Fifteen Years

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, dear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Deny it," she challenged him.

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

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

And again, he couldn't reply at once.

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

"But not happy," she observed.

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

"Besides?" Janine prodded.

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

"Egon..."

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

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

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

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

If only it were that easy, Egon thought.

 

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

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

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

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

Ray and Winston were already on their way upstairs, and Peter dragged himself after them, but was brought up short by a single overheard snippet of conversation coming from Janine's desk. "Okay, Nick," she was saying -- no, cooing -- into the phone receiver. "I'll see you at eight. G'bye," and hung up, looking quite pleased with herself. When she looked up, it was into storm clouds: Peter's face, already darkened by exhaustion, and twisted now by emotion into something ugly and almost frightening.

"Who's Nick?" he demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a prolonged, awkward silence.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ray smiled, and as always it was like a little piece of sunshine, glowing from inside him, impossible to resist. His fingertip brushed along her cheek, brushing away the single teardrop that had escaped her control earlier.

"Go on," he said gently, "go on home. You don't want to keep your date waiting."

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

 

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

And Egon's bed was empty.

Blinking sleepily, Ray got up and headed out of the communal bedroom and down the hall. He stopped along the way to make use of the plumbing, then continued toward the lab, where a thin ribbon of light escaping through the crack at the bottom of the door testified to the room's occupancy. He opened the door just a bit and peeked in. Yeah, there was Egon, studying readouts, taking notes, the usual familiar picture of absorption in his work. Ray watched him for a moment, idly turning his new knowledge over and over in his head, and wondering if knowing made anything any different. How many years, now, had he known Egon? They were beyond friendship; they were brothers. No, knowing didn't matter, how could it? Egon was Egon, still. Nothing had changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," Ray said promptly, surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

"Nice apartment," Peter said.

"Thanks," said Lance.

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

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

"Does it matter?" Peter returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And lonely.

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

For a moment, Egon's chest and shoulders ached with the memory of being held and loved. Only a moment -- but the ache was so unbearable that Egon wrapped his arms around himself quite involuntarily, a poor substitute for the arms of another.

He sighed. I am a fool, he acknowledged, to carry this feeling with me. I need to learn to let go. Perhaps even find something new. But that last thought was too intimidating to consider seriously. As he'd told Janine, he could not even remotely imagine himself becoming part of the gay subculture; it was another world in which he just didn't fit. In point of fact, Egon had never truly felt that he had belonged anywhere. Except for this place, this line of work, these people. Science. Ghostbusting. Ray, Janine, Winston.

Peter.

Damn.

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

And nearly collided with Peter, coming upstairs.

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

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

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

Egon felt his defenses crumble, and sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fifteen years ago. Past, dead and gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Egon said nothing, merely waited.

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

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

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

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

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

 

"So, Ray, what do you think?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Raymond," Egon said sternly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

"Another beer?"

"Please."

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

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

"Mm." Peter sipped his beer.

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

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

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

Seductive Leer Number 12. "Never that tired."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesn't matter to me.

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

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

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

Egon.

Shit.

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

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

"All right," Peter agreed dubiously.

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

Couldn't he?

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

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

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

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

But never more than that.

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

The answer stunned Peter, and saddened him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What kind of talk?" Ray wondered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Getting some?" Janine supplied helpfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

"Mm," Egon said as if distracted.

"Mind if I come in?"

"Mm," Egon repeated, carefully nonchalant.

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

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

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

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

"All right," Egon said slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wishful thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unhearing, unaware, Peter slept on.

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

 

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

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

Something is definitely wrong around here.

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

Winston didn't like it, not one bit.

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

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

"Nope," Winston said. "You?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like what?" Winston wondered aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what am I going to do about it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter's eyes flickered to Winston, who nodded, knowing that it would be enough. Knowing, too, tha