prologue & chapter one!
PROLOGUE
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"Guys, get a load of this!"
The entire car rocked with the force of Ray Stantz jumping into the driver's seat, so full of enthusiasm that he had quite literally hopped in.
"Easy, killer," Winston Zeddemore quipped from beside him in shotgun, clutching at the door's handle grip, "she's sensitive you know."
Ray waved a hand, too occupied with what was in the other to concern with anything much else.
"Look what they gave us as a little thank you gift," Stantz beamed, holding it up for the others to see.
Egon Spengler and Peter Venkman in the backseat leaned closer to peer at the curious item; anything an actually haunted occult shop could offer as an appreciative token was bound to be intriguing.
It was a small, polished albino turtle shell, just slightly bigger than Ray's hand, etched with hundreds of tiny symbols in neat concentric lines.
"Those symbols look familiar," Egon muttered; Ray handed the shell to his cohort, letting the brainiac study it closely.
"Looks like chicken scratch," Peter commented loosely from the back, "I would know. I minored in poor penmanship."
Egon gave him a pointed look, silent as stone.
"Winston, you've got the ancient linguistics degree. Any ideas?" Ray chipped in, staying focused.
Winston took the shell delicately in his large hands and turned it over with curiosity. He stroked the carved underside of the shell, squinting slightly to examine every detail.
"Looks like ancient Mesopotamian, maybe Sumerian even. I can't make out much," he replied a few moments later, absently.
"What's it say?" Ray inquired eagerly.
Winston turned it over again, starting at what looked like a beginning at the head of the shell, and slowly began to recite the text in its original language. It was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, low and steady. It was Egon who noticed the fault lines of the shell begin to emit a low magenta glow. It was eerie.
"Winston, I think maybe you shouldn't finish that," he wanted to say, but when he went to speak, he found his mouth dry as ashes.
He looked at Ray, but Ray was transfixed deeply on the artifact in Winston's hands, getting brighter as he continued very robotically, unable to cease; Peter's mouth hung open slightly as he too stared unblinkingly at the object.
Egon breathed in; suddenly Winston ceased and the air in his lungs turned to ice. They all got that same sensation at once; a synchronous gasp in, a blinding flash, and suddenly all at once, the quartet blacked out.
---
CHAPTER ONE
Oh shit, oh shit–
Lightning flashed and the booming thunder followed suit as you made your way, speeding, down the road toward home. Another terrible, boring day, one of many consecutive terrible, boring days at work. Home wasn’t much better; every day you would arrive home to no one but your darling black cat, Egon, provide him with a tin of Friskies, make something small for yourself to eat, watch a movie or read a book or browse the internet endlessly, and go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.
You felt your eyes fighting to stay open. You clicked on the radio to try and keep yourself awake. It crackled back at you with static: an unusual occurrence even on this back road. It really didn’t look good outside at all though…black skies that menaced and thundered and boomed; it was only 4:30 in the afternoon and it looked like the middle of the night. The wind that blew was vicious in itself; traffic signs and lights rattled and shook like leaves despite their weight and foundations. Trees shook and waved like nothing. You felt your Jeep creak and adjusted the wheel to account for the terrible gust. ‘People Are Strange’ by The Doors crackled through over the speaker at moments, barely audible over the angry static and warbling of the radio. Only a few more miles and you'd be home safe. You zipped down the road, as careful as a lead foot like yours could be, anxious to get out of this awful weather.
An absolutely bone-shaking roll of thunder cracked across the valley you drove through, waking you right up. Everything in you tensed; it was also due to the alarm caused by the car radio sparking and crackling like it itself had been the conduit for that mighty blast. The music warbled out; an eerie distortion came from the speakers now, so you clicked it off, heart racing. Wild. You stared for a moment too long, and when you looked up, you didn’t have time to stop. The car, a white vintage 1930s model Hearse-looking deal with a bunch of extra accessories, sirens, decals, a gunner seat up top…oh shit. You know that car. Your foot slammed on the brake and you swerved, braced for the impact that seemed inevitable.
–you felt nothing.
Your eyes, which until then you hadn’t realized were screwed shut, opened slightly, cautiously, only to see the empty road before you. Shocked, you stared into the rearview mirror; there was nothing. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.
Holy hell, I need some rest.
You found yourself laughing out loud to nothing and no one save for the assembly of coffee cups in your never-occupied passenger seat as you steadied your course. Something about hallucinating yourself into a near-death experience does that to a person. It was that or tears, and you didn't feel like crying at that moment. Your heart was still racing when you pulled into the tiny asphalt driveway of your home, a single-wide mobile home, faced in white and terra cotta red siding, edged nicely with plants you placed there yourself over your time here. Little trinkets lined the front of the unit, wind chimes, pinwheels, little flags and garden creature knick knacks, you name it, you probably had it. Gardening like an old lady was a weakness of yours. It wasn’t like you didn’t have the free time. You sighed and braced yourself for the ten long strides it would take to get you from your vehicle through the front door. Maybe if you sat for a moment, the rain would let up…so you sat for a good several minutes, rubbing hard at your eyes, realizing you had indeed been involuntarily crying, if only by the wetness on your cheeks. You guess you were more shaken up than you thought. Without noticing, you laughed out loud again. The rain only came down harder. Another nutty giggle. You didn’t give yourself time to dawdle and simply yanked the door open, jumping into the torrential downpour assaulting your place of existence. You cursed out loud and ran, making ten long strides in five bounding leaps. Your hand already tightly gripped your house key and expertly found its partner lock, making short work of throwing the door open and stepping inside, already soaked to the skin. Dripping. Immediately, a large, fuzzy black blur found your soaked legs, knitting itself through and up your leg with a long stretch, resting its paws on your thigh. Orange eyes stared owlishly at you against an abyssal surface, especially there in the darkened living room.
Egon didn’t squirm when you lifted all 15 pounds of him into your tired arms, carefully and securely holding him tightly. He did meow quite loudly though, once he realized you'd more or less drowned out there in the outside world. It was then that he leapt instantly from your embrace, landing gracefully on the end table by the front door; he gave a mighty shake to rid himself of your offensive humidity. You shut and locked the door behind you.
“Hey, Egie, handsome baby,” you cooed, forgetting everything else for those precious few moments with your cat.
He was your familiar, you liked to joke. A beautiful and very large, sleek black cat with a tail that was fluffier than the rest of his body, with the most beautiful pumpkin orange eyes you had ever seen. It was the hair that inspired the name though: it harkened to your most favorite mad scientist in fiction, one Dr. Egon Spengler from one of your favorite films of all time, Ghostbusters—simply because there was so much of it. Even your boy’s whiskers seemed to be a foot long each, and pure white, stark against his void-black coat. One singular bright white patch shone on his chest fur, shaped vaguely like an inverted triangle, only about an inch across. It makes him look very distinguished, you think. You’ve had him for five years, and he’s been your rock through all your hardest times since then.
“You know I love you,” you sighed, turning to the feline now gracefully perched like a gargoyle on the wooden surface, “but you have to wait. I have to get out of this.”
“I’m losin’ it, my boy,” you softly informed him. “You’re gonna have to pick up a few shifts for me at work okay? Just wear a hairnet and no one will know the difference. No eye contact.”
He chirped at you softly in response, rubbing against your outstretched hand. You gave him a good scritching behind the ears and wandered into the bedroom, through the dark, knowing your path like you were rutted into it. You honestly kind of are, but you try not to think about that, you see.
It took you a minute to fight your clothes off of your soaked body. Everything was cold and sopping wet and clinging to your equally cold, goosebumped skin, which only seemed to get worse once you'd stripped down. You tossed your soaked t-shirt, work apron and jeans over into the corner of the room you kept the laundry basket in, and tried to rub some heat into your arms and chest, careful with the more painfully sensitive areas; your whole body shuddered. A warmth circled your ankles and another dulcet meow broke the pseudo-silence; it was only considered silence if you didn’t include the heavy drum of rain on tin and thunder. To you, it was a recipe for a sleep so deep it could probably be classified as a comatose state. You yawned and stretched, feeling a fresh wave of goosebumps come over you, but this time you froze with them; the lightning briefly illuminated your room and you could swear, just swear that you saw a pair of wide leering eyes focused on you keenly. You scrambled to the lamp on your nightstand and turned it on, but no one was in the room with you, save for your Egie.
Egon licked his chops and blinked at you, flicking his tail, and obviously didn’t respond. If nothing else, despite the visual hallucinations you seem to have developed suddenly, at least the cat didn’t talk to you.
Despite that small semblance of relief, you still felt shaken. It wasn’t a near-death experience per se, but when you see yourself clearly on the verge of a mental break, it kind of makes you take a step back and consider things. You stepped into the adjacent bathroom and opened the shower, turning it on hot. You turned the light on and jumped at your own reflection in the mirror; it was so bizarre, you swore for a second you saw a man. A tall one, with glasses, staring grimly at you. Once you rubbed your eyes again and blinked the stars away, you were relieved to find your own form staring back at you. Soft feathered hair, tired skin, heavy eyebags, smudged eyeliner from three days ago. You'd been so depressed and overworked recently that you hadn’t bothered to take care of yourself in the slightest. Now was the time.
You put a playlist on over your waterproof speaker and got to work, brushing out your hair. As quickly as it became hot, you clambered into the running shower.
“Ma’am?”
Every tense muscle began to melt and relax under the heat and water pressure. You breathed in the steam and groaned softly, just taking a minute to process the physical sensation of the water streaming down your skin. After a moment you began your cleansing ritual, using your favorite shampoo, singing into your loofah on a stick, the whole nine yards. Something even possessed you to shave your legs. You don’t for sure know what. Sometimes you just liked to be soft and rub your freshly smooth legs together like a cricket under clean sheets.
Before you judge me, try it for yourself.
It was an easy 30 minutes before you emerged from the chamber of steam, fresh and clean. It seemed to be a strange coincidence considering earlier events when the Ghostbusters theme had come on your shuffled playlist; you tried not to pay too much mind to the odd timing of things and dried yourself off with a soft green towel. You stepped back into the bedroom and, humming along with the theme song on the speaker, continued your ritual. Toner, eye cream, moisturizer, hand lotion, brush out your hair, apply lip balm.
It was a comfortable thing, routine.
You stretched out on your unmade bed, sprawling across the black sheets, feeling much better now.
Your eyes closed. It felt like a long-awaited reunion between lovers as top eyelid met bottom and you once again made a point to simply enjoy the moment. A long, slow breath in, a longer, slower exhale. It was pure bliss.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
Holy shit.
Your own voice tore from your throat in a deep scream as you scrambled up, clawing the nearby knotted-up sheet and wrapping it around your bare form.
You fell out of bed but jumped instantly to your feet with a bit of effort, holding the sheet, peering around. Was it auditory now??? Oh god! What in the hell brought this on?!
In your doorway stood Egon, looming upon the threshold with his delicate paws and ears en pointe. He meowed at you again, in the exact same tone as the strange voice you thought you had heard.
“Can you hear me? Hello? Miss??”
You collapsed back onto the bed, ruined by shot nerves again.
After a few moments to collect yourself you stood slowly and rubbed your face to try and rid yourself of the deer-in-headlights expression you maintained, and got into the basket full of clean laundry set to the side of the foot of the bed. You tugged out a loose gray Woodstock festival t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, slipping into just those articles, feeling very exposed until the warmth and clean scent of the fabrics engulfed your senses.
You reconnected your playlist to the speaker in the living room and wandered out into the dark chamber, shutting the lights off behind you. You paused in the kitchen, waylaid by the now-irritated miniature panther that less-than-silently insisted you give him the Friskies he so fervently desired, and succumbed to his demands. Once he was happily snacking on the pile of tuna on a small raised dish, you were able to pass his realm unharmed. You got on all fours in front of your sofa and pulled a small metal box from underneath it. The earthy, skunky smell danced around your olfactory senses before you even opened the lid of the box. From amongst the miscellany inside, you extracted a neatly rolled paper joint and a violet Bic lighter. Settling down on the couch then, you opened the window behind you and sparked up. Superstition by Stevie Wonder began to play softly over the speaker as you inhaled that first smooth toke, letting the heat of it settle in your lungs before exhaling slowly, watching the smoke slowly trail out from your nose and mouth. You closed your eyes again in bliss.
“Shit,” you grunted, shaking your head and rubbing your tired eyes hard.
You jumped out of your skin for what had to be the millionth time that day. But you didn’t drop the joint.
This time, fully expecting it to be some auditory glitch with the speaker or you just going nuts again, this time you now also stared into an all too familiar face.
“Please, if you can hear me, give me a sign,” the vision spoke softly and patiently, gloved hands raised in a gesture of peace.
You blinked the stars away again, but this time, the mirage stayed. You looked at the joint in your hand and extinguished it in a glass ashtray adjacent to where you sat, looking at it like an evil thing; you pocketed it though. For later. Back to the hallucinations.
There were four of them specifically. Four very realistic visions; the one staring you dead in the eyes from a distance of maybe a foot away from your face looked rather concerned, though confused, himself.
Short but voluminous and unruly dark hair on a high forehead with rounded cheeks and kind eyes: I'd never noticed before, but one was brown and the other was blue. Cute, slightly upturned nose, soft pouty-looking lips upturned in a nonthreatening smile. Thick eyebrows arched in concern, creasing his forehead; one of the few signs of aging on him yet.
“Dan fuckin’ Aykroyd is in my living room,” you breathed, stunned by your own words.
The concern turned immediately to confusion.
“I think she’s confused, Spengs,” the hallucination spoke to the taller one hovering behind him.
Your heart caught in your chest when your eyes met his. This vision, so akin to Harold Ramis circa the 1980s it was terrifying, pulled a calculator from a pocket and began tapping rapidly at it; the third mirage slapped it out of his hands a la Bill Murray in-film, bearing as striking a resemblance to Mr. Murray as he acted like him. You jumped when a small black calculator actually slid across the rug and came to an abrupt stop at your foot. But suddenly, the rug under your feet wasn’t there: instead you found yourself standing on concrete. Everything around you had changed, and you didn’t even notice.
You weren't in your living room at all.
You shot up like a rocket to your feet. The four men jumped back suddenly, startled.
“You’re not real. This isn’t happening,” you told them, much more calm than you felt.
They all exchanged glances of disbelief and skepticism as if you were the crazy one. To be fair, it seemed absolutely and inarguably 100% true.
“If I’m real, you can touch my hand,” the Aykroyd vision said, simply enough but gravely serious, holding up his right hand; he even removed the thick black rubber glove, exposing a large, somewhat sweaty hand.
Real.
You swallowed hard.
Your hand crept forth and before you could convince yourself not to give in, you felt warmth and pressure against your palm, and your heart dropped into your guts.
Before you could think of something devastatingly witty to tell the hallucination, your knees buckled, and for a moment you lost control of yourself. Ray caught you.
“I know this is a hard situation to cope with, trust me, we’re all as confused as you are, but please, stay with me. I’m Dr. Raymond Stantz, I’m a Ghostbuster, and we can help you.”
You laughed out loud. You couldn’t help it—it just burst forth from you like something hideous hatching from the guts of a corpse. The four looked mildly offended at this, but when they realized it seemed to be out of sheer hysterics, the young Bill Murray lookalike stepped forward, nearly bowling the Aykroyd doppelganger out of the way to stoop down in front of you once he’d set you down on the chair you'd presumably occupied before.
“Hey now,” he soothed, “hey, shh. Deep breaths.”
He continued to shush and grabbed your hand, squeezing tightly. It was a grounding tactic. He kneaded at your hand somewhat, as if trying to bring circulation there, maybe just trying to keep you focused on the present, or verify for himself that you were real. Funny.
“Look at me, look into my eyes. Hi. Dr. Peter Venkman. How are you feeling?”
That charming grin was the last thing you remembered before you blinked out of consciousness.
---
“No, no, she’s sweating, don’t put the blanket on her–”
“Make sure to keep an eye on her pulse, she’s breathing hard–”
You shot up off the couch, eyes snapping open, bloodshot. You immediately went blind, brief as it may have been, and down you went again; the room spun, in and out of focus.
“Easy, killer,” a large hand found your shoulder as its owner’s deep voice spoke softly, “give yourself a minute.”
So you did. Slowly you let yourself come-to, and when your vision focused and you could form rational thought and intake information, you saw the same four men in the surrounding room, with brick and wood paneling, a dining table, the sofa you had previously laid upon; it all looked too familiar, but so foreign to you…'Egon' and ‘Winston’ were the ones hovering over you, checking your vitals, making sure you were alright. You found ‘Winston’s’ eyes first. It was fucking uncanny, the resemblance.
“How are you feeling?” The alleged Egon Spengler inquired from beside him; your eyes flicked to his but you found it hard to keep his gaze.
You paused and considered his question carefully. It was hard to consider much of anything, considering your head was throbbing like it was being used as a subwoofer.
“I’m feeling okay. I’m just…really confused, and I’m still not sure if I’ve lost my shit,” you replied, fairly calm considering the circumstance now.
It was like a bad trip: panicking would only make things worse. It seemed best to just roll with it for the time being.
“I know the feeling,” Peter Venkman quipped from the kitchenette nearby, brewing coffee.
He and Ray returned to investigate further as you slowly sat back down on the couch someone had carefully placed you on. There had indeed been a blanket over your legs. You were, though, also sweating, as mentioned prior. You rubbed your eyes and dragged your hand down your face.
“So what’s the deal?” you asked, looking at them now for answers, “this some kind of stunt? You guys look phenomenal, almost totally real…but…you…”
You couldn’t help but stare wistfully at Egon. He didn’t seem to understand what you were getting at or why you looked so sad, and adjusted his glasses awkwardly.
“Let’s go over this together, and slowly,” Winston redirected your attention to him, looking as exasperated as you felt.
In his hand he held what appeared to be an ancient shell of some kind. It looked at first like it was covered in chipped paint, but when you looked closer, it seemed to be symbolic markings raised with centuries of age. You had just bought something very similar at the flea market recently, actually…
“My name is Winston Zeddemore. These are my coworkers, Drs. Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler and Peter Venkman. We’re Ghostbusters. We had just finished a job when Ray here brought this into the company car, and I started to translate these markings on it, and that’s when things got fuzzy. We came-to back here at our headquarters like nothin’ happened. We were just trying to figure out some answers for the last…well, however long it was we blacked out for, when the damn thing started floating and you started phasing into existence like somethin’ out of a sci-fi flick. Kinda in and out, like bad radio signal. Ray started trying to ask questions as fast as Egon could start scanning you. At first I thought I was losing my shit until you started talking back. Who’s Dan Aykroyd?”
“I’m sorry if I went too fast too soon, I think we're all equally lost on this at least. Let’s start easier. May I ask your name?” Winston urged, bringing you back to the situation at hand.
You balked at him. Nothing came to mind. Your mouth hung slightly agape in search of words to offer in response, but nothing came forth.
There was no possible way this could have really been happening. You think you might have really been in a car wreck induced coma. Maybe even dead. What a dream though… hell, you may as well roll with it. If it’s the last thing your consciousness will experience, you may as well make it worth every moment.
You stared stupidly at him. You forgot your own name for a few moments.
“Y/N,” you answered finally, hesitating, "Y/N L/N."
“When did you get this?” Spengler inquired, having stooped down beside Winston, and gingerly reached for your neck: you noticed the new weight there and glanced down as he lifted the trinket to view.
It was an identical shell to the one in Winston’s hand, but about half the size.
“Just the other…day…”
It was the thing you'd got at the flea market. Only, you had left it on your dresser, so how did it get there with you, on your person?
“How did I get here? Where am I? I was just on my couch, I–”
Despite all the logic in the world and twice the skepticism, something gnawed at your gut, something telling you that there was more to this than just you going insane. This was too weird, even for a total mental break. They looked and sounded too real. They even smelled real. The air did smell entirely different than it had before you blacked out, now that you were paying attention. Something was just…off. Completely off.
Spengler produced a device, which you immediately recognized as a PKE meter, and you watched as he waved it over the shell; the arms on the device rose to their maximum spread and the LEDs on them flashed and blinked aggressively. He put the device away and turned back, straightening to his full height. They all towered over you, frankly. You feel very small for multiple reasons indeed, especially there on the couch. Winston sat beside you as you buried your face in your hands.
You sputtered yourself into silence, mind racing faster than your mouth could keep up with. Your single brain cell had come back to you, and it was busting overtime.
“I suspect it has to do with this artifact,” Spengler replied, “these exactly identical shells are inscribed with the same cuneiform writing. Can you tell us about yourself? What do you remember? Where are you from?”
“I’m, uh…from the future.” you told them. “...Kind of.”
He had a stethoscope and a pair of sticky telemetry pads now and returned to inspect you further; the pads were stuck to your temples, and you can’t say you weren't extremely tense under his touch. His hands were icy cold, but gentle.
You hesitated to tell them, but after a few long moments of consideration, you exhaled and steadied yourself.
Egon kept a close eye on the now-running monitor, watching the readings; they didn’t shift.
“Specifically, from the year 2022.”
Ray gasped. Peter slumped slightly in disbelief. Winston dug for his cigarettes and lit one rather briskly.
“What did you mean, ‘kind of’?” Egon inquired, focused.
“Well, I am. But there's more: I also come from a place where you guys don’t exist,” you replied meekly.
“Like another state? We could branch out one day. I’m sure there’s spooks to catch all over the country,” Ray babbled excitedly.
“No, like…you four. And ghosts, generally speaking... Dana Barrett, Louis Tully, Walter Peck–” they all tightened at the mention of the last name; “–Janine Melnitz, you’re all not real...”
They’d blanched at your seemingly impossible precognition. If it had just been them you'd named, it’d have been no big surprise–they were nationally famous, of course–but the others…
“How do you know us like that then?” Peter furrowed his brow.
“You may want to sit down for this…” you informed them; so they did.
What felt like an eternity went by. You told them about yourself, your universe, and about them, awkwardly skipping over the personal history of obsessive fixation you'd harbored for them for years. They seemed to take it fairly well, all things considered, but you supposed that came with the nature of the job.
Oh god, listen to me, I’m starting to think like it’s all real.
“...So now here I am in New York, presumably sometime in the late 1980s or early 1990s, I guess. And I don’t know how to get home, if there’s even a way to…”
You were just waiting to wake up at this point. But you kept on, and they kept listening, Egon and Ray taking notes. Peter just seemed transfixed on your lips’ movement. Winston seemed most focused on watching you for signs of distress or fatigue, his dark brown eyes flickering occasionally toward Venkman with slight suspicion.
By the time you talked yourself out, you could tell Ray was about to explode with excitement over all the astounding information. You knew he meant nothing by it, so the fact he was grinning didn’t bother you. You found it endearing, in fact.
That only really hit you as you said it. But boy, when the realization struck, it hit like an eighteen wheeler t-boning a gas tanker. Everything stopped for a moment. Heart, lungs, brain. All froze, tense as piano wire, and you found yourself full of anxiety again.
“Wow, this is incredible!” Ray beamed, “a real, pinpointed interdimensional space-time crossrip! Right in our living room!!”
It did sound pretty cool when he put it that way, but you had only one thought.
“Oh, fuck, Egon,” you gasped suddenly; everyone’s attention snapped to you, and you felt your cheeks go red, realizing they had no context; “I, uh…have a cat back home. Named Egon. Respectfully.”
Egon, the real one (it’s blowing your mind to have to differentiate), didn’t verbally respond, but looked away bashfully with a slight smile.
“I just realized no one will know I’m gone…I hope he’ll be alright…” you sniffled a little, thinking about your poor boy all alone.
Ray’s expression turned from delight to something like pity, and you immediately felt your stomach flip. Whether it was concern for your Egon at home, or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell for sure. Either way you hated it.
“Do you have anything to drink? Something strong?” you asked.
Unsurprisingly, Peter was the first to produce a small leather-bound flask from a pocket on his person. You accepted and took a swig. Ironically you found these moments very sobering: the burn of the whiskey was very real, and the warmth in your throat and gut that came from it provided very little comfort. Some, but not enough. You handed the flask back to Venkman anyway, not trying to overstay your shell-shocked welcome.
“Thanks, Peter.”
“Any time, kitten.”
Truthfully, you didn’t mind the familiarity with which he spoke; it didn’t feel predatory, just charismatic. You coughed a bit at the lingering burn in your throat, but you couldn’t help noticing the way your heart fluttered slightly. You are a simple person at the base of things, and this group of men here in their prime (and beyond, but especially now) was very, very attractive. You wouldn’t go so far as to say you were attention starved either, but it had certainly been a while since someone looked at you like Peter was looking at you right now.
“You’re making her uncomfortable, Pete,” Ray glowered at his colleague, who only gave a wink in your direction in reply; he took a sip from the flask himself before tucking it back in his pocket.
You squirmed in your seat somewhat but said nothing for a moment.
“So what do you think, Egon?”
You and Ray looked at each other with mild surprise after speaking in unison.
“Look at you, like the twins from The Shining,” Peter grinned mischievously.
Ray blushed and looked away, focusing on Egon quite seriously then. You turned to the taller man as well, only to feel your own face heat up when you discovered him already gazing very intently at you, mere inches away from your face, with a small flashlight. He shined it directly into your eyes and briefly you forgot all else, animal instinct taking over, and you pawed it out of his hand. It clattered to the ground.
“Sorry,” you quickly apologized.
He only quirked an eyebrow up at you and bent over to retrieve the little device.
“Anything come to mind in terms of research?” He asked.
“Don’t worry, I can tell you’re highly stressed,” he responded before clicking the flashlight off, and turning to speak to you on a general scale:
“It’s hard to tell. Ray, your theory sounded the most likely. Some sort of rift with a parallel universe through time and space. Maybe a wormhole if not instantaneous particle re-dispersal. It’s not unthinkable—in fact, after what we’ve dealt with in the past, particularly in the sense of Gozer the Traveler…well, it’s as likely as anything else.” He turned to Ray again, who nodded eagerly, soaking up Spengler’s dissertation like a sponge.
“One or two. Nothing quite like this though in any of the regular literature.”
You cleared your throat.
“It seemed like our universes were intersecting for a bit. I’d guess it’s just as likely you could have ended up in my world, given the fact I swore I almost crashed into you guys on the road home an hour before, uh…everything, I guess.” you cut in; the men balked at you for a moment, but after a brief moment of shock at your sense, began to consider.
“That’d be interesting. I’d like to learn more about the future. We should go to dinner and discuss it, you and I,” Venkman cut in.
You laughed despite yourself as he took your hand in his; it was warm, and a nice grounding to the reality of things ever still. Ray’s lips pursed slightly.
“Dana was right, you know. You do give off game show host vibes,” you chuckled.
Peter’s sly grin immediately vanished. Most of the color in his face did as well. He even let go of your hand. Ray, still intently staring between Peter and you, furrowed his brow.
“What, Pete?”
“There’s no way you could know that.”
You faltered.
Peter stood to his full height, startled but ever intrigued. You hadn’t really noticed how tall he was in the movies, but with him standing before you now, he towered over you.
“No need for electric shocks here,” you quipped.
You already dug yourself in. Might as well finish the burial, right?
“I know that's your sort of thing."
“What a shame,” he fired right back, raising his eyebrows; his eyes glimmered with something beyond mirth, “I bet it’d be a good time.”
You rolled your eyes. The others didn’t seem to follow what was happening. You shook your head to clear your thoughts of Bill Murray playing professor in the basement of Columbia University.
“I’d like to run some more tests, if you don’t object,” Spengler caught your attention now, offering an elbow to aid you in standing; you gingerly accepted and noted how he clutched the end of his sleeve. Once you were on your feet, you tugged at the hem of the bottom of your shirt and tried not to mind how much you had to crane your neck to look up at the guys. You took a step forward and stumbled slightly; you felt a lot lighter than you had before. Literally–there seemed to be a slight bounce to your step, like gravity had shifted. You were not graceful in your movements, and Winston jumped up to catch you before you could actually properly fall.
“I think you need to rest some more,” he commented with a hint of concern, “what are you feeling right now?”
“At this moment?”
“Yeah, right now.”
You looked into his earth-colored eyes and they searched yours just as deeply. You swallowed hard, willing your cheeks not to burn, though they still did.
“I plead the fifth, your honor.”
The others snortled. Winston couldn’t help but smirk. You blushed deeper despite your best efforts and looked away. Even Egon was grinning. You had never noticed before how he bit his lower lip when he grinned. This place, whatever was happening, was gonna be the death of you, you swear it.
Suddenly, the air was pierced by a deafening alarm–the alarm–and they sprang into action instantly. Winston seemed reluctant to leave you behind, but Ray dragged him along, forcing him to release you as they went; you were just glad you were still upright without support.
“Venkman, looks like you get your dinner after all. We’ll handle this. You stay and learn what you can, and keep an eye on her vitals and state of psyche,” Ray directed, making his way toward the poles as he spoke.
Peter beamed like he’d just won the lottery and jumped up, delighted. You blinked up at him; the others were gone now, and there was a span of about thirty seconds between the cacophonous ringing of the alarm’s beginning and its end, briefly overlapping with the unearthly discordant wail of the Ecto-1, before all was deadly silent. You didn’t notice how hard you'd been breathing until then.
“I still feel like I’m tripping,” you moaned, rubbing at your temples.
“I’ve been told I have that effect on beautiful women,” Peter replied slyly.
You looked at him blankly for a moment. He faltered, but bounced back, offering his hand to you in a display of chivalry. You accepted, not reluctant, and he led you downstairs. You tried so hard not to stare at him, but he was so close. He kept his eyes forward.
“Are you hungry, though? Really?” He asked suddenly, looking over at you; he blinked a couple times and raised his eyebrows, surprised to find you already looking.
Damn–caught.
You hadn’t considered it at all until he said something, but when he did it was game over; your stomach suddenly felt as shrunken as a raisin. You gripped at your torso and frowned.
“Now that you mention it, kinda…”
“How about Thai?”
“I-it’s a little too spicy for me.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You and Ray both. Mexican?”
“How about Italian?” you rebutted; the tension you felt began to ease slightly.
He nodded with approval.
“We can get a cab. Oh, that brings to mind–if you have any cash on you, I’d hang onto it. Might get flagged if it was minted twenty years from now.”
“Damn, true,” you grunted, digging into your pockets; the only things you had on you were your lighter, that barely-smoked joint, and your phone. Your phone. Oh shit, your phone! You clawed at it, desperate to see if it would function.
Life! But alas, no service. Of course not. But you didn’t have much time to mourn that before Peter spoke.
“What is that?” he asked, curiosity riddling him.
“It’s called a smartphone,” you replied; he stared owlishly at you and then the phone and then you again, silently urging you forth so you continued. “It can make calls, send and receive instant messages and emails, take and send pictures, play music, record audio and video, and surf the internet, among many other things.”
You let him hold it. He did, like it was a fragile thing that would disappear if he touched it too eagerly. He held it inches from his face and turned it over multiple times, inspecting every angle. He pressed the power button.
“Use your fingertip to swipe across the screen,” you demonstrated for him, and his brows furrowed in enchantment as the image dissolved from lock screen to home screen; your background picture was of your Egon back home. You missed him.
“That your famous Dr. Spengler in the fur?” He asked.
You nodded, smiling weakly, wishing you could hold your boy again.
“What are these little circles?” you were grateful for him continuing, breaking through your thoughts.
“They’re icons for applications installed onto the phone. Games, tools, other odds and ends. It’s just a shame I can’t connect it to the internet, but…I don’t think I’ll be able to for a few decades at least.”
Peter reluctantly handed your phone back when he saw how that particular realization sat with you: not well, I assure you.
“Come on,” Venkman urged, nudging you slightly.
Once outside, you managed to hail a cab fairly quickly. You felt so out of place. You were out of place, to be fair. Very much so. But even just being in the backseat of the cab with Peter, you felt wrong.
“How you holding up?” He asked after a few moments of silence.
You frowned and continued to stare out the window at the city passing by. It wasn’t raining here, but it was dark now, though that didn’t matter much given the illumination of the streets and buildings.
“C’mon, you can talk to me. Is it me? Do I come on too strong?” Peter pouted.
You shook your head.
“I just…I’m still trying to wrap my head around this. It all happened by sheer coincidence and I…what are the odds? I’m sitting here talking to a man I thought wasn’t real, thirtyish years in the past in another universe. I don’t know anyone or have anything here. I don’t even have a place to stay.”
You were trying so hard not to cry. Peter looked at you, but now it was with a sort of understanding; it was surprising, but there was no pity, just empathy.
“I promise we’ll get this figured out,” he told you after a few moments, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, “me and the guys, and you can stay with us until then. We’ll make space for you. Ray can sleep on the couch. Or maybe you can have Egon’s bed–he doesn’t use it much anyway. But, Y/N, I promise: we’ll get you home. Guaranteed or your money back.”
You laughed despite the tears threatening to spill over, and wiped at your eyes with your knuckles. Peter’s smile was something different now: genuine.
“There it is. You really do have a beautiful smile, if you don’t mind my saying so,” he informed you.
You finally looked at him then; his hooded, deep-set ocean eyes were trained on you, taking in every detail before him. You felt a slight regret that you hadn’t dressed properly. Janine, who was the same height as you, roughly, and therefore very nearly the same foot size, had an extra pair of flats in her desk, which Peter had purloined upon notice of your previously bare feet; he figured she wouldn’t miss them, seeing as she was off that evening, for once. You felt quite excited to meet her when you could.
The rest of the cab ride was spent in small talk, about life and music and little things, and you ended up at a quaint little Italian hole-in-the-wall type place. The walls were either brick faced or painted a deep red, the lighting was all warm but dim between low-hanging green shaded lamps and candles on the tables, and the walls were decorated with fake greenery and different pieces of art with a vaguely Italiano theme.
“Table for…two?”
You couldn’t help but notice the way the hostess looked you up and down; Peter noticed it too. He put a hand on the small of your back.
“Please,” he responded with an air of authority and a stiff upper lip.
She raised her eyebrows briefly before gathering two menus and sets of silverware.
“Smoking or no?”
“Surprise us."
Peter let you go behind the hostess and in front of him, never taking that hand off you. You didn’t mind it, per se, but you did wonder why he was persistent with it. Was it to make you feel better about being underdressed for a nice place like this? You felt like a fool, now, sure, but you were in it for the promised ‘best garlic bread in the city’ and little else.
The hostess sat you in a corner booth in the designated smoking area. Soft piano music played over the speakers. It was a very nice place, truly. There was even a water feature nearby.
“Sorry I’m not dressed for the occasion,” you finally said, addressing it for your own sake.
Peter waved a hand dismissively.
“Hey, Woodstock was great. You should have been there.”
“You were?” you gasped, looking at him with widened eyes.
“There’s a lot to Dr. Venkman you don’t know, darling,” he smiled, “Spengs was there too. I dragged him along on the road trip. I’ve never seen someone smoke so much dope.”
You grinned at the thought of the serious Dr. Spengler stoned out of his mind. Maybe, you mused, you’d share your stash with him. It’s a wonder how he’d feel about 21st century potency increase…
As you approached the four-story hook & ladder station, Peter began to walk with a bit of a melody in his step; he skip-jumped over to a nearby city planter, laden with chrysanthemums in varying color, and plucked a few. He sauntered back to you and presented the small flowers.
Conversation continued over the course of the meal. The garlic bread was absolutely delicious; they melted cheese on it till it was crispy. Ooh, it was sinful. The fettuccine alfredo you got for a main course was incredible too. It’s like everything was more decadent here, from the air to the food. It certainly didn’t make it harder to adjust. You found yourself taking pictures sneakily with your phone: one shot of Venkman, using spaghetti noodles to mime an impressive mustache, one of the food…just mementos. Proof for yourself, for when, or if, you ever get home.
By the time you were on your way back to the firehouse it was quite late; Peter had insisted on showing you some sights on the way, so the pair of you walked, he bought you coffee, pointed out places he and the guys had previously busted at. At one point he even insisted you wear his coat, noting you were shivering there in a t-shirt in New York in the autumn chill. You showed him how to take a picture with your device, and he had you modeling his coat for him in just a minute, snapping pictures of you like you were the hottest model on the runway. It was the best date you’d been on in a long time.
“Well, I hope you had fun. I know I did. Maybe we can do this again…unless you’d like to come inside…?” His tone was wanton and mischievous, but no more than was his trademark.
“I don’t normally stay the night on the first date,” you replied flippantly, looking like you were debating heavily.
He beamed as you finally accepted the flowers from his hand.
“I normally don’t either,” Peter said quickly, shaking his head slightly in emphasis.
You stood on the tips of your toes and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. He raised his fingers to the spot as you retreated by a few steps, and he felt at it tenderly, looking as though he’d been blessed by the holy chorus of God Herself.
“Keep that up and you might make a dirty whore out of me yet,” he said with a tone of light warning.
You laughed, and the two of you entered the firehouse; he, of course, let you go first. It was more or less surprising that he had been a perfect gentleman.
Upon entering the garage bay, you found the Ecto-1 was back as well; that hopefully meant good news. It was quiet though.
“Hello?” Peter hollered out, pausing to wait for a response.
Peter came back after a few moments.
He didn’t get one.
He blinked a few times and made his way further into the building. You waited by the door for the time being; you didn’t want to intrude. You looked around. It was so familiar to you, but to actually be in the firehouse…it was like a dream. Nothing about any of this didn’t feel like a dream. It’s the best dream you’ve had in decades, if it is. If not…well, we’ll figure that out as you go.
“They’re already sleeping. Egon’s not though. Probably in the lab, that egghead,” he reported. “Speaking of sleepin’, you can have my bed tonight since the others are spoken for already. I’ll take the couch. Unless you wanna cuddle?” He shot a pouting look at you, only mostly kidding.
You smiled at him.
“Thank you, genuinely. For everything. I’d probably still be flipping shit if it weren’t for you.”
“Funny, most people would tell you I drive them crazy. It’s nice to have the opposite effect for a change.”
You only noticed then how close he was standing; less than an arm’s length apart from you, looking down as you gazed up. It wasn’t until Egon came through, clad in polka-dot pajamas, clutching a hoard of junk food on his way back to the lab, presumably, that you separated–he didn’t give much choice, as he’d cut directly between you.
Wow, Venkman was not the one you expected to get attached to this quickly. You suppose he has that reputation for a reason. He really can be charming, and there’s much to be said for someone who can make you laugh.
“C’mon, I’ll show you where to go,” Peter spoke, waving to you to follow after him as he started toward the stairwell.
It was dark in the communal bedroom, the curtains were drawn closed, and Ray was snoring softly from his bed. Peter pointed out the bed in the far corner. The blankets were just neat enough to call the bed haphazardly made, which led you to wonder if he hadn’t run up here to do it just now.
“That’s my bed,” he whispered, “you should get some rest. I’m sure Spengie will have you working like a lab rat in the morning.”
You nodded.
“Thank you, Peter,” you whispered back.
For a brief instant, there was a palpable tension in the air. He stood close, very close, and even in the dark you could see him looking down into your eyes, seeming to be at internal war.
He ruffled your hair, then, of all the things to do. You stared up at him indignantly. He chuckled quietly.
“Get some sleep, kitten,” he instructed, wandering away then.
You stared after him for a moment even once he was gone. Damn.
With a sigh, you wandered over to the unoccupied bed, removing Janine’s flats at its edge and nudging them just slightly under the frame. You slid under the thin topsheet and fatigue-green cover. The mattress wasn’t thick, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either, and it was well broken-in; it smelled like Peter, whom smelled like dollar store cologne and Irish Spring soap, cigarettes, and something else that you couldn’t quite identify: without anything better to describe it with, you could only explain it like the smell of electricity. Ozone? Maybe. It was unique and unlike any other smell you’d ever smelled, that was all you knew. You laid quietly on your side, peering through the darkness at the slowly rising and falling shapes of Ray and Winston’s sleeping bodies. You noted the plush stuffed Stay Puft Ray clutched to him as he dreamed. Precious. This was all so crazy, so hard to take in…
You must not have realized how tired you truly were. Once you’d gotten comfortable, you were out like a broken Christmas light.
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A/N: hope you guys like this! there’s more in the works! also if theres any points where the pov swaps from reader to first its all error, i wrote first person pov first and then switched it later ;w; if u have any title suggestions lmk!!! <3
@boneless07 <3
CH. 2
