One of Those Days

Winston closed his eyes and leaned his head on his arm, propped above him on the window frame. His soft sigh of resignation curled softly against the glass, leaving a patch of damp frost that quickly dissolved under the influence of the heat in the room. If he leaned close, he knew, he'd be able to feel the outside cold that conducted through the window pane with it's own freezing little aura, nearly as cold as the ghost they'd just finished trapping.

With another sigh he opened his eyes and watched the people scurry by outside. Another ghost trapped, and another trip here, the nearly inevitable aftermath of any bust it seemed. The people outside rushed past without a glance, never realizing that one of the Ghostbusters was again under skilled hands, their owner demanding their best, directed with years of knowledge and experience as hard won as the Ghostbusters' own.

Behind him, he knew, Ray would be huddled in his own fears, practically curled fetally into the old couch. Since he hadn't heard Egon move in several minutes, the physicist would be leaning against the wall, arms crossed and head bowed, steeling himself against what he knew must someday happen, but hoping that it wouldn't be today, not today. Winston stole a glance at them from the corner of his eye; yep, right where he knew they'd be.

It was almost enough to make his old megalomaniac heart glad, a sight to treasure in the deepest parts of the night, after listening to Stantz and Spengler go on about one of their new "theories", or Venkman pretend to force them to translate into "English" for his supposed benefit, but really out of pity for the "average" team member.

One day he'd let them know just exactly how pathetic they were.

Winston listed his degrees to himself, fourteen in all, ranging from quantum physics to historical tapestry weaving. Let Spengler try and compete with that, with his measly three doctorates and barely double-genius IQ.

Suddenly convulsed with anger and hatred for the smugly righteous trio he worked with, Winston's hands clenched and he barely managed to keep from smashing them into the wall.

Dammit, he should never have tried to align himself with Gozer; if he'd known what a screw-up Klorthau was, he never would have tried. Only a monument to idiocy could have mistaken Tully for Venkman, and Venkman was the key to the Ghostbusters, the one he and Gozer had agreed needed to be eliminated. Without Venkman's drive behind them, neither of the others would have thought of the commercial route and what respectable school would furnish the grant money necessary for the containment unit, let alone the other equipment.

Destroy Venkman equals destroy Ghostbusters, and removes the last obstacle to world domination through the Black Arts.

Winston had come so close with Gozer, but fortunately had realized at the last moment that Gozer wasn't controllable enough to be a useful tool; Gozer had wanted to destroy the entire world, and a cinder wasn't any fun to rule.

He'd come close to enough power to do it himself with the Moaning Stones, until his holier-than-holies ancestor had actually possessed him. And planting himself on the side of good during that ceremonial baseball game had nearly cost Venkman his mortal existence as well as his soul. Winston had planned on striking out, but apparently the pitcher's idea of good, evil fun had been to thwart Winston's plan.

Dozens of times he'd come so close to seeing the psychologist fall, only to see Venkman's damnable luck pull him through once again. If it wasn't so necessary that it seem an accident, or a bad break on a bust, he'd just put a pillow over Venkman's head one night and….

Hmmm, not a bad idea. He could claim to be sleepwalking, or possessed, or just having a nightmare in which Venkman's elephantine snoring was a demon's roar.

Noises from behind him drew Winston away from a lovely picture of Venkman hanging by his thumbs while dozens of lemmings crawled across him, their fur triggering an allergy attack in the psychologist of apoplectic proportions, causing him to sneeze himself to death. Winston turned to see the man himself emerging from behind swinging doors, to be enveloped by Stantz and Spengler.

"See, Tex, I told you a little proton singeing was nothing for a pro like Raoul to fix. I'm good as new and ready to roll." Venkman ducked down so the other two could inspect the area a near brush with a proton stream had fried.

"Gosh, Peter, you don’t even smell like burned hair any more!" Ray was obviously overjoyed that the damage had been so easily repaired.

Winston plastered a relieved smile on his face and moved to join the crowd. After all, there would be another bust tomorrow, or the day after, where a little nudge or slung slime would give him another chance. And failing that, he knew where to get a good deal on some lemmings….