in his eyes, read the signs correctly, and pulled him closer with a little tug. That was all it took. Peter fell against him and Egon issued a little sigh of relief as sobs began to shake the younger man's lean frame. It wasn't over yet, he knew, but at least this was a start. He rested his head against Venkman's, feeling his friend's tears dampen his shirt.

"I love you." Peter's voice was a hoarse whisper, but it carried all the strength of his feelings behind it. "I wish I had told you before."

Egon smiled, warmed clear through by that spoken acknowledgement. "I knew," he said softly. "Just as I hope you know that I love you."

There was a snuffle from somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. "What's not to love?"

Spengler chuckled deeply, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. It was good to be home.

Then Peter tightened his arms in a sudden squeeze. "We're all okay, Egon," he murmured, all humor gone from his tone now. "We all came out of this one alive. We're damn lucky, partner."

"That we are," he agreed. "We're very lucky." His voice softened. "I'm very lucky."

A moment later he felt another pair of arms encircling them, bringing them even closer. He looked over into Ray's shining eyes and carefully extracted one arm to bring the occultist into the hug. It wasn't much longer until he felt yet another arm across his shoulders and knew Winston had joined them. From somewhere near his ear, he heard Peter whisper, "Damn lucky."

***

Peter rolled over onto his back and heaved a mighty sigh. With Egon alive and safely back at the firehouse and everything right with his world he should be sleeping like a baby. Instead, he had been tossing and turning ever since they all came to bed. Around him he could hear three distinctly different snores and snuggled a little deeper into his covers, grinning happily. All present and accounted for. Just to reassure himself--once again--he turned his head and gazed at the dim outline of Egon Spengler stretched out in own his bed.

He let his eyes rest on his sleeping friend a while longer, then returned to staring at the dark ceiling. His catharsis of a few hours ago had left him exhausted but feeling the first signs of a shaky peace within himself. Egon had helped him to finally put to rest the self-imposed guilt that had been eating away at him, but there was one thing his friend hadn't been able to help him with: That Dream. The implications of that dream had insinuated themselves into his mind and allowed him no peace.

Raising a hand, he rubbed at his tired eyes. It was no coincidence; of that he was certain. There was just no way in this world those images had simply dropped into his subconscious from out of nowhere and the next day he found Egon in exactly the same setting he had dreamed. No way could that be a coincidence. No way, no way, no way. He dropped his hand and lightly drummed his fingers on the mattress. So if it wasn't coincidence and it wasn't the cold pizza for supper, what did that leave? Precognition? His hand curled into a fist. No. No way, no way, no way. Knowing when a phone was going to ring was one thing; dreaming the future was something else. He refused to accept that explanation... he was afraid to accept that explanation.

Of course, there was one other possible explanation. Turning his head, he once again let his gaze linger on the sleeping physicist. Could there be some kind of psychic connection between them? Was it possible some part of Egon's unconscious mind had reached out to link with his? Peter felt a little smile touch his lips. That possibility didn't scare him, not in the least. In fact, the idea was strangely intriguing... and kind of exciting. Maybe there was some sort of link between the two of them they were unaware of. Maybe he should run some tests to find out if such a connection in fact did exist, and if it did--

A sudden noise, sounding abnormally loud in the late night silence, made him freeze. He held his breath, trying to identify both the sound and the location. It sounded like someone--something?--scratching wood and it was coming from the closed door that led to the steps to the roof. Hesitating only long enough to decide not to wake the others, he reached under his bed and groped until his fingers curled around the baseball bat he kept there. Once he had that firmly in hand he slipped out of bed and padded silently into the hallway.

The noise, which had ceased momentarily, started up again, louder and more insistent this time. It was definitely scratching and it was definitely coming from the door to the roof. He was reasonably sure ghosts didn't scratch at doors, so it was more likely something solid. He grimaced as he remembered the run-in he'd had with a bat up there once and gripped his baseball bat a little tighter. Grasping the doorknob, he took a breath, then abruptly yanked the door open.

"Meow."

"Patches!" Peter swore under his breath as he lowered the bat. "For cryin' out loud, cat. Where have you--Hey!" The calico, who had been sitting on the bottom step, suddenly turned and bounded quickly up the stairs. "Come back here," he hissed. Patches paused halfway up, turned her head to give him a look, then gracefully continued on her merry way. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Peter carefully propped the bat up against the wall, then followed her up to the roof.

"Ought to leave you up here," he grumbled as he hit the cool night air. "Serve you right." Once on the roof, he looked around, searching for the cat. "Patches! Patches, where are you?" he demanded impatiently.

"Meow."

Spinning around, he spotted the feline sitting over in the corner, watching him expectantly. "This isn't funny," he said sternly and strode toward her. "Now stop fooling around and--Whoa!" He broke off in surprise as Patches suddenly leaped onto the ledge that surrounded the roof and stood balanced lightly on all fours, her luminescent green eyes resting on him. Peter stopped where he was and regarded the cat with a reluctant grin. "So," he said dryly, "is Ray right? Are you really Tinkerbell in disguise?"

The calico cat cocked her head as if trying to decide how to answer him. Then a strange thing happened. Patches started to glow.

Venkman took an involuntary step back, his eyes widening. "What the hell..." The cat was encased in an incandescent bluish-white light and inside that glimmering sphere Peter could see she was shrinking. He was reasonably sure normal cats weren't supposed to do that. Keeping his eyes on the shape-changing feline, he began edging toward the door. If he could just get his hands on a proton pack... He was nearly to the door when the sudden pressure of a hand on his shoulder made him yelp.

"Easy, Peter," Egon whispered by his ear, steadying him with both hands. "Look at her."

He looked, and what he saw made him gasp in disbelief. Patches was no longer standing on the ledge. Instead, in her place stood a very tiny, very beautiful, young lady.

"She's a fairy." Egon's voice was still soft, but he sounded delighted, and Peter risked a quick look at him. The physicist's eyes were shining with excitement and his face was positively alight. "A fairy," he repeated.

"Then...Ray was right," Peter said, dumbfounded. Patches had been a fairy all along?

Spengler squeezed his shoulders. "Yes, Ray was right."

"Doctor Spengler, Doctor Venkman." The fairy tipped her beautiful little face up to gaze at both of them with large doe-like eyes. "My name is Laena. I'm the daughter of Graem."

"He's the healer I told you about," Egon whispered. "The one who saved my life."

"K'el has given me special permission to return here to talk to you."

"Why?" Egon asked immediately, the eagerness in his tone apparent. "Has he reconsidered my request to return and study your community?"

The fairy favored Egon with a smile. She had long, wavy hair a shade or two darker than Ray's and one of the sweetest faces Peter had ever seen. In fact, he thought dazedly, she looked a little like a cross between Michelle Pfeiffer and Julia Roberts. "I'm afraid K'el will never change his mind about that," she said apologetically.

Egon sighed. "Oh."

"I came here," she continued, transferring her dark eyes to Peter, "to talk to you, Doctor Venkman.

Peter blinked. "To me?"

She nodded, her face solemn. "You are troubled," she said quietly. "I could sense it." Laena hesitated, dropping her eyes. "I think," she continued slowly, "I owe you an explanation."

"You owe me an explanation?" Venkman repeated blankly. "Egon, do you know what she's talking--" Suddenly he stopped as he remembered something Ray had said earlier. Do you think your dream was some kind of fairy magic? Do you think they somehow made you have that dream...? He glared at the tiny being as the pieces abruptly fell into place. "It was you, wasn't it?" he demanded sharply. "What did you do to me? How did you get into my head?"

"Peter..." Egon laid a restraining hand on his arm, but Venkman shook him off.

"And what did you do to Ray?" he snapped. "He ran a PKE meter over you, remember? What'd you do--make him think it didn't register anything?"

Even in the dim light Peter saw her tiny face color and made a mental note to himself that fairies blushed. "Yes, I did make him believe there were no readings on your instrument," she replied steadily. "But I had no choice," she continued hastily when Egon frowned. "If you had detected any preternatural presence, you would not have allowed me access."

"Damn straight," he said flatly.

"Peter." This time Egon squeezed his shoulder, signalling for silence. "Let her explain."

"This ought'a be good," he muttered, but clamped his mouth shut when Spengler shot him a stern look.

Laena took a few steps on the ledge until she was standing directly in front of Peter. "We had to have some way to bring you back to find your friend, and since you thought him dead, I had to do something to give you a reason to return."

"So you climbed into my head--without an invitation."

"Not exactly," Laena qualified. "What I did was create a bridge, if you will, between your mind and Doctor Spengler's."

Venkman frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously even as he felt Egon's fingers abruptly tighten on his shoulder.

The fairy smiled, her voice softening. "Your minds met, Doctor Venkman. Your mind and Doctor Spengler's joined for a brief time."

"Peter." Egon's excited voice sounded in his ear. "Do you realize what she's saying?"

"Are you telling me that you can actually bring the minds of two people together?" he asked, both awed at her apparent power and disappointed to find that his supposed connection with Egon was only artificial.

Auburn hair bounced as Laena shook her head. "I can only construct the bridges, Doctor Venkman. I cannot actually bring the two minds together." She held her two index fingers horizontally so they weren't quite touching and slowly brought the tips together. "Unless there is an existing link, a desire for the two minds to seek one another out..." The tips of her two fingers gently touched. "They will never meet."

Peter felt a sudden warmth in his chest as what he had been told actually registered. "You mean, Egon and I actually..."

"Psi contact," Spengler murmured. "Incredible." Turning toward the physicist, Peter grinned to see the open delight on Egon's face. Then, as he watched, the delight turned to disappointment. "But I don't remember any of it."

"You won't," Laena told him apologetically. "You were too deep in my father's healing spell at the time. But your unconscious mind did what your conscious mind could not, and sought out your friend. Due to your injuries and weakness, you were somewhat disoriented and not able to maintain the link for long, but obviously, it was long enough."

"Obviously," Peter repeated and turned a tilted smile on Spengler, whose blue eyes warmed in response. Then another thought suddenly struck him. "What about the other dreams?" he asked abruptly. "Were they yours, too?"

Too late he registered the sharp look Egon gave him and the raised eyebrow that plainly asked, What other dreams? He was reasonably sure Spengler had already gone to both Ray and Winston and had probably been filled in quite thoroughly about his insomnia, nightmares and everything else. He could see this was one more item for the physicist to add to his list when he thought the time was right to approach Peter for a long talk. Venkman gave his head a rueful shake. Sometimes Egon forgot who was the physicist and who was the psychologist.

"Other dreams?" Laena shook her head. "I sent no dreams, Doctor Venkman," she reminded him.

He nodded, his mouth twisted in a wry smile. That settled that, but there were still questions to be answered. "How did you know about us? Egon said he was unconscious for most of the time he was with you."

The fairy smiled again and Peter caught a flash of dimples. "I made contact with his mind."

Beside him, Peter felt Egon stiffen. "Contact with my mind? But how did you...?"

"Oh, it was quite painless, I assure you." Her laugh was light and musical. "And it was a very interesting experience, Doctor Spengler. Your mind is quite complex."

Venkman nudged the physicist. "Yeah, it's a wonder she didn't get lost in there, Spengs. I know I would."

"Then that's how you knew about Peter? And Ray and Winston?" Egon asked, ignoring him. "And how you knew to come here?"

Laena nodded. "All taken from your memories. I used that knowledge to find them and to decide how to best approach them. It was because of what I learned from you that K'el decided I could come here to try to bring your friends to you." She paused and when she continued, her voice was soft and warm. "K'el understands friendship and loyalty and considers them rare and precious commodities. The bond between you and your friends is very strong, and your concern for their grief touched him deeply."

Peter turned to look at Egon, who had colored slightly. "I know how I would have felt," the physicist said quietly, "if I had lost one of them."

Venkman instinctively gave the older man's arm a little squeeze, then turned back to the fairy. "But why me? Why'd you 'build the bridge' between Egon and me?" It seemed to him that Ray, who with his somewhat innocent nature could be open to suggestion, would have been the most logical choice.

Laena's dark eyes twinkled with humor. "Because, Doctor Venkman, you are a born skeptic--that much I learned from Doctor Spengler."

He heard Egon's soft sputter of laughter and sent a glare at his friend.

"If either Ray Stantz or Winston Zeddemore had told you of that dream, you would have convinced them it was nothing more than that--a dream. And they would have accepted that." She cocked her head, studying him. "One other thing I learned from Doctor Spengler is that you are a very fine psychologist."

Venkman turned to Egon with a smug grin. "So the truth comes out, eh, big guy?"

But Spengler was unperturbed. "You are a very fine psychologist, Peter; but most of the time you try to keep that fact a secret." He peered at Peter over the top of his glasses, one eyebrow elevated, and Venkman looked away with an embarrassed grin. Lessons learned early in life were hard to forget, and he had learned early on--via his father--not to give away too much about himself. But that rule no longer applied to his team mates.

"So, am I forgiven, Doctor Venkman, for any liberties I may have taken?"

Pulled out of his thoughts, Peter looked back at Laena, who had asked the question and was watching him expectantly. "You gave us Egon back," he said, his voice dead serious. "There's nothing to forgive." He gave her a scrutinizing look. "Can all fairies do what you do?"

She shook her head. "It's a rare gift, and one that must be used wisely." Her eyes met his. "I trust I did."

He nodded. "You did." After a moment, he added sincerely, "Thank you."

A smile blossomed on her tiny face. "You're welcome. And now," she continued almost wistfully, "I must return to my home."

"Wait a minute." Peter cleared his throat. "Um, do you think you might ever come back...you know, for a visit?"

Hearing the tone of his voice, Egon gave him a nudge and a reproachful, "Peter."

But Laena's eyes were sparkling with new mischief. "I come into this world whenever I can, Doctor Venkman."

"Um hm. Well, do you think the next time you come, you might come a little...larger?"

"Larger?" she asked innocently. "You mean like a goat or perhaps a cow?"

Venkman made a face. "Not exactly what I was thinking."

Laena gave him a meaningful look. "I know exactly what you were thinking," she said dryly.

"So do I," Egon muttered under his breath, "and I don't read minds."

"I hope we do meet again," the fairy said, looking at them both. "I've learned much about humans and your world, but there is so much more I want to learn." She transferred her gaze to Peter. "So much more I want to...experience."

The psychologist grinned. "Then don't come back as a goat."

"I'll be sure not to." With a wave of her tiny hand, and another dimpled smile, Laena was surrounded by a glowing sphere of light. Then that sphere shot upward in a graceful arc into the night sky. Peter and Egon stood side by side and watched it silently until it disappeared.

"Wow," Peter whispered

"Yes," Egon agreed. "Wow."

Venkman stared at the sky for a while longer, then observed quietly, "That was one helluva dream, Spengs."

The physicist slid an arm across his shoulders and tightened it to bring them closer. "I wish I remembered it," he replied with real regret in his voice. "It must have been an incredible experience." Turning to Peter, he asked hesitantly, "Would you tell me about it sometime?"

Peter nodded without hesitation. "I want you to know what it was like. After all, we met on that bridge, you know." He turned his head then and found himself staring into a warm blue gaze. "God, I missed you," he said shakily, tearing his eyes away. "Scares me to realize how much."

Egon tightened his arm, bringing the younger man a little closer. "The Peter Venkman I first met at Columbia," he pointed out gently, "could never have admitted that."

Peter gratefully accepted the warmth and solid support the older man offered. "The Peter Venkman you first met at Columbia didn't know what it was like to have friends like you or Ray." His voice softened. "He didn't know it was possible to have friends like you or Ray, and now Winston."

"The same can be said of me, Peter. Before I met you and Ray, I had no idea friendships could be so..."

When he paused, searching for the correct words, Peter quoted Laena, "So 'rare and precious'?"

Spengler smiled. "Yes."

"Hey, what are you guys doing up here? Are you all right?"

Both men turned as Ray stepped onto the roof, and Peter extended an arm, beckoning him over. When the younger man joined them, the psychologist placed him in the middle so the three of them were anchored together.

"Are you two all right?" Ray repeated, turning his head to look at both of them.

"We're fine, Raymond," Egon assured him.

Peter grinned. "Yeah, we were just thinking about how lucky we are."

Ray sighed happily. "Yeah, we sure are. We got Egon back--"

"And we got you back," Peter reminded him, thinking about how close they had come to losing Ray to that class six.

"Aw, Peter, I wasn't really gone."

Venkman gave the shoulder under his hand a little squeeze. "You weren't on the wait-and-see end of that one, pal," he said grimly.

"I know, Peter, I'm sorry," Stantz said immediately.

"Hey, no sorry's," Peter said firmly. "We're all okay now and that's all that matters."

A slow grin spread on Ray's face and he looked up at Egon, brown eyes warm. "When he's right, he's right."

Egon acknowledged that with a smile, then looked at Venkman, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "And when he's right, we usually hear about it endlessly."

Ray smiled gleefully at the familiar banter. "Yeah, but he's not right that often, so I don't mind."

For once Peter couldn't complain about being picked on. In fact, he could have laughed out loud for the sheer joy of it all. It hadn't been that long ago he thought he would never again be able to share a moment like this with the people he loved. Ray's face was shining with happiness as he kept looking from Peter to Egon as if to reassure himself this happy ending was real.

"You guys do realize you're standing out here in the middle of the night in your PJ's, don't you?"

"Mr. Zeddemore," Peter called happily, turning to see Winston step onto the roof, "come on and join the pajama party."

Winston sauntered over to join them, dropping his arm casually across Egon's shoulders. There was a look of deep contentment on his face as his gaze took in the other three. "Somebody want to tell me what we're doing up here?" he inquired mildly, although he looked in no hurry to leave.

Peter looked at Ray, who tightened his arm, bringing Venkman a little closer, then at Egon. The physicist met his gaze, and Peter saw the answer there. There was a link, all right, be it psychic or emotional, or the bonding of a friendship he had no doubt would last from this lifetime into the next.

"Counting our blessings, old buddy," Peter said simply. "Counting our blessings."  

~*~

Brenda Anders Stargate Fic
Brenda Anders Multi Fandom Fic