Peter Venkman gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror and heaved a weary, discouraged sigh. Orange on top of black and blue were not his colors. Dripping with goo was not a style he had ever wished to emulate. The thick, viscous slime oozed down his forehead, matted his hair into dripping tails, and tried its hardest to get into his eyes and his mouth. It smelled. No, that description didn't cut it. Saying it smelled was like saying a tsunami resembled a pond ripple. The slime reeked. It stank. It made breathing a particularly horrifying adventure.

"Be sure you clean up the bathroom when you're done, Pete," Winston called from the other side of the bathroom door. "The rest of us have to live here, too, you know."

"Hey, I'm willing to share," Peter called back, although he lacked energy to enjoy the habitual banter. "Never let it be said I didn't share everything I have with my best buddies."

"No thank you, Peter," Ray yelled. "We won't expect generosity today. Hurry up in there. The rest of us want to get clean, too, you know?"

"The rest of you aren't drowning in the stuff." Peter shucked off his uniform and let it fall in a little puddle on the floor beside the sink. The guys would probably insist that he mop up the floor afterwards. It wasn't as if the Ghostbusters could ever con Janine into jobs like that--not if they wanted to keep living. Peter grimaced at the sloppy footprints he'd left between the door and the sink. Not a good day.

He turned on the sink faucets and plunged his head under the taps. Icy water cascaded over the back of his skull, causing him to let out an anguished shriek and jerk backward. He reared up and whacked his skull so hard against the taps that he saw stars. A stream of profanity burst from his mouth. Hastily, he adjusted the water to a more bearable level. Definitely not a good day.

The warmer water washed the resistant saturation of ectoplasm from his hair and even soothed the point of impact, but after a couple of minutes of peaceful enjoyment of the water, he noticed a new problem. The slime was so thick and gooey that it was rapidly clogging up the drain.

Is there anything more that can go wrong today? Peter turned off the water, wrung out his mostly slime-free hair, and stood back to glare with considerable disfavor at the plugged-up drain. He was a hundred percent positive the guys would refuse to take pity on him and unclog it for him. With a sigh, he wrapped a towel around his dripping hair, wincing at the pressure it put on his the rapidly rising goose egg. Then he went over and got the Drano.

Or tried to. His bare foot landed square on his abandoned uniform, and it skidded out from under him with such slippery abandon that his feet shot in separate directions, his arms windmilled, and he sat down very hard on the floor. On top of the uniform. On top of the slime-coated uniform. He could feel the disgusting stuff seeping through his shorts. It was cold.

And itchy.

With a disgusted cry, he jumped to his feet and then grabbed the sink for support as they threatened to skid out from under him again. He got his balance carefully. Now he'd have to mop the whole floor. The guys would never let him get away with a mess like this.

To make it worse, he must have hit his shin on the edge of the sink hard enough to slice it open, and blood from the cut added a whole array of new color to his orange-streaked legs.

A bad day. Even a terrible day.

He pulled off the saturated shorts and flung them on top of his discarded uniform. The itch went with them, thank goodness. Now to deal with the clog.

Peter dumped a healthy dose of Drano in the sink and ran a little more water on it, then he limped very carefully over to the tub and stuck his leg under the faucet. He caught himself just before he could turn on the water, and yanked his leg back. See, Egon, I can learn from my mistakes. Once the water temperature was just right, he washed off the blood and slime and examined the cut. Not that bad, but cuts on the shins tended to bleed freely. He lowered the water temperature to slow the bleeding, and mopped at it with a corner of the towel he'd wrapped around his hair. Better shampoo the rest of that slime out of his hair when he showered. Then he turned the water as hot as it could go in hopes of melting the ectoplasm enough to prevent another drain clog.

Miracle of miracles, that seemed to work. Or maybe it was just that he'd already scraped off enough slime that he hadn't added much to the problem. Refusing to contemplate the state of the drains and the imagined vast plumber bill that would accompany the repair, he pulled the shower curtain into place, adjusted the water until it was bearable, flipped the switch to turn on the showerhead, and stood under the flowing water. Let it beat the aches and frustrations out of him. Let it soothe all the bruises from the three separate falls on the bust when the ghost had decided Peter would make an ideal whipping boy and had dive-bombed him three separate times, after first making sure there was enough slime around for him to slip and fall. The other guys hadn't been slimed once; any of the stuff on them was a result of helping Peter to his feet.

Which would have been nice of them if they hadn't been working so hard not to chuckle at his pathetic state. What was a buddy for if not to give you a hard time when you were down?

The water soothed him enough for him to admit that, okay, maybe he had looked a little silly in his series of pratfalls. He wasn't hurt, just a bruise or two. Never mind that they would make him look like he'd gone a couple rounds with Rocky Balboa. The Ghostbusters were always acquiring bruises on a bust. It took more than that to win any genuine sympathy.

He reached for the shampoo tube and lathered up energetically. That was good. He could feel it working on the last remnants of the slime. He left the shampoo in place to complete the work while he soaped himself up and rinsed. There was nothing like a shower to turn a guy around on a bad day.

He was just about to wash out the shampoo when he felt water sloshing around his ankles. With horrified realization, he looked down at his feet. The slime had plugged up the bathtub drain, too.

It was too much. He shut off the water, cranking the cold too hard and nearly scalding himself before he got the hot turned off. His head throbbed unpleasantly from the faucet attack. When he stepped out of the tub, he noticed that his leg was still bleeding. He grabbed for the toilet paper to mop it up, but when he pulled, the roll came loose, shot through the air, and landed neatly in the toilet. Two points.

Peter eyed it balefully, then he used the little bit he gripped to press against his gory wound. Maybe he should call for help.

No way. If he did that, the guys would laugh so hard they would never let him live it down. Besides, he needed to get this place in shape before he let them in.

To make it worse, he still had a head full of shampoo.

He limped over to the sink in hopes of progress in the unclogging so he could rinse his hair there. The Drano was just starting to work. As he bent for a better look, the sink made a disgusting burping sound and spit a gob of orange goo right in his face.

He let out an outraged bellow and sat down hard. The good thing about the landing was that it wasn't on top of his uniform or in a puddle of slime. The bad thing was that he landed very hard on Egon's hairbrush that had somehow been knocked off the shelf by Peter's contortions.

He erupted to his feet, screeching, and clutching at his bottom. Somebody was going to die for this.

At the rate the day was going, it would probably be Peter.

"Peter, what on earth are you doing in there?" Egon called from outside the door.

"Calisthenics," Peter yelled back. "Go away, Egon, let me die in peace."

"I sent Winston and Ray down to take turns with the basement shower," Egon called. "You're making so much noise in there. Are you all right?"

"Just peachy, Egon. I've been attacked by faucets, uniforms, drains, and lethal hairbrushes. Go away. I'm never coming out again."

"Very well," said Egon. Peter heard his footsteps retreating.

"Thanks for the sympathy, buddy," Peter muttered softly.

A terrible day.

He ventured a cautious peek at the sink. Somehow, all the water had drained away. Carefully he tried the taps. Water ran out normally and flowed away down the drain. It didn't back up.

"There is a god," muttered Peter.

With a sigh of relief, he stuck his head under the taps and rinsed the shampoo from his scalp. A little too energetic rubbing reminded him of the hard whack he'd given himself. At least that wasn't bleeding; at least he didn't think it was. He fingered the knot carefully. Nope, no bleeding. Probably the only thing that had happened right all day. If it had been bleeding, a doctor would have gleefully shaved away a lot more hair than necessary to treat it and give him a bad hair month.

He straightened up carefully and came face to face with himself in the mirror. The slime was gone, revealing the darkening eye, a scrape on his left cheekbone, and a bruise on his forehead above the eye and separate from it. Eventually the two bruises would grow and merge, and he'd look like a refugee from a gang fight. Margo would probably cancel their date tonight at the mere sight of him.

With a sigh, Peter dumped his uniform in the bathtub. Might as well take advantage of the backed-up water to soak off the worst of the slime before he played with the Drano a second time. He turned the water on again to add enough to rinse out his uniform properly.

He had no sooner poked and prodded the uniform beneath the water when he realized he had stuck his wallet in its pocket before the bust since they'd had some thought of stopping on the way home for take-out. With a muttered curse, he fished out the dripping wallet and knelt there holding it. Then, with a sigh, he opened it, removed his sodden cash and laid the bills in an as-yet-untouched corner to dry out. They dripped unpleasantly. Credit cards were plastic so they'd be okay, but the pictures in there--the one of his mom that he liked best--god, it was wet. The corners were curling.

Peter looked down at the ruined picture of his mother, and all the annoyances of the day came together in a wave of overwhelming misery. He blinked furiously at the tears that flooded his eyes. This was a horrible day. What could possibly go wrong next? Something was sure to. After all, he was still breathing. Fate had decided that Peter Venkman deserved retribution. It couldn't be finished with him yet.

Maybe he'd move to Cleveland, get a job in a car wash. No pressure, just spending his days waxing down other people's cars. Yeah, probably not bad. Or he could go off to Tahiti and be a beach bum. That sounded even better. Warm, tropical nights, gorgeous women in bathing suits....

He shook his head. Never happen. The plane would probably crash in the ocean, or a shark would eat him. After all, he was Peter Venkman, Cosmic Target.

He looked at the ruined snapshot of his mother--it was the only copy of this shot he had--and struggled not to bawl like a baby.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he said miserably. "I'm sorry...."

The door opened without warning. "Did you know the bathtub was overflowing, Peter?" Egon said mildly.

Peter looked over at still-running faucets, then he raised his miserable face to Egon. "Yeah, and I'm bleeding, and I wrecked my mom's picture, and hit my head, and I guess that's all just tough, isn't it? After all, we wouldn't want a little water on the damn floor. Get the hell out of here, Egon!" He threw his ruined wallet at Egon with savage force and whirled to turn off the taps.

One of them came off in his hand.

With a weary and exasperated curse, Peter flung it away from him. It soared right through the window with tinkle of shattering glass.

Somehow, that seemed the final straw.

With an anguished moan, Peter sat down on the floor, drew his knees up to his chin, wrapped his arms around them, and put his face down against them. He ached all the way to the soul.

Egon went over and did something stern to the faucet that stopped the water from running. Peter tilted his head so he could watch, and he saw Egon push his sleeve up and thrust his hand down into the slimy water. After a second, the drain made a sound like a hungry Class Seven about to devour a hapless Ghostbuster, and the water started to run out normally.

Egon frowned at it a minute--drains wouldn't dare disobey Egon when he glared at them like that--then he got up and went away, a towel appearing magically in his hand so that he could dry his arm. Peter watched him go and sighed. It figured. Nobody would want to be around the Jinx of the Universe, not for a second. Spengs had saved the floor from a major flood. Now he could go about his own business.

It doesn't matter. Why should it matter? Why should anything matter? He put his face down into his arms again and shivered unhappily.

Footsteps announced Egon's return. He stopped at Peter's side, knelt down, and raised Peter's head long enough to wrap a towel around the dripping hair. Somehow, he used the moment to gently and unobtrusively mop the tears from Peter's face in such a way that it seemed utterly natural and not even embarrassing. Once that was done, he worked Peter's arms into the sleeves of a bathrobe and settled it into place as much as he could without moving Peter. Then he went away again. When he came back--this time, Peter knew he would come back--he carried the first aid kit. Peter sat there, passive and spent, unable to react, while Egon cleaned the cut on Peter's shin.

"It isn't serious enough to require stitches," Egon finally decided. "I can't imagine how you managed to cut it in the first place." He was silent a second. "That doesn't matte now. I'm going to disinfect it, Peter. It will sting," he cautioned mildly.

Of course it would sting. Pain was part of life, wasn't it? Peter watched him dully. It did sting a little, but Egon's hands were amazingly gentle. He was very careful as he worked, his face intent on the task. He was projecting that kind of reassurance only he could offer, projecting it deliberately. This was the inner Egon, the man who could be so astonishingly kind and understanding that those who only saw the absorbed scientist could almost fail to recognize him in such a mode. Peter's aching heart stretched out toward the comfort Egon offered wordlessly like a balm.

Egon attached the dressing and patted the ends of the bandage carefully to make sure they would stick. "Now, this head injury," he prompted.

Peter made a vague gesture at the back of his head. Egon explored it with careful fingers. "Hmmm. A slight swelling. Did you black out? No? Any dizziness?"

"No, it's just a little sore," Peter admitted.

"I won't even enquire how you managed to hit the back of your head and the front of your leg. Perhaps it is true that the majority of accidents happen in the bathroom."

When Peter groaned, Egon's mouth twitched, but it was a careful twitch that responded only to Peter's faint protest. He closed up the first aid kit. Then, instead of setting about the task of cleaning the bathroom or initiating a rant about the mess, he settled himself beside Peter on the floor and put an arm around his shoulders.

"I think we can have that photo restored. Modern photo shops can do wonders with damaged pictures," he said. "If you would like, I can take it to one I know this afternoon."

"Yeah, I'd like that, Egon," Peter said in a small, shaky voice. He wasn't sure how much kindness he could endure without breaking down, even though his soul craved it so desperately that he leaned into the circle of Egon's arm with urgent vulnerability.

Egon must have sensed that. He made his voice very calm and matter of fact. "I have analyzed the slime you were coated with, Peter. It's definitely psycho-reactive, but it's the most negative psycho-reactive slime I have ever encountered."

Peter lifted his head. "Mood slime?" he ventured. His voice was still shaky, but he heard the hope in it.

"Bad-mood slime, if you will use such inappropriate technology." He hesitated, maybe trying to judge if Peter were up to teasing. He didn't persist. "It would not only enhance any unhappy mood but it would possibly even make you vulnerable to small accidents."

Peter looked back on the bathroom fiasco. Mood slime? Not fate after all, unless it was fate that he'd been the one to be slimed. Nah, that was a given. He was always the one to be slimed. Better him than something terrible happening to his buddies.

"Small accidents?" he ventured, and his voice gained strength as he spoke. "Brain myself, get attacked by your hairbrush, break windows? Nearly sever an artery? You call those small accidents? Geez, Egon. Get a sense of perspective here."

Egon's arm offered him a safe haven. "I shall try harder, Peter," he said mildly.

"Thanks, Spengs." The words were heartfelt, and not just in response to Egon's comment. "Guess I needed...."

"Needed?" Egon prompted gently. "To hear the truth about the slime?"

Peter looked down at the face of his mother in the snapshot he still clutched. Maybe the damage wasn't quite as bad as he'd first thought. Those picture restorer people could make him a new print that he'd be sure to take better care of. His leg was bandaged, and if his head still hurt, he wasn't dizzy or seeing double. The drains were unclogged, and if he played his cards right, maybe he could wheedle the guys into cleaning up his mess. But that wasn't the answer.

"No, Egon," he said quietly, reveling in the other man's presence. "I guess I just needed...a friend."

"You have one," Egon said quietly. "No, let me amend that. You have three. Do you think you can stand up now?"

Peter hesitated. His gaze brushed the water-stained photo, traced the chaos of the bathroom, and finally lifted to Egon's face. His friend gazed back at him, patient and loyal, ready to offer whatever Peter needed.

"I can do anything," he said with a sudden lift of his heart. Then a smile spread across his face. "Think you, Winston and Ray can do anything about this mess?"

Egon studied the bathroom, then his scrutiny returned to Peter. He pulled Peter to his feet and eyed him thoughtfully. Probably checking for pupillary responses and traces of vertigo. What he saw must have satisfied him, because he gave a little nod. Then he smiled.

"I think this mess requires four Ghostbusters, Peter."

"Four? But I'm crippled. I'm concussed. I'm mood-slimed out. Give a guy a break, willya, Egon?"

To his surprise, a vast and delighted smile spread across Egon's face.

"What's that for?" he asked suspiciously.

Egon went away and came back with a P.K.E. meter. He aimed it at Peter. It didn't react. "There," he said as he lowered it. "You're cured. I was almost certain when you started to complain. The meter confirms it." He stepped out into the hall. "Ray! Winston! We need your help up here."

We. Peter found a smile inside and let it spread until it lit up the entire third floor. "Egon, you're a prince," he said, and meant it with every fiber of his being.

Egon returned the smile. "I know," he said, and went off calmly to deal with the sodden jumpsuit.

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