That Look
Peter Venkman's 36th birthday
party was in full swing. The crowd of well-wishers—and their expensive
presents—had taken over the Rainbow Room entirely, and Peter stood amid the
throng, a smile of unparalleled joy on his face.
There were actors and models
and politicians and more, and Peter simply existed in their midst, perfect--and
completely, universally, loved.
Winston sat at a nearby
table—one that looked out at the wonder that is New York at night. Iman sat at
his side, the Ethiopian beauty hanging on his every word. Ray held court in
another corner, joyfully expounding on the engineering wonder that was the
proton pack. He looked up from the bevy of beautiful co-eds that surrounded him
and gave Peter a blushing smile.
Peter wasn't quite the slouch
in the babe department, either. Michelle Pfeiffer stood to his left, Kim
Bassinger to his right. Both of them knew he was amazing, knew he was so much
better than any other man they'd ever dated... If he was very lucky—and he
always was—they'd begin to fight over him soon. His tux was black and perfect,
oozing sexuality, and, all in all, no one could ever find a better specimen of
the male of the species.
It was nearly time for him to
be toasted and made much of when a decided hush fell over the proceedings.
Michelle and Kim both tightened their holds on him, turning in unison to glare
off to his right. Peter turned, and his heart stopped in his chest.
There, walking toward him...
White tuxedo accenting his height, soft blue bowtie accenting his eyes, blond
hair coifed oh-so-perfectly but with one delicious curl escaping to trail down
beside his full lips, Egon Spengler approached.
Peter held his breath,
feeling his heart make up for lost time as it beat thickly in his chest, a
warmth spreading down to his crotch. Oh yeah... This was definitely going to be
the best birthday ever!
"Excuse me,
ladies," Egon announced, his deep, silky voice cutting through the silence
that covered the room's occupants. "I'm afraid I'll have to steal Dr.
Venkman away from you."
"Over my dead
body!" Michelle cried.
"Mine too!" Kim
echoed.
But Peter suddenly brushed
them off, leaving them stewing quietly as he took Egon's hand.
"If you'll come with me,
Dr. Venkman." Egon held the formal words, though his tone had become
something smoky and enticing. "You'll need to open your first
present."
He led the unresisting
psychologist out onto the dance floor, waved his hand in a most erotic fashion,
and smiled as the crowd suddenly disappeared. Gone were the fuming beauties,
gone were Winston and his exotic African princess, gone were Ray and his co-eds
and the rest of the horde. All that remained in the stately room were Peter and
Egon, dark and light...
Perfect.
"This is one hell of a
party, Spengs," Peter whispered, reaching out to fondle the one stray lock
of blond hair as his lips begged to peruse that chiseled face. "This your
idea, or mine?"
Egon leaned in, kissing Peter
gently before bringing his mouth up to the other man's ear.
"Peter," he chided,
his soft breath sending waves of desire through Peter's tight body. "Why
must you even—"
A shrill, violent sound
slammed Peter upright in his bed as the dream exploded under the force of the
alarm. The bunkroom was deserted, he noticed blearily, and the sun was well up.
He stuffed his hangover nausea and headache down before collapsing back into the
pillow.
"Damnit, Spengler, I
told you no more early morning busts!" he screamed, groaning as the sound
added to the pain in his skull. "I'm an old man now," he moaned
pitifully, hearing Egon move into the room. Presumably he'd been in the lab or
he'd never have heard the plaintive wail. "I can't handle the stress
anymore."
"How fortunate for you
that it is nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, then."
Egon's bass voice sent an
inadvertent thrill through Peter's bones as his body reminded him of the dream
he'd been so unceremoniously ripped out of. He propped himself up on his elbows
and glared, willing his body to relax. Early morning hard-ons were one thing.
This was quite another.
"Die, Spengler."
Egon simple chuckled, tossing
Peter a towel and making way for him as the psychologist stumbled toward the
bathroom.
"Come now, Peter. It's
hardly my fault you chose to imbibe so heavily." Egon hid a larger smile.
"And especially at your age!"
"They just didn't let
you drink when you were my age," Peter grumbled angrily as he used the
towel to hide his dream-induced condition on the way to the shower. "Hell,
they didn't know how to distill liquor when you were my age!"
"Childishness does not
become a man on the downside of forty, Peter."
Peter restrained himself with
an effort and slammed the bathroom door in his best friend's face.
Egon watched Peter carefully
as the foursome piled into Ecto, headed for their emergency bust in Queens. Last
night had been wonderful for everyone—in fact, the day had been almost eerily
disaster-free. Certainly the law of averages dictated that Peter was bound to
have a normal birthday eventually, but after eighteen years of being party to
car crashes, bar brawls, and busts gone bad, Egon had despaired of living long
enough to see that day.
Perhaps the weight in favor
of normalcy had been the team's unanimous decision not to take any busts on
October 29th. After the fiasco that had landed Peter, Ray, and Winston in
the hospital on Peter's thirty-fifth birthday, they all thought it was flying in
the face of reason to tempt the fates two years running. They had risen late,
gone shopping for the big-screen TV Peter had been eyeing for months, and had
settled in to watch movies and eat popcorn before springing his party on him.
Most of his friends had been
able to make it, and the seemingly impromptu gathering had descended upon them
at eight-thirty last night.
Peter hadn't drunk himself
under the table until three.
Hauling the drunken
psychologist up to the bunkroom fell to Egon and Winston, of course. Ray begged
off, claiming that someone had to do the dishes. And since that someone
would not have to fight off the blind advances of a horny drunk man, Ray
nominated himself.
"I love you guys, you
know that?" Peter had drooled for the hundredth time as they wrestled him
into his pajamas. "Totally, completely love you!"
"Perhaps we should pick
out china patterns in that case," Egon had commented, sharing an amused
sigh with Winston as Peter, now dressed in striped nightclothes, sagged back to
lie half on his bed.
Peter had looked at Egon with
nearly lucid eyes and smiled. "I'd pick out patterns with you anytime,
Egon," he'd all but purred. "Damn, I love you."
Egon had frozen for a moment
at the look, relaxing again as Peter's gaze drifted to Winston's dark face.
"You, too, Winston," he'd whispered. "What do you like? Floral or
art deco?"
Still, the feeling that look
had left him with lingered, and he found himself watching Peter closely as the
younger man slouched painfully beside him in Ecto's backseat.
"Wake me when we get
there, Spengs," Peter muttered, nearly incoherent. "Maybe I'll be
human by then."
"Somehow I doubt
that," Winston piped up from the front seat. "Not sure what it'll take
to make you human, Pete." Ray's indulgent smile beamed at the drowsy
day-after-birthday boy through the rear view mirror as the occultist maneuvered
through midday traffic.
"You were thirty-six
once, Zed," Peter put in meanly. "Surely you remember what it was like
to be young and handsome." He grinned. "Well, young, anyway."
"Watch it, you
whippersnapper," Winston retorted playfully. "You're not too old to
take over my knee."
Peter's grin turned sleepy.
"Promises, promises..." And he was gone.
"Damn, he's fun when
he's drunk." Winston's chuckled comment drew laughter all around.
"Not as much as he is
the day after."
"Ray!" Winston
turned to their driver, a look of mock-surprise on his face. "You're
actually making fun of a man in his condition?"
"Truly shocking,
Raymond," Egon put in, hiding a grin as the others laughed. "I
expected better."
Ray looked shocked himself.
"From me?" He shook his head. "When you get old, the mind
starts to go... It's sad."
"Keep it up, kid,"
Winston growled in jest. "Pete's not the only one who's not too old for a
spanking."
Wide, full lips on his, a
tongue that probed, rolling around, down...along his jaw, down his chest...
"Peter?"
He looked up, staring at the
face of a god. Blond hair like a halo, Egon was above him, dressed in that same
white tux, dripping sex from every pore.
"Peter, if you're quite
ready?"
"Oh, yeah," Peter
whispered, his jumpsuit getting blessedly tight around the zipper. "You
know I am..."
Egon's tux melted away as the
physicist's gaze grew perplexed, and he was suddenly Spengs again, clad in his
jumpsuit, seated impatiently beside Peter in the backseat of Ecto. The younger
man pulled himself together with an effort, hoping that his... condition...
might go unnoticed.
"You yank me out of the
best dreams, Spengler," he groused, heaving himself quickly out of the car
and heading for his pack in the rear compartment. What was with these
dreams!? Sure, he loved Egon—guy had a body to die for and a face to
match—but...
Well, there was no
but. Just an unspoken line: Don't sleep with your best friend. It was a good
maxim—unless your best friend was a white-blond god...
"As much as I hate to
say it," Egon told him lightly. "I fear the real world is in need of
your services."
"You want my services,
you got `em, Spengs."
The words--and their
slightly lascivious tone—were out before he could stop them, and he struggled
into his pack in record time, heading for the old warehouse in an attempt to
avoid seeing the look on Egon's face.
And he just hoped like hell
the other guys hadn't heard him.
"Well come on,
guys!" he called in his best "business" voice. "We've got a
ghost to bust!"
And bust they did. For five
straight hours.
They had barely bagged the
ghost in Queens when Janine rang them on the car phone to send them off to
another warehouse in the Bronx.
"What is it with ghosts
and warehouses, Egon?" Peter had asked, exhausted after taking down the
second class five of the day. He was still nursing his hangover, and looked as
if he could use another week in bed. "Something special about the air in
there?"
Egon had simply shaken his
head. In truth, his mind hadn't really been on either of the ghosts. It was on a
certain psychologist—or, more importantly, on the man's eyes.
Peter's gaze last night had
been slightly drunken, and predictably lustful. He was notorious for his
alcohol-induced libido, and his friends had, over the years, learned to play to
it just enough to get him in a bed to sleep it off. He didn't really mean
anything he said—he never even remembered who he had been addressing. He
simply loved everyone and everything with a sexy abandon that faded with the
morning sun.
Except that today, the look
hadn't—or at least, it hadn't faded for Egon.
As Ray drove the hearse back
toward Ghostbusters Central at seven-thirty that night, Winston turned around in
his seat, taking in the snoozing Venkman and the far-too-quiet Spengler. Egon
roused himself enough to pay attention.
"So, Ray and I are
headed out, okay?" He hid a smile behind a wholly unbelievable frown.
"This Star Trek thing will probably last all night."
Ray grinned. "You
offered, Winston."
"I was tricked."
"Actually," Egon
supplied helpfully, "you were bribed. This `Star Trek thing' in exchange
for company at the car show in Vermont."
"Who said anything about
company?" Winston wanted to know. "I just wanted somebody to do half
the driving!" He smiled, reaching into the back seat to punch Peter lightly
in the shoulder. "Anyway, all we have to do now is get the old fart out of
the car and we're on our way."
"Watch who you're
calling old, Zeddemore," Peter grunted, struggling to wake as they came to
a stop inside the garage. "You're getting on toward forty a hell of a lot
faster than me."
Winston snorted. "And I still
get more dates," he mused meanly. "What do you think that says?"
"There are a lot of
desperate women in New York?" Peter hazarded, suddenly moving faster than
his drowsy state should have allowed as he leapt out of the hearse to evade a
pissed off Zeddemore. "Hey! I just call `em as I see `em!"
Egon and Ray shared an
indulgent smile and slid out of the car at a more leisurely pace, taking control
of the traps and packs, their work accompanied by the sounds of rough-housing
from above. Janine had long-since gone home, and Egon took a cursory look at the
messages and mail she'd left for them.
"They're going to break
Peter's new toy, if they're not careful," Ray warned, headed toward the rec
room after dumping the traps.
"No doubt Peter will
contrive to break something less important—"
There was a crash from above,
and an indignant "Winston!"
"Like the coffee
table?" Ray asked with a sigh.
Winston and Ray left--after
the two culprits in the coffee table affair finished cleaning up their mess--and
Egon and Peter settled in for a pizza dinner and a night in front of Peter's new
baby, sans a table to prop their feet on.
"Peter, you could have
shown more restraint," Egon chided a couple of hours later as he looked for
a place to set his glass down. The side table was covered in various physics,
engineering, and psychology journals, and he placed a pile of them on the floor
to make room. "If we're lucky, we'll have time to get a new one next
week."
"Restraint?" Peter
asked incredulously. "Me? Winston started it."
"Yes, I can see how
walking into one of your well-placed jabs could be considered starting it."
Peter grinned unabashedly.
"Gotta be careful around me, Spengs." The words were flip, but the
tone carried something... subtly challenging.
Egon and Peter both froze at
the same moment, and both ignored the strange heat of the comment just as
quickly.
"Better get some popcorn
going before we start Casablanca," Peter muttered, almost running
for the kitchen.
Egon simply sat and thought.
Peter's omnisexual nature was a sort of open secret around the firehouse. He
went with what felt right at the time, and never seemed to care whether a
partner was male or female. Egon cared, however. Very much.
And Peter knew it.
He listened to the
psychologist whistling off-key as he prepared their snack. Was Peter...? No. No,
Peter had never been interested in him—much to Egon's initial dismay. After
all, he hadn't originally started pursuing this friendship with friendship
in mind. It had simply worked out that way.
"Peter?"
"Yeah, Spengs?"
No. You're being foolish,
Egon, he chided himself. And you will look more foolish still if you continue in
this vein.
"Don't use too much
butter. Please."
"Says the guy who thinks
Twinkies are a food group."
There was a smile in the
voice that answered him, and if Egon closed his eyes, he could drown in what
that face looked like. Green eyes, sharply-chiseled features, brown hair that
begged to be tousled...
"So! What's say we go to
Morocco, Spengs?"
Peter's return was heralded
by a pleasantly heavy weight dropping onto the couch next to him, and Egon's
eyes snapped open, his gaze darting to his friend's face. But Peter did not seem
to have noticed the rapturous look, and Egon relaxed, sitting back comfortably
as Peter started the tape.
A bottle was abruptly thrust
in his face. "Beer?"
"Peter, I should think
you had enough beer last night to satisfy your craving for at least the rest of
the year."
"Oh come on, Spengs!
It's only beer!"
They went through two beers
each before Peter sat back, a satisfied grin on his face, and stretched
luxuriously.
"Yesterday was fun,
huh?" he asked, his words blurring only slightly.
Egon looked over at him,
trying to gauge his state of mind. Two beers shouldn't have done more than
relaxed Peter. He could hold his liquor better than any of them. Yet he seemed
almost drunk...
"Surprisingly so,"
Egon offered quietly.
That garnered a laugh.
"Yeah. Definitely a first for little Petey."
"Hardly little."
Peter pegged him with that
look again. "How would you know, Spengs?" he asked lazily,
moving slightly closer on the couch. "Been sneaking your peeks?"
Egon moved away, flustered.
"Peter! I assumed you were referring to—"
Peter invaded his space with
the practiced ease of a cat. "Don't assume anything, Spengler."
And then he kissed him—full
and hard. And Egon's surprise was swept away by a wave of passion he couldn't
hope to understand or contain.
The movie forgotten, Peter
stretched out languidly, lying across Egon and taking his mouth with a heat that
met every dreamt of expectation in the physicist mind. His tongue probed lightly
at first, growing more insistent as it found a willing victim and plundering
Egon so thoroughly that he barely managed to draw breath. Peter seemed to have a
similar problem, and drew back carefully after a moment, his eyes locked with
Egon's.
"You didn't answer my
question, Spengs," Peter purred softly, his fingers reaching out to fondle
a stray lock that had escaped Egon's curl during their play. "Been keeping
an eye on little Petey?" He leaned in, licking delicately at his friend's
throat. "Because I've been keeping an eye on you."
As brown hair curled
teasingly along his jaw line, Egon let his best friend unbutton his shirt, that
talented tongue running circles of ecstasy around his hardening nipples. Peter
was drunk. That was the only answer. How two beers had got him to this state,
Egon didn't know. Perhaps the fact that he had never seemed to really come out
of his hangover from the day before—
All thought ceased as Peter's
hands reached the top of his trousers.
"Peter..."
Hot, perfect lips came up to
meet his then slid to his ear, the breath causing him to shiver. "Don't I
get a peek, Egon?" The rich tenor request almost sent him over the edge.
But he couldn't. Not like this. Peter was...
"I want to see,
Egon," that lustful voice continued, taking on a mildly whining tone.
"Please?"
"Peter, I don't think
you're entirely—"
"Stone sober,
Spengler," Peter assured him, pulling back to show his friend distressingly
candid eyes. "I promise. You're not taking advantage of me."
Egon sputtered helplessly.
"I'm not taking advantage of you?"
Peter cocked his head to the
side, genuinely perplexed. "Egon, I thought..." He started to pull
back.
Which was quite a bit more
than Egon could stand. He grabbed Peter by the shoulders, pulling him down to
meet his lips, his own tongue exploring now, licking and rolling and teasing
over flesh warmed by a lust he'd never thought would be reciprocated.
"Oh, God, Egon..."
Peter's desire, breathed out
in three small words, was enough to send Egon's logic elsewhere. He slid his
hands under the other man's sweatshirt, running over rock-hard abs and up a
sculpted chest, and with a groan of pleasure he slid the offending clothing up
over Peter's head, tossing it carelessly to the floor.
His own shirt followed, and
both their pants, and he lay half off the couch, being plundered gently by
Peter's mouth. Teeth and tongue and lips caressed every inch of his chest,
sending shocks through his system and shooting glorious pain to his crotch. He
wiggled carefully against the man above him, smiling in satisfaction as Peter
gasped when their erections met.
"Damn!" Peter
whispered, pausing only long enough to bite gently at Egon's nipple. "You
been hiding that for eighteen years!?"
"Merely waiting for the
perfect time, Peter," Egon assured him. And he had been. Perhaps it had
always seemed a fool's paradise, but Egon had held out hope that someday, this
dream might be reality. "It seems you simply needed time to realize the
logic of this situation."
Peter reared back enough for
Egon to see the devilish gleam in his eyes. "Logic, huh?" he
whispered, reaching into Egon's boxers to gently cup his balls, grinning at the
resultant gasp. "Let's see how well you hold on to your logic."
Hand still fondling, Peter
slid off of Egon and knelt on the floor, releasing his friend's sac only to take
his boxers and slide them off, his fingers trailing maddeningly down Egon's
inner thighs.
"Peter..."
"Logic, Spengs,"
Peter chastised. "Remember? Everything all nice and neat and orderly?"
"Peter, we
can't—"
"Heavy-duty cleansers,
Spengs. No one will know."
"But—"
And that was the last
coherent protest he made. Peter licked lightly at the head of his cock, rolling
his tongue over the shaft before carefully engulfing it. Egon bucked only once
before Peter grabbed his hips tightly, restricting his movements. All that was
left was the hot sensation of tongue and lips, sliding back and forth in a
distressingly slow and even rhythm.
"Peter, please..."
Egon tried to catch his breath, failed, and begged again. "Please..."
It was a blessing that Peter
did not bother to answer. Had he taken that mouth away from Egon's cock, the
physicist might likely have expired from need. Instead, Peter slowly increased
his pressure, speeding his movements until Egon shuddered endlessly, begging for
release in tiny, pleasure-filled gasps.
"Please... Oh God,
please, yes..." Faster now, Peter slid his lips along Egon's shaft then
suddenly let go of the taller man's hips, taking the rhythm easily as Egon
bucked helplessly against him.
Release, when it came, took
every shred of thought with it, reducing the brilliant man to so much quivering
flesh. He dimly heard Peter's chuckle, but felt keenly the brush of lips against
his own and the strength of muscled arms that wrapped around him, pulling him up
from his precarious position at the edge of the couch.
"So, what was that about
logic?" Peter whispered, just the breath causing Egon to shudder. He
reveled in the pain that came from a sated body that wanted more than it could
handle.
He
was sated, yes... but the solid weight against his thigh reminded him that Peter
was anything but. And there was the memory of a fantasy... One he simply had to
live. If this night were merely a dream, he would make the most of it.
"Peter..."
"Yeah?"
His own voice nearly failed
him. "Fuck me."
Peter reared back in shock.
"What!? HERE?"
Egon shook his head, dragging
them both to a sitting position. "No. No—upstairs. My bed." He
shuddered again. "Now."
Peter lay on top of his best
friend, marveling. Of all the things he could have expected tonight, this...
this was beyond his wildest dreams. He was almost shaking with the pain of an
erection denied, but he calmed himself with an effort, and slid a hand into
Egon's bedside table. Where all gay men keep it, of course, his mind
laughed. And then...
Egon was splayed out on his
bedspread, the languor of his own climax still weighing down his limbs. His hair
had completely lost its own logic and tumbled about him in white-blond riots.
Peter couldn't help himself, and concentrated on the feeling of it as it ran
through his fingers.
"Peter..."
"Impatient, aren't we,
Spengs?" he asked lightly, gasping in lustful outrage as Egon brought a leg
up to tease his hard cock with one well-muscled thigh.
"Very." The bass
was just the one from his dreams, and Peter closed his eyes a moment, allowing
the sound to penetrate his senses. "I suggest you continue, Peter. It is
best to finish what you start."
Peter snapped his eyes open
and met dancing blue ones, eyes that begged over and over for what that deep
silky voice had only asked for once.
"Logic again?" he
asked teasingly.
Another rake of thigh against
cock was his answer.
Preparing himself took
moments, preparing his friend only moments more, but both of them were vibrating
with the need for union before Peter finally rested his cock against that
trembling opening. He looked down into hazy eyes, and shivered.
"What do you want,
Egon?" he asked carefully.
"Fuck me, Peter,"
Egon whispered back, just the sound of that unlikely word coming from those lips
almost sent Peter over the edge. "Please..."
So Peter did.
His instinct to start slow
was foiled by Egon's insistent grab at his arms, as the physicist tried to
increase the rhythm. Ever a responsive partner, Peter pushed all the way in, in
one swift, hard move, and Egon nearly screamed his approval, so he continued.
Slamming into his best
friend, feeling muscles contract around him, Peter looked into Egon's eyes,
watching them dilate, as they must have done during the blowjob downstairs. He
was beautiful—oh God, he was beautiful. And so right, so perfect... He hit the
prostate, and Egon shuddered, groaning deeply as his slack member abruptly
fought to thicken. And Peter knew that pain—the wonderful agony of knowing
it's too soon but being unable to stop it. He reached out carefully and stroked
a finger down the length of Egon's cock, catching his prostate a second time
just as his finger reached the groin.
"Jesus! Peter!"
Egon's eyes closed, his hands grabbing at Peter's again, gripping him fiercely
as Peter shuddered himself. Just watching Egon was enough, it seemed. Just
seeing him fighting for control, losing because of what Peter was doing... Just
the thought that Egon wanted this as much as he did—
A moment of stillness, and a
sudden pleasure-pain that he prayed would never end...
Egon felt himself finally
coming back from the edge, the ache easing slightly as Peter slid out and
abruptly collapsed on him. He gathered the smaller man up, resting his chin on
that beautiful dark hair while his friend tried to win his battle against
exhaustion...
Like nothing else. Having
Peter take him was like nothing else he'd ever felt. Because it was Peter.
Because it was perfect.
"Hey Spengs?"
Peter's voice was shaky, his
tone soft and sated, and Egon smiled, dropping a kiss on that hair.
"Yes, Peter?"
"You think... You think
we could do this again next year?"
Egon chuckled, feeling Peter
shake with his own rumblings. "I should hope we could arrange to do it
sooner than that, Peter."
Peter raised his head.
"Promise?"
And there again was that
look—so full of need and lust and... and so full of love...
"I promise," Egon
vowed, pulling Peter's head back down and kissing his hair again. "I
believe you should get some rest now, Peter," he whispered. "Because I
have every intention of keeping that promise very soon."