Holes in the Firmament

Part IX

Peter Venkman and Egon Spengler

"Dump him."

The words whispered across Arlene's ear, carried on a warm breeze scented with a musky aftershave that recalled warm delta nights and the first touch of her husband's hand on her stockinged thigh. Startled at both the words and her reaction she jerked her head up. Arlene's dark chocolate eyes locked in surprise with a pair as green as imperial jade. Command me, she read in them, command me and all I am is yours.

"I…," she started, then cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't hear you come in. May I help you?"

Arlene blinked, and took in the man who'd somehow managed to slide into her office and perch on the edge of her desk. Gray silk wrapped a body as well built as any collegiate athlete, worn with a confidence no student had. She watched, nearly breathless, while the silk flowed over muscles, tightened around his thigh, emphasized the elegance of his hands when he reached to pluck a rose from the vase across her desk.

Bemused she tracked the red bloom, followed its impertinent arc from vase to desk, shivered when he drew the velvet softness down her wrist and across the back of her hand, sighed when he ended with a light caress across the simple gold band on her ring finger.

"If all he sends are roses, I hope you make him beg." I would, his eyes told hers. He smiled at her, just the tiniest quirk of his lips.

"I like roses," Arlene answered automatically.

"Then he has truly captured your heart, and once again I'm too late." The man slid off her desk and lifted the rose, inhaling deeply before he smiled again. "I'm Peter Venkman, I have an appointment with Dr. Spengler, if he's in." If not, I'll just stay here with you, he told her silently, brushing the rose across his bottom lip as delicately as he had her hand.

The departmental secretary mentally shook herself and rose from behind her desk. "Yes, he mentioned it." She took a step down the hall. "I'll…just…let him know you're here." She fled through the interior door, her heels making a quick, tapping retreat.

Peter smiled to himself and wandered around the outer office of the Physics Department, absently twirling the long-stemmed flower in his hands, letting its slight fragrance float around him. Slowly he moved from one side to the other, taking in the old vinyl couch, the ancient magazines and the obligatory oil painting of a generic ocean scene hanging on dull wood paneling. He knew the layout of the department offices from memory: unless Spengler’s office had been moved, it shouldn’t have taken her more than a minute or two to let him know he had a visitor in the lobby.

Of course, the flush highlighting her dark cheeks might have taken a little longer than that to get under control. Peter smirked; her husband would be a lucky man tonight.

Restless, he kept moving around the office ending back at the desk where he gently hitched up one pant leg and perched on the corner. Casually, he set down the rose he'd been playing with and picked up the small compact the secretary, her nameplate read Arlene DuBois, had left on the desk. Quickly he flipped it open and checked his hair in the small mirror, making sure it hadn't been flattened in the constant breeze and rain outside. Satisfied, he returned the mirror and picked up the rose again, sniffing it absently, perfectly unconcerned. Careless of Yeager, to let his secretary leave his appointment book out like that.

Peter frowned internally while he continued to fidget with the flower. Yeager had an appointment at noon with Mike Branscom. Venkman knew the Branscoms slightly; he'd seen a cousin of theirs for several months for disturbing dreams involving extreme violence and death. After four months the dreams had stopped as abruptly as they started and the cousin stopped coming to treatment, although he somehow believed that Peter had been responsible for his newly rediscovered unbroken sleep.

The family, he recalled, was not wealthy, but had ties to several highly placed people in law enforcement. While Peter had never met Mike Branscom, the alumni grapevine placed him as most likely to return Columbia's football team to prominence, despite the fact the young receiver was supposedly dumb as a post. Proving once again that doors would open at most any college for money or football, regardless of grades. A faint feeling of nausea slid greasy fingers through his gut and iced his spine. He made a note to look up his patient's phone number when he got back to the office.

"You should be careful with that, roses sometimes have thorns in unexpected places."

Peter blinked, letting his startlement at Yeager's silent approach slide into a bemused grin. He saluted the other man with the flower, the beleaguered bud starting to fray along its petals. "Thanks for the warning, but little pricks don't bother me." His smile grew teeth and he slid off the desk.

Yeager's eyes narrowed slightly and he took a step back, tapping one hand with the letter opener held in the other, as if he had just realized how close he was to Venkman and how much larger the younger man actually was. Silence returned to the office while each watched the other, Yeager through a narrow, almost sullen glare that slid easily off the bland innocence Venkman gave him back, like water over rock. They might have stood there forever, but a sudden blast of cold, wet air swirled suddenly through the office accompanied by the metal on metal scrape of the building door opening and closing.

Peter watched the Dean shudder in the sudden chill that he barely felt. Mere weather had never been as cold as the ice that wrapped his heart. The psychologist allowed himself a step back and to the side, bringing the newcomer into view. What passed for his heart sank; apparently Mr. Branscom had decided to show up early for his noon appointment.

The sophomore receiver was taller than either of the older men, topping Peter by two inches and probably thirty pounds of solid muscle, not all of it between his ears. Pale, Husky-blue eyes flicked from one to the other curiously, the undercurrent of threat obvious even to the newcomer. He shook himself, shedding water from his leather jacket and blond ponytail equally, the blue team jersey he wore under it shimmering slightly in the incandescent office lighting.

For a long moment the three stood still, locked in an odd kind of balance. Yeager lurched forward, his thin lips stretched into a death's head smile. "Branscom, you made it; I thought you might let the bad weather keep you confined to the frat house today. I was just going to ask Arlene to call and check."

He switched the letter opener from his right hand to his left, reaching out to shake hands. In its passage the rosewood blade arced in the same stroke that Peter's bud had earlier, the thumb-sized tiger-eye embedded in the spine just below the hilt winking at him in the light. Catching it. Splitting it. Fracturing it just like Peter had been fractured those many years ago, and down the long hall of his memory built from the bricks of his nightmares and mortared with pieces of his soul he heard his own voice;  "…observations indicate removal was made with a sharply pointed, dull edged, long, narrow, triangular blade…."

A letter opener. Not a knife, but still a blade. Not a switchblade or butterfly, Buck or Bowie. Not a skean-dhu or cruelly curved Persian. Not scramasax, kris, or elegantly sheathed stiletto perfectly fitted to a lady's thigh. Not an ice pick. Not a flat-bladed screwdriver, or shard of glass, or primitively knapped flint, or any of a thousand other things that had worked their way into his heart over a thousand sleepless nights, but a letter opener carved from the heartwood of the flower of passion and set with the eye of fierceness. A common office tool, just like the one he, himself, had used to neatly slice open Dana Barrett's invitation to her little party on Friday then tossed casually back in his desk drawer.

He heard somebody's breath hiss out and he realized it was his. In a heartbeat he hid his new knowledge deep inside to be turned over later, smoothing out his expression to pleasant inquiry. Peter raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, smiling neutrally at the young man, letting the old one see the spark of knowledge in his eyes, satisfied when Yeager's smirk faltered a little.

"Uh, look, if you have something else…'" Branscom's voice trailed off into silence. He pulled back his hand from the Dean's looking from one man to the other. Peter thought he saw a grimy rime of fear taint the pale blue eyes with gray.

"Nonsense, m'boy," Yeager gripped Branscom's elbow and nearly dragged him to where Peter stood. "Let me introduce you to Peter Venkman; he played for Columbia back in his day as well." The Dean drew the words out, turning Peter into a senior citizen by the tone. "What position was it? Safety?" He smirked at the psychologist.

"Actually, Yeager," Peter drawled in return, turning to face the receiver and just as deliberately dropping Yeager's  honorific.

"Quarterback! Wow, Peter Venkman, it's a pleasure sir." The blond's eyes went huge and his grin dopier than before. Mike set his books down on the secretary's desk and fished inside his jersey, finally pulling out a ring on a sturdy neck chain.

Peter let himself smile back, recognizing the ring that marked the football player as a frat brother. "It's good to see a brother doing so well. I hear you're making quite a showing on the field."

Mike let the ring fall back. "Yeah, but not like you! Star Quarterback, and the only fratrat to successfully hoist his underwear up the Admin flagpole while still in them. That picture is still on the mantle of the studyhall. It's a real honor, sir. Wait 'til I tell the guys!"

Peter waved his hands in negation. "It was nothing. A mere parlor trick. I'm surprised the picture is still around; I thought for sure the Board of Regents would have confiscated it years ago." Now he reached to shake the other's hand, transferring the rose from right hand to left in a mockery of the move Yeager had made moments ago. From the corner of his eye he could see the Dean move restlessly, somehow recognizing he'd lost the upper hand for the moment.

You know. And I know. And I know you know, as you know I know. Now let's see who knows more, Peter thought with satisfaction. The fish was well and truly hooked. Time enough to reel it in this evening.

"That must have been quite a trick. You'll have to tell me how you did it." Spengler's voice rumbled from behind him, carried on a wave of heat and clean musk.

Peter turned quickly, giving the physicist an appraising glance. Spengler's dark blue wool, three-piece suit emphasized the fairness of his skin and darkened eyes behind red-rimmed glasses, glasses that were perched precariously at the end of his long nose. Peter's hand itched to slide them up into place as he had the other night, to be able to feel the warmth of Spengler's breath against his palm.

Which led him to thoughts of feeling it ghosting across his skin in other places.

Peter gave himself a hard shake and forced himself to step forward, reach to take the hand Spengler was extending in his direction, black coat and umbrella held firmly in the other. Spengler's long-fingered hand was warm and firm, the soft skin on the palm broken by hard-edged calluses. Peter blinked and stepped back into his own space; he'd held onto Spengler's hand a moment too long by the speculative look on Yeager's face.

"Sleight of hand, of course. It's all in the wrist." Peter flicked his fingers out, like a man shaking off something sticky and distasteful. "I'm glad you could squeeze me in. Italian okay?"

Spengler nodded and surveyed the psychologist. Until the moment Arlene had knocked on his office door, flushed and a little breathless, he'd half convinced himself that he'd dreamed Monday's brief conversation, that Venkman's request for a lunch date had been little more than a meaningless 'let's do lunch' comment. But there was still a fortress guarding the man's thoughts, so he would proceed with caution. Mother had always told him that it was a man's eyes that held the key to his soul. If she was right, then the lock to Venkman's looked to be rusted shut. But he couldn't help wanting to know what was going on behind those locked doors.

Yeager abruptly grabbed Branscom's elbow and started tugging him past the other two. "Don't forget your two o'clock seminar, Dr. Spengler. My office, Mr. Branscom, let's get this session started." He stepped around the receiver and reached for the doorknob.

The young blond took one look back at Peter, and the psychologist read there an open plea for help before the pale eyes dilated wide, and he disappeared into the hallway beyond. Unconsciously, Peter took a step forward before he caught the smirk gleaming in the Dean's eyes, and instead stepped back, letting bored indifference settle over him when the interior door shut with a soft and final snick.

"Dr. Venkman?" Spengler's soft voice shook him back to reality, and Peter felt himself smile slightly. He tapped the rapidly fading rose lightly against his palm, oblivious to the single petal that loosened and fell to the floor like a gently scented tear before he turned back to the other man.

"Well, if I expect to get you back before curfew, I guess we'd better be on our way as well, hmm?" He motioned Spengler towards the door with the flower, pausing by the secretary's desk and to slide it back into the vase with a wink before following the taller man out.

Egon paused under the cement awning to slide into his black raincoat. While the rain had stopped, the clouds remained heavy and the wind was still wild and cold.  He turned and watched Venkman exit behind him, making sure the door was secure before meeting his look. The wind swirled around the corner and darted through concrete arches; it wrapped itself around Peter, glued the pale silk to his frame and teased his hair into a dark fall of shadows over his eyes.

Egon narrowed his eyes against the wind. "No coat?"

Venkman shook his head and tucked his hands casually in his pockets. "I'm…used to the cold; this doesn't bother me."

And I'm the one from Ohio. Bemused, Egon tugged at his coat collar, settling it while he watched the psychologist narrow his eyes in apparent thought, an odd gleam just visible. Peter glanced around and a sly half-smile curled his lips. He shrugged and glanced back towards the building then started towards the nearby bank of payphones.

Peter quickly picked up the receiver and dropped in several quarters before punching in a number he knew as well as his own. The other end rang twice before being picked up.

"Olivier's," a young woman answered.

"Rebecca, Peter Venkman," he grinned and glanced up at Spengler, then motioned with his chin towards the office they'd just left. His voice dropped, becoming warmer, more intimate, but still playful. "I'm in trouble, and you're the only one who can help."

Egon tucked his hands deep in his pockets and moved closer, putting his back to the wind and creating an island of stillness and warmth around the phone. He was just close enough to hear excited giggling over the receiver.

Peter waited for the girls' laughing exclamations of, "It's Dr. Venkman!" and, "Oooooh! Somebody's lucky!"

Finally Rebecca came back to the phone, a hint of laughter still in her voice. "What can we do for you Dr. Venkman?"

"I need roses, Becky; lots and lots of roses. Do you have any of those blue ones still?"

"You're in luck, two dozen just came in this morning."

He nodded, even though the girls couldn't see him. "All right, wrap up the two dozen you just got in as 'lily hearts'-use the calla lilies-and then add another two-no, three dozen assorted, with a lot of greenery."

"Two dozen blues as lily hearts and three dozen assorted. Got it. What about the card?"

He thought for a moment. "'If it must be roses', with no signature. Just put it on my account, and add on ten percent if you get it delivered this afternoon." Peter watched Egon, the warm amusement that lit the blue eyes when Peter gave the florist the secretary's name and the department address before he hung up.

In his turn, Egon searched green eyes the same color as moss at the bottom of a forest pool and just as deceptively still in the mobile face. How far would he have to reach to touch the treasure he knew was there, and would it be gold or turn to dross when he did?

A sudden, especially chill gust flung itself around the corner of the building, wrapped around Egon and flipped Venkman's hair further into his eyes. Unthinking, Egon reached for the unruly lock and smoothed it back into place, curling it through his fingers, letting the silky feel imprint itself on his nerves. Gently his hand drifted down, catching the curve of Peter's cheek and jaw in his palm, faint roughness against his own sensitive skin. The pale, tender skin there was damp and chill against Egon's heat, and he let his hand rest a long second. The sly humor ran out of Peter's face and his lips parted slightly, on the verge of speech, but the true sentiment was in the wide, dilated eyes that were pulling Egon down, under the surface, and if he wasn't careful he'd drown in the still, deep waters.

A splatter of icy water in his face made Spengler blink, and he stepped back, swinging his umbrella up and popping it open with a sharp snap, letting the sudden movement cover his confusion at Venkman's response. Did the man desire him and not know it? How could he not be aware? Was he, Egon, not completely out of his mind to even think that?  "You may not feel it, Dr. Venkman, but the rest of you does. I suggest you join me before you get wet, catch cold, and I have to explain my neglect of you to my mother."

While Egon was busy with his umbrella, Peter took the opportunity to gather up his eye-crossing reaction to Spengler's touch and shove it ruthlessly to one side. While the look on Spengler's face, the sudden quick breaths, even the warm—hot, his libido supplied--touch boded well for Peter's plans, it wouldn't do to just jump the man in a University causeway.

Of course, it was also possible his original six-week timetable could be scaled back to maybe a month.

His mother? Peter put himself back in the present. Damnit, his emotions were starting to get out of control again. What was it about Spengler that holed his careful plans like buckshot through paper?

"Can't have that now, can we?" Peter answered blandly, not exactly sure what he was answering to. He swept his arm wide, indicating the sidewalk that wrapped around to the rear of the building. "I'm parked in the back. I thought it would make my car easier to find in a small lot."

Egon stopped and looked down at him severely from under his umbrella. "Dr. Venkman, that lot is reserved for staff only."

Peter raised an eyebrow at him, mischief sparking a light in the dark green. "And your point?" he asked.

Egon smothered a laugh in a cough behind his hand. "Incorrigible."

"Of course," he nodded affably, and led the way around the building, following the walkway between shielding bushes to the staff parking lot. "You see?" he pointed to a black BMW parked under the 'reserved' awning.

"And what would you have done if it had been towed?" Spengler gave the car a second look. "Good heavens, that's Dean Yeager's space!"

Venkman took a step closer, sharing the close quarters under the umbrella with Egon. "Picnic in your office; Guiseppe's delivers."

Green eyes flicked coolly over Egon's shoulder for an instant before returning to the physicist's face. Egon frowned to himself, suspecting where they were looking and resisting the urge to turn and look himself. Suddenly, Egon found himself umbrella-less when Peter pulled the metal cane from his hand and slid it closed, gently twisting it back and forth to shed the light mist that covered it.

"You don't need this at the moment," Peter said. The BMW chirped twice, and the trunk slowly opened a few inches. Peter opened it the rest of the way, then put Spengler's umbrella inside and shut the decklid firmly. He then walked around and opened the passenger side door, waiting for the tall man to settle before closing it and moving to slide in the driver's side.

Egon glanced around the interior and tried not to breath deeply, lest Venkman's scent lead him into doing something embarrassing. More embarrassing. He was embarrassed enough at the impulsive caress he'd run across Venkman's jaw, what would he do next--proposition the man on his way to lunch?

Egon cast around for a distraction, relieved when the psychologist finally slid behind the wheel and started the engine, a look of satisfaction on Venkman's face at the contented purr the car made. Music poured over them from the cassette player at near deafening volume. Peter quickly turned it down, giving Egon a sheepish grin.

"Sorry, forgot it was up that loud."

Egon gave him an exaggerated wince. "Puccini was a brilliant composer, but I doubt La Butterfly ever put such volume into her lament. You enjoy opera?"

"Most of it. There are a few pieces I can't stand, composers that should have been strangled at birth, that sort of thing. If it bothers you…," Peter cast him a measuring glance between lane changes.

"Not at all, I enjoy the opera. I just hadn't realized that you did as well." It was on the tip of Egon's tongue to ask the other man to join him in the family box for the Met's performance of Butterfly on Friday, but he kept the words to himself. 

The conversation stilled for several minutes, and Egon began to relax in the quiet music that told the story of the odd, determinedly cheerful geisha who killed herself when her American master left her. Unfortunately, relaxing led him to speculating on the purpose behind the other man's invitation. That Venkman was highly intelligent was something he knew first hand, the psychologist able to follow the most abstruse reasoning laid out by Cyrus, Egon's uncle. Of course, biochemistry would be a little closer to Venkman's own field, the two overlapping when a mental illness could be diagnosed with a physical cause. He'd seen Venkman puncture a number of Cyrus's theories that appeared most solid on paper with clear-cut questions and case studies. The two were frequently the embodiment of Practical vs. Theoretical, and generally provided a great deal of entertainment at stockholder meetings when such things came up for review.

In an effort to still his wandering thoughts, Egon shifted in his seat and turned to Venkman. "So," he asked, "perhaps you could explain exactly what 'lily hearts' are? I'm familiar with a wide range of botanical species, but find I've no recollection of encountering them." He tilted his head enquiringly, letting a small smile cross his face when the other laughed.

"They're not a, a, what? Botanical species? They're an art form." And he launched into a description of how a rose was made to appear to have grown and bloomed inside a lily in place of it's stamen, without damaging either of the flowers. The details were fascinating to Spengler, and the two spent the last several minutes of their drive with Egon throwing out questions faster than Peter could answer, until finally Peter threw up his hands and agreed to introduce Egon to the florist at Olivier's who performed the transformation.

Finally they stopped behind a brick structure at the edge of a small business district Spengler hadn't known existed. At one time the area would have been prosperous, but now wore its aged gentility like an antique lace shawl. A small, discreet plaque near the door announced they were about to enter 'Guiseppe's—Fine Italian Cuisine'. Apparently they had reservations, or Dr. Venkman was well known to the staff, as with a few quiet words they were immediately shown to their table, past several other parties that were waiting.

While the maitre-de wove his way towards their table, the two men following like a pair of obedient ducklings, Egon looked around. The restaurant was small, although bigger than it appeared from the outside, and much nicer than one would expect from the appearance of the neighborhood. There were no open tables, rather small clusters of high backed booths grouped back to back like petals on a daisy, allowing for privacy even in the middle of the room. It was a place for all types of intense negotiations over a three-martini lunch. Egon suspected that as many business deals, legitimate or not, were concluded as romantic liaisons, legitimate or not.

Egon's eyes slid to the leather document case the other man had taken from the trunk, looking at it askance before letting them wander over the more pleasant scenery in front of him, watching the confident set of head and shoulders, the lithe grace of movement, the raw silk material cling and flow along muscular thighs. The light caught the weave and turned it into the silver flow of a mountain stream over smooth rocks, or a shower down a lover's spine.

Egon jerked himself back from that train of thought in time to keep from colliding with Venkman. The younger man's expression showed the ever-present mild amusement and a touch of mild concern, but the deep green eyes were as darkly opaque as ever.

Egon said the first thing that came to mind. "Nice suit."

Venkman's lips might have twitched a little, and the darkness lighten minutely, but the iron fortress that guarded the man's thoughts was still staunchly standing. Nice work Spengler, Egon thought to himself wrathfully. Could you be a little more obvious?

"Thanks," was all Peter said in return, then gestured Egon to take a seat. Once he saw Egon safely settled he slid in the other side of the small rounded booth, and set the document case on the table to his right. Within seconds a white-jacketed bus boy appeared with water, followed by a basket of fresh bread and a small tray of appetizers. He turned his attention to Venkman, who dismissed him with a wave.

Spengler was glad of the time to reign in his rampaging libido. He'd never met a man who affected him so deeply, so quickly. He had no doubt that what he felt was love and not misdirected lust. Lust he'd felt in abundance, sometimes with men who bore a superficial resemblance to the one across from him, leaving him with plenty of new fantasies for his much more extensive times of celibacy. Sometimes they'd been as different as possible, in an attempt to convince himself that he could move on.

There was a three inch scar on his left shoulder blade that reminded him of his foolishness when it pulled.

He smiled with self-deprecating humor and forced his attention back on the moment and the man whose presence filled the small booth with a heat that sucked the physicist’s mind to the lowest level. Egon was reaching for his water glass when the thought struck him, would the man’s mouth be as hot?

Peter Venkman was piqued. Spengler was attracted to him, of that he had no doubt. For four years now the man had gone out of his way to make Peter feel welcome in his home when Venkman was in Ohio for a meeting, or just to check on what projects were being developed at Spengler Labs. Eventually Peter had met Kathleen Spengler, who’d taken to him as any woman did, so his welcome there was no longer contingent on Spengler himself.

And if he had had doubts, the look on Spengler's face when the physicist had cupped his jaw would have laid them to rest. Peter knew Spengler was gay, his tendencies in that direction one of the 'open secrets' of university life. It was one of the avenues Venkman was trying to pursue in his determination to get to the Dean. He shied away from the thought that Yeager might have actually seduced Steve; his lover would never betray him like that, but he could understand the then-professor trying.

Almost half his life had been dedicated to finding a way of getting to Yeager. For years Spengler had seemed the perfect link; Peter hoped that if he could get the blond to trust him enough to open up to him about the Dean, he would find Yeager’s weak spot, a way to ruin him in the public eye if the bastard couldn’t be brought to justice any other way. Granted, an accusation of homosexuality no longer held the same stigma as it once had, but that accusation, along with demands for sexual favors from male students would put a serious dent in his academic standing, especially with the new wave of sexual harassment laws and their related suits.

But he had Alex now, a much more solid link back to Yeager. So why was he here? Why bother continuing the farce with the lanky academic?

Alex, of course, might never recover, or recover but have no concrete memory of the attack that had nearly killed him, let alone be able to identify his attacker. Continuing with Spengler might give him a lever not only on Yeager, but lead him to the key to unlock Alex’s mental state.

And it wasn’t like it would be a hardship to endure. The man was tall and well built under the conservative suit. Peter wondered just how wild the man would be; he couldn’t be as buttoned down as he appeared, not with the pink shirts, bowties, and suspenders. Those were things rare to find in a man’s wardrobe, except as part of formal wear. Peter’s eyes were drawn to Spengler’s hand when he reached for his water. He watched the long fingers wrap gracefully around the heavy crystal and lift it to his lips. For some reason the other hesitated for a second before sipping, and Peter watched a slight flush rise along Spengler’s neck. Unexpectedly, Venkman wondered how soft the skin was on that neck, how would it feel to bite down on the tendon just there under the jaw. Salty or sweet? Would he smell of musk or aftershave? Would he shudder or moan, or both?

The waiter’s silent appearance brought him back to the now, uncomfortably glad to already be sitting down.  It was a moment’s distraction to order from the selections the waiter recited for them, and both men seemed to welcome that moment.

Orders placed, Egon turned his full attention to his lunch companion, prepared now for the effect the man’s presence had on him. “So. Not that this isn’t an enjoyable break in my normal day, but you wanted to discuss something?”

Peter waved his hand in negation. “Not yet, please. I hate serious discussion during lunch. Tell me about your work instead. What’s going on in the mind of one of the best and brightest?”

Egon cocked his head and considered. “And that’s not serious discussion?”

Peter shook his head while he swallowed his water. “I am a student of the mind, after all. It’s rare I get to explore one as interesting as yours, and have it still be sane.”

“All right.” Although I'm not entirely sure about the last part, Egon added to himself

Peter heard the challenge in the phrase and grinned. A second later he caught his breath when he saw the summer blue eyes focus and catch fire. To have that intensity turned on a partner, on him, had to be, was incredible.

“At the moment, Raymond and I are in the final stages of developing a device to detect and measure psychokinetic energy.” Egon waited for the inevitable ‘what?’ to be followed by a shift in the conversation to something more general.

"Raymond who?"

Egon looked up from where he'd been diligently chasing a cucumber slice around his plate. Where was the 'What?', the 'So what are the Lions chances this year?', the 'Any promising students coming up?' He cocked an eyebrow. "Stantz, Dr. Raymond Stantz. I believe you met him and his wife Janine at the dinner on Friday; they were seated next to my mother, although there was some sort of problem that called Raymond away at the last minute." Egon frowned slightly, "Raymond never did mention what it was, so I must assume it was of enough importance to keep him away, but minor enough not to speak of." The tip of his tongue appeared momentarily, removing a drop of oil that glistened on his lower lip. Peter lost track of his breath and the conversation, his own tongue imitating the little cat-lick without thought.

For several minutes both men paid attention to their salads, doing a fair job of at least pretending to enjoy what they were eating.

Egon was in a highly developed state of confusion. To the best of his knowledge, the man eating lunch with him was a celebrated skirt-chaser; if he played both sides of the fence, he was incredibly successful at keeping it from professional and amateur gossips alike. Venkman had asked him to lunch ostensibly to discuss…what? Egon realized that the man had never actually defined what it was he wanted; he’d simply assumed it had to do with one of the many research projects at the labs. But the man's reaction to his touch, the odd looks, the way the psychologist had practically lounged against him while they waited for President Halstad's speech to end.

Later, Peter would remember that he’s chewed and swallowed, perhaps even recall thinking the pepper had been added with a heavier hand than usual, but most of his concentration was centered on controlling his unexpected response to his guest. It had been eighteen months since he’d taken a true lover; if he’d taken the Barrett bitch up on her offer the other night, would he still feel like this? That had to be it, of course. Tumbling Spengler would not only move him forward towards his own goals, it would take the edge off his craving for the man. Reality never lived up to expectation; a couple of weeks, maybe a month to get him into bed and he’d have both the information he wanted and the satisfaction of having what Yeager didn’t. Then he could break it off and get on with his life, taking the next step in eliminating the enemy.

“So Dr. Stantz shares your interest in the paranormal?” Peter gamely tried to restart the conversation.

“Yes, he has a doctorate in the subject.” Egon’s head came up and frowned slightly. “How did you know-?”

Peter grinned at him. “That you have a doctorate in parapsychology? I read both your master’s work as well as your doctorate diss when I was writing mine.”

Egon nodded in acknowledgment and reached for his water. “I found yours interesting as well. ‘The Effectiveness of Pavlovian Conditioning on ESP Abilities’. You raised some fascinating issues.”

Peter used the timely arrival of their entrees to cover his surprise. Why would Spengler read his dissertation? How did he know it was his? Spengler graduated two years ahead of him, how would he have even known--he’d made sure to keep that particular interest between himself and his advisors.

Ice froze Peter’s spine, effectively quashing his libido. Cold purpose came to his rescue, moving the first man who’d held his interest this intensely in years back into the place Peter had given him in his plans. Venkman knew intimately what was in that paper; there was nothing to give away why he’d jumped almost desperately into the field.

There was nothing to connect Peter Venkman, student of the human mind, to Steven Barrett, Spengler’s fellow physics student, apparently one of the several dozen dropouts of one of the country’s toughest physics programs.

His mind a step back now from his emotions, Peter felt his lips curl in pleasure. “Glad you enjoyed it. Perhaps sometimes we can compare views on the subject.”

Egon kept his face blandly amused, the same expression he’d worn since they’d been seated. Something had happened, but he wasn’t quite sure what. The psychologist had seemed to relax gradually; now, though with not a muscle moving, he could feel Venkman distancing himself, see the eyes darken and dull behind an artificial sparkle. The man felt threatened and was on his guard. Most people would be complemented that somebody had found their undergraduate work interesting, but not this one. There was a mystery here that Egon was determined to solve.

“So you believe you can detect the energy given off by, what? Ghosts?” Venkman continued the conversation while toying with the veal on his plate.

Egon nodded, warming to the play but wary. “Yes. It’s been proven that the human body gives off energy, as does any living thing. We believe we’ve found a way to translate that into the energy given off by the unliving. Ghosts, specters, ghoolies, what-have-you. We’re looking for a way to run a test on our working model. If we’re successful, it could give a whole new validity to the entire field.”

Peter leaned back from the table, toying with his water glass while keeping his eyes on the man opposite. The very suddenly, very surprisingly, very dangerous man. The man who might be able to prove ghosts were real. Or not. Whether the beloved voice that answered Venkman occasionally was real. Or not. Who might be able to prove that Venkman himself was sane. Or not.

“So what do you do once you’ve found one?” Peter watched the blond neatly slice open a roll and butter it, the prosaic action carried out with a surgeon’s delicacy.

Egon looked up at Venkman over the top rim of his glasses. For some reason the answer was important to him. “We have theorized a method of entrapping and containing such an entity, using an entropic energy field by first balancing the negative field with a restraining snark stream, then exposing it to a purely boojum field. Since boojums routinely devour snarks, the snark field should create a type of magnetic needle bottle balanced between the negative charge of the entity and the external boojum field, keeping the entity secure but discrete. The trick, of course,” he added as almost an afterthought, “is determining when a snark is actually a boojum, and reversing the process.”

Venkman blinked. “I’m sure in about an hour I’ll have sorted it out and be able to frame a question. Check back with me then.”

Egon laughed, a deep rumbling roll of sound that washed over Peter and set up a hum in his nerves despite the tight rein he kept on his responses.

“Regardless,” Peter continued, keeping his sudden shiver to himself, “it sounds like an expensive proposition. Maybe I should change the name on these.” He reached for the document folder that sat between them like an invisible third and offered it to Egon.

Egon placed what was left of the roll he’d been shredding on his plate and wiped his fingertips before taking the leather envelope. “What’s this?”

Peter shrugged as best he could in his relaxed position. He looked down and flicked an invisible speck of lint from his knee. Boojum or snark? he wondered wildly, then folded his arms across his chest and waited while Spengler carefully unwound the latigo holding the envelope shut.

Egon pulled a sheaf of heavy parchment pages carefully out of their container. A casual glance at the top one made him stop and move his plate aside before setting them down on the linen and examining them.

His mouth tightened and he looked up at Venkman sharply. The other man was holding himself totally still, not a flicker of emotion to be read in the perfect poker face, not a thought escaping from eyes that should be incredibly expressive. Egon felt a twinge of regret, remembering a much younger man who’s eyes held incredible pain behind a facade of indifferent humor.

“These are stock certificates.”

Peter nodded once, sharply.

“Made out to my mother.”

Peter nodded again and appeared to relax. He cleared his throat and looked away before looking back. The physicist might think his expression was solidly neutral, but Peter easily read the curiosity that flamed in his eyes. “I didn’t want there to be any misconceptions.”

“Misconceptions? About what?”

“I own,” Peter corrected himself, “owned, twelve percent of Spengler Labs. Those certificates are everything I hold, turned over to your mother. They’re hers regardless, but if she chooses to sell them, I’d hope she’d give me right of first refusal.” He grinned, a wry, lopsided expression showing his discomfort, and spread his hands. “I didn’t want there to be that,” he nodded at the papers Spengler had his hand, "between us. I'd like a chance to apologize."

"Apologize? For what?" Egon rumbled softly

"For insulting you. In college. You were trying to help,  and I threw it back in your face for no good reason."

"I was a TA. I was doing my job, that's all."

Peter shook his head. "No, if you'd been 'doing your job', as you put it, you would have left me to sink or swim after the first time. But you kept trying, and I kept refusing, in the worst possible ways."

With incredible timing their waiter showed up to remove their plates and leave the check neatly tucked under a pair of dessert plates, allowing Egon to bite back the first three responses that came to mind. Deny anything occurred? No, that would be throwing it back in a proud man’s face, as good as closing the door on any opportunity to unravel what was going on in that intriguingly busy mind. Blanket forgiveness? No, that would be letting him off too easy, and the man had been a bit of a snot. Explain why it was unnecessary? That Egon had seen the pain and grief behind the flippancy, even if he didn’t know the cause? No, because then he’d have to explain why he’d been able to see it, why it had been and still was important to him. Why Peter Venkman was important to him. That was something neither of them were ready for, if ever. Which left….

“All right. Go ahead.”

Peter looked at the man across from him, caught a glimpse of sly humor in his face, and let his own fall into a more relaxed expression. He leaned forward, one hand over his heart, the other upheld as if swearing an oath.

“Dr. Spengler, I truly and sincerely apologize for being one of the worst asses to ever walk the Columbia campus, and deeply regret any discomfort my actions or words may have caused you. Can you forgive me?”

“Maybe.” Egon cocked his head and studied the overly earnest expression, surprised by the amount of sincerity he heard under the bantering tone. “Why?”

Peter leaned forward and dropped one hand to the small table, reaching with the other to whisper a caress over the back of Egon's hand where it rested on the pile of otherwise forgotten papers, the warmth of Peter's fingertips leaving silvery trails of possibility in Egon's mind.

“Because I’d like to take you to bed.”