Thing Is: Chapter 14/14 (Egon x You)
It's finally done! Sorry for the long wait. I highly encourage you to re-read the fic if you want to enjoy the payoff ;___; again, sorry for taking forever
LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44586838/chapters/171778174
If you prefer reading here, I'll post the whole chapter below. Enjoy!
Itâs not like there were any signs of the circumstances being better than dire to begin with but the sight ahead is an absolute eyesore.
As soon as Egon stands besides Ray in (what seems to have been) a great hall, his assessment checks out. The walls are overgrown with signs of neglect and exposure. Piles of rubble and gunk are covered in dust so thick itâs coated in sticky clamps of grey ooze and granules, molding together as a heavy sediment of old fibers and rot. Its particles hang in the air. Erode the wooden floor. Gnaw at the old carpet.
The carpet is what catches Egonâs attention. Itâs entirely inconspicuous but upon closer inspection a large eldritch symbol peers from underneath. Itâs different to the ones from upstairsâ the shape is darkening and a black smoke hovers over the floorâ as if someone was pressing a burning seal there.
This is what it looks like, Egon thinks, the symbols being made. Fascinating how the process requires no cultist to physically draw the circle. Usually thereâs at least one crazed shaman who initiates a ritual like this. The chanting must be an instigator enoughâ and that only proves how unusual this setting is. The whole thing must have been preplanned by a long-dead ancestor.
The boys are already standing there, surrounded by multiplying voices of fishfolk. With fewer damp planks in the way, the noise sounds raspier, almost hostile.
Egon lets you in, then takes a look at Ray. Heâs staring at the sigil, cheeks clouded in thick cigar smoke, face scrunched.
âI donât know what it isâ, he mumbles. âBut I donât like it one bit.â
Peter uses his proton rod to fold the corner of the carpet, revealing more of the image. Itâs a big illustration branded in wood. The biggest defined shape is a circle filled with inscriptions in an unintelligible languageâ or various dialectsâ judging by the sparse (but patterned) placement of individual symbols.
Egon crouches down at the rim. He knows itâs the voice of the hive, the dialect belonging to the Great Old Ones and their offspringâ but his translator is only capable of processing auditory input. Itâs an oversight on his part. He shouldâve been prepared.
âDo you mind?â, he asks, waving at Peterâs rod.
Peter stares at him for a few long seconds before going âahâ and pushing the rest of the carpet away.
The circle, as it turns out, is but one of sixteen. Each of them same size, framing a massive, intricate artwork: a huge oval, enclosed within the confines of floating words and curved lines. Thereâs a figure thereâ a well-dressed human with a distinguishable face devoid of emotion. His glassy, bulging eyes stare back at whoever dares to challenge them, captivating the viewer with unexpected reciprocation.
Egonâs impressed. Whoever had burned the portrait, mustâve been a great artist. These lines are sharp and purposeful, they emphasize just as much as they leave unsaid. The rest of the sigil could be some cultistâs job, simple shapes and symbols easy to recreate⌠but this? This is a masterpiece.
ââŚHey, I know thatâ, he hears your voice from beyond Winstonâs shoulder. âItâs a portal.â
âYou sure about that? Looks like a regular seal to me. A huge-ass one but a seal nonetheless.â
Egon fixes his gloves, stands up and turns to Winston.
âMaybeâ, he affirms. âBut there is no need for a seal to be this big. Besides, their continuous effect is like a steady beam of radiation, they canât suddenly change their properties and start exuding smoke after decades of dormancy.â
ââŚAre we sure about that?â Ray interjects. âEldrich horrors have been around for millennia and weâve only started cataloguing them, like, a hundred years ago? I mean, at this rate, anythingâs plausible.â
Egon must admit that Rayâs point makes sense. Despite having studied arguably everything there was on the topicâ heck, analyzing your fatherâs journals!â he canât be sure. Your father was a cultist for a little more than twenty years and while it sounds impressive in human standards, it objectively isnât. In all his knowledge and even he couldnât have known what kinds of cosmic forces had been brewing for millions of years. Itâs a terrifying concept, how small and insignificant humans are in comparison. Simple minds, weak cognition. Whatever glimpses of Yog-Sothoth have seeped through the veil, human brains were unable to process. Ancient truths have been shrouded in myths to make them a bit more palatable for the average person. If these scraps of knowledge are the only straws people grasp for, how impossible is it to uncover the full extent?...
âNo, noâ, you wave your hands. âEgonâs right. Theyâre trying to wake him up, Iâve seen this thing before.â
âWake who up?â
When everyone looks at the portrait, the answer is terrifying.
Egon knows whatâs about to happen. The chanting will get loud and oddly unanimous, sealed with a loud command. Thenâ silenceâ and amidst the deafeningly mute crowd, a disfigured monstrosity will emerge from the portal, solidifying its shape, gaining autonomy and speaking to the Collective while crawling out to the world. Whatever happens then is going to be horrible and affect everybody. Heâs at a loss. Timeâs running out.
He opens his mouth and turns to you but your stare takes him off-guard. Your eyes seem to plea for guidance and in that moment he knows only one thing: youâre under his protection. Thereâs a future ahead and heâs determined to take you there.
âYour father mentioned a summoning ritual in the diaries but did not describe it in detailâ, he says in a soothing voice. âHow did it go?â
âWell⌠the last time it burned my house to the ground and thatâs when it was over.â
âWhy did it burn?â
âI donât knowâ, you worry your lip. âSome candles, perhaps? I canât think of a reason fish people would utilize fire in their practices, nor generate it.â
âI may have an ideaâ, comes from Peterâs mouth and both of you look at his eerily glowing face whichâ as Egon quickly gathersâ is lit by flames emerging from the markings on the floor.
All of you step back. The portrait is burning.
Flames engulf the gentlemanâs eyes. Thick tongues of fire are bleeding from a pair of bulgy pupils onto his face, deepening sickly sunken cheeks and pouring ash down his chin. The circles around him catch a spark in an instantâ spreading like a disease, gnawing into the deeply carved ridges, devouring carefully drawn lines, leaving nothing in their wake.
Peter aims his proton rod and shoots straight into the manâs face, scribbling over it. Itâs wishful thinkingâ as if an act of vandalism could prevent the impending doom. In a typical ghostbusting fashion, though, Venkman  wouldnât be himself if he didnât try demolition first (it also requires very little forethought and may give instant results) but to nobodyâs surprise, it changes nothing.
âWorth trying thoughâ, Peter exclaims, doing his best to outshout the chanting crowd. âLetâs stick to the plan!â
Egon takes the yap-cap from Winston, while the others (you included) adjust their proton rods and aim at the sigil. Presumably thatâs where the creature will emerge but Egonâs studied enough mythos to stay vigilant. These beings are unpredictable. Theyâre sentient. Dangerous. A mere assumption that a man is able to control what he summons borders on insanity.
The swarm outside seems to move in an organized manner now. Theyâre approaching. This cannot be a good sign.
The fire consumes the portrait within seconds but doesnât spread any further: the circles and symbols surrounding it are intact, save for an eerie glow which seems to come out of them. Ash sticks to the wood in an ungraceful bile of sop. The shoved carpet soaks sparks and cinders falling from the flamesâ and they go out with loud hisses, amounting to yet another layer of noise.
When dozens of wet palms slide across the ruined walls, the voices become grinding. They hit all registers at once. Whatâs worse, Egon observes, is that they seem to be fueling the pillar of fire, now reaching half-burnt ceiling supports. Any moment now.
âThe command is readyâ, he states, firm. âWhen the monster comes through, shoot him and hold in place until I put the helmet on its head.â
âWhat if it doesnât have a head?â, yells Peter, grinning because thatâs, apparently, hilarious.
Exactly like Egonâs predicted, the ritualâs done in half a minute. The tongue of fire escalates until it licks the ceiling, its hue turns green and thatâs when chanting abruptly stops. Egon glances at your team. Winston and Peter are wielding their proton rods in front on them, ready to shootâ Ray does too but his facial expression betrays worry. You stay behind the guys and though youâre holding the charged weapon, your grasp is tentative.
Youâre scared. Uncertain. Youâre in the back and thatâs a good thing from a strategic point of view but Egon wishes the two of you were closer. He wants to reach for your hand. He wants to calm you down. He wantsâ
âItâs coming through!â
A large tentacle shoots through the portal. The pillar of fire bleeds with green blotch, as if a ghostly force was turning it into an unholy veil. The sticky limb raises as high as it can, stretches and slams into the wooden panels. The floor is old and frail. It cracks. Splinters dash around.
The monsterâs suckers stick to the floorboards and the a wall. It folds and squeezes into all nooks and crannies, fills the crevices with slick tissue like a heavily kneaded, oily dough would fill a form. Except it doesnât stop thereâ doesnât sit stillâ it squelches, pounds, gurgles, breathes.
After one limb comes another. Then two, then three more. Each of them pierces the wood further until the floor is reduced to a cracked frame, supporting the boys and you on a few broken planks and sheer willpower. The tentacles squeeze through the hole until the eighth (last?) of them comes out with a popâ and in that moment Egonâs skin turns pale.
He liked being prepared. He knew the creature would emerge in its entirety. He shouldâve known better than to construct a human-sized helmet and expect it to fit. Thinking about it now, itâs an entirely foreseeable problemâ weâre talking the Queen of the hive, not some random pre-infected half-fish humanoid whose size would fit within the US measuring standards.
The creature is massive. Itâs huge. Itâs gargantuan and slick and moving, which makes it almost impossible to climb up to reach its head.
Heâs about to die from embarrassment at the incriminating level of stupidity when Rayâs weak gasp slaps his other cheek.
ââŚThereâs no head.â
Andâ fuckâ of course! Of course there wouldnât! Of course a literal extraterrestrial eldritch entity with stupefying anatomy would develop No. Fucking. Head! Why would it?!
Perfect. Everythingâs perfect, the whole setup is perfect, the circumstances are ideal.
âHey, Spengler!â Peter yells with that idiotic half-smile. âNo head! Who wouldâve guessed, right?â
âEat shit.â
Winston, as per usual, is the sane one. He nudges Egon with an elbow.
âWhat does your device need to access, exactly?â
âBrainâ, Egon says. âWell. The subconscious.â
âDonât octopi have some brain in their tentacles? We could strike one of them and put it to theâŚâ
Winston looks at Egonâs handsâ at the yap-capâs egglike shape and its, frankly, pathetic sizeâ then says:
ââŚnevermind.â
Egon deflates a bit. He considers allowing himself to feel an emotion (rage, anxiety or irritation) but thereâs no time for that. Heâll have some time to process everything afterwards, either back at the station or in jail.
âVenkman?â
âNo stupid ideas, boys!â
The four of you exchange looks because at this point all ideas are equally stupidâ but Ray seems a tad more excited (and alert) so heâs your best chance of survival. No time like now because one of the massive tentacles lifts from the ground, then smashes a window and slams into the floor with full force. Peter and Winston leap back and hold on to the windowsill. You manage to grab the latterâs hand and he pulls you towards his chest. Egon only catches a glimpse of your hair protruding from under Winstonâs glove. Thatâs good. Thatâs safe. Now, whereâs Ray?
Ah.
As it turns out, Doctor Raymond Stantz is currently sliding downstairs through a gigantic hole in the floorboards.
Egon doesnât think too much. Ray is his best buddy after all, the only person on Earth whoâs allowed to freely snack on Egonâs Cheez-Its. He tightens the hold on the yap-cap, pins the translator to his belt and leaps after Ray.
A sleeve rips on a nail, a knee bumps against an old wooden panel and an elbow hits a pipe but overall, Egon somehow manages a happy landing. Rayâs even luckierâ a burnt remnant of a dining table broke his fall and offered just the amortization he needed.
âRay?â
âIâm okayâ, he coughs, âbetter than okay!â
They stand up. Pat their sooty jumpsuits. Thick clouds of ash fill the air.
âItâs the adrenalineâ, Egon informs. âDonât get comfortable.â
Egon assesses their surroundings. Theyâre in the middle of debris in a dim roomâ two walls are gone so the chill and murmur of the crowd outside pushes through the rubble. Theyâre a whole four-meter gap from the rest of you and the hole in the (now) ceiling is dripping with slime. Thereâs no chance theyâre gonna make it back up there unless they go all the way back to the main staircase. Itâs impossible. Not with the tentacles filling the corridor.
Theyâre screwed. Theyâre so screwedâŚ
âNo, no! Seriously, Iâm okay!â Ray has that full-blown teeth-showing grin and a spark in his eye. âI know what we gotta do!â
Egon looks at him. Rayâs fall mightâve been more severe than he thought.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          âLetâs plug the cap into Ecto-1âs sirenâ, he beams.
âŚor?...
âLook: how do you normally convey a message?â Ray continues. âItâs not through some elaborate coding or inception, itâs literally by talking! And talking is one person speaking while others are listening! Why donât weâŚâ
ââŚtransmit the command into all of their headsâŚâ
ââŚby simply announcing it? I mean, even the blob-mother must have ears somewhere if she responded to their calls.â
Egon smiles. Raymond is a genius.
The crowd is standing outside. Some of the fishfolk are in the way to Ecto-1 but thereâs no time to overthink it: Ray leads through the piles of burnt wood and rusty piles towards the car and Egon follows. They pass the dirt and junk, their boots squelching in pools of leftover slime until they reach the cornerâ a holeâ a passage outside.
The swarm is there. Ray gulps as large groups of people are not his forte. Peter would know what to do.
Ray approaches the line of people, lifts his hand in a terribly unconfident manner and says:
ââŚUm. Excuse me?â
They donât even turn to face him. Their eyes are glued to a flailing set of tentacles which are now, somehow, twice as big as Egonâs assumed upstairs. Theyâre straightening up. Theyâre stretching above the mansion, uncurling their tips and that means preparation for another attack.
Ray and Egon dash through the crowd. The creatures donât pay attention at all and thatâs perfectâ the boys are sliding through the masses straight towards the car. Egonâs already untangling the wires, preparing the tips to fit into Ecto-1âs radio. If this works, theyâre going to get rid of everyone, no casualties, no more damage. If it doesnâtâŚ
Egon opens the door and slides in. He doesnât fumble with the jacks, his dexterous fingers move across the slots with ease and precision. The power is on, the loudspeakers maxed out Rayâs outside, setting the siren towards the aliensâ general direction. Egon takes out the translator, types a simple command, then triple-checks for mistakes. Meanwhile, Ray takes out a walkie-talkie, summons Peterâ then waits. Egon closes his eyes. Let it work, let it work, let it workâŚ
âCover your ears, NOW!â Ray yells into the receiver.
Egon presses a button.
Bug wgah'nagl.
The tentacles freeze. The crowdâs stuck as well. For a moment, everythingâs still.
Egon holds his breath.
Then, like from one organism, a thick line of ooze evaporates from the fishfolk. The people wake up. Their faces change. Features soften. Eyes go back to their usual size, cheeks rose up and the sheen of slime previously covering their skins seem to disappear altogether. The cloud flies towards the tentacles, forms an elaborate symbol above it and opens a doorâ a portalâ a swirl.
The ancient eldritch entity levitates. Its limbs form a cord, as if it was trying to take as little space as possible. It rises up and disappears in the gaping hole in the sky.
The cloud follows and seals the portal shut.
Egon exhales.
Ray knocks on the windscreen.
âDid it work?â
ââŚIt worked.â
âIt worked?!â
âTheyâŚâ Egon nods, ââŚwent home. I told them to go home and they went there. They actually bought the idea.â
Ray bursts out laughing. The sound is so clear and loud, it warms Egonâs heart.
The crowd looks entirely normal now. Humans are back, looking at each other, making eye contact, scared, confused. They arenât controlled by any higher being. Theyâre free to make their own choices. They areâŚ
âŚleaving?
âWhere are they going?!â Asks Ray but before Egonâs able to say anything, three familiar figures emerge from the crowd, dirty, sooty and slimed. Winstonâs leading you (alive, unscathed) with a hand on your upper back, while Peter saunters like a common drunk and blurts:
âIâm not sure why but I really wanna go home, pronto.â
___
You load the sooty suit you wore into the machine.
âI feel like this past weekâs just one criminally long dayâ, you hum, tying up a neat blue apron around your waist. âIâm so ready to start fresh. You have no idea.â
Egon observes you. Shades under your eyes are present again but youâre relaxed: motions light like a breeze, gaze soft and warm. Despite exhaustion you climb to your tiptoes every time you lift a garment, as if you were celebrating the victory and freedom in a language youâre fluent in. Itâs a dance and youâre a ghostbusting fairy.
âIâll do the laundry. Go to bed.â
âNot a chanceâ, you scrunch your nose. âYouâre the one whoâs just expelled a whole alien species from Earth. The least I can do is clean up, lemme.â
âYouâre likely exhausted after the past few days. I, on the other hand, am still running on leftover adrenaline. Since I wonât be able to sleep for a few more hours, I may as well do something productive with my time.â
âPfft. Whatever you said is probably reasonable but sounds like blah, blah, blah.â
Egon smiles.
âThatâs exactly what Iâve said.â
Youâre still you. Languid eyes linger on his face for a few seconds, as if trying to figure something out through the thick fog of wearinessâ until you make a funny face and reach for your apron. You untie the bow, take off the strap and slide the garment onto his neck.
âHere you go. Oh no, wait.â
You reach for his locks and help them fall onto his forehead. Fluffy fringe hangs loose. You comb your fingers through the strands and he doubts itâll smoothen them out but he allows the contactâ youâre close, skinâs warm and the scent of his soap is like an invitation.
âThere. I like⌠It, uh.â You say, take a breath and whether you want to add something playful or sincere, it gets stuck in your throat.
âNoted. Now go to bed.â
âI donât wanna leave youââ
âIâve gathered. Itâs flattering.â
âUh, no! I meanâ here, with the laundryââ
âSure, sure. You arenât even able to maintain a conversation. Go to bed. Iâll come upstairs as soon as I finish up here.â
âEgon...â
The washing machineâs unapologetic rattle fills the silence. Egon ponders. You were so brave earlier todayâ but the stakes were high, the noise was everywhereâ and itâs easy to muster up the courage when time is of the essence. Everythingâs different now. Youâre almost shy, unsure. Itâs a stark contrast to how vehemently you professed your love for him earlier todayâ and yet, the love is hereâ palpable but quietâ like a warm breeze on a summer nightâ like a patient glow of a lantern on the porch.
He lets out a small sigh. Takes a step. Presses his forehead to yours. He lets you ease into the touch, waits for you to take a few breathsâ to feel the locks you like so much tingle your skin. Rubs the tip of your nose with his. Dips down. Tastes your lips.
Itâs merely a press but you shudder.
The quiet of the station keeps the air warm. The rattling noise morphs into a low, pleasant hum. Your skin smells like his whole world and Egon fights an urge to ease further.
He takes a deep breath, then feels you move away an inch or two.
âWait, IâŚâ, you sigh, ââŚI need to make sure. Iâm sorry but⌠If this is just a fling, I donât want⌠I canâtâŚâ
Egon straightens to take a proper look at you. Your eyes are glued to the floor because the tension is too much to handle. This isnât the time for playful exchanges, this is a plea for honestyâ a wound that scarred in an ugly way and threatens to tear when pulled.
The light is dim. It tickles your hair and skin but the shadow creeping from behind waits is there to swallow you whole. He weighs his words.
âThe Ghostbusters have always operated on borrowed timeâ, he states. âSoon weâll face another lawsuit for vandalism, trespassing, collateral damage and the mayor will do everything in his power to shut us down for good.â
AÂ flinch crosses your face. You nod, defeatedâ but Egonâs not done yet.
âIâll tell you what happens then.â He leans closer. âIâll ask you an important question and if you say yes, weâll buy a house. Somewhere quiet, preferably a ranch so that you can overwrite your fatherâs imprint with a whole new chapterâ this one built on loyalty and genuine affection. Iâll keep teaching you, if you want. Iâll set up a lab in the basement so that I can continue my research and Iâll ask you for assistance during busts and sample collection.â He takes a small breath and adds: âWe can be a team. Weâll be taking our kids into the fields and teach them how to aim, out into the wilderness to have sâmores, and maybe even our gigs. Weâll investigate urban legends and see if we can help any.â
You stare at him, searching his eyes. Your lip wavers. Itâs a reaction of some kind but whatever youâre feeling seems too complexâ he needs to reduce it to something he can labelâ something he can understand.
He decides to go on.
âWeâll spend our evenings together. Indulging in touch, if you please. Youâll embroider your clothes. Iâll build a few really cool toys. Youâll make sure they actually look the part and that they donât break down after one use. Iâll keep replacing your terrible cheap soap with my own nurturing, skin-softening mix and add that mint-raspberry scent you like, so you donât noticeââ
ââŚYou what?!â
He halts.
ââŚAh. I might have failed to inform you.â
âYouâve been swapping my soap?...â
âYour skin was irritated after washing the dishes. I couldnât let that slide.â
âHow long?â
âOne hundred and sixteen daysâ, he states and suddenly tenses up. ââŚHave I overstepped?â
You seem amusedâ good?â but your eyes are glossyâ bad?â and he quickly ponders whether invading your sanitary life was his first and last nail to the coffin.
But thenâŚ
But then.
Your palms press against his chest like feathersâ then gently hook some woolen creases, too shy to clench, too desperate to flee. You stand on your tiptoes. Rest your cheek against his neck. Your skin is soft to the touch and he almost crumbles when your entire body presses against his andâ oh dearâ youâre sinking into himâ for the love of Godâ youâre warm and tender, and beautifully hopelessâ and he can barely think straight.
Curious thing. You nuzzle deeper, until he feels the graze of your lashes as you close your eyes and hears you breathe in his scent. Youâre his now, needy, pliant and unabashedly cradled into his shape. He glides a thumb along your jaw and feels your body tremble andâ oh, If a mere caress makes you so weak, what else is he capable of?
He backs a little, lifts his hands and laces your fingers togetherâ guides yours between hisâ his tips slide past your nails, along the phalanxes, down to the crevices. Youâre painfully still and he lets you adapt because touching and touching are two different things.
The shortening breath on his skin is intoxicating.
âEgonâ, you breathe into his neck and when he steps back to look at you, your face is flushed, eyes dazed.
Youâre absolutely gorgeous.
You poor thing, he cradles your cheekâ and you melt into the touch, languid eyes pleading for as much as heâs willing to give. This, he thinks, I understand.
âIâll be upstairs in a few minutes.â His whisper tingles your lip. âIâve missed you for longer than Iâd been aware.â
___
Tonight is the first time Egon sleeps for eight hours straight.
Maybe tomorrow youâll finally bring in your stuff.
Maybe in a year youâll proudly wear his surname as officially yours.
Maybe in two years, youâll move to a beautiful ranch house in Summerville, where youâll host a heartwarming get-together with all the boys. Itâs there where youâll be raising your beautiful daughter, Callie for another twenty yearsâ crafting her costumes for school parties, rejoicing her resounding success at a swimming championship and sharing campfire stories on chilly nights under the starry evening skies while eating sâmores and playing with a bunch of little Stay-Pufts.
(And if an ancient power ultimately takes your lifeâ
(And if grief and horror consumes the world one dayâ
(And if Egon is forced to use the yap-cap on his beloved daughter to make her forget everything about the years theyâd spent together and save her life from certain deathâ
âis yet to be seen.)
For now, only one thing is certain.
Starting now youâll walk togetherâ every day, every month, every year â and into the Afterlife











