Spontaneous Combustion

   

A is A.

While much of the work of Aristotle had profound, if unfortunate, effects upon science over the ages, he was entirely correct about this. A is A. That which exists, exists. No matter how difficult it may be to discover, there is a rational explanation for everything. While many, including my father, may scoff at some of the legends and superstitions of the newer science of parapsychology, I firmly believe in it, or at the very least in there being an underlying truth to it. I had, after all, encountered one of the most nightmarish aspects of the supernatural as a child. Either I must disbelieve the proof of my own mind, and deny that A was A, or accept that it does exist...and attempt to define and explain the phenomenon. Thus, when reading of the more illogical aspects of one of my chosen fields, levitation, crop-circles, spontaneous human combustion, I must assume that at the heart of it there is a rational explanation for them all. It never occurred to me, however, that one of the lighter, more accepted, myths of our culture would have ultimately the most profound effect upon my life. I had not conceived that the saying 'Love at first sight' could possibly happen in real life, certainly not to myself. I was never more mistaken.

"Hey, Spengler! You've got a message!" One of the other TAs was shaking my shoulder, and evidently had been trying to engage my attention for some time, judging by her frustrated mien. "It's the office. Dr. Verbecke wants to see you, this afternoon."

This was a considerable surprise to me, and of some moderate concern. For the most part, the dean of the physics department was known to court the university for funding, and seldom, if ever, dealt with his own staff and teachers. Leaving my laboratory with some foreboding, I went through the cluttered back corridors of the Physics building.

Verbecke's office was near the foyer, fronted with assorted tropical plant life more suited to a hothouse, and an equally exotic looking secretary. My somewhat tentative approach to the desk attracted her attention, and I found myself on the receiving end of a rather pointed stare. I followed her gaze to an empty chair, and taking the unspoken command, meekly sat down. Despite that I'd been virtually commanded to appear at 3:30, it was not until quarter past four that Dean Verbecke summoned me. Fifty minutes spent in the humid waiting room, being gawked at by the passing undergraduates, and listening to the appalling music pouring forth from the secretary's headphones as she did her hunt and peck typing had frayed my nerves considerably. I stormed into Verbecke's office, and stopped abruptly as I was hit with a mind numbing blast of cold air from an AC unit, and an equally chilling smile from the dean.

"Ah, Egon…Spengler, yes? I've heard quite a number of good things about you. You're said to be quite the promising physicist." Verbecke smiled at this, in a most reptilian fashion. While it could not be said that I was the most university-politics aware person, far from, I was now quite certain that he wanted something from me. Finally, after some quite useless small talk, he reached the issue for which I had been brought.

"You see, Egon," and he leaned towards me in what I could only deem he thought to be a persuasive manner. "We here in the Colombia physics department aim to make this one of the pre-eminent courses in the country, if not the world. It was good enough to attract a young man of your brilliance, true, but imagine what heights we'd be capable of with better equipment, or even a new wing devoted to spatial physics."

For a moment, I thought he wished me to petition my father for departmental funding, and almost laughed aloud at the ludicrous thought. Verbecke, however, continued, and my amusement came to an abrupt end.

"Now, all the major funding for the university comes from the sports. It's a sad fact of life that a bunch of muscle-bound cretins are responsible for Columbia's upkeep, our department included, but there you go. Now…." He leaned back in his chair, studying me with cold gray eyes, and knitted his fingers together contemplatively. "I've just had a talk with Dean Yeager, you know, the university president. It seems that one of the football team, our star quarterback, has missed large sections of class this semester, due ostensibly to family reasons." Verbecke gave a contemptuous snort at this. "Probably had to go to rehab. But it seems that for some reason, he's been taking physics of all things as his science elective. Now, here's the problem…"

Verbecke leaned forward again, and I felt my earlier foreboding turn into a lump of icy certainty with in me.

"The quarterback is a junior, and all his classes are full for the next year. He can't take this class over in the summer, that's when they have their little training camps or whatever. Besides, we don't offer that course anytime other than during the spring semester. He needs to pass this course this year. Now, we can't just give him a passing grade, there are limits against that sort of thing nowadays… but we can tutor him. Or rather, you can tutor him."

As I opened my mouth to protest, he raised a hand and cut me off. "Listen, Spengler, none of us have any choice in this matter. Dean Yeager stressed that if we lose this player, there goes Columbia's shot at the finals. It goes, so does the alumnae money. If that goes, so does our new wing. And without the new wing," and he smiled most unpleasantly, "we simply won't have room for too many graduate TAs, now will we?"

With considerable effort, I managed to rein in my utter fury at this ghastly form of bureaucratic blackmail. I stood stiffly, and replied. "Very well." As I approached the door, I turned with one final question to the repellent man who I now realized held my career in his hands. "What is the student's name?"

He smirked slightly at my lack of sports knowledge. "Peter Venkman."



The first time I met Egon Spengler, brainiac extra-ordinaire, love of my life, and general all-round genius, was damn memorable. In my entire life, I've only been that angry four times, and the other three barely counted, because this time was heightened by about five months of worry. The fact that it'd started pouring rain and I'd gotten thoroughly soaked by the time I'd reached the physics building only made it that much worse.

I pulled open the door to the foyer with a furious jerk, and dripping on the marble floor glared all around. Freshmen scattered like sheep before a starving wolf, and it gave me some satisfaction. Hell, if my day was ruined, so should everyone else's. I'd been at the frat house, comfortably lounging in a battered chair, with a textbook craftily hidden inside a Playboy mag. Wouldn't do to let the other guys see me taking life too seriously. After all, I had a rep to maintain. Nope, I was settled for the day, no plans, no training, just me, the books and a brew. And then came the goddamned call from Coach Liger.

Oh, I might have a scholarship, and great GPA, but the coach was far too used to dealing with small-minded morons. Hell, the man was one. He decided to do me a favor, for my own good, or so he thought, and had set me up with a tutor. A tutor for Christ's sake. I might not have attended classes the past few weeks, but I did talk with all my professors, and I did read the books. Hell, there wasn't much else for me to do other than studying. It was either that or have a nervous breakdown.

My hair slipped down in long wet tendrils, blocking my vision, and disgusted, I swept it out of the way to look for the right room. It's damn hard to stomp down a corridor seriously when your sneakers are making loud squelching noises. Nervous titters of laughter at my appearance echoed through the halls, and by the time I found the TA's offices, I was surprised that I was still soaked. Considering how boiling furious I was, I should've been generating enough steam to power the building.

Alright, Petey-boy, calm down. I stood outside the door, fists clenched at my side, and attempted to gain some control. You're gonna go in there, and meet this damn tutor. At this rate, maybe you'll scare him so badly, he'll just record that he met you for every session. I took a few deep breaths, and slowly relaxed my hands. As good as that sounded, I didn't really want to join the ranks of football players known for violence off the field. Suave, sure, violent, nah.

I was a good ten minutes early, despite the frickin' rainstorm. Not that I was particularly keen to be prompt, but I did want the home court advantage. Get there early, scout the territory, and then when the guy showed up, I could be sitting at his desk, feet up, looking casual. No such luck though, because as I entered the room, it was pretty obvious he was there, and had been for hours. All I could see of him was his back, and a mountain of papers stacked neatly around him. He looked to be a follower of Einstein, judging by the wild tangle of white blond hair. He was wearing a pink shirt with suspenders, of all damn things.

I have entered the Empirical City and found the Wizard of Odd.

That amusing thought was all it took for me to lose most of the anger that I had. Hell, no matter how bad my day was going, it was still looking better than this poor SOB's life. This was probably going to be torturous, but I'd gotten myself out of worse jams.

That firmly in mind, I closed the door with an audible thump. He jumped, shot a glance at the rather battered looking clock on the wall, and spun his chair around to face me...

Blue. For a moment, that was all I saw. Blue eyes, bluer than any sky I'd ever seen. Eyes that seemed to judge the world but were not judgmental. I was so used to facing people with pre-conceptions of me, that to see someone look at me so... fairly... it was shocking. I gaped at him like a fish for a few minutes, and it's just as well that he seemed equally surprised.

He won the battle to regain poise first, and stood, holding a long slender hand towards me. "I'm Egon Spengler." Jesus, the man's got a voice deeper than you'd think with a body that skinny. It rolled in the air like an avalanche.

Pull yourself together, Petey. I gave him a smile, a real one, not one of the usual ones I borrow from my dad. "Peter Venkman."

The last thing I had expected about Peter Venkman was for him to be early. No. The second to last thing. He was…striking. It was difficult not to stare at him. When I first realized someone else was in the room, I had turned, in truth expecting another TA. Instead, I was faced with Columbia's star quarterback, soaking wet and dripping all over various experiments scattered around the floor.

He seemed as startled as I, looking at me with eyes as green as jade, rainwater still trickling from his hair across his face and neck. His clothes were drenched, and clung to him in a fashion that left little to the imagination. I certainly required no assistance. Stunned both by his appearance and my physical and mental reaction to it, it took me a few moments to gather my wits. As I stood to introduce myself, the clarity of the green seemed to fade, and grow more opaque. I had surprised him, though I did not know in what fashion, and now he hid himself behind those shuttering eyes. Nevertheless, he gave me a genuine smile...something which I had the strangest impression he seldom gave.

"Peter Venkman." His voice was a light tenor, and faintly amused. We shook hands, and it seemed to me the heat from his lingered on my palm.

He moved to take one of the other TA's chairs, and I grasped his shoulder, and said, "Wait." He gave me another surprised look, one that increased as I moved to a cupboard nearby. The surprise edged into gratitude, as I handed him one of the towels kept there for emergencies. He toweled off briskly, but it wasn't until he had reached his soaked hair that his muffled tenor said, "Thanks." I believe that he was unable to say that while looking at me. Most peculiar.

Damp, but drier, he sat down as I did, and we studied each other. My main impression was that Verbecke was far more than mistaken. This was a very intelligent man. Those emerald eyes were now sharp, assessing, and it took little to imagine that I was undergoing some form of test. It seemed I passed, for the smile returned, and he leaned back in the chair until it creaked in protest.

"So…. Did you volunteer for this, or were you thrown to the wolves?"

My eyebrows rose at this very accurate guess. It seemed forthrightness was the best way to deal with this dangerously astute man. I replied, "More like thrown by the wolves."

He frowned, but looked amused. "Office politics, huh?" He leaned forward, and tilted his head. "Not your thing, I guess." There was respect lurking behind his slightly mocking tones.

"No, not really."

He nodded and came to the point. "Look, I didn't request a tutor. This," and his hand traced circles in the air as if to sum up the entire problem in a gesture, "was all the great and glorious idea of Coach Liger, who frankly could only be compared to a monkey's uncle if the monkey were particularly short, ugly and stupid…and it'd be an insult to the monkey."

He paused to structure his thoughts. It was fascinating. One could perceive that he was thinking, and hard, but as to what… his eyes were impenetrable. They looked hard into mine, and a decision crystallized with in them. He leaned over, and reached into the backpack which he had brought, swift fingers undoing the various catches on it. He paused for a moment, and then handed me a rather battered looking binder without a word.

It seemed much as any undergraduate notebook, scrawled upon with nonsense, phone numbers, and inanities. I looked at him questioningly, and he simply nodded at me to examine it. The first dozen pages were full of doodles and haphazard…no. I looked harder. Within the patterns and vague comments were carefully hidden, proper notes. Formulae were written down like hieroglyphics, but present. My awareness of this fact did not escape him, for Peter Venkman's voice, smooth and clearly controlled said, "Keep reading."

Returning my gaze from him, where it had flown, to the binder, I flipped through the pages. Suddenly the notes changed, became organized and clear, and in far neater handwriting. Along the margins ran what were obviously personal comments, speculations and theories that, given time, I would enjoy perusing. I reached the end of the notes, and then looked at Peter. He was once again leaning back, hands steepled before him, watching me with an intent gaze that for a moment took my breath from me.

I cleared my throat, and returned the book. "You're ahead of the class's lectures. You have a strong, if not exceptional, grasp of the course. You don't need a tutor," I said, with a surprising twinge of regret coloring my voice.

His eyes widened slightly, and he replied, "He shoots, he scores." The facetious tone then faded away. "I don't need a tutor. You don't need a student. But thanks to the machinations of this damn university, we're stuck with each other, aren't we? Any ideas?"

I pushed my glasses further up my nose, for they had slid as I looked through his binder. "I believe that you are right. We are stuck with one another." I hesitated. While I knew he was not pleased with the situation, I also knew, just by virtue of the scant look through his personal notes, that Peter Venkman was a person with whom I would enjoy talking. I confessed to myself that in fact I very much wished to know him better. "We must continue to meet, and be seen to meet, both for your scholarship…"

He winced at the mention of it, and then finished for me. "And so that you don't lose your post, right?" The green eyes narrowed with fury, but thankfully that outraged look was not aimed at me. "That prick, Verbecke, right? I've heard about him. And Dean Yeager. Two particularly nasty peas in a pod. It's the sorta thing they'd do." He reined in his anger with some effort, and gave me a sympathetic look. "Don't worry about it, Spengler. I don't blame you. And if there's any way for me to get back at Verbecke for you, I'll take it." He grinned in a fashion that made me suspect that even the predatory Verbecke had met his match.

I found myself returning that fierce smile in equal measure. "Perhaps I could do the same with your Coach Liger. And please. Call me Egon."

Egon. What the hell kinda name is that?

I left his office after we arranged a schedule. Thanks to Liger's paranoia about losing me, we were to meet every day until the beginning of Spring Break. It was sort of rough, we had wildly different schedules, but in the end we managed. We'd meet for lunch most days, and when that wasn't possible, we set it up for the evening. I snorted. The guys at the frat will think I have a new girlfriend.

I'd wandered aimlessly, and found myself in some tucked away courtyard. Leaning against a tree, I looked up through the leaves at an indecisive sky. To rain, or not to rain. It looked the way I felt.

Egon.

I was expecting, I dunno, a real geek. I mean, he was one by the way he dressed, even the way he talked. Prim. Unless you listened to that rich deep voice carefully, and then you could catch the sly humor hidden in it. His eyes echoed it behind the thick red frames.

I dropped my head, and studied my sneaks. He didn't look surprised. Not at the fact that I had brains… more surprised, I think, that I hid them. His long face's expression when he saw my notes for what they were was probably the exact look what's his name had when he figured out Linear A from the Rosetta stone. Eureka! The mysteries of the universe unraveled. Or more like my shoelaces, starting to unravel. I frowned at them, but didn't bother to bend down and tie them.

What the hell was I thinking? I mean, sure, it convinced him that I don't need tutoring…but I coulda just gone along with it, acted the ignorant jock. I'd done it tons of times. So why'd I do it? Why did I let him see, hell, even a portion of the real me?

I jammed my hands in my pockets, and kicked a rock near my foot into a puddle. The ripples spilled outward, then stilled, and the water reflected the turbulent sky. Grey. Not blue.

"Peter."

I spun in my seat at the sound of Egon's deep voice. It was our third 'tutoring session', and we were sort of turning it into a tour of the local eateries. This time we were at Chow's, which despite sounding like a Chinese laundromat was in fact the best place in New York to get real Boston clam chowder.

"Egon." I looked up at him with some concern. "You're late. Something up? And I ordered for you."

He sat down heavily into the chair opposite me with a sigh, and ran a tired hand through his thick wild blond hair. Looking up at me with rueful resignation, he said, "Verbecke."

"Ah." The waitress brought over two large bowls of chowder, and enough crackers floating inside to have sunk the Titanic. I tapped his hand with my spoon. "Eat first, spill after. This is best hot."

We ate silently. He managed to eat with a grace that made me feel like some yokel from the mountains. It was all I could do to keep from throwing oyster crackers at him. I should. It might kick him out of the gloom he was in, too.

The past two days, we'd eaten, and then talked. Mostly about physics, keeping relatively in topic, but we'd strayed into other things. I mentioned my major, which seemed to genuinely fascinate him. He didn't ask me about my scholarship, or the football team, or why I'd missed so much of the semester, and I was grateful for the tact. In return, I didn't ask him what the hell he was doing TA-ing at so-so university with his brains, or why he put up with Verbecke's manipulation. Or why he wore those damn suspenders, though I will ask him about that one of these days.

He gave a contented sigh as he finished his bowl, and looked around the place with interest. His gaze touched on the faded wallpaper, the slap-dash décor, and the quiet but obviously regular patrons. His eyes returned to me, the blue faded in the dingy room, but calmer than they were when he first came in.

"Thank you, Peter." Egon glanced around again, and continued, "I didn't even know this place existed. I'll admit, given the looks, I may simply have passed it by. How did you discover it?"

I shrugged. "Word of mouth." Yeah, I'd asked an old family friend for the names of places that would let me work part time, and feed me too. I worked here last year, until that same family friend had a daughter fall ill. I now did some part-time work for them. The staff here had changed since, one of the reasons I was willing to bring Egon here.

Time for a change of subject. I pushed aside my emptied bowl, and started pushing a stray cracker around the table like a hockey puck. "Verbecke?"

Egon's back stiffened slightly, and his long hands tensed on the edge of the table. He spoke sharply, "It seems that there is considerably more to this outrageous situation than I had initial perceived. " I arched my hands into a goal, and looked first at him, and then the cracker, and back again. A faint amused twitch touched his full lips, and the lines across his forehead eased. He flicked the cracker with skill between my hands. I grinned at him. "Score. One for the home team." I eased back in my chair, and looked at him more seriously. "What happened?"

He leaned back, mirroring my pose although not tilting back as far as I did, and resituated his glasses on his beaky nose. It was a gesture I was quickly becoming familiar with. This one, I think, meant he had something he wasn't sure how to approach, probably involving me. I gave him time to put it together, and just considered him. He's interesting to look at, rather gawky and awkward looking, although he moved with a grace I envied. The white-blond hair, long lashes, and full mouth were feminine, but heavily tempered by the sharp cheekbones, and strongly masculine chin. His eyes were his most striking feature….

I came back to earth with a literal thump, as my chair's leg snapped under my weight, and I landed ass over teakettle. The restaurant roared with glee. I closed my eyes and waited for Egon to laugh as well. Instead, I heard him get up and approach. "Are you alright? Do you need a hand?" I looked up, and peered into blue eyes filled with mild amusement…and actual concern. I rather brusquely waved him off, muttered 'Fine, fine," and got up, pulling the chair along with me. "Let's go, Spengler."

We paid the bill, and left, with people still chortling at me. Damn, I hate that. And in front of Spengler too. Oh yeah, Colombia's star quarterback, master of the football field, able to fall off a chair in a single bound.

He didn't laugh. If he had, hell, I'd've joined in, shrugged it off and tucked the embarrassment inside. But he didn't. He took it seriously, well, mostly…as much as he took me seriously. Nobody did that. Nobody.

It was scary as shit.

We walked back towards campus, and had just hit the quad, when he decided I'd cooled off enough for conversation. "Peter, about Verbecke…"

I looked at him, standing there looking concerned. Damn, it did involve me. Spengler knew me well enough somehow that he could tell this wasn't a good time to talk, so it must be important.

I thrust a hand through my hair sharply, and tilted my head inquiringly.

He sighed. "It appears that we are to continue our tutoring sessions throughout Spring Break. I'm certain this interferes with your plans…."

Not really. In a way, it gave me a damn good excuse to stay here. Yeah, this actually worked in my favour. I couldn't afford to go to Florida with the frat anyway, and wanted to stay here, just in case… well, something awful happens. I rubbed my temples with my hand.

"Peter…what is it?"

I looked up at him. He was worried, about me. Known me for only a few days, and was worried. Knew me well enough that he could tell that something was wrong.

No, scary wasn't the word for it. It went way beyond that.

"It's nothing, Spengler. Spring Break, fine, I'll scotch my trip to Daytona's sun, surf and sand for you and your little lectures too." He frowned at me, and I cut him off before he could say anything, "I gotta get going, forgot I had a date. See you tomorrow."

I spun around, and headed towards the frat house before he could stop me. It was all I could do to keep from running.

After his quite unfortunate pratfall of the previous week, Peter had become remarkably silent. Our sessions, although they did include the requisite talk about physics, ranged scarcely beyond that. Further, it seemed to me that he was deliberately choosing places where he could be distracted by acquaintances and admirers.

I turned my head and eyed my rather sullen companion as we walked through the darkening streets toward Columbia's campus. He was slouching slightly, long brown hair covering his eyes, hands thrust deep in his letter jacket. All combined to give one the impression that he had drawn himself inwards, like a Nautilus, for self-protection. Not that he had been the most forthcoming of individuals to begin with. Having met six times so far now, all I really knew about him was the dry information provided by the university, his intelligence and humour, and his genuine interest in his own field of study. It was more than enough to earn my respect. Looking at Peter's shadowed face, however, I decided that I wanted something more than equal respect. For now, I would settle for answers.

"Peter."

"Hmm?" A questioning sound, but one that was non-committal. How frustrating.

I stopped under a flickering lamp, and for a few seconds he continued before turning to face me.

"Something up?" He tilted his head inquiringly, but his eyes were looking past me.

I pushed my glasses further up. "Peter. Why are you taking physics? Isn't perhaps biology a more logical course for your degree?"

Surprised, his green eyes flew to my face. "Huh? Jeez, where'd that question come from, Spengler?"

I shrugged slightly. "I'm curious. Why?"

Peter pulled himself up, and looked at me for a long time. "You really want to know." It did not seem to be a question, so I waited. Sighing slightly, he gave a rueful smile that curled the side of his lips up. "Why. That's it, you know."

I must have looked exceedingly puzzled, for he laughed. Not the light sardonic sound with which I had seen him brush off the many followers who had so plagued our discussions, but true laughter, that shook his shoulders and lit his eyes like flames. He leaned against the brick building next to him, and worked on catching his breath. I did the same, albeit for a different reason.

"Sorry, Egon. Just your face…." He started chuckling again, and I smiled at him. At least he was calling me by my first name once more. "Seriously. It's sorta hard to explain. When you were a kid, was 'why' your big question?"

Puzzled, I answered, "I suppose."

He nodded. "All kids ask questions. It's all part of the learning process. Why did that happen? What's that? Where is daddy going? When is later?" He leaned back, amusement giving way to a pensive look I'd not seen on his face. His eyes fell upon the brownstone across the road from us. "Most kids reach a point where they stop asking. They get told 'Because I say so!' or 'How should I know?' once too often, and they learn you don't get real answers. They get older, and things just become accepted. They still ask pragmatic questions, where, when, what…but only a few continue to ask 'why?'

He looked at me, his gaze now level and serious. "Psychology asks 'Why?' It has an effect, and it looks for a cause. Physics is the same. All the other sciences ask 'What?' I figure…." He hesitated, and then spoke with an earnestness that was evident in voice and motion of his hands. "If psychology is a study of how the mind interacts with itself and others, and physics is a study of how everything reacts to itself and others, then they're similar fields. Hell, I've applied some of my work in each course to the other. The profs think it's a revelation, but it's just because the two fields don't interact. I'm thinking…" He shrugged, gazing off into the distance, and I suspect it was because he was suddenly aware of his enthusiasm and was embarrassed by it. "I'm thinking about doubling. Getting a degree in Parapsych. A lot of people think it's nonsense. I don't even believe most of the gobbledygook that they usually teach. But it seems to be a way to mesh my interests…"

He fell silent and became fascinated with his feet.

I must admit, I was astonished. I cleared my throat. "Peter…the reason why I came to Columbia was because I wished to study parapsychology. " His head shot up, and he gaped at me. I nodded at him. "I feel that there is more to this universe than simple equations or a vast theorem that will cover everything. I too believe that my chosen field alone cannot unbend itself enough to truly ask and discover 'why?'…and I want to find out."

It was from that moment that our daily meetings changed. While going to new dining establishments remained part of the routine, we began to frequent both the Butler Library on campus and the New York Public library downtown. We spent much of our time arguing, so vastly different were our opinions on parapsychology. He was convinced that much of it was a sham, a con job performed by trickery upon the gullible. I, on the other hand, believed that these things existed, but merely required scientific evidence. It was much like playing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to his Houdini.

We both enjoyed it enormously. Many times, we would look at the clock in the library and gasp in horror at the realization that it was closing time, and we had missed some function or another. For the first time since I began to TA, I fell behind in grading. Fortunately, I was able to make up for it on the weekends. I would not have given up an iota of this time with Peter for anything.

Two weeks later, Peter and I were returning to his room at the fraternity to pick up some books which I had lent him. We had met for lunch, and in the rush to get to his morning class on time, he'd forgotten them. I had learned by now that Peter is not well suited to mornings.

"Venkman!" One of the larger specimens of his fraternity was leaning haphazardly out a window to address us. "You got a call. Something about a hospital."

Peter blanched, his already fair skin going nearly grey, and his eyes dilated. He thrust his backpack into my arms, and bolted into the chapter house. I followed rapidly, coming in time to hear him speaking sharply at someone on the telephone.

When he hung up, he sunk his face into his hands. His shoulders trembled minutely, and I felt as if my heart would shatter for him, so obvious was his distress.

Quietly, I murmured his name, but kept my distance. He looked at me, green eyes blurred with barely restrained tears. "My mom." His voice was hoarse. "She's… had a relapse. St. Vincent's Hospital."

I didn't ask for details, I just took him by the arm. "My car." He came with me without protest.

Not again.

I let Egon put me in his car, and we headed for St. Vinny's. I slid in the bucket seat, and just stared at the dashboard. I'd probably feel damn grateful to him later, when I could feel anything again.

If I could feel anything.

A gentle hand touched my arm, and I jumped. "Peter. We're here." I blinked and looked around. Sure enough. Egon must have hit a new speed record for New York. Wow.

We got out of the car and went into the foyer. It took a few minutes to get info from the nurse at the front desk. I headed to where Egon was seated, flipping through month old magazines without really reading them. The moment I came into view, his serious eyes were on me.

"It'll be a while before I can see her doctor and find out exactly what's going on." I sat down heavily beside him as I spoke. He just watched me and waited patiently. Not going to let it rest, dammit. I sighed, and continued. "It's okay, Egon. Nothing major." This time. "You can head back to campus if you want, I'll catch the bus."

He shook his head. "I know you well enough, Peter, to know that it is more than that. I won't leave you here alone." He fell silent for a moment, and spoke again, softly, "If you'll let me stay."

"I…" I didn't know what to say to him. My bewilderment must have shown, for he grasped my wrist with his long hands and said, "Please. It's what friends do, Peter. I don't want to leave you here to face this alone."

Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I nodded and said roughly, "Stay." His grip relaxed, and then tentatively he reached around me. I found myself being held in a warm comforting embrace, and for the first time since Mom had fallen ill, I didn't feel alone. I leaned into him, burrowing my head against his neck, and cried.

Two hours later, the doc came. One of the neighbours had found Mom in the stairwell. The medication she was on after her run-in with pneumonia this winter sometimes made her dizzy, and she'd lost her balance. So it wasn't a relapse, thank god. She'd bruised her hip pretty badly, so they were going to wait on releasing her until tomorrow morning after a few more checks.

Standing outside the hospital entrance, I turned to Egon. "Thanks." It wasn't really enough, but I couldn't think of any way to really express what I felt. It seemed to be enough, for his lips curved in the slight smile which is for him an accolade.

"Do you wish me to drive you back here in the morning?"

I hesitated. It'd make life easier, and a taxi wouldn't be cheap… but Egon would see where my mom lived, and I wasn't sure I wanted him to find out. He waited. Patient and non-judgemental. I let out a breath I wasn't aware I was holding. Egon has always judged me by myself. He holds those same standards for everything.

I looked at him and smiled. "Yeah. That'd be great, Egon."

The next morning, I met Mrs. Venkman. Peter had gone up to fetch her, and I waited beside my car in the front. Half an hour passed, and then they came through the automatic doors. Peter was pushing her wheelchair, making race-car noises, and his mother was laughing in a gentle contralto.

"Petey, you crazy boy, your friend is going to think you're mad!" she said, and ruffled Peter's hair. He protested loudly, but winked at me. Mrs. Venkman shook her head at her son, and then subjected me to a fierce scrutiny. It was obvious from whence much of Peter's genes had come, the pale skin and dark hair were much the same. And her eyes…a lighter green than Peter's, but with the same piercing clarity. She was thin. Too thin, perhaps, but that was probably due to her illness. Peter handled her with gentle care, as if afraid she would break.

She smiled and held out a slender hand. "You must be Egon. I'm so glad to meet you, although I do wish it was under better circumstances." I smiled and would have continued with standard introductions, but Peter, fretting that the cold would cause a relapse of her pneumonia, bundled us both into the car.

"I'll be right back, gonna return the chair. Don't drive off with my mom, Spengler." He grinned at me, then looked towards his mother. "Mom, watch out, he's considered the physics lab's Don Juan." He then grasped the wheelchair and whistling wheeled it back inside. Turning, I watched as he almost rammed it into a nurse in his haste, and chuckled at the wildly extravagant gestures he made as he apologized. His eyes sparkled even from here, and I could see the nurse fall for him as surely as I had. Suddenly, I became aware of Mrs. Venkman studying me as seriously as her son did on occasion.

"Peter said you're his friend."

I nodded, although it was a statement not a question.

Her pale green eyes warmed. "You know, he's never had a friend. Oh, plenty of acquaintances, and people who thought they were friends…but he's never called anyone a friend before now. He's very stubborn."

I replied dryly, "I've noticed."

Mrs. Venkman smiled at me, and her lips quirked in the exact way Peter's did when he was delighted with something he had discovered.

"He'll test your patience, my boy will. Give you a run for your money. Well, at any rate, he'll run." She chuckled. "You probably scare him silly."

She tilted her head to one side, and said, "You love him, don't you?"

She caught me by surprise, and I blushed furiously. I nodded once again, and would have explained… but Peter picked that moment to return, charging into the car like a tornado.

"Shall we go? Hey, Mom, you wait, Egon drives like hell on wheels. We'll be home in no time."

I retorted as I took the car out of park, "Peter, if I have to rely on your lemming-like navigational skills, we shall quickly arrive in Dubai, not Brooklyn. Mrs. Venkman, perhaps you can direct me?"

Laughing at her sputtering son, she gave succinct directions for a part of Brooklyn with which I was unfamiliar. I did not drive as swiftly as I had the previous day, and had to put up with Peter checking the parking brake to see if it was still on. After the fourth time he asked "Are we there yet?" I slapped my hand over his mouth until it and his own laughter made it too difficult for him to breath much less talk. At length, we did arrive in the right locale.

As Peter helped his mother out of the car, I looked around with some interest. It was a run-down neighbourhood, mostly apartment buildings. There were, however, signs of care in the street, colourful flowerboxes hanging from windows, a large hopscotch grid laid out in spray paint, and clean sidewalks.

"Coming, Spengler?" Peter spoke, a slight edge in his voice, as he noticed my observation of the area.

"Certainly, Venkman." I locked the car, and moved around to the other side. Offering my arm with somewhat flamboyant courtesy to her, I asked, "Care to join us, Mrs. Venkman?"

She laughed and took my arm. The slight anger and fear in Peter's eyes melted away, and he took her other arm with an equally showy flourish. We proceeded into the complex, provoking considerable amusement from her as Peter and I squabbled over who was to relinquish Mrs Venkman's arm in order to get through the door.

"Tommy broke the elevator again?" Peter asked as we reached the fourth floor landing, and let Mrs Venkman rest. We had been forced to take the stairs to the seventh floor.

Mrs. Venkman nodded. "That boy. His fixation with all things mechanical would be nice if he could repair things, not break them." She looked towards me, and explained, "Tommy Gilford, 3A. He's autistic, and a good boy, but this is the tenth time since I moved here that he's broken the elevator. Luckily, it's easy enough to repair." She laughed. "It's getting to the point where I or any of the other residents can fix it. Unfortunately, it wasn't on my floor yesterday, and that why I ended up tumbling down these stairs."

She gave Peter a slight shove. "Come on, let's get going. You can climb a few more flights, I'm sure."

When we reached the apartment, Peter went to help her to bed with the pain medication the hospital had provided. She told me to come back anytime I wished, so firmly that I suspect I have little choice in the matter. They went, leaving me to study the living room. It was small, but neat, with a few pieces of well-chosen furniture in good repair. There were a number of books, most with library labels, scattered in mountainous piles. That explains that habit of Peter's. The walls were starkly bare, which surprised me, and the only picture in the room was a small photograph in a silver frame. I picked it up.

It appeared to be from Peter's high school graduation. He wore the National Honour Society tabard, along with the gold tassel of a merit scholar… and a particularly hideous Hawaiian shirt. His arms were slung around his mother and a short balding man, and his smile was almost rapturous.

"That's my dad. I was valedictorian, so he came."

I spun around at the quiet voice. Peter was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, two steaming cups of coffee in either hand. He extended one to me silently.

"You've not mentioned him. I'm afraid I've assumed… " I paused, then continued with the thought. "I assumed that he was dead."

Peter snorted into his cup as he sipped. "He might as well be, for all the help he's been."

I waited but that was all he said. If he wanted to tell me more later, I must let him choose to do so.

"Anything you can prove, I'll disprove better. You can't prove anything I can't disprove." I caroled this off-key to that old show tune. We were in a dingy basement section of the NY public library, a dark forgotten corner where they kept most of the older occult stuff. Egon's TA pass got us entry, and we'd now come down here often enough that the librarian just let me in, whether Egon was present or not.

"No, you can't," he countered in his driest tones. Judging by the amusement in his eyes as he said it, he obviously recognized the source. I grinned.

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't." His glasses started to slid down his nose, he was trying so hard not to laugh.

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't, no, you can't…"

"Yes, I can!" The triumphant finale concluded, we both lost it and collapsed in our chairs howling. Gasping for breath, I watched him. I'd gotten him to chuckle on more than a few occasions, but this was a first. His deep bass laughter rang out like a bell, and he pulled off his glasses to wipe tears from his eyes.

He was beautiful.

The realization struck me like lightening. My god. I…

"Peter, is something wrong?" He'd stopped laughing, and now leaned over the book-strewn table with concern. His blue eyes fixed on me intently.

"I… I just remembered something, Egon." I stood up abruptly, almost knocking my chair down in my haste. "Look, I gotta run, I'll catch you tomorrow for dinner, okay?" I grabbed my backpack and letter jacket from the floor, and dashed out of the room. Leaping over the barrier, I tore out of the library before Egon could possibly catch me.

Five minutes later, I leaned winded against a building near by and stared up at a brilliant blue sky. Blue, but not as blue as... I covered my eyes with both hands.

God.

I'd fallen in love with Egon Spengler.

I'd waited for well over an hour here at Lingo's near Butler Park, and Peter had still not shown up for our appointed 7pm dinner. It was unlike him. But then, so too was his abrupt departure yesterday. I frowned at my watch, and got up once more to try and reach him. His fraternity stated that 'Victory' Venkman was 'on the prowl' and had a date. As I suspect that many of our tutor sessions had been some of his 'dates', this was of little help.

I set the receiver down, and gave it some thought. It could possibly be his mother, but she in fact had called me looking for Peter this morning. I'd not thought much of it at the time. She had called because a package had arrived and she'd been unable to reach him. She'd believed that I was more reliable to pass on the message than his fraternity, and I agreed. She'd reminded me to visit, and promised to cook me a proper meal, as I was too thin.

I paid for the drink I had bought, and left a message with the waiter before leaving. Where could he be? Injured? Sick? I looked up and down the road anxiously. To my surprise, far down the street, I spotted him, slouched against the park railing. He seemed lost in thought, and under-dressed for the cold that the spring night had brought with itself. Had he been wandering for hours like that? And if so, why?

I approached, eyeing him for signs of a mugging. Other than looking pale and sleepless, with a five o'clock shadow that stood out stark against his face, he seemed physically uninjured…and more spiritually wounded than I ever could have pictured.

I must have spoken his name aloud, for he turned almost violently towards me, eyes wild. Surprised, I held my hands up, gesturing for peace in hopes that it would calm him.

He sighed, and leaned against the railing once more. "Spengler." His tenor was rough and smoky, and at first I suspected he had been drinking. It astounded me, for despite his being in a fraternity, Peter had seemed to disapprove of the truly drunk, imbibing only moderately. Then I noticed that he was dressed in the exact same clothes he had worn yesterday. He'd been out all night?

I moved closer to him, and saw that it was exhaustion, not alcohol that was responsible for his haggard appearance. He warded me off with a wave of his hands. "Don't. I mean…" He shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair in obvious distress. "I'm sorry, Egon."

"That's all right, Peter. We still have time for dinner, if you feel up to it," I replied soothingly, although I thought he could do with a bath and bed more.

"No. That's not why…" His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. "Never mind." He started to move, walking back towards campus, and I trailed him uncertainly. We'd gone several blocks and were near Central Park before I spoke.

"Peter. Are you alright?"

"No, Egon, I'm not." His reply was strained, and he sounded at the end of his patience. If I pressed the issue, he would snap. However…I had avoided pressing him once too often, perhaps it was time. I reached out and grabbed his shoulder. He froze, and attempting to pull away, growled, "Let go, Spengler."

"No. I've no intention of losing you, Peter, and I suspect that if I do not do something this evening… You'll be subsumed in this false persona you let the world see, and the real you, the Peter Venkman whom I see and value, will be lost forever."

He spun on me suddenly, green eyes narrowed and blazing in the streetlights. "The real me?!" He laughed, and it was almost despairing. Before I could react, he seized my hands and pulled me into the nearby alleyway. Pinning me hard against the brick wall, he leaned towards me, his lean face tense… and afraid? Before I could speculate further, he spoke.

"No intention of losing me, huh, Spengler? The real me? What the hell do you know about the real me?" The hands gripping my shoulders tightened painfully, and I gasped. "You want to see the real me, Spengler? Fine."

He moved in closer, and suddenly, he was kissing me. Savagely. My arms held down against the wall, I couldn't respond. Astonished, I was unable to do anything but drown in blazing heat as he pressed his lean body hard against the length of mine. An eternity seemed to pass, and then he moved back, breathing heavily, pupils dilated in a way the darkness could not entirely account for.

"How's that for reality?" he said harshly, and before I could respond, he bolted out of the alleyway.

Stunned, I watched him go.

I must be losing my mind.

I'd torn out of the alley, and hadn't stopped running yet.

What the hell was I thinking? I… I kissed him. No, more like forced a kiss from him. He's going to hate me, I'll get kicked off the team, lose the scholarship, and he'll hate me. And all I can think about is how good he smelled, and the searing feel of his lips against mine, his heart racing against my chest… I've gone completely nuts.

Gasping for breath now, with a fierce stitch in my side, I stopped to see where I was. Damn. I was in front of the NY public Humanities library. Great, thanks, subconscious, just bring me back to where my world crashed down on me. The library's huge white lions peered down at me in the streetlights expressionlessly.

My legs ached from the run, I'd covered a good mile in no time. Liger would be thrilled, assuming he was here with his stopwatch. Of course, if he saw why I was running, my ass'd be off the team faster than his watch could time.

Grimacing, I walked up the stairs towards the entrance. Maybe… maybe if I go back to the Rare Books room…

I wandered in, another lost New York patron, and headed for the back. Mrs. Hilder was there and smiled, handing over the keys to the basement room. She twittered at me some, I didn't really pay attention. My mind was on the previous day, the past few minutes, and my future.

I flicked the light switch on before heading down the stairs, breathing deep the comforting, calming scent of old books. I headed towards our table, and parked myself in one of the battered leather-covered chairs. I sat there for a long time, staring at the grooves in the wood where countless bored researchers had graffitied the table.

"Peter." Oh no, no way.

I looked up, and there he was, standing right next to me, his hair a glowing halo with the light behind him.

Groaning, I covered my face with my hands. "You found me. How the hell… Never mind, probably one of those psychic phenomena you're always…"

His hand reached out and grasped my chin, forcing me to meet his intense azure gaze. He had taken the other chair and now sat next to me, his long face serious. I tried to think of a wise-ass comment, a flip excuse, anything, but before I could, he spoke, his deep bass gravelly.

"The real you, Peter. That's all I ever wanted. As a physicist, I am a firm believer and devout follower of reality."

His other hand ran through my hair, cupping the back of my head, and before I could react, he kissed me. Gently. So gently, it was like snowflakes that burned upon my lips. I must have moaned against his mouth, for the hand clasping my chin dropped to my shoulder, and he pressed me back against the chair. The kiss seemed to last forever, teasingly light, and I almost cried out when it ended.

Moving back a few inches, he looked into my eyes and his lips curved faintly. "Reality, Peter?"

I swallowed, and cleared my throat before replying, "It's a hell of a lot better than make-believe." Hesitating, I lifted my hands from my lap where they'd fallen, and ran them up his suspenders to his collarbone. I let my fingers linger there, as I watched the blue eyes turn to darker violet. "This is real, right, Egon?"

"If it isn't," he said huskily, "It's the best dream I've ever had."

My fingers moved to brush his full lips. "They say third time's the charm." I tried to make a joke of it, but I think my voice quavered a bit too much to pull it off. The hand at the back of my neck moved gently through my hair, soothingly, and I leaned into it.

"Let's prove that theorem, shall we?" he murmured, and his lips met mine once more. It was nothing like the ferocious kiss I stole from him, or the whisperingly persuasive one he'd just given me. I would call it the best kiss I ever had… except the moment it started, I forgot that I had kissed anyone else in my entire life other than him. This was equal give and take, like nothing I'd experienced before, and I wanted more.

There was a rattle and thump from the top of the stairs, and Egon and I both jumped back.

"Oh, Mr. Spengler, Mr. Venkman." Damn. The librarian. I looked over at Egon, who was a bit flushed and rumpled. Grinning, I said sotto voce, "Shhh, Spengs, I told you this was a library. You made too much noise. " Before he could even pretend to protest, she reminded us that it was closing time, and hadn't we heard the bell?

"No, Mrs. Hilder. Peter and I were… engaged in some fairly revelatory research." Egon took off his glasses and began to polish them on his coat sleeve, while I tried not to start laughing.

Mrs. Hilder tutted at us both. "You two should get out more. You're always in here. Go on, go home." She bustled us both up the stairs. "Are either of you taking any books tonight?"

I breezily replied, "Nope, Mrs. H., I'm currently checking out all I need to." Egon, who was right in front of me on the stairs, stumbled. Heh. Musta known what I was looking at.

Peter and I walked out of the library into the cold spring air and unspoken we headed for one of the monumental lions. Other patrons walked past, fellow students and vagrants who had taken shelter in the warm research centre, all headed for parts unknown, until at last we were all that remained. Peter sat between the lion's paws, legs swinging idly. I sat beside him, placing my coat over his thinly clad shoulders, and waited for him to speak.

A few minutes later, his dark head bowed slightly, and he placed a warm hand on mine. "I'm sorry, Egon. For running." His emerald gaze looked into mine solemnly. "You…it scared me. I…" His eyes dropped, and his hand tightened on mine. I curled my hand around his, and returned the squeeze encouragingly.

He smiled faintly, and leaned against me, peering into the dark New York sky for the invisible stars.

After a time, he spoke, his tenor soft. "My dad… he's a con man. He's got a list of aliases a mile long, and God knows how many warrants. Oh, he thinks of himself as the Robin Hood kinda character, robbing the rich, helping the poor, but he's not. Most of his victims aren't wealthy, certainly not when he's through with them."

His tone became darker, and bitter. "We're his victims too, Mom and me. We've moved around so much, one step ahead of police or eviction notices, that I've lost count of how many places I've lived. My grades were crap, until Mom put her foot down. She told him that he might not be able to stay in one place, but that I needed to. That's when we moved here. Dad didn't come with us."

I thought of his mother's small bare apartment, and of his scholarship, and my heart ached for him. I kept silent, however, and merely clasped his hand.

"I think Mom always knew he had women in every port. It wasn't until we settled that I found out about them." His legs started swinging again, and his sight fixed on the ends of his shoes. "You know, I've no idea how many brothers and sisters I might have? That son of a bitch. " His feet stilled, and his hand gripped mine tightly. "That's why... I've never gone beyond second base with anyone, Egon."

My expression must have made my surprise clear, for he laughed, albeit darkly. "Yeah, I know, Peter Venkman, jock supreme, frat man and all-round good-looking guy, a virgin. Pretty damn funny, right?"

I interrupted then. "I'm not laughing."

His eyes lit on me and warmed. "I know." He squeezed my hand again, this time gently. "I was with my prom date in high school. She was drunk, really drunk. One of the other guys on the team had hidden a keg out back, and we'd all been drinking. She got friendly. Damn friendly. We started messing around… and it hit me. I would screw up her life, just like my dad screwed up my mom's and so many other women's. Sobered me up damn fast, Egon. I took her home, and then stayed out the rest of the night thinking, just like I did last night. I wouldn't do anything if it wasn't love."

His other hand covered the ones resting on my leg, and he looked at me seriously. "That's why I ran. Not 'cause you're a guy, well, not entirely, though that was a big shock." He grinned a touch ruefully, and shook his head. "Nah, I can deal with that. But… "

Peter dropped his gaze to our hands, and then said quietly, "I liked you from the minute we met. Instantly. And then when we started talking, it just got stronger. When I realized yesterday that it wasn't just like, it was love… Hell, Egon, I didn't want to mess it up, and lose a friendship that already meant a hell of a lot to me for a case of hormones."

I took my one free hand and rested it on his shoulder. "Do you think it merely a chemical reaction, Peter? You, the psychology major?"

Startled, his eyes flew to mine. I smiled at him gently. "I too was afraid to take a chance, to risk something valuable for something unknown. Unlike you, I knew, I think from the moment I turned and saw you, that it was love at first sight. Not something I ever anticipated." I lifted our intertwined hands, and kissed the back of his lightly. He trembled slightly and leaned nearer almost unconsciously. Tempting as it was to kiss him again, I shook my head at him. "The public library, Peter."

He blinked, and looked past me at the lion with puzzlement. "Oh." His lip curled in that sardonically amused fashion with which he seems to deal with most setbacks. "Hate to say it, Egon, but between my frat, and your lecture circuit, a public library may be the only private place we have."

Oh dear. That is a setback. My glasses slid to the end of my nose as I thought over the problem. He met my gaze with amusement, and with an oddly possessive gesture pushed my spectacles back into place. " I swear, Egon, sometimes your brain thinks so heavily, your face loses its gravitational pull on these."

I hmphed at him in mock haughtiness, and he grinned back with such clear affection that I was unable to maintain any form of aloof posturing. I slid off the monument, and used helping Peter down as an excuse to hold him close in a brief but fierce hug. It was returned as avidly, and he looked into my face with sharp hunger. "Any ideas, boy genius?" he inquired, with a voice so low and husky that it was all I could do not to return his action from earlier, and pin him against the low wall.

I took a deep breath instead, and straightened the collar of my coat around his neck, brushing lightly against his neck and nape. Judging by his expression, I had best come up with some sort of plan before we drive each other quite mad.

"Spring break, " I managed at last. Thinking had been difficult, for Peter had decided that my suspenders were crooked, and had gone through elaborate measures to straighten them. His eyebrows rose, and he replied, "Next week?"

Nodding agreement, I added, "My roommate is heading to Maine to visit family. The apartment will be mine…" I paused, and ran my hand across his cheek, the rasp of his unshaven skin sending an intense stab of desire shooting from my palm. Swallowing hard, I continued "I'd like you to stay."

I practically sleepwalked through my pre-break exams that week. My thoughts pretty much centered on Egon. We met as we had for the past month, but instead of science, or our future, we talked about the past… and our present. We told each other things we'd never told another soul. Seems both our dads coulda been lovely bookends on life's shelf of how not to be a good father. Mine calls me son only when it suits his interest, or I have cash. Egon's wants his son to be a Spengler, and has that role so thoroughly mapped out that it left no room for Egon to have any kind of personality whatsoever. Thank god, Egon's a stubborn man, and broke free.

The guys at my frat were disappointed that I had to stay in town for some lame class, and I put up with the mixture of derision and pity with the happy thought of revenge. When they hauled their worthless butts out of town a few days early in a rental bus, they went with some extras in their supplies. I might not be the chemist that Egon is by any means, but when those guys use their sunscreen… Well, let's hope the babes of Daytona like their guys smurf-blue. Copper-tone, my ass.

I was still grinning about this, and about another scheme I'd planned, when Egon joined me for dinner on the Friday. Tonight was Italian, a place called La Fenestra il Luna, and I was trying to convince him that I did know more about Italy than pizza, Romans, and its boot-like shape. Yep, I may have to stay in the frat house tonight, but tomorrow… I wanted to try and impress Egon with my debonair charm. We ordered, and he leaned back to eye me dubiously.

"With the gleeful expression you were wearing when I entered, Peter, I must wonder what plans you have in store, and for whom." Fishing for details. Got to love him.

I toasted him with a glass of water. "Your health, Egon."

He snorted, and ignored me. "What have you done, Peter? Or am I better off not knowing? Ignorance is bliss, or so they say, but you would know that better than I, it being your perpetual state of being."

Hell with sophistication. I lowered my glass, and stuck my tongue out at him. "See if I do you any more favours, Spengler. Here." I took out of my jacket pocket a folded newspaper, and handed it to him with a smug grin.

He accepted it with the air of someone receiving a box of nitro, and cautiously unfolded it. He glanced at the familiar header of Columbia's newspaper, a lone eyebrow attempting to become one with his hair.

"Look at the headline, Egon." I tried sounding nonchalant, but hell, I couldn't wait, the anticipation'd been killing me all day. I just knew he never got the school paper, because if he did, he'd've called or hunted me down somehow. Probably knows my schedule better than I do.

He looked, and the perpetually calm expression dissolved into shock. His full lips formed a lovely O, and I leaned back in my chair with the full satisfaction of a job well done.

"Peter…" He couldn't decide whether to laugh or be horrified. I nearly laughed at his tone, but settled for buffing my nails on my shirt. Amusement won, and he cupped his head in between his hands and laughed in a deep bass that set my pulse racing.

Finally, he wound down, and looked up at me, eyes glittering with mirth. "How did you…" Running out of words, he tapped the paper, and the lovely headline "Verbecke in Sorority House Scandal: Physics Prof in Peeping-tom Perfidy"

"Me? You think that I had something to do with…" I lost it. Hell, who could keep a straight face for this anyway. My laughter set Egon off again, and we didn't stop until the scandalized waiter appeared with our taglietelli.

He let it rest until we were at the dessert stage before tapping the paper again and fixing me with a stern gaze. I grinned at him. "I told you if I had the chance, I would, Spengs." His eyebrows rose at the nickname, and I smiled at him more gently. "An endearment, Egon." Heh, got him to blush. Tonight's going great.

I nodded at the paper. "Know your enemy. I went and had a talk with his secretary, you know, Jungle Woman. Seems he's always been a bit of a perv, hitting on her, and other female students. I'd gotten wind of it through one of the cheerleaders. Nothing anyone could pin down, though. I talked with a few members of the news gang, they like me 'cause I can run rings around their editor with quotes. They got interested, and set up a sting operation. My only involvement was tipping them off, Egon. It'll never come up."

He sighed with relief that I hadn't endangered my college career, and studied me like I was one of those weird mushrooms he's got a thing for. "Thank you, Peter… I think." His mouth twitched slightly with amusement. "With luck, his replacement will not be quite as ghastly."

"Oh sure, put a damper on the moment, Spengler." I lifted a spoonful of the gelato to my lips and took my time eating it, until it seemed he was having difficulty breathing. Nice to know that the feeling is mutual. I swallowed it leisurely, and added "Hope you're not always such a wet blanket, Spengs."

He gave me a slight, slow smile and the look in his eyes made the hairs on the back of my neck raise. Oh boy.

It was Saturday at long last. Such had been my nerves during this extraordinary week since Peter kissed me, that I had ruined one of my key experiments, lost several important papers, and actually forgotten an appointment with Dean Verbecke… although in the end that hadn't mattered. Thanks to Peter. I smiled as I drove towards his fraternity house. I dare say upon my return to the department on Monday, the whole situation shall have achieved en epic stature, and it will be nigh impossible to discover the actual events.

I drove into the parking lot, strewn with beer cans and what appeared to be ladies underwear. Peter appeared, and bounded down the rickety stairs with a shout of "Spengler! You're late! There's a first." He swung the passenger door open and tossed himself into the front and a small duffel bag full of books into the back. He threw his feet up on the dashboard, and with a jaunty wave said "Home, James."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "The rest of your things, Peter?"

He grinned. "I decided to spare you, and took all my laundry home to wash. Mom's landlady likes me, and lets me use the washers free if I have tea with her, and take her grandkids trick-or-treating. Anyways, Mom wanted me to bring you home for dinner tomorrow. She thinks you need fattening up." A sly hand started patting around my waist and playing with the clasps of my suspenders. "Mind you," he said, voice getting huskier. "I think you're fine, myself."

"Peter," I chided, but pressed his hand against my stomach for a moment, savouring the heat of it. Then what he said filtered in and I looked at him. "Peter. I think I should tell you…"

He smiled. "It's okay, Spengs. Mom said she got a clue, and nailed you on the subject first thing." He looked ruefully out on the passing New York streets as we headed towards my apartment. "You know, if I ever do run those psychic mind-reading tests we talked about, my mom's gonna be my first subject."

I looked at him askance. "Even the electric shock aspect?"

He grinned at me. "Fitting revenge for all those shots she made me get as a kid."

A few minutes later, I parked my car in the graduate students apartment complex. Peter had not been here before, and was looking around with some trepidation.

"Nothing is going to eat you, Peter." I said with some amusement. He looked indignantly at me, and then his expression turned woebegone. "Damn. Well, there goes the best of my expectations…" he said mournfully, and I hid my laugh behind a not terribly convincing cough. Really, he could be outrageous sometimes. Most times, actually.

Peter leaned into the car and flung the bag over his head at me. I barely caught it in time, distracted as I had been by both my thoughts and the smooth play of muscles under Peter's close-fitting shirt. It's just as well the graduate complex is deserted, otherwise any chance of my maintaining the appearance of a proper student/TA relationship would've been lost the moment he moved and my eyes followed.

"Good thing you're not on the team, Spengler. And not just 'cause you'd distract me. Tight end, nothing." He moved to take the bag from my hands, brushing his fingers gently across my wrists, and I nearly dropped it. "Butterfingers," he said affectionately.

I reproved him. "It is only a problem when you are present, Peter. You seem to make me lose my grip on reality, among other things."

He smiled, green eyes ablaze with delight and affection, and then with a tilt of his head, he beckoned me to lead us to the apartment.

I let Peter enter first, while I fetched the mail. "Jeez, Egon, this isn't an apartment, this is a pocket edition of the Library of Congress." He wandered around the bookshelf crowded living room as closed and locked the door. "This your roommate's doing or is i…"

If I had to find one true fault of Peter's, it is that he talks far too much, particularly when nervous or defensive. Admittedly, his words under such circumstances are at the very least amusing, unless perhaps you are the target, but right now… Fortunately, it seems he is equally easy to silence, for as I pulled him into my arms where I had so wished him to be this past week, his tenor voice stopped, and his lips met mine with passion.

I pushed him back slightly, and we tumbled over onto my roommate's settee in a tangled heap. His hands, which had flown behind my back in a vain attempt to steady us, lightly played at the nape of my neck. He spoke again, this time huskily against my ear, "I was wrong. You'd be great on the football team. I haven't had anyone tackle me that competently all year. 'Course if you did it this way, the game would be called on account of a pretty damn interesting red-flag." I felt the damp trace of his tongue flick across my ear, and shivered violently with the sensation as he blew softly across the wet surface. I'd no idea that anything could feel like that. I'm not entirely certain I'd ever considered my ear for any other purpose than hearing. Peter, it seems, is going to substantially change my views in many areas.

"Egon?" Still rough, but edged in slight worry. I leaned back and smiled at him, running my hands across the firm shoulders. "Just thinking, Peter."

"There's a surprise." His lips quirked upwards in amusement. "Anything in particular?" He ran his hands up and down the back of my shirt, and toyed with my suspenders thoughtfully. " 'Cause I've been waiting for this all week, and now here we are, and I don't have any idea what to do."

"I'm uncertain as to how we proceed as well, Peter." I admitted, settling myself further into his hold. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You don't know?" He moved his face to look straight at me, and then started laughing.

Blushing, I shook my head and sat back. "I, um. Well, that is…" His laughter stopped, and he caressed my cheek, causing me to look up from my lap where my gaze had fallen. "Sorry, Spengs. I wasn't laughing at you, I was sorta laughing at myself. I just assumed that as the older man you'd have a clue."

I resettled my glasses so that I might have the time to structure my thoughts. "Peter… you said that you, ah, had not progressed beyond second base. I don't think I was even aware bases existed until I met you, and certainly did not explore them."

He looked horrified, and leaned towards me, his hands dropping to grip mine tightly. "Egon, tell me that when I shoved you against the wall last week that that wasn't your first kiss."

Oh dear. I hesitated, trying to think of a way to tell him that in fact it was so. He could see it in my eyes, however, and his forehead fell to my shoulder. "Egon. I…"

"Don't apologize, Peter." I kissed the back of his neck, breathing in the warm scent of him, and used the side of my head to lock his against my collarbone. "As a matter of fact, I had been, ah, fantasizing a similar scenario, and the actuality was a most pleasant, if deeply surprising event." I chuckled, recalling the numerous occasions in the first few weeks where I had woken from ardent reverie to discover that I was lecturing in the wrong language. Several of my students had erroneously concluded that I was part of an exchange program.

He peered up at me, green eyes slightly suspicious, but his lips curled with smug delight. "You fantasized about me? Me?"

He disentangled himself, and looked intently at me. Clearing his throat, he then asked in a rough voice, "What kind of pipe-dreams are we talking about here, Professor Spengler?" He shifted, pushing me further into the cushions, until he straddled my waist. It seemed the air itself thickened, so difficult it became to breath, because for the first time, I was able to feel the effect that I had on him in full measure. This sensation was apparently reciprocated, for he and I gasped at the same moment.

Eyes dreamily hooded, he lowered his head until his lips hovered over mine.

"What kind, Spengs?" His hands moved languorously, and pulled first one, then the other side of my suspenders off my shoulders. "Are they anything like the ones I've had?" he asked, and then his lips took mine with such sudden force that I was unable to answer. He gripped my shirt tightly, bunching the fabric with tense hands. I closed my eyes, and clasping his forearms, returned the kiss with enthusiasm.

He moved his head back fractionally, and I felt the touch of his tongue outline my lips like a tracery of frost. I parted my lips to protest the absence of proper pressure, and he seized the opportunity, slanting his mouth over mine. Green eyes dark with arousal and love looking deeply into mine, he gave me the chance to rebuff the advance of his tongue. I pulled him closer, wishing his body to rest fully upon my own, and he relaxed, levering my mouth open further and began to explore.

He tasted of hot chocolate, and cinnamon, warm and rich, smooth as liquid mercury. I could have spent hours merely analyzing the wonders of his mouth, the textures, the flavors, all were intoxicating. And yet were I to simply yield myself, there would have been far too much pressure on Peter. I took my own initiative, and slid my hands up his warm arms, caressing his biceps until I could feel the silken flesh ripple with goose bumps. He moaned into my mouth, and kissed me deeper still.

More confidently, I applied my hands to the task of investigating him, absorbed in discovering what would overwhelm him, what would make him mine. I delineated the fragile curl of his ear with one hand, while with the other, I ran abstracted patterns across his torso. I eventually lit upon the large number on the front of his jersey, and gave a muffled laugh into Peter's zealous mouth.

"Hmm?" The questioning sound resonated in my mouth, stirring me strongly enough that I almost forgot what had amused me. I tilted my head back, regretfully losing the intimate contact between us. "I was merely thinking, Peter, that if someone had come to me two months ago, and told me that within a short time I would be making love with the quarterback for the Columbia Lions, I would have recommended their immediate installment in Bellevue."

He snorted with amusement, eyes laughing, and bussed my forehead. "Got to find you a proper fortune-teller, Egon. Or a Ouiji board. Mind you, if anyone had told me that I'd fall in love with a geek with a lab coat and personalized set of test-tubes…"

I slapped a hand over his mouth, and inquired "Peter, is the appropriate innuendo-laden bumper sticker for you 'Psychology majors talk it through'?" He pulled my hand off, grinning. "Why? What's yours, 'Physicists do it in theory?'"

Touché. I reined in my amusement at this far too astute comment, and haughtily replied "Physicists do it with variables."

His eyebrows rose at that. "That sounds promising."

"It should." I ran my hands lightly across the denim that covered his thighs. I slowly applied pressure against the burning heat of him, until his eyes seemed almost black and his lips parted. I continued, "I have done the reading. I believe field work is now imperative."

"Sounds…" He cleared his throat, his voice gone hoarse. "Sounds like a plan."

He ran his fingers across my upper lip, and then skirted it across my cheek to tangle in my hair. "Egon… I think… " He leaned closer, and looked in my eyes with extreme seriousness. "I think either we stop now… or take this into your bedroom. I want… well." His voice dropped, and he stroked my hair tenderly. "I want this to be romantic, I guess. Not on a high-class couch. Sappy, huh?"

I replied by turning my head to brush my lips over his wrist, and watched smiling as he tried to catch his breath and composure. He rolled his eyes at me. "I'm trying to be serious for once, Spengler." He returned my smile, and then frumpled my hair boisterously. "Honest, Egon, we've got all week, hell, all semester, whatever. We don't need to rush…"

He yelped with surprise as I pushed him over and we both ended up on the floor in a heap. Kissing him deeply for several minutes, I moved back, until I could see his face. "Peter. You are not rushing me. Nor will I rush you. I can assure you, I am quite earnest in this matter. Tell me that what you wish to do, what you've thought about this past week and longer."

He snorted lightly, I suspect at my vocabulary, and then cupped my face in his strong hands. "You. That's all I thought about. You."

The tone of his voice, and the quiet honesty in his deep green eyes woke with in me a yearning even fiercer than before. I helped him up off the floor, and stood close to him before managing to speak his name in a whisper.

He swayed nearer, not quite touching me, and murmured "Bedroom?"

"That way."

He pulled me along behind him by my suspenders, down the hall, and paused before the door at the end. I nodded, and we entered. He hesitated upon the threshold, but I did not give him a chance to look at my room. Instead, I bodily picked him up and tossed him on my bed as he yelled in amused outrage. As I followed shortly, landing upon him with my not inconsiderable weight, he fell silent. We kissed and rolled across the mattress, the quilt shifting and bunching beneath us, until I was uncertain as to which way was up and we were both breathless.

I wound up on top after a tussle, and sat back, looking at this astounding sight. Peter Venkman, flushed and laughing huskily, his dark brown hair splayed in riotous locks across the pillow, sprawled like a modern Adonis upon the bed. My bed. Where I had dreamed of him ever since I saw him, his lean figure clearly defined in his soaked clothing, his green eyes ablaze with anger and private mirth combined. Where I had fantasized his presence for weeks, never once imagining that it might come to pass.

"Egon…" He tugged lightly at my shirt, which had in the course of our wrestling untucked itself. The laughter in Peter's face faded, edging into affection mingled with desire. He used his hold on the fabric to pull me down and kissed me, less casually than he had previously. As I leant into it, he began to slowly unbutton my shirt. I sighed my permission against his lips, and slid my own hands under his jersey. The flat muscles of his stomach fluttered under my touch, and he swallowed hard, pausing briefly before continuing to undo the next button. I pulled the jersey upward, and tugged it over his head, ruing those few brief seconds of lost contact with his eyes and lips.

He lay there, undoing the last of the buttons, as I folded his top and set it aside. He grinned up at me, and taking off my shirt, threw it and his jersey to the floor, pushing me over as well. Now I looked up at him as his eyes wandered over me. Without the shirt, he was magnificent, with broad shoulders and crisply defined musculature, well developed yet not overly so. I do not know what he saw in me, but his eyes burned into mine, and then, his ragged voice speaking my name again with rough passion, he kissed me once again.

I had imagined much in my daydreams, but had not envisioned the fierceness of him. I had known that Peter had spent a lonely childhood, knew that he hid a deeply wounded soul behind a sardonic amusement. I had known… but had not realized that the stormy emotions he concealed would be unleashed with my touch, that the wild loneliness within him would catch us both up in a crucible of desire, that the chemistry between us would ignite and flare out of control.

His hands ran hungrily across my chest, exploring my collarbone and Adam's apple, before sliding to caress my ribs. Where his hands fell, his lips moved shortly after, blazing a trail along my sternum. I slid my own hands over his chest, glissading them across the flat nipples there until he growled against my heart, and pulled himself upwards to kiss me once more.

The taste of his mouth was like ambrosia, and just as intoxicating was the feel of his chest smooth against mine. The denim jeans, on the other hand, were an encumbrance. I moved my hands between us, and encountered his. He laughed in my mouth, murmuring 'Great minds think alike." He smiled against my lips, my throat. The smile vanished as I unsnapped his jeans, and held him in my hand.

The rest of our clothing joined the pile upon the floor as we slowly finished undressing one another. We lay pressed together, the burning heat of him hard against my own erection almost sending me over the edge. Judging by his own trembling, he was just as close, just as overwhelmed. I ran my hands in soothing strokes along his shoulder blades, using the contact to calm myself as well as him.

"Nearly lost it there," he said huskily against my ear.

"I too." I ran my hands further down, brushing his spine, the small of his back, and then the firm curve of his buttocks. He gasped, and then chuckling, nipped my earlobe. The sensation caused me to tighten my grip on his posterior, inadvertently causing him to buck against me. We both froze, breathing heavily, and I could feel his rapid heartbeat roaring in time to my own. Slowly, he began to kiss me again, and this time pressed into me with deliberation.

I pulled him closer, and kissed him deeply. Together we pushed each other off the edge of the world.

We spent the entire Spring Break either in bed, or in talk. Or both. I learned a lot about Egon. He was obsessive about being tidy, due to as he'd explained apologetically at one point, spending years of time in labs. Guess with all those chemicals, you'd really want to be organized.

Mom had us over for dinner twice, and grilled Egon about everything. He survived tolerably well. Mom told me not to take advantage of him, and that I need to get him to eat more. I explained Egon's lack of cooking skills, and that did it. She tried to teach him to cook. We're both doomed. He can mix up anything in beakers, and can't fix himself a peanut-butter sandwich. It explained why we ate out so much all these weeks. By the end of the break, I had taught him how to do stews, using formulae for the ingredients and a hot pot. It worked, mostly. I suspect he had to put it all into engineering schematics.

He is incredibly fair, but has his limits. He'll put up with any number of mistakes, innocently made, but do something you know is wrong intentionally, and he never forgives it. Saw this one in action. He was grading papers over the break, and caught a student out in plagiarism. He fumed for hours, saying he was 'outraged', 'irate', 'aghast' and other polite words for pissed as hell. The old line of "you're beautiful when you're angry" proved to be true, but damn, I'm glad I wasn't the target. Instead, I found myself the fortunate recipient of a mass of pent-up emotions. . At one point, Egon got into such a rage over it, that I tied him down to his bed with his suspenders until he cooled off… and then warmed him back up again with just my mouth.

We had a hell of a lot of fun.

Egon learned things about me as well. He put up with my love of sleep fairly well. Hell, we spent so much time in the bed it wasn't much of a stretch. He deplored my study habits, or lack of them, but enjoyed my oblique note taking and paper writing. He got enormous satisfaction from my sense of humor, a first, and easily kept up with me, if not even managing to outclass me. He got used to the fact that I was defensive. It wasn't easy, learning to trust him, but I'd already gotten further than I'd ever imagined with that. But he's stubborn and persistent, and able to deal with me when I lash out, or try to hide behind a glib smile. He doesn't get angry, or try to change me. He accepts. It's nothing short of amazing.

By the end of the week, we decided that we had to leave things the way there were this year, me in the frat house, him in graduate housing. This summer, and next year, that was a different story. Egon's thinking about renting a townhouse, so we'll have room for his madcap experiments and my sprawling mess. We'll probably have to find a third roommate, someone we both can trust. Not that either Egon or I really give a damn what other people think… but I am on a football scholarship, and despite the cries of equal opportunity, if I'm anything other than a beer-drinking skirt-chaser I'll get kicked off the team. Whoosh, there'd go the funding, and there's no way I could raise the kind of money it'd take to finish my degree. Besides, I genuinely like playing. Egon would run into problems too, although more from seducing a student he was 'teaching'.

So Egon's going to put an ad in the paper looking for a student wanting housing for next year. He says he'll phrase it in such a way that the kind of people who would suit us will apply. Hah. It'll probably be "Wanted: Igor for mad scientist and his lover. Needs to be able to balance on tightrope between chaos and order. Bring own brain in brown paper bag."

The Tuesday after break, I went to the football field for a practice game. Liger was rumored to be interviewing with some paper about his being the NY state coach of the year, and whether he was going to go to a bigger university. We went through the usual scenario; me running fleetly down the field, the rest of the lumbering players stomping after me like hefty buffalo. At half time, I was on the bench, idly wondering where Egon was. He'd promised to be at the game, thought he said he'd be a bit late. Some sort of errand to run. I mopped the sweat off my forehead, and then noticed a change in the stadium. What the hell? I looked down the field as what appeared to be Mac Beth's haunted forest of Dun Blaine heading our way. The whole field fell silent, players and spectators alike as the enormous bouquet tottered down towards the fifty-yard line, carried by three guys in florist outfits.

They set it down to the ground with a grunt, and then one approached our side with a clipboard. "Ah…. Coach Liger?"

Liger, who was about to bellow at the man for interrupting play, came to a screeching halt. "Er, yes?"

"Sign here, sir. This is for you." The guy handed over a slip to Liger, who took it with a bewildered air that had me and the other guys snickering. Signed, the other florists deposited the floral monolith and left, ogling the cheerleaders who were in full gossip mode.

By this time, we were all desperate to find out who sent Liger this. I mean, he's a married man. His wife has all the romance of a moss-covered rock. The interviewer and his cameraman, who'd gotten bored taking manly poses from the coach, zeroed in on this like bloodhounds smelling a particularly juicy fox.

The man reattached the clipboard to his belt, and then of all things began to sing in a deep baritone. "This is a singing telegram…"

A ripple of laughter started from the benches to the back reaches of the stadium.

"Words can't express the love I feel…" when in front of you I kneel… to take your goalpost in my mouth… in an act banned in states down south."

The ripple grew into a wave, as Coach Liger's face turned bright red. The singing telegraph guy was struggling to keep a straight face and stay in tune.

"Through you I've reached the moon and stars…" "Let's meet again, your lover, Lars."

Lars?! That did it. The wave became a tsunami, and I and a few hundred people keeled over, laughing hysterically. The camera guy looked overjoyed, the reporter gleeful, and the coach on the verge of apoplexy. Wiping tears from my eyes, I looked at the stands, the howling crowd… and my eyes fell on wild blonde hair, laughing blue eyes… and a smile so controlled…. I gasped, and then started laughing even harder. Egon.

God, I love him.

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