Brilliant

It is a word applied to certain qualities of precious gems. It is used in describing light shining through a particularly breathtaking piece of stained glass. Works of genius and the intellects that create them have the word in their histories. It is, all told, a word so overused that it is almost--trite.

It is, however, a word never used to describe a certain psychologist of my acquaintance, one Peter Venkman. I have heard handsome, charming, flirtatious, witty, shrewd, grasping, and egotistical, but never brilliant. Which is as well, because the one thing that I can tell you with absolute certainty, is that Peter Venkman is never trite.

He is quiet now, lying on the sofa in the rec room, his head resting on my thigh. The rest of the firehouse is dark, with neither TV nor lights on, except for the small desk lamp on Janine's desk that we keep lit at all times, just in case. There is a Bach fugue playing softly on the stereo; when we first met I'd thought it so strange that an avowed 'rocker' had such an extensive collection of classical music. But while I understand better now, I don't think I'll ever completely unravel the mystery. I doubt even Peter can explain it.

I look down at him and smile to myself, gently stroking the soft brown hair. It's as silky and full now as the first time I ever touched it, back in our collegiate days. His eyes are half open, but I know he's not seeing anything; he's lost deep inside his own mind, 'turning things over' he calls it. Peter has told me that he knows I'm touching him, but it doesn't disturb him. I take it as a good sign, since the slightest touch can be painful to him, so sensitive can his skin become.

The first time I saw him like this was six months after we'd taken a small, two-bedroom apartment together just off campus. I had been studying to the accompanying drone of the television and Peter's running commentary about the state of the world and what changes it needed to make to accommodate him. What eventually broke my concentration was the silence. Looking up, the television was off and Peter was curled up in the corner of our sofa, chin in hand and eyes half-open, staring into space. Since Peter had never mentioned he was susceptible to seizures of any kind, I became alarmed at this unnatural stillness.

I crossed the room and bent down to examine him. Waving my hand in front of his face, his eyes flickered, but there was no other response until I slid my hand across his forehead, the soft forelock tickling the back of my hand. He started back then, eyes blinking, and I could see true consciousness in them again. I let my fingers slide along his scalp to the back of his head, holding it still while I made sure he was all right.

And then he did the most extraordinary thing. Sitting in silence on our living room sofa Peter Venkman gave me a small, soft smile, and then leaned forward and kissed me. I was so unprepared for the act, that the only thing I could do was--kiss him back.

The rest, as they say, is history.

I eventually came to understand that that was when Peter finally felt safe enough to drop the wall of whirlwind activity with which he surrounds himself. Peter's way of keeping people out, is to give them the appearance of letting them in. This way he can control exactly how much of himself he lets them see, while giving them the illusion that they are seeing everything. Misdirection at its finest. With Peter, I learned, it's not the words that speak the loudest, but rather the silences.

Becoming lovers that night made us closer than I ever imagined two people could be. Speech became superfluous, and I would swear any vow necessary that we didn't use words during the entire spring break that year. Catching him in public, the change was so strange that I found myself withdrawing slightly; this was Peter Venkman, B.M.O.C., not my Peter, who found Bach soothing and liked peanut-butter on his waffles. It was a long time before I was able to understand why Peter acted this way.

Psychology is a good field for him, though I believe he would have ended up in any of the medical or social service fields if he hadn't been so taken by the puzzle that is the human mind. Peter is a healer by nature, and I suspect him of being a borderline empath, so acutely can he decipher motivations. Naturally he refutes the idea, and runs from any suggestion of testing, but the signs are all there: his near-compulsive need to help somebody in trouble, the way he throws himself between any of us and the first sign of danger, his ability to predict what a person--or ghost--will do next, the way he can say just exactly the right thing to sooth a hurt or anger a netherentity, his--occasionally extreme--sensitivity to skin on skin contact.

When Raymond became a part of our world a year later, the return to living with the 'public' Peter was a shock to my system. Fortunately Raymond is an easy person to trust, and he returns that trust absolutely, so it was only a matter of months before Peter was able to relax around him. The number of naps he took before that occurred sent Raymond to me for reassurance that Peter wasn't a borderline narcoleptic, and yes it was perfectly safe for him to drive. I don't know if Peter ever spoke to him in more detail, or Raymond surmised the rest himself, but soon enough he adapted to a quieter roommate than he'd expected.

Now, with not only Janine and Winston in our lives, but under the stress of what seems to have turned into a very high-profile profession, Raymond and I have seen the return of  'Peter Venkman: The Early Years', as Raymond calls it. While I have learned to enjoy the public persona my lover presents to the world, and even play along with it, I look forward to the time that he accepts Winston at the very least. I believe his trust and acceptance of Janine in our lives will take a much longer time, not just because Winston is with us nearly constantly, but because of Janine's inexplicable fondness for myself.

Until then I'll have to content myself with a Peter Venkman who charms irate customers with one hand, fends off the press with the other, punctures overblown egos at fifty paces with a rapier wit, and spends the rest of his days napping on the lab couch. Oh, and throws himself in the path of obliteration while busting dangerous ghosts as a hobby. In between there will be stolen moments of quiet for us both, most often on the weekends with Janine gone, and Raymond and Winston pursuing their own interests.

Movement against my leg draws my attention outside of myself and back down, to find my hand hopelessly entangled in his hair. Peter is looking up at me, back to himself at last, and pulling me down for a kiss with the same small, soft smile that, at the risk of being trite I still find—brilliant.