PAS DE DEUX

by Sheila Paulson

Originally printed in Just the Four of Us 4

Egon had never seen any readings quite like it. One minute, the Ghostbusters were pursuing a Class 7 entity, not a demon but just as powerful, a strange, wispy being that eluded the throwers with amazing grace. The next, it rounded a corner and the readings stopped, just like that. Spengler stared at his P.K.E. meter in disbelief. Readings didn't just stop, not unless the entity in question could phase into other dimensions without the need of a cross-rip. Or unless it could travel back and forth in time. Hmm, a temporal cross-rip? Now that would be a fascinating subject for study.

Then the ghost swished back around the corner, just as wispy as before, but more man-shaped in design. Except that, now, the readings were a strong Class 3--with odd shadings. Egon had never seen anything like this.

"Get it, get it." Peter Venkman yelled somewhere off to Egon's left.

"I can't get a clear shot," Ray warned. "It keeps ducking behind pedestrians."

"Watch out for that taxi, Pete," cautioned Winston, and Egon lifted his eyes from the incredible readings long enough to make sure Peter did just that. Peter always claimed the one thing that could pull Egon out of his fascination with his work was a danger to one of the team. But then, Peter had already refined that form of alertness to a fine art.

Peter dodged handily. He'd already seen the cab, Egon was sure, and had measured how far he had to move to avoid it. Egon always admired his ability to be so totally aware of his surroundings on a bust. Even when the physicist drifted off into absorption with the P.K.E. meter, Peter could call him out of it with a shout, if need be.

Ray charged toward Peter, his thrower aimed at the darting specter. Egon checked the meter again and started toward the entity. He had to understand what was making the meter react as it did. No ghost could alter its classification at will. A powerful ghost could shift its appearance; even a Class 5 could make radical shifts, and the ghosts of living people could make moderate changes as well, usually exaggerations of features. That was not unusual. But to change the flow of energy the meter read was incredible. This ghost could teach them so much. Once they trapped it, they could hold it in a confinement field and study it to learn how it did what it did.

Egon stalked it, fascinated, as he made minute adjustments to the meter, determined to understand the unlikely energy he had detected. Closer, closer. It knew he was there, and it retreated slowly, ducking behind fire hydrants and panicked pedestrians, who dodged into shop doorways and behind stationary vehicles. Without hesitation, Egon followed. He had to understand what appeared on the screen.

His attention narrowed down to a fine focus: the meter, the entity. A Class 3 wasn't as dangerous as a Class 7, and he was sure the other Ghostbusters could stop it if they got a clear shot at it. But he had to know more.

At first, deep in concentration, he was only peripherally aware of the sudden frantic yells, the sharp, rising screech of brakes. Out of the corner of his eye--he had excellent peripheral vision, although limited by the need for glasses--he saw two moving objects bearing down on him. One of them was a city bus, and he had a sudden, vivid image of the driver's face as he fought the wheel to swerve and avoid Egon, who suddenly realized he was standing in the middle of the street directly in the vehicle's path. He couldn't do it, of course. He was too close. The second object practically flew through the air--the ghost? No, Peter, in a tackle left over from his college football days.

He hit Egon hard and drove him out of the path of the screeching bus. The physicist crashed against a parked car and slid down to the street, the breath forced from his lungs. His P.K.E. meter flew from his hand and he started to grab after it when he heard the sickening thunk of impact followed by Ray's frantic scream.

"Peter!"

Venkman flew through the air in a totally different direction and a swerving taxi barely missed him as he thudded into the pavement. Egon's heart rose up into his throat and he struggled frantically to rise, to get to him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't draw air into his lungs. He could only kneel there, hand outstretched, lungs aching, as Peter's body rolled over once and landed in a lax, sprawled position. Dear God...

Winston erupted into action. He was very controlled in a crisis. "Somebody call 911!" he bellowed, and a pedestrian called back, "Yo," and yanked out a cell phone. While he keyed in the numbers, Winston directed traffic away from Peter, and Ray went to their downed teammate as if sucked in by a powerful magnet. All color had vanished from his face; he was as white as Peter.

Dear God, what have I done? Peter had just saved his life, but at what cost? What cost, indeed?

The first painful breath worked its way into the physicist's aching lungs and he followed it with another, equally agonizing, before he could stumble to his feet and stagger across the endless, intervening pavement to the place where his best friend lay unconscious as a result of saving his life.

When Egon knelt beside him, Ray raised stricken eyes. His fingers were careful as they felt Peter's wrist, checking his pulse. "He's alive, Egon. But he won't answer." He added shakily, "Are you hurt?"

"Winded," Egon gasped and reached out to touch Peter's face. It wasn't marked at all, and an insane part of him thought that Peter would be glad. Another part, a fanciful, malicious portion that Spengler did not recognize, said, He'll look fine in his coffin. He flinched.

"I couldn't stop." That miserable voice must be the bus driver. "He just stepped off the curb right in front of me. I honked and braked and tried to swerve, but he was too close. I couldn't help it. I never had an accident before in my whole life. God, buddy, I'm sorry."

His voice rang with anguish, but he couldn't feel as anguished as Egon did. At least he had fought to prevent an accident.

Egon had caused one.

Peter always claimed that Egon could become too caught up in his work. All the guys had said that to him at one time or another, and Janine had laid down the law more than once. "Don't shut out the world around you, Egon. When you're not looking, the world around you bites back."

The ghost had taken advantage of the accident to disappear completely. The mysterious readings that had distracted Egon, that had caused Peter to be injured, must be gone now. It was all for nothing. Pointless. If Peter died...

"I can't find any broken bones." Ray finished his check and looked at Egon hesitantly. Did he blame him? He couldn't do so more than Egon blamed myself. "His arms and legs are intact. I don't think he hit his head very hard--but there's a scrape back here."

Peter's shuttered face was turned in Egon's direction; he couldn't see the back of the injured man's head clearly, but Ray could. "It's bleeding. But he's alive. He's breathing."

He was definitely breathing, but slowly and shallowly. It didn't sound natural to Egon. He had studied first aid--all of them had--but now, when he needed it, he could hardly remember any of it. Didn't respiration like that mean he was deeply unconscious? If it speeded up, it could mean he was bleeding internally and his body was trying to compensate. Of course if he regained consciousness, it would speed up, too, probably because of the pain and panic, if nothing else. Egon shuddered.

Peter shifted his head faintly. Egon saw his breathing pick up speed. Ray had said he didn't have any obvious fractures, so Egon risked taking his hand and squeezed it to test for reaction. He was scarcely aware of Winston hurrying over with a blanket that he draped over Peter.

"Need to keep him warm," he said.

"Should we elevate his feet?" Ray moved toward them.

Winston shook his head. "No, we don't know if there's a spinal injury. Don't move him at all. What you're doing's okay, Egon, but no more than that. Paramedics are on their way. Cops are clearing the traffic around us.

"Peter?" Egon asked. He registered what Winston had said, but in a dim and distant way. Except for the paramedics, it wasn't important. "Can you hear me?"

Peter's breathing speeded up and the pulse Egon could feel in his wrist was faster, too. His face scrunched up with pain and confusion, and his eyes slitted open.

"'gon?" he breathed.

Spengler leaned into Peter's line of sight. "Right here, Peter. Try not to move until you can be examined."

Peter's eyes focused on Egon. They held pain and confusion, but they also held an urgent question. "Y'okay?" he faltered.

"I am unhurt, Peter. I wish I could say the same for you."

"'s okay," Peter mumbled, his voice shaky and faint. Egon had to bend still closer to hear it. He could tell Peter was on the verge of passing out again, and maybe that would be good; he was in a lot of pain now; it shone out of the clouded eyes. But Peter clung determinedly to consciousness. "Long's y'r okay."

Oh, God. Egon flinched. Worry joined the pain in the green depths. "Y'hurt, Egon? Tell me."

There was no way Egon could lie to that fierce resolution. "I am physically uninjured," he said gently. "But I deeply regret being the cause of your injuries."

Peter wasn't quite alert enough to grasp that. Egon could see him mulling it. Then he managed a faint, pained grin. "Not y'r fault...just...being Egon." The smile warmed. He collected himself with a deep breath that made him gasp in pain. When Egon jerked closer to help, something in Peter's eyes stopped him--and offered comfort. "Wouldn't have it...any oth'r way..."

Then his eyelids closed and the pain-induced tension slid away, his hand slack and flaccid in Egon's grip.

Teeth making fierce indentations in his bottom lip, Egon raised his eyes to Ray, who gazed back. A hand came down on Egon's shoulder--Winston--and squeezed. Like a man who has just been winded for the second time in as many minutes, Egon found himself unable to move, barely able to breathe. Peter...

He scarcely noticed the paramedics' arrival until they gently worked Peter's hand free so they could examine him.

*****

"It looks worse than it really is."

Ray's heart gave an excited leap. "You're not just saying that?" he demanded eagerly. "He's really gonna be okay?" He waited for Egon to jump in with a question, but the physicist didn't. Egon had been sitting over there in the corner like a lump until Dr. Labraccio arrived on the scene, fresh from Peter's bedside, with the good news. The young doctor looked more disheveled than usual, his black curls tousled and out of place, and there were shadows under his eyes. But there was triumph in their blue depths. Once again, modern medicine--and Peter's indomitable will--had created a miracle. Ray could have shouted in his relief.

He would have, if Egon hadn't felt so bad.

Ray exchanged a worried glance with Winston, who had understood Egon's grim silence in Ecto, on the way to the hospital. Egon hadn't said much, but he'd said enough.

"I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings. I made Peter risk his life to save me." He didn't actually say, "It's my fault," but he might as well have. Ray, who used to tend toward guilt and who had learned from experience and the support of his friends that he wasn't to blame for everything that went wrong, recognized the signs. The sad part was that it really was Egon's fault Peter was hurt. Only none of them could blame him because he hadn't meant it to happen. He was just caught up in the joy of busting, something Ray understood all too well. Once Peter was better, he'd remind Egon of it. Even lying there half-conscious in the street, he'd picked up on it and said what he could.

Ray was pretty sure that, for Egon, it hadn't been enough.

"What are the nature of his injuries, Doctor?" Egon asked.

"Yeah, you say it looks worse than it is, Greg?" Winston prompted. He made a point of standing at Egon's side, an unobtrusive gesture of support. Ray mirrored the position so the three of them presented a united front.

"Well, he's got massive bruising down his right side, and he's got two broken ribs, and two cracked. He's got a mild concussion; that's from the landing on the pavement, not from the bus itself. There's no evidence of spinal trauma and he has full sensation and movement in his extremities. He was lucky. From what I've heard, the driver was really on the ball, and he stomped on his brakes so hard he nearly drove his foot through the floorboards. The bus had practically stopped when it hit Peter."

Egon flinched. If Greg noticed--and he was too good a doctor to miss it--he chose not to respond to it. "From what Ray said, he wasn't thrown very far. There's no indication of internal bleeding, but we'll be monitoring him very carefully over the next day or so. I want to keep him tonight and tomorrow, and we're looking at discharge the day after, if all goes well. Sometimes, you get a delayed reaction to injuries; damage to the spleen, for instance, although that doesn't apply here, since Peter suffered that ruptured spleen several years ago. There are a number of things we'll check. He's conscious. He came around in the ambulance, but you knew that."

Ray nodded. They'd followed the ambulance to the hospital and rushed in with Peter, and he'd been awake and actually told them not to worry about him before they wheeled the gurney into examining room. Of course, that had made them worry all the more because it meant Peter wasn't yet feeling well enough to capitalize on being hurt. When he started enjoying all the attention and sent them fetching and carrying for him and turning them into his personal slaves, the guys could relax, because it meant Peter would be all right. Ray couldn't wait for that to happen--even though they always had to be pretty strict about it, or Peter would take shameless advantage of them.

Janine burst into the waiting room. "I got here as fast as I could," she said. Then she stopped dead, her eyes on Egon's face. "How is he?" she asked uneasily.

"I've just been telling them he should be fine, Janine," Greg Labraccio said quickly. "He'll be incredibly sore for a few days, though, with all that bruising and his ribs. He won't be wearing a proton pack for at least six weeks, although you can let him start riding along on busts sooner than that. If I know Pete, he'll insist on it."

"He sure will," Winston said with a grin. "He hates to miss something."

"And he feels as if he cannot protect us by remote control," Egon volunteered grimly. Janine's eyes registered understanding.

Being Janine, she didn't get mushy. "At least it means I'll have him out of my hair," she said. "I hate it when he's home sick or hurt and you guys are on a bust. He makes my life impossible."

"Peter is injured, Janine. Don't you think you are being unkind?"

She held her chin up and confronted Egon head on. "You take my desk, then and I'll go on busts in your place. If he doesn't drive you nuts in ten minutes, then I'll buy you a new P.K.E. meter." She stood her ground valiantly, but the glance she flicked sideways at Ray was a plea for help.

"Boy, yeah, I bet he drives you nuts, Janine. We all know how he gets. When can we see him, Greg?"

"Well, I'd be happier if you'd just let him rest now and come back tomorrow, but that's like asking the sun to rise in the west. One at a time, five minutes, no more, and I think Egon better go in first."

Egon took an involuntary step backward. "He can't want that."

"He asked for you specifically."

"Get in there and tell him to stop malingering," Janine urged. She edged in between Winston and Egon and took hold of Egon's arm. "You can do it. You're the only one he'll listen to, anyway."

"He shouldn't," Egon said bitterly.

Greg must have noticed the alarm in their eyes because he took Egon's arm and steered him toward the door. "You want him to be able to rest, don't you, Egon? Then come on."

When they were gone, Winston ran a hand across his forehead. "Whew. That's gonna be a toughie. Wish I thought Peter was up to handling it."

"What's wrong?" Janine demanded. "Why is Egon acting like that? He looks awful. You'd almost think he got hit by a bus."

"Well, girlfriend, I think he'd have preferred it. Peter saved his life."

Janine glanced after them and her eyes softened. Ray halfway hoped she'd charge in and give Peter a big kiss, mostly because he could imagine the utterly nonplused look on Peter's face for that first split second before he covered it up and tried to act like kisses were his due. "He saved his life?"

"It was bad, Janine," put in Ray. "Egon got so caught up in the meter readings he just walked right out in front of the bus. You know how we always kid him about doing that. 'Pay attention, Egon, or you'll step in front of a bus.' He finally did it--and Peter was the only one close enough to push him out of the way. He didn't even hesitate. He just went on instinct. He pushed Egon clear, but he didn't have time to get out of the way himself. Egon has to be feeling really bad right now. Peter wouldn't be hurt..."

"Come on, homeboy," Winston intervened. "All of us have been hurt on busts when we're chasing tough ghosts."

"Most of you know enough to look both ways when you cross the street." Janine's mouth tightened. Ray didn't know if she were mad at Egon, just plain exasperated at the absent-minded scientist, or worried about how he'd take it. She'd encountered Egon's absorption in his work more than once, when Egon had inadvertently stood her up for a date. Until now, it had sometimes been annoying, sometimes funny. But it had never before caused anyone to be hurt.

"Tough ghosts!" Ray blurted involuntarily. "We never caught it. Where did it go? What happened to it?"

Winston turned startled eyes on him. "Oh, man, I just forgot. Must have taken off in the confusion. I never saw it after the accident. Frankly, I never even looked."

"So we have to do it all again." Ray heaved a sigh. "I've got Egon's meter. It's broken, but I think I can pull the recordings out. He said it was weird. We need to find out why."

"Think Egon will even care?" asked Winston.

Janine glanced toward the door. "If he doesn't, Peter will make him. Think he's gonna take being hurt and have it all for nothing? Don't worry. Dr. V will make it right."

*****

Peter wasn't so sure of that. Of course a lot of things weren't very clear to him. He ached so much it was hard to get comfortable, and his brain was a lot fuzzier than he liked. Tough to stay at the top of his game when he wasn't tracking right. Gave everybody else a big advantage.

Greg Labraccio had examined Peter and told him he was lucky. His pack had absorbed a lot of the impact and spread it evenly along his ribcage . He'd had a couple of ribs go--he'd felt them at the impact, which had been pretty damn scary. If his arm hadn't been stretched out to push Egon clear, it would probably have snapped like a twig. As it was, he had a lot of really deep bruising around the back of the shoulder and a nifty darkening circle where the strap had bit in as the pack was driven sideways. He'd look like a technicolor marvel by morning.

None of that mattered, though. He didn't really remember much after that until he was in the ambulance, but he did have a really fuzzy memory of Egon bending over him, his face white with concern. Egon was alive, and that was enough for now. Later on, he could enjoy the press coverage he'd get and the fun of being the center of attention, and he could milk this for all he was worth. But not yet.

There was something... He couldn't get it right, not with his memory of the accident so fuzzy, but something was up with Egon, something was wrong. So when Greg told him he could have five minutes with each of the guys before he had to rest, he'd asked the doctor to send in Egon first. Besides, he wanted to see, now that he was actually able to think, if Egon really was okay.

When the blond came in, Peter's eyes measured him. He couldn't sit up to grab Egon and give him a relieved hug. The thought of moving that much was not a good one. Even if his head hadn't shown a tendency to swim at the slightest unwary movement, he knew it would hurt like blazes. He'd just lie here and look spectacularly bruised. 'Sides, if he didn't move his head nobody would realize that they'd actually shaved part of his hair away to treat the nasty scrape where he'd hit the pavement. His vanity hadn't kicked in yet, at least not as much as it was going to, but it was so much a part of him that he was still glad it didn't show--

Until he saw Egon's face.

Spengler's expression was diffident--and 'diffident' was never Egon's best look. He advanced gingerly, as if he expected Peter to point at the exit and proclaim, "Never darken my door again." Peter wasn't clearheaded enough to grasp what was going down yet, but a vague memory of lying in the street while Egon hovered teased at the edges of his memory. He'd been operating a hundred per cent on instinct then because it wasn't yet possible to put two thoughts together. If only he could remember what Egon had said.

"Who else is hurt?" he asked before Egon could even open his mouth.

"No one, Peter." Not a shred of untruth in that. Egon was such a straight arrow that the rare times he tried to lie always shone on his face like neon signs.

Peter arched an expectant eyebrow. Geez, even his eyebrows hurt. What a crummy deal. "Come on, Spengs, level with Uncle Peter here."

"I'm serious, Peter. I did sustain a slight bruise on my arm when I landed, but I assure you it's hardly serious, not when compared to you."

"We can compare bruises later, big guy. Come on, give. What's wrong? Not fair to dump on me when I'm flat on my back."

Egon flinched. Serious bad stuff going down. And then Peter got it. "Spengs, it's okay," Peter said gravely. "I'm gonna be fine in a few days. I guarantee it." All the medical tests weren't back yet which was why Peter was trying to control the pain with crummy Tylenol that worked about as well as popping a Certs. Once they were sure he didn't have any bleeding in the skull or any other place he wasn't supposed to, they'd be able to give him a pain medication so he could sleep tonight, but it was too soon yet. He was pretty sure they weren't going to find anything else. Greg had told him a lot of things to pay attention to and none of them had happened, and besides, he was hooked up to all this ICU equipment while they stabilized him. It had probably registered his attempt to arch his eyebrow. And went off loud and clear when he wiggled his toes to prove to himself that he could.

"It's not okay, Peter," Egon said firmly. He heard himself and added, "You will be fine. Greg reports no complications. I didn't mean that. I meant, of course, the fact that you were injured at all--saving my life."

"'s what we do," Peter told him. He didn't want to come across the noble hero, not with Egon, who knew him far too well for that, but he didn't want to minimize it, either. Egon's life was worth saving--he was important to Peter; his friend, his brother. What did Spengs think he should have done? Waved his hand and yelled, "Look out"?

"It shouldn't have been necessary," Egon replied very stiffly. "Ever since we started the business, you guys and Janine have made a very big joke about the way I become caught up in my readings. How many times has Janine said before we leave on a bust, 'take care of Egon and make sure he doesn't walk in front of a bus'? We've treated it as a joke but today proves it never was."

Peter felt his way carefully. He could recognize a major case of guilt when he saw it. He'd learned that with Ray back in college. Ray had outgrown it as he matured and gained self-confidence, and you'd never know it to look at him now that he'd ever suffered from any doubts. He had confidence to spare. This time Egon had cause, but any of the guys would have paid the price. "Okay, yeah. Your brain was off in the clouds. That what you want me to say?"

"Why not, Peter, when it is patently true?"

Five minutes. He had five crummy minutes for this. Wouldn't be long enough. "Come on, Egon." Peter struggled to focus. He was still waaay too woozy for serious business. "That was one weird ghost out there. Strange readings and all that. What you were doing was important."

"Not as important as your life, Peter."

Bad. Okay, so maybe the ghost had been no Gozer. But if it could change its classification, it was something new, something that might be dangerous. "Come on, Spengs, don't forget we count on you to figure out these things. You were doing your job."

"We should take precautions on the job."

"And if there hadn't been a bus, you'd have done nothing wrong."

"But there was. I didn't take even a rudimentary precaution such as a child learns before kindergarten. Surely elementary prudence should be a prerequisite to the job. I let myself become too involved in the readings--and you nearly died."

"Hey. None of this 'nearly died' stuff. I didn't nearly die. I just got to turn black and blue. I'm gonna get the sympathy vote big time from babes. I go to the beach and strut around and they'll flock to me. You'll see."

"Peter, the fact that I was 'doing my job' and that the ghost was intriguing would have been small consolation if you had died."

"But I didn't."

Egon drew an exasperated breath. "Peter..."

"No, you listen, Egon, and listen good because Greg's gonna come and toss you out in about ten seconds. I didn't stop to count the cost when I knocked you out of the way of the bus. If I'd been two seconds faster, we'd've both been clear." He shifted cautiously on the pillow and tried to stifle a wince. Egon's face grew taut. "I didn't luck out," Peter continued. "But, don't you get it, Egon? I don't care. All I care about is that you're alive. I'd do it all over again, even if I knew ahead of time that I'd bite the big one." He didn't get that serious very often, but he needed to make the point. "Egon, you're my friend. I care what happens to you. I don't mind being here like this, not if you're okay. It's worth it."

"From my perspective, Peter, it isn't worth it. You are my friend, too, and I'd rather have risked the impact myself than to risk your life. That it was caused by my own incompetence--"

"Whoa! Time out." Peter knew his voice wasn't strong enough to cut through Egon's rant, but the minute he spoke, Spengler fell silent. "You weren't incompetent, Egon. You were maybe a little careless--and when I'm better I'm gonna read you the riot act about proper precautions on a bust and I'll get Ray and Winston to help me, because you need to have it drilled into that pointy little head of yours. But don't you get it? You were just being you. If I hated you for that, I'd have to hate you, and I don't think I ever could." He put out his hand. His muscles screamed at him for the movement, but he didn't care. He stuck the hand at Egon and waited.

Egon clasped it in both of his own. "Peter, I am so sorry."

"It's okay, Egon. Come on, don't do this. We both survived. And I'm gonna get pretty steamed if you keep going on about it because what you're saying is that my incredible heroism was wasted--and it wasn't. When I think of the great press I'm gonna get for this..."

Egon gave a sputter of laughter that was far too close to tears. "Peter, when I saw you lying in the street..."

"Don't go there, Egon. I do not want to remember that."

"I'm sorry--"

"No sorrys, either. I mean it. You gotta promise me you'll buy what I say now, cause otherwise I'll probably be up all night worrying about you." Okay, so that was dirty pool, but he didn't care, not if it worked. "Come on, Spengs, after all we've been through together, you know I had to do it. Thing is, if I'd been out there ogling a babe while a ghost took a dive bomb at me, you'd have pushed me out of the way even if you got a little dented, yourself. First time any of us turns out perfect, I'm gonna nominate him for the Nobel Prize. Until then, I'm gonna just lie here and hurt and be glad you're alive, 'cause you're worth it."

Egon's eyes brimmed with unshed tears, but he didn't let them fall. "Allow me my reaction, Peter. You scared us all."

"Does that mean I get the royal treatment when I come home?" Peter wheedled. He ached too much to go much further.

Egon hesitated, struggled for normalcy, and didn't quite reach it. "Of course, Peter," he said. "Anything you want."

So he wasn't okay with this yet. But maybe he was getting there. Peter opened his mouth to continue only to have Greg Labraccio sweep into the room and bear Egon away. The physicist hung in the doorway for a long moment, then he sighed and went away.

Peter sighed, too. Geez, it was crummy when it even hurt to breathe.

Egon. Blaming himself. God, blaming himself for being Egon. Peter couldn't have that. Later on, he'd have to get on Egon's case. Let him atone for it that way. He didn't want to. Just knowing Egon was alive was all that really mattered. Later on, when he felt all his aches and pains and bruises every time he moved, he'd have to get a little cranky. Wouldn't take that much effort. He didn't think Egon needed to do penance, but Egon probably felt like he did. Good, if it kept him from getting so caught up in his work. Next time, Peter might not be close enough to save him.

He felt what little color he had drain out of his face. Okay, so when Ray and Winston came in here, he'd appoint them as official temporary Egon-protectors.

He shifted against the pillows. His body didn't feel like his yet. He'd be glad when the next week or so was over.

*****

After the guys' and Janine's brief visits, Peter napped off and on. He'd warned Winston to keep an eye on Egon and make sure he wasn't feeling too bad about what happened, and reassured Ray that he was going to be just fine. He'd basked in the warmth of Janine's gratitude to the point that he drove her nuts enough to revert to type. Even with the pain of his bruises, he had no trouble napping, but when he moved inadvertently, it always woke him up.

By dinnertime, the queasiness left his stomach and the hospital deemed him well enough to take him out of the ICU and put him in a normal room. The guys came in briefly several times, and Egon seemed more like himself. Peter made them go home to eat, and asked Janine to keep an eye on old Spengs. Secure in the knowledge he'd done all he could, he set out to pick at his dinner. His appetite wasn't totally gone but it wasn't up to a real meal yet.

An hour or so later, when he realized everything meant to stay down and after Greg had come by to report the x-rays didn't show anything dangerous in any of the skull films or anywhere else, he was allowed to sit up. He was only dizzy for the first second, and it cleared immediately. The motion didn't make him want to lose what he'd eaten either.

"Venkman the invincible," he said with a grin. "So, does this mean I can get up?"

Labraccio hesitated. "I don't want you wandering the hospital, Peter. You'll stay in your room. Yes, you can get up--for trips to the bathroom, no further. Tomorrow, we'll see."

"Great. I think you guys keep your bedpans in the freezer."

"Yeah, we're sadists," the doctor agreed with a grin. "Okay, let's see you get up."

He steadied Peter until he was sure standing up wasn't going to make him keel over, then he nodded. "You're doing fine. Okay, Peter. Take it slow. You're feeling better, but you're not a hundred per cent yet. You can go out and flirt with nurses tomorrow."

"You take all the fun out of things," Peter said and took a step.

His foot went off to one side, and when he tried to counter it with his other foot, it shot backwards. If Greg hadn't been standing right beside him, he would have dropped like a stone.

"Whoa," he gasped as he righted himself. "Watch out for the first step, it's a lulu."

"Dizzy?" asked the doctor as he helped Peter to sit on the edge of the bed.

Venkman froze in the act of sitting down. "No," he said, hoping he didn't sound as worried as he felt. "I wasn't dizzy at all. I just...couldn't make my feet go where I wanted them to."

The doctor hesitated. "We'll try it again," he said, and helped Peter to his feet. Again, he stood there completely steadily, and he concentrated on how he felt. Not remotely dizzy. "I'm fine," he proclaimed. "Just getting my sea legs back." He took another step.

His foot shot out so fast he would have slid down on his butt if Greg hadn't grabbed him around the shoulders and held him upright.

"Once more," ground out Peter, and concentrated everything he had into taking a step. This time, it worked. It worked again. But the third step slid backwards and he nearly dropped. He could control it if he fought it hard--but not completely.

And that meant...he couldn't walk... No, hadda be some simple little thing. Greg would explain it, prescribe a little longer in bed and he'd be fine. Wouldn't he? But a knot formed up in the pit of his stomach as Labraccio helped him to sit down.

Labraccio's face was bland and professional as he whipped a little flashlight out of his pocket. "I want to check your eyes, Peter. Look at me."

Peter let him do his eye test thing, flicking the light around, but the minute the doctor finished, he said, "You said the X-rays were fine. What's this about?"

"Maybe you were dizzy and just didn't realize it."

"Oh, come on, Greg. I'm not dizzy. Look." He rotated his head from side to side. Or tried to. It fought him. It was as if he'd forgotten how to make his body move properly. Panic fluttered, icy cold, in the pit of his stomach. "I'm not dizzy," he insisted. "I'm not."

"Your pupils are equal and reactive. Do you have sensation in your feet? Any numbness?" Peter shook his head. Labraccio bent and played with the soles of Peter's feet.

"That tickles, doc."

"But you feel it. Good." He did a tapping number on Peter's knees and his feet reacted as they were supposed to. "Okay, Peter, let's try this." He held out both hands, palms up. "Put your hands on mine and press down."

Peter did. That worked pretty good--at first. Then one hand jerked up like someone had cut the puppet's strings and the other slammed down with tremendous force. Peter yanked his hands back and tried to still their shaking. "So what's wrong with me?" He didn't sound as matter of fact as he'd liked. "Bleeding in the brain? Brain damage? Spinal problems? Something delightful like that?" God, what if it was permanent?

Labraccio was silent a long moment then he attached a blood pressure cuff and pumped it up. "I don't know, Peter. That skull series was pretty thorough. But one reason we've kept you for observation is that there are occasionally delayed reactions to impact trauma. I'm going to order more tests. Let's have you lie back now." He was silent as he finished the blood pressure test.

Peter obeyed. His body did that just fine. But, inside, he was quaking. What if it was brain damage? It could come from head injuries. What if he started having seizures? What if something was wrong with his spinal cord? What if he couldn't walk across a room? He couldn't be a Ghostbuster if he couldn't even stand up, could he? What would become of him? It wasn't like the business had a pension plan. He shivered. There'd been a program on TV a while back, about a kid who'd been hit on the head with a baseball. He'd felt fine at first, then he'd started going downhill--and died in surgery. Peter had given his head a good hard whack on the pavement. Something could be badly messed up in there.

God, no, this can't be happening.

Egon's stupid P.K.E. meter fixation, that's what had caused this. Peter gritted his teeth. He'd been willing to risk his life for his friend--but this? This was more than he'd ever bargained for.

"Am I gonna be okay?" he asked and didn't even care if Greg heard the quaver in his voice.

Labraccio finished checking his pulse before he replied. "Peter, I'll be honest with you. Your vital signs have been excellent all along. Your test results have been good until now. We haven't found anything that could account for your symptoms. This could be something simple."

"Or it could mean you have to crack open my noggin and pry out my brains."

"A little more graphically put than I'd like. It's possible there's some intercranial pressure building up. I want to make certain there's no damage to the motor control center of the brain. We'll run some spinal tests, too, to make sure nothing's misaligned or that you don't have pressure against a nerve--although I'd expect that to create numbness in your lower extremities, and you don't have any. I'm going to order some tests immediately. I want a CT scan first. We'll get you right in for it. If that doesn't show anything, you'll have an MRI. But I'll be honest. I'd expect your pulse and blood pressure to have altered if there had been a delayed reaction. Yes, they've both shifted slightly, but that's due to your natural panic, nothing that would account for what we're seeing. So let us run our tests. I'll keep you posted every step of the way. Do you want me to get the guys over here?"

Peter hesitated. "No. Not yet. Not till I know something, okay?"

"Are you sure? They have the right to know."

That was true. They did. He would come down on them hard if one of them kept something like this from him--although he'd understand their motives. It would have been his right to know--and this time it was theirs. Only telling them... "I'll call Winston while you set it up." He honestly didn't know if the words were meant as a stall. But when Labraccio left, Peter picked up the phone. Okay, so look at this. He could dial just fine. Maybe that weird deal was just some...some glitch. Something that wouldn't be repeated.

But how could he know that?

"Ghostbusters." It was Ray.

Absurdly, Peter found himself tongue-tied. He pressed the receiver to his ear and couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"Ghostbusters. Hello? Is somebody there?"

"Ray?"

After a startled silence, Ray's voice rose with alarm. "Peter? Is that you, Peter? What's wrong?"

"I..."

"Guys, it's Peter," he heard Ray call. "Something's wrong. He sounds... Peter, what is it? Do you want us to come? Are you okay?"

"Ray, I..." God, this was hard. A part of him wanted them desperately, just to be with him, to let him know they cared. Another part didn't want to see him like this. He was afraid, afraid they'd back off, treat him differently, look at him as if he were...less than normal. "Guess I just wanted to..."

No. He couldn't lie to Ray.

"What is it?" Ray could do that gentle sympathy better than anyone he knew. Peter felt it cut through his defenses and leave him open and vulnerable, and that scared him. His mouth moved but he couldn't force out words.

A different voice. Egon. Alarm ran through the bass tones. "Peter? What's the matter? You can tell me."

Something inside Peter snapped. "Why don't you just waltz over and see? Watch the freak who can't even walk without falling down. That ought to be good for a few laughs. Thanks a lot, Egon. Guess you finally got me back for all those mornings I slept in, all those times I didn't keep good notes."

"Dear Lord, Peter, what..." Egon's voice was suddenly full of fear that he couldn't begin to conceal. "Peter, are there complications?"

"Guess you could say that." He shuddered. "I don't want to talk to you right now." He could imagine the pain on Egon's face, the sudden agony at Peter's accusation, the fear for Peter himself, but he hardened his heart against it. He was too scared and too angry to think past it.

"Peter?" Now they had Winston on the line. "You got trouble, buddy?"

Somehow, that practical, matter of fact tone carried with it a promise of unending support, and it was too much to take. "Bad trouble," Peter blurted out and then he couldn't keep on talking. He hung up the receiver and lay there shivering, as his life fell apart. He hated what he'd just done to Egon, but the panic was so deep that he couldn't find the strength to call the words back. Peter Venkman, you are a jerk, he told himself, but that didn't stop his resentment. He could have taken anything else--but this. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. God, let it be some little thing. Even if they had to operate, people came through things like that just fine. Didn't they?

"Did you call them?" Greg asked when he returned with an orderly and a wheelchair.

"Yeah," Peter said tightly. "I called them." He allowed the orderly to help him out of bed, and tried to close his mind to the fact that his feet wanted to go everywhere but where they belonged. Worse, Greg looked totally perplexed, and, deeper down, he looked alarmed. Greg had been a friend of the team for years. So far, that hadn't caused any conflicts in the doctor/patient relationship. He looked like he'd just discovered the first one.

In Peter's present frame of mind, it felt like a betrayal.

He hardened his heart to everything around him as he was wheeled from his room.

*****

The Ghostbusters had seen a lot of bad things since they started busting ghosts, but Winston didn't think he'd ever seen anything worse than Egon's stricken look when he'd blindly thrust out the receiver to Winston and then backed away from it as if he were afraid it would bite him.

When Winston realized Peter's condition had worsened, it dawned on him that Egon would be sure to take it badly. Peter had tried to fast-talk him out of his guilt that his absent-mindedness had landed Peter in the hospital. But now, even though he didn't know what Peter had said to Egon, Winston figured it was bad, an accusation.

He'd been ready to jump on Peter's case for it--until he heard the utter panic in Peter's voice. This wasn't good. It wasn't good for anybody. Peter had been scared and he'd hit out blindly. Anybody might do that and, when he calmed down, Peter would be sure to apologize. But he needed his friends at his side right now. Winston didn't know what new symptoms had shown up, although Egon had muttered something about Peter being unable to walk. That was crazy. Peter had moved a little in bed when Winston was visiting him. He'd even kicked at the sheet with one foot and complained that it weighed a ton against his bruises. If he could move and feel--God, there were so many things that could go wrong with a head injury--and maybe there was some spinal damage, too. Winston didn't even want to think about it.

"Come on, guys," he said practically. "We're going to the hospital."

When they arrived, Peter was off somewhere going through tests. A CT scan, an MRI. Tests to find out about brain damage or a problem with his spine, evidently. Some nerves in his back might be pinched by the way he'd landed. Maybe there'd been some swelling of the brain, or some bleeding. If that were the case, Peter might need surgery to relieve it. Every word they heard hit Egon like blows. Stiff and rigid, he listened, his mouth drawn tight, his eyes glinting expressionlessly behind his glasses, his hands curled so tightly into fists that he'd probably dig wounds in the skin. When Ray, deeply distressed for both Peter and Egon, tried to reassure him, Egon simply looked at him as if he had never seen him before and withdrew to a corner of the waiting room. He exuded such a touch-me-not air that Winston caught Ray's eye and shook his head. Not yet. Ray subsided unhappily, but he kept casting distressed looks in Egon's direction. If anything, Egon misinterpreted the looks. Probably thought they were mad at him because Pete had been hurt. Evidently Peter was. Winston could understand a panic reaction, but he needed to know what was going down before he tried to talk a little sense into Peter. If his injury was...permanent, he sure wouldn't be ready to listen.

Please, God, take care of Peter for us. Let him be okay. We need him, God. The whole world needs him. His mama had always taught him that God answered every prayer. Only problem Winston could think of about that was that, sometimes, God said no.

He looked at Ray's open distress, the heartbreaking look of worry on the younger man's face, and then he turned to Egon, who sat in the corner, ramrod stiff, his conscious awareness drawn deep inside where he contemplated thoughts that must be far from pretty. Even if there wasn't much expression on his face, there was enough for any of the other Ghostbusters to read it. Egon was in hell.

Winston started toward him, to do what he could, but Egon focused on him with such a forbidding glare that Zeddemore spread his hands in a gesture of reassurance and backed away.

When Greg finally reported that Peter was back in his room, Egon didn't come over to join them, but his attention fixed on the doctor like a gun dog on a pheasant.

"Gosh, how is he?" demanded Ray. "All he said to us was that something was wrong."

Greg explained. "He can't seem to make his body work for him. When he tries to walk, his feet go in the wrong directions. Most of the time, the rest of his body works. He was evidently able to dial the phone to call you. But some of the time, he just loses control. He's not paralyzed. He can stand up perfectly well. It's just when he tries to move that things...go haywire."

"You needn't sugar coat it for us." Egon's voice was hard. "Tell us what's wrong. You know we have the right to know." He caught himself. "Ray and Winston have the right to know."

"So do you, from where I stand," Greg told him. "It's not your fault, Egon. Fault only comes with deliberate intent, and the last thing you'd ever do is hurt Peter. You'd let them skin you alive before you'd ever allow this to happen."

"Responsibility by default is still responsibility," Egon said tightly. "Tell us what's wrong." Nothing in his words, his face, or his demeanor allowed comfort. Okay, they might have to wait on that for a bit. The one thing Winston didn't want to do was to let Egon think he and Ray held him accountable. It was just a stupid accident. If Peter hadn't had any problems, Egon would have cleaned up his act for a few weeks and then reverted, not out of a lack of concern but because his ability to lose himself in his work was a part of his essential nature. Winston was sorry it had caused Peter to be hurt, but Peter had chosen to do what he did. Egon hadn't pushed Peter into the path of the bus. It was tough, and Egon had used bad judgment, but it hadn't been a conscious failure. That made it all the harder for Egon to justify.

"We're still awaiting some test results, but I pushed everything through as fast as I could. The thing came on so quickly, I didn't want to wait. If pressure was building inside his skull, we needed to know fast."

"Is it?" ventured Ray.

"No. There's no trace of anything like that, no bleeding, no clotting. Not a trace of spinal damage and he has sensation in his legs and feet. His test results are completely normal."

"Then he's gonna be...okay..." Ray faltered to a stop. Peter couldn't be okay if he couldn't walk.

"The human brain is a complex organ," Greg said. "God, I sound like I'm pushing platitudes here. I'm not trying to. I'm just saying that whatever's wrong hasn't shown up on any of the tests we've given him. If this were an inner ear problem, I'd expect different symptoms, so we've pretty much ruled that out. His vitals are normal, if a little elevated out of worry. He's scared to death--as anyone would be. It makes him sound angry, but that's a fear response, not deliberate anger."

Egon didn't respond to that, even if it was directed right at him.

"So what have you got, Doc?" asked Winston to take Labraccio's attention off Egon.

"God, I wish I knew."

"So what happens next?" asked Winston.

"We continue to monitor. We run the tests again. We put him in a controlled situation to try to walk. Sometimes, for no very serious reason, things can short circuit. He took a hard jar to the head. This is not a response I'd expect from an injury like Peter's, but all injuries are unique. Tomorrow, if our tests don't show any problems, I'll put him in physical therapy. I've arranged for a specialist to see him in the morning. We're doing all we can, but I have to admit it's perplexing."

Winston frowned. "You don't think he's...doing it to himself?"

"Winston!" Ray's eyes grew enormous. "Peter wouldn't do that."

"I don't think so either, not consciously. Look, this idea's way out in left field, but maybe he was a little steamed at Egon."

"He said he wasn't," Egon murmured involuntarily and then bit his bottom lip. "Until..."

"Until this happened," finished Winston. "Man, Pete would have to be in line for sainthood not to be a little upset over this. He knows you'd never hurt him on purpose, Egon. He made sure both Ray and I would keep an eye on you when we went home. But this--"

"Changes things," Labraccio said. "You're suggesting it's a subconscious attempt on Peter's part to punish Egon because he was hurt? I think you're reaching, Winston. While it's possible that there could be such a reaction, I think the odds against it are astronomical, especially in Peter's case. He adores you guys. He even said to me that if he'd bought it, it would have been worth it, so long as Egon was all right."

"I am positive he said that before the complications arose." Egon's voice was dry and brittle.

"True. Frankly, I'd be utterly floored if that were the problem now. It's out of character, and Peter's basically very stable mentally. He has a thorough grip on reality, and he's learned to roll with the punches. This is a harder punch than he's had to face before, but it needn't be permanent. We simply don't know enough yet."

Egon took a step closer. "I want to see him."

"Egon, if he..." Ray began, and then trailed off. "Maybe I better go."

"We'll all go," Winston decided. "He needs to see all of us right now. He needs to know we're not gonna write him off."

Ray's mouth fell open. "Write him off? We'd never do that."

"We know that. Right now, Pete might not. If something...if it doesn't improve, he's gonna think he can't be a Ghostbuster any longer, and we're the only home he's got. He's got to be scared stiff."

"That we'd throw him out?" Ray shook his head vehemently.

"Well, that's why we all need to see him. To make sure he knows it." He turned to Labraccio. "What about it, Doc? All of us too many?"

"No, you can go in. I'll show up in about ten minutes and if he's too excited or overwrought, I'll toss you out. But I think it will do him good."

Winston hoped so. He knew what a stubborn man Peter Venkman was. The last thing he'd do would be to make it easy, for them or for himself.

*****

Egon felt sick to his stomach, worse, sick to his soul. He knew, quite rationally, that he had never intended Peter to be hurt. He'd never needed to think of that particular kind of danger on a bust, because his friends watched his back. It wasn't that they indulged him in wild recklessness, just that they counted on him to provide the scientific answers they needed, and he couldn't always do that unless he gave himself over to it. The fact that no one had been injured until now didn't alter the fact that he'd let himself glide along on the cushion of their protection--and now Peter was paying for it. He remembered Peter's fiercely determined absolution before. Had he always counted on the fact that his oldest friend trusted him completely, that Peter would make excuses for the devil himself, if the devil had been one of his best buddies? How often had he sought absolution from Peter when he planned to risk all their lives to save the world? He'd always counted on that until now. It had been an immutable certainty in his life.

No more. If Peter had been permanently disabled through Egon's carelessness, then he had lost that certainty. Not that his own comfort could be allowed to matter when his closest friend was lying in that bed unable to walk.

Egon found his own steps difficult as they neared Peter's room.

He wasn't sure whether Winston and Ray drew back on purpose to let him go first or if his urgency had made him stride out ahead of them. It didn't matter. Now, right outside the door, he felt his feet slow down, and it was like yanking them out of quicksand to make the final two steps.

Peter wasn't in bed. He was two paces from it, his face intent with concentration and grim determination as he tried to force his foot to move. With aching care, he slid it forward, although Egon could tell from the strain on his face that it didn't want to go where he wanted it to. He pitted his mind against his body, so intent on the process he wouldn't have noticed a marching band passing his door, or a stripper doing her act on the bed. When his foot finally slid forward, his face blazed with triumph.

Egon put out his hand to halt the other two, conscious of them pressed up behind him to see. He could feel the tension radiating off them, almost as fierce as Peter's. Willing Peter to succeed, Egon held his breath and waited. He knew he should stop him, but he couldn't bring himself to set any limits on his friend.

Momentarily secure in his balance, Peter put out his other foot, very cautiously. He had to fight to do it. The effort made his mouth twist up tight and he stretched out his arms for balance like a tightrope walker. Egon willed him success with every fiber of his being.

Peter's foot jerked abruptly sideways and he couldn't compensate. With a yell compounded of fury, panic, and frustration, he started to fall.

Egon didn't remember moving, but the next thing he knew he had his arms around Peter, holding him upright and steadying him while Ray and Winston crowded in to help.

Peter's head came up and he saw Egon. "Let go," he said in the most emotionless voice Egon had ever heard from him. Then fury came into his voice. "Damn it, let me go."

Egon did, knowing Ray and Winston were close enough to catch him if he fell a second time. Once on his feet, Peter could evidently stand up on his own. He didn't fall. Neither did he try to move again. Instead his eyes did the moving for him, lingering for an instant on Egon's stricken face. Something unreadable flashed in his eyes before he moved on. The horror and pity in Ray's eyes made him flinch and drop his own, and Ray gulped and spoke hastily.

"I'm sorry, Peter."

"Yeah, everybody is. I love it, y'know."

Egon knew he hated it. Peter always got prickly if he thought people felt sorry for him. He'd go over the top to proclaim his wonderfulness if he thought anybody meant to offer pity.

"How about we all sit down?" Winston's question was utterly matter of fact, although Egon could sense his tension as clearly as if Winston had yelled and freaked out.

"You mean, how about I sit down so you guys don't have to pick me up again." The bitterness stung, and Egon had to fight hard not to flinch at the sound of it. "So, you write the ad yet?" he asked with forced nonchalance.

"What ad?"

Egon could have told Ray what Peter was talking about, but he decided he'd better wait. It had been a very long time since Peter's eyes had been that cold when they turned in Egon's direction.

"The one to hire a new guy," said Peter as if it didn't matter. "I won't do you much good like this. So, do you suppose they have nursing homes for the young and handsome? Or should I start working on my wrinkles and sign up for dentures?"

"You're not going to any nursing home, Peter," Ray cried. "We would never do that to you. You know we wouldn't."

"Well, the business doesn't make enough for you to keep a useless body around," Peter said tightly. "I know. I do the budget, remember? I'm no good to you now."

"Don't be ridiculous, Peter," Egon said automatically. "The doctor hasn't even established a cause for your problem. It may be cleared up entirely by this time next week."

"Oh, sorry. Guess I better work on my stiff upper lip. I forgot, the great Spengler doesn't like emotions. You don't need to hang around."

"Of course we do," Egon insisted.

"They can hang around," said Peter coldly. "You don't have to." Egon almost missed the panic in his eyes because Peter's words hurt so much. He actually took a step toward the door before Winston grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

"Shut up, Pete," he said. Venkman was so taken aback he was struck silent. "And listen to me. The Ghostbusters don't abandon their friends. Any of them. That's the rules we all abide by, so don't think you can get away with it because you're in the hospital. You're one of the toughest guys I know. You can stand up to anything. You telling me you're gonna let this beat you?"

"Thanks. I figured the pep talk was overdue."

Winston stood his ground. He and Ray didn't move an inch from Peter's side, ready to grab him if he went down. "That's not the pep talk. When you get the pep talk, you'll know it. That's the ground rules. I see you giving up on this thing, I'm gonna have to send Slimer over to provide you the proper motivation. We'll get through it, and we'll bring you home. You just wait and see."

"They won't let me...go home," Peter faltered. "Not like this." He gnawed hard on his bottom lip. He looked unbearably vulnerable.

"Well, you only got hurt today. Give 'em a few days' grace," offered Ray. "We're gonna practically camp out here, Peter. We won't go home unless they make us. It's gonna be okay."

"Pollyanna," Peter said with a thread of fondness. He put up his hand to rumple Ray's hair--and his hand flopped down uncontrollably--and popped Ray in the nose.

It was barely a tap, but Peter jerked backward, horrified. "God, Ray, I'm sorry. I--" Abruptly, his feet went in separate directions and he started to slip. Egon grabbed him and went down with him, holding him all the way. He had to grab Peter around the ribcage to do it, and he heard Peter's whistled gasp of pain from the touch, but he couldn't let go, although he tried to adjust his hold without letting Peter fall.

He wound up sitting beside Peter on the floor, his arm around the psychologist's shoulders, half expecting Peter to wrestle out of his grip and yell at him again.

Peter didn't. Instead he sprawled there, his shoulders quivering, for a long, breathless moment while Ray hovered, white-faced, and Winston prepared himself to help lift Peter when he was ready.

"I can't...I can't handle this," Peter groaned in a voice so full of anguish that Egon felt like his heart was torn into fragments. "I can't."

"Yes, you can." Egon held him tighter. "We're all in this together, Peter. Anything you need, we're here. Anything you want. If you want to curse me, I'll let you. I'll join in and curse myself. If you want to scream and cry, that's all right, too. We understand."

Peter shook his head vehemently. He didn't want to; he was terrified of being that vulnerable. So Egon slid his other arm around him and held on, rocking him gently. "It's all right," he said. "It's going to be all right."

Peter didn't answer. Instead he tucked his head down against Egon's shoulder to mute the ragged sound of helpless weeping against the fabric. Egon lifted an appalled face to his other two friends and saw the ready sympathy in their eyes. Both of them reached out, Ray to rub Peter's back and murmur consolation, and Winston to drop his hands on Egon's shoulders and offer him both comfort and absolution.

When Peter lifted his head and made feeble, pushing away movements, the three of them helped him to his feet and put him into bed. Egon smoothed the blankets over him. He watched them warily and defensively, as if he didn't find their support at all reassuring.

"Egon?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"I...I'm a jerk."

"Hardly. Why do you say that?"

"Because I really want to hate you right now."

Egon managed not to wince. "If it will help you, Peter, you have my complete permission to abuse me as you see fit."

Under happier conditions, Peter would have reveled in such a blanket license, but now, his eyes didn't even lose their shadows. No kidding remarks, just a steady, near-implacable regard. Then Peter shook his head. "And that's crazy. If I was willing to risk my life for you, then I shouldn't complain about the price."

"Now you sound like Saint Venkman," Egon replied. "Peter, what I did was criminally careless in a crisis situation. You shouldn't have to risk your life for me for such a reason. I am...very humbled that you were willing to do so. But believe me, I would not have you pay this price. I could wish you had simply yelled instead."

"And have the great brain damaged? I don't think so. I was closest. It's what we do. I guess I just...never counted on this."

"We don't even know what this is about, Pete," Winston said.

"I know. My body decided to hang it up. Oh, god, guys, I hate this. I'm...scared."

"We all are, Peter," Ray assured him. "But we're with you. We're gonna stick with you no matter what it takes. We promise. All of us."

"We sure do, homeboy." Winston reached out and rumpled his hair. "And, soon as we can, we're gonna bring you home."

"Back to the firehall?" said Peter with great wistfulness.

"Home," said Egon firmly. "We're going to bring you home."

"When I can walk?" Peter asked.

"When the doctor says you're ready. And that's a promise."

"I'll walk. I'll make myself walk," Peter insisted. "Greg says therapy. I'll be the star patient, you'll see."

Egon would have felt good about that determination if he hadn't heard the lost, wistful sound of whistling in the dark under Peter's determined promise.

*****

Peter slept very badly. He couldn't get comfortable because his bruises were very tender, and his ribs hurt. If he moved unwarily or took a deep breath, it caught him out of sleep. So then he'd lie awake in the darkness, watching the rectangle of light that was the door, listening to the swish of nurses' skirts as they went silently past on their rounds, and trying not to think of the ruins of his life. He didn't venture out of bed at all. He hurt too much to think of moving, and he was frankly terrified of more proof that he'd turned into a helpless cripple. Sure, the guys had rallied around him now, but how long would that last, when he proved he was useless and couldn't help with the business? They'd hardly keep him around just to handle the books. Heck, Louis Tully came in and cleaned them up after him a couple of times a year, anyway.

So how long would it be before they wanted him out? Even assuming he could stay in. The bedrooms were on the third floor at Ghostbuster Central, up a tight spiral staircase. He'd never make it. They'd have to half carry him up there, every time he needed to go. Heck, they'd even have to drag him to the bathroom.

Come on, Venkman, don't give up, he insisted fiercely. You're not a quitter. You're gonna beat this. It's probably some silly little thing and we'll all be laughing over it.

No, you won't.

He wasn't sure where the darker thought came from; no, that was wrong, he did know. Peter had his dark side, the side that expected the worst from everything. Pessimism had its rewards. Things could rarely get as dark as he could expect, and there were the odd positive surprises. Lately, he realized, the habitual pessimism he had learned as a kid had started to mellow out. It had started when he'd met first Egon and then Ray, and had started to shift to a more cautious optimism when they started the business. Being a Ghostbuster was a dangerous job, but it came complete with a home and family, closer to him than blood. He knew they'd risk their lives for him; he didn't even have to think of it.

What he didn't know was whether anybody could endure taking care of a helpless cripple for the long haul without it changing everything.

He didn't want to think about that. Let a stupid bus beat him? No way.

What if it already had?

Morning brought only more gloom, and he was too sore and weary to face it properly. He snapped at the nurse who came in to give him a bath. Never mind she was gorgeous and inclined to fuss over him. He didn't want to be fussed over. The days of reveling in comfort, in enjoying being waited on hand and foot were over. That was only fun when he knew he'd be okay and the game was to see how long he could cadge sympathy from his buddies. If he actually needed it, it turned him into a dependent, and he hated that. It was like wearing a sign that said 'pity me'. No way would he play that game.

When a stocky black guy showed up to take Peter to therapy, he was nervous.

"Hey, Peter, I'm Charlie. I'm here to give you a workout."

"You'll have to do most of the work, then," Peter muttered, but he sat up obediently--and then his breath hissed out painfully.

"Stiffened up?" Charlie asked matter of factly. He was probably Peter's age and he had the kind of wise eyes that never missed a thing. "I bet everything hurts." Nothing there but frank understanding of the way bruising worked. "Let's get you up out of there. Have you had breakfast?"

Peter pointed to the half-eaten meal on the tray. "Enough." Lying in bed, all warm and cozy, wasn't even fun any longer. Bed had stopped being a haven and started being a necessity, and he couldn't wait to get into the wheelchair, no matter how much it hurt.

At least he didn't step sideways or whack the guy by mistake. Everything behaved for the transfer, not that he was gonna let that lull him into a sense of false security. He was positive the minute they had him trying to walk, he'd be off with his new version of the two-step.

"So, when do I get out of here?" he asked.

Charlie ignored the belligerence in his voice. "Well, we're going to see how you do this morning, and I know they've got more tests ordered. What we want to do is figure out what's going down here. If they can pin it down, then there are two options: one, that it's temporary brought on possibly by trauma or swelling, and it will go away as you heal, and two: that it's caused by the damage and won't go away without help. First case scenario, great. You heal up and go home. Second case, we work with you in therapy and retrain you to handle it on your own or they perform surgery to relieve the damage. You've got sensation and movement, so you've got a lot of people beat right from the start. Second case, you have to work for it. I've seen you on TV on your busts and I know you're a fighter. You probably don't feel much like fighting right now, but that'll come. You won't want to let your friends down."

Peter opened his mouth to insist they'd let him down, or at least that Egon had, and found he couldn't say it, not in the face of Charlie's certainty.

"So, you're saying that once I beat this walking gig, I can go home?" he persisted.

"We wouldn't need to keep you after that. Waste time on you then when we've got people who really need us? You get the walking thing straightened out and it's back to being a Ghostbuster."

Yeah, but that was a pretty big assumption. Still, Charlie didn't seem to think it was out of his range. Was the guy programmed to instill hope? Probably. He wouldn't be the downer type or he couldn't handle a job like this. Peter knew psychology and he knew that Charlie's calm attitude was good for people. He just wasn't quite ready to let it be good for him.

There were two other people in the physical therapy area when he got there. One of them was an elderly woman who had probably had a stroke. Her left side seemed weak, and a female therapist was working with her. Across the room was a kid about nineteen in a cast that ran from his toes to his hip. He was getting a work-out to learn to get around with it on. Made sense. Neither of them paid any attention to Peter.

Charlie wheeled Peter up to a gizmo that looked like a little bridge, with railings. It was level, just a stretch where he could walk while he was holding on--assuming his hands cooperated. They'd been funny yesterday, too, although not as much as his feet had. After he locked the wheelchair's wheels, Charlie circled around to come at him from the other end of the walkway. "Let's see you try to stand up. I'll help if you say the word."

Peter hesitated. He was frankly terrified. Facing down Tolay hadn't scared him as much as this did. But the sooner he started, the sooner he could go home. So he put his hands on the arms of the wheelchair and pushed himself up. It hurt, but it hurt because he was black and blue and because it tugged at his broken ribs. He bit his bottom lip at the uncomfortable twinges of his muscles.

"I know you're sore," Charlie said. "I fell down a flight of stairs once, head over heels. Talk about a great pratfall. The next morning, I didn't even want to move. But you'll find that moving is just what you need. You've stiffened up overnight."

"Tell me," Peter agreed. Okay, never let it be said that the great Venkman was a coward. He grabbed for the railings. Charlie was close enough to catch him if his feet did their number and strong enough, from the look of his biceps, to hold him up. Okay. Feet, don't fail me now.

Peter took a step. First one worked just fine. Okay, so it was lying in wait, trying to lull him into a false sense of security. Concentrating for all he was worth, he took another step. Another. Another. His ribs hurt, his muscles ached, but his body worked. Everything worked. Breath held in fierce hope, he kept right on walking, faster and faster, to the end of the bridge. There wasn't even the slightest inclination to go the wrong way, sideways or backwards. He could walk.

"Well..." said Charlie.

"What? What does 'well' mean?" Peter's suspicions crowded to the surface.

"Well, it could mean that yesterday you were stiff and sore or that some nerve was pinched and now isn't. I don't know. Let's see you do it again."

Peter whirled around and walked back to the wheelchair. Effortlessly. As if it were the natural thing to do. When he turned back to Charlie, his eyes blazed with excitement. He could do this. He could.

He slid away from the bridge, and walked out across the room itself, unsupported by anything but his own two feet. His ribs hurt like crazy and his legs trembled a little, but he knew that was only because he'd been hurt. Everything worked. Spotting a flight of steps with a railing, he went over to that and walked up and down a couple of times.

"Look, ma, no hands."

Charlie came over to him, shaking his head. "Peter, Peter, you're gonna put me out of work." But there was delight in his eyes.

"You don't think this could be just a glitch?" Peter ventured. "That the other's gonna come back?"

"They never did find a reason for the other," Charlie reminded him. "I think you'll probably have to take it easy for a while. The doctors will tell you."

Peter didn't like not knowing what had been wrong with him, but maybe if they ran a few more tests today and confirmed them. Originally they'd said he could go home tomorrow. He was gonna hold them to that. Test as much as they liked today, and tomorrow he was out of here. He was going home.

Charlie insisted on wheeling him back to his room, although Peter would have been happy to walk it. Or even float all the way back a foot or two above the floor. He felt so light he could almost fly like Slimer.

Labraccio showed up after he'd been back ten minutes, and surprised Peter at the window enjoying the spectacular view of a parking lot. "Hey, now, what are you doing up?" But he didn't sound surprised or disapproving. He'd probably talked to Charlie.

"Miracle cure, Doc." Peter whirled around, grinning. In spite of his faint but persistent headache and the way his bruises reminded him of their presence every time he moved, he felt like a million dollars. He even did a sketchy little dance step to prove it, although his ribs didn't care for the motion. Broken ribs he could handle. Broken ribs healed. "So, we figure out how to bottle this and we're both rich beyond dreams of avarice."

"I'm not sure you could be that rich," Greg kidded him. "I thought 'avarice' was your middle name."

"Nope. It's Peter Charles Avarice Venkman. Avarice is my confirmation name." He laughed out loud. "Oh, man, Greg, I was so scared. This is incredible."

"Yes, it is. This is what we should have had yesterday. Peter, we're going to have to do the tests all over again. We need to be sure."

"I'm sure, Doc," Peter insisted. "I feel great."

"You feel battered. Your ribs hurt. You probably still have a headache. In fact, you should be resting in bed."

Peter nodded to confirm the doctor's litany of ills. "Yeah, all that. But don't make me go back to bed. I...I've gotta be up. When I thought..."

Labraccio patted him on the unbruised shoulder. "I know. You want to tap dance down the halls. Please don't. It'll be sure to hurt and it will freak the other patients. Stay in bed until the guys show up and then you can give them a demonstration of the miracle patient."

Hey, yeah, the guys would be here soon. Greg had insisted they stay away until ten o'clock, but, knowing them, they'd be here at 10:01. They'd even...

Egon.

Peter froze, his mouth dropping open in utter horror.

"He'll understand."

"What are you, a mind reader?"

Labraccio shook his head. He looked like he needed a haircut, Peter observed detachedly, as he remembered the way he'd come down on Egon yesterday, the horror and pain in Egon's eyes. Okay, so maybe what he'd done was human nature--but he'd done it to Egon, his best and oldest friend, when he already was feeling down.

"I'm pond scum," Peter said miserably.

"No, not even close. Yesterday before you had that incident, you were gung ho to forgive him for his goof-up. Don't you think he'll forgive you for yours? Don't you think he'll have even more reason to understand what pressure you were under?"

Peter shook his head vehemently. "God, I kicked him when he was down. I knew how bad he felt and I...I hated him."

"You never hated him, and you know it. You couldn't. You hated the circumstances and he was the handiest target. Come on, Pete, you're a psychologist. You know how people can react under intense pressure."

"Like jerks," Peter said. All the joy at his recovery peeled away leaving him lacerated and miserable. "I just couldn't see past it. I thought I was losing everything."

"You'd never lose your friends, Peter. They love you."

"Yeah, and I really deserve it, don't I? Talk about kicking a man when he's down. How's he ever gonna be able to trust me again?"

"Do you imagine for one second he ever stopped?"

Somehow, that made it worse. Egon hadn't stopped. Peter knew that. No matter how much Peter's words had hurt him, he'd stuck by him. He'd offered himself up as a target for Peter's rage. He'd held him when he cried and understood every bit of it, when he had to be feeling like a monster--when Peter had gone out of his way to make him feel like one. I don't deserve that. I don't.

"When they get here, I'll send him in alone."

Peter shook his head. "No. I have to say it in front of the others, too." He let Greg steer him back toward the bed. "I owe Egon that."

The guys arrived a mere five minutes later. Peter spent the interval propped up against his pillows planning what he would say when they arrived. How could he justify coming down on Egon like that? He couldn't. Tested, and found wanting. That's what they'd say about him. When the chips were down, Venkman couldn't cut it. He was as reliable as his dad.

"Peter?" That was Egon, hesitating in the doorway with Ray right behind him and then Winston. "Are you awake?"

Peter didn't hesitated. "God, Egon, I am so sorry. I came down on you yesterday and I had no right to do that. I am an utter jerk."

"You can be," Egon ventured cautiously. "But not then. I understand, Peter."

"Then you're a lot more forgiving than you should be. I really screwed up. I had no excuse..."

"Of course you did, Peter. Don't you think I understand? In any case, I deserved it. I did this to you. Of course you were angry."

"No, Egon. You didn't do this to me." He waved a hand at his ribs. "A bus did. And I chose to push you out of its way. I made that decision. I made it in a split second, but there's no way I will ever regret it. Never. So just let me say it, and then, if you're too fed up with me to want me around, I'll understand." Okay, so that was pushing it, but then Peter always did.

"I think that after all these years, I've grown too used to you to want anything else but to have you around," Egon said. His eyes glittered behind his glasses. "And I will say this. Yesterday, you would not let me apologize for my absent-mindedness. Today, I won't let you apologize for a totally human reaction. Our mistakes cancel each other out, if