Egon Spengler stared at his computer screen, not really seeing the data he had just entered on the results of his most recent fungus experiment.
Sighing, he let his eyes wander away from the recorded findings to the window of his lab, and for some time watched the snow silently falling outside. It was going to be a white Christmas. Still gazing at the lazily drifting flakes, he cocked his head slightly, listening to the muffled sounds in the bedroom across the hall. The occasional thump and bump indicated Peter Venkman cleaning out his closet.
Sitting back in his chair, Spengler took off his glasses and rubbed thoughtfully at the bridge of his nose. It was Christmas Eve and he was sitting here working at his computer and Peter was cleaning out his closet. Actually, he was in his lab in an effort to give Peter a little space, yet still remain close by; he suspected the psychologist was tearing apart his closet in a desperate attempt to keep occupied and convince himself this day was no different from any other. But it was different. Egon replaced his glasses on his nose and sighed softly. This was the first Christmas for Peter since his mother had passed away three months ago.
Pushing himself to his feet, Spengler walked over to the window. Even now it seemed impossible to believe Margaret Venkman was really gone. She had been a warm, giving, and loving mother, and Peter was a devoted son. Her sudden and unexpected death had devastated him and even with massive support from Egon, Ray, Winston, and even Janine, it had taken him a long time to work through his grief.
Christmas had never been one of Peter's favorite times of the year, but this year the despondency had begun setting in early. They all expected it, had watched for it, worried about it, and done their best to make things as easy as possible for him. Busts had kept them fairly busy and in their off-hours Ray, Winston, and Egon had all conspired to keep him occupied with everything from car shows to comic book conventions to-Egon grinned reluctantly-a lecture by a world-renowned mycologist at Columbia. Peter must have known what they were doing, of course, and at any other time he would have no doubt peeled away with tires squealing. But Egon suspected that deep inside he really wanted the diversion and was grateful for their efforts. Up to this point they had probably been pretty successful at distracting Peter's thoughts from the holiday season even though it was thrown at him at every turn on TV, on the streets, and in stores, but they all knew it would eventually come down to this: it was Christmas and there was no way they could really protect Peter from his memories or his unhealed grief.
Turning away from the window, Egon walked over to his work table and puttered around listlessly with a disassembled proton pack. This was the part of Christmas Eve Egon had dreaded: the time when the firehouse would be empty. He and Peter were the only occupants now-and Slimer, but the little ghost had had the unexpected good sense to keep clear of Peter these last few days. Winston was spending the evening with his family. Ray was having dinner with his Aunt Lois and then they were going to Christmas Eve services. Ray had tried hard to coax Peter to join him, of course, but Venkman had not unexpectedly declined. That was really no surprise to either Egon or Ray. They had both tried on several occasions at Columbia to persuade Peter to join their families for the holidays, but Venkman had always demurred. Egon had often wondered if Peter was afraid spending Christmas with another family would only remind him of what was missing in his own life.
A fond smile touched his lips as he thought of his own mother and the conversation they had had a few days ago. Ordinarily he would have gone to her place for a few hours on Christmas Eve, but this year she was coming here on Christmas day. He had planned to explain to her that leaving Peter alone on Christmas Eve even for a few hours would seem tantamount to abandonment, but to his everlasting surprise she had explained it to him. She had known Peter and Ray since their days at Columbia, had watched them grow up-more or less-and was genuinely fond of them and of Winston. She brought them her home remedies when they were sick, worried about them when they went on busts, always remembered their birthdays with eminently practical gifts, and generally had extended her definition of family to include them.
Later, Ray would return after church services and tomorrow his own mother and Winston would be here to add to the festivities, but right now the firehouse was silent, the evening stretched before them, and Egon was at a loss. He had tried to interest Peter in one of his on-going experiments with Slimer but the psychologist had backed off, saying even cleaning out his closet would be more fun than watching Egon attach wires and guages to the spud...although if it came to the point where Egon needed to have Slimer blasted in the name of science, give him a call. So Egon had contented himself with retiring to his lab and staying nearby as Peter went to work...just in case.
Moving across the lab, Egon stepped into the hallway and walked silently to the bedroom doorway, as he had several times that afternoon, to peer inside. Peter's closet door was open and from the sound of the grunts and groans emanating from said closet, either Peter was hard at work or the Boogieman was trying to come back through again.
"Peter?"
There was a thud and a muffled curse, followed by the appearance of Venkman's tousled hair. Peter was rubbing at a spot on the top of his head and there was strained patience in his voice when he asked, "Yes, Egon?"
Spengler offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I'm going to the kitchen. Would you like something to drink?"
Peter looked interested. "Yeah, a cold drink would be great. And why don't you call out for some pizza while you're at it before everything closes."
"The usual?"
Venkman grinned. "With double everything. I'm starved."
Egon grinned, too. "Be back in a few minutes."
In the kitchen, Egon first placed the call for the pizza, then busied himself fixing cold drinks for himself and Peter. As he was adding the ice cubes Slimer drifted into the kitchen, looking upset and wringing his hands.
"Peter saaad," he wailed.
Spengler glanced up. "Yes, Slimer. We talked about this, remember? Peter's going through a rough time right now-"
"No." The green ghost shook his head emphatically. "Peter sad," he repeated. "Peter crying."
This time Egon's head shot up. "Peter's crying?"
Slimer bounced up and down in acknowledgement. "Uh huh, uh huh," he said unhappily.
Spengler spun around, bolted from the kitchen and flew up the stairs. He had only been gone minutes. Halfway up the stairs he heard it, a tinkling melody that sounded like it came from a... ,i>Oh, no... The memory slammed into place even as he reached the top step. His long legs carried him to the bedroom doorway where he skidded to a halt, taking in the scene at a glance.
Peter was sitting on the edge of his four-poster bed staring at a beautifully crafted music box in his hands while tears slid silently down his face. It was a snow dome he was holding with a scene inside of a two-story gabled house and a frozen pond with a female skater twirling around as the song Edelweiss played. It was a Black Forest music box Peter had bought while they were in Germany on a bust six months ago. His mother loved the movie The Sound of Music, he had told Egon at the time, and she would love the music box. He had planned to give it to her for Christmas. He must have tucked it away in his closet when they got back to New York and come across it unexpectedly just now.
Without a word, Egon strode across the room, sank down on the bed beside his friend, and draped one long arm across Peter's quivering shoulders. That simple contact was all it took. Venkman turned immediately and buried his face in Egon's shoulder as the sobs came in earnest. Egon eased the music box out of Venkman's fingers, laid it aside on the bed, and gathered his friend into his embrace. Peter's ragged sobs, muffled against his chest, filled his ears, his body shook along with Venkman's, and he could feel the psychologist's tears dampening his shirt. He closed his eyes and moved one hand slowly up and down the younger man's back, resting the other on the back of Peter's head. There was precious little anyone could do for a friend who was suffering such sorrow, but the one thing he could do was to be here, and stay here, as long as Peter wanted or needed him to be. He shifted his position slightly, trying to bring Peter closer, trying in some impossible way to ease the pain. Peter responded immediately, clinging to him in much the same way he had three months ago when his initial grief had hit; and like that time, Egon held him, offering his presence, his friendship, his complete and unstinting love as sanctuary. They stayed that way long after the last tinkling strains of Edelweiss had died away.
Eventually, Peter's ragged breathing settled down to near normal and he took a deep, unsteady breath, slowly loosening his grip. Following Venkman's lead, Egon relaxed his own arms, allowing the younger man to pull back. Without a word, Egon retrieved a clean handkerchief from his pocket and offered it. Avoiding Spengler's eyes, Venkman accepted it, blew his nose, then simply sat there as if he was too spent to move. Egon kept one arm around his friend's shoulders, every now and then moving it to slide his hand up and down the other man's back.
"Mom would've loved that music box." Peter's voice was hoarse and still held a quiver, but he was getting some control back.
"Yes," Egon agreed quietly, "she would have."
Venkman ran his shirt sleeve over his eyes. "You remember how I used to call her every Sunday?"
Spengler nodded, a little smile on his lips. "I remember," he said softly. No matter where they were or how busy or late it got, Peter had called Margaret every Sunday. There were one or two times he had to call from a hospital room, but he never missed a Sunday.
For the first time since Egon had come into the room, Peter raised his head to look at him. "Last Sunday, I caught myself heading for the phone." There was desperate loneliness in Venkman's eyes, illuminated by the sheen of new tears. "Oh, god, Egon, I just wanted to talk to her."
Egon moved his hand to the back of Peter's neck, squeezing lightly. "I know, Peter," he said gently. "I know." Although Peter's father was still alive, Charlie Venkman had never been a source of support for the psychologist. He dropped in and out of Peter's life as the winds or his various cons carried him. Peter never knew from one minute to next where his father was or when he might see him again. But Margaret had always been there-she made sure of that. Now she was gone. Egon thought of his own mother and how he could pick up the phone and talk to her any time he wanted; and he thought of this man beside him and of all the years Peter had stood by him and with him and, in many cases, thrown himself bodily in front of him when danger threatened. And he thought briefly of what it would be like if those two people were suddenly ripped from his life as Margaret had been ripped from Peter's. Pulling the younger man again to his chest, he whispered, "I know."
Venkman's arms encircled Egon's neck and he rested his head against the blond one. "Thanks, Spengs." Peter's voice was rough with emotion but there was no tremor in it now, only gratitude and deep, genuine affection.
A soft smile touched Egon's lips and he reached up, lightly tousling the brown hair. "For what?"
"For being here," Peter said immediately, and pulled back, studying Spengler with serious eyes that carried more than a hint of guilt. "It's Christmas Eve. I know you were going to go to your Mom's tonight. You gave that up to stay here with me." Abruptly, he dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I should be able to-"
"To what?" Egon interrupted, his voice very gentle. "To handle all this yourself? Says who?" He firmly clasped both shoulders of his friend, tightening his fingers meaningfully. "Peter." When Venkman reluctantly raised his head he was confronted with a solemn gaze. "I didn't give up anything tonight," Spengler said seriously and with complete candor. "Don't ever think that. I am here because you needed me to be here and because I chose to be here." He gave the slumped shoulders under his hands a light shake, adding special emphasis to his next words. "I am here because you are family, Peter."
He used the word deliberately because he sensed Peter needed to hear it...and because it was true. Venkman's expressive eyes met his, and the physicist was deeply gratified to see his own emotions mirrored there. There was no embarrassment between them for Peter's breakdown any more than there was embarrassment for Egon's verbal acknowledgment of the importance of Peter in his life. It was simply a facet of their relationship both men accepted and cherished.
Suddenly Venkman leaned forward and caught the older man in a hard hug. "Don't know what I'd ever do without you, Spengs," he murmured and tightened his arms abruptly. "And I hope to God I never have to find out."
While they were locked together and Egon was still feeling the warmth of those words, the doorbell downstairs sounded. "The pizza," Spengler remembered as Peter released him. The physicist pulled back and studied the familiar features of the man next to him. Tears had left dried trails down Peter's face but, although there was sadness lingering in the back of his eyes, there was also the beginning of peace there. "Are you all right?"
A slight, rueful smile touched the younger man's lips. "I will be. Go on, you'd better get to that pizza delivery man before Slimer does. You know what happened last time the spud decided to answer the door."
Spengler grimaced, remembering that fiasco. "You'll be down?" he asked carefully.
Peter climbed to his feet, nodding. "Give me a few minutes." He flashed a quick grin. "I'll be there by the time you've paid for supper."
Egon got to his feet also, immediately slipping back into the normalcy of their usual banter without difficulty. "Naturally," he said sternly and left the room, knowing Peter needed those few minutes alone to gather up the remnants of his ragged emotions and put himself in control again.
Egon was arranging the pizza and soft drinks in the TV room when Peter sauntered in. The physicist shot him a discerning look. Venkman looked tired and emotionally wrung out, but the catharsis had at least rid him of the tension that had been dominating his life these last few days.
"TV, Egon?" Peter was gazing at the television uneasily. Spengler had already checked the television listings and he knew exactly what Peter was thinking. It seemed nearly every channel was carrying some Christmas classic-from Miracle on Thirty-fourth Street to It's a Wonderful Life to the more recent Bill Murray movie Scrooged. As much as Peter liked their acquaintance Bill Murray, Egon didn't think the psychologist was quite up to watching any holiday fare tonight.
Egon calmly set out the paper towels they preferred to use instead of napkins when pizza was involved. "Actually, I thought this might be a good time to give you your Christmas present."
That made Peter's face brighten. Regardless of the ambivalent feelings he harbored toward Christmas in general, he was still a kid at heart when it came to getting presents. "My Christmas present? Now?"
Hiding his smile with an effort, the physicist got on his knees and stretched one long arm behind the Christmas tree until his fingers grasped the gift he had hidden there. "Do you have any objections to that?" he asked dryly, getting to his feet.
"Objections?" Peter's eyes were fixed to the impeccably wrapped box in Spengler's hand. "I never object to getting presents, Egon."
Letting his smile blossom, Egon held out the gift. "Merry Christmas, Peter."
Grinning like a kid, Peter accepted the box, flopped down onto the sofa and immediately tore into it. Spengler cocked one eyebrow as he watched paper go flying in all directions. When the box was finally opened, Venkman's mouth dropped. "Wow!" Egon smiled with satisfaction as the psychologist began pulling out video tapes, naming them off excitedly. "Stagecoach! Fort Apache! The Searchers! The Horse Soldiers!" The last tape he pulled out made his whole face light up even more, if possible. "And She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. All the John Ford-John Wayne classics. And this one," he held up She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, "my favorite. Spengs, how did you know?"
Spengler sank down onto the couch and blinked at the younger man in disbelief. "How did I know? You mean, how did I know how much you love westerns despite the fact I've known you since college? How did I know you're a John Wayne fan despite the fact this television is commandeered every time one of his movies is on the TV schedule? You mean, how did I know about that movie," he pointed to the tape Peter was still holding, "despite the fact when you tried to tape it last month while we were on a bust and the timer didn't work we heard about it for the next two days?"
A smile had claimed Venkman's eyes while Egon was spouting off and now he blinked innocently. "Yeah, how did you know?"
Egon ignored the question. "I thought we might watch these tapes tonight if you'd like."
A look of genuine surprise crossed Peter's face, followed immediately by gratitude. "Are you sure, Egon? I mean, you don't even like westerns."
The physicist adjusted his glasses. "Well, in fact, Peter, I'm not sure if I do or not. I can't ever recall actually watching one." That was the truth. He hadn't watched much television as a child-he'd been too busy with his ant farm and chemistry set-and now if the others were watching a movie he wasn't interested in he simply retired to his lab to work on his most current experiment.
Venkman was shaking his head in patent disbelief. "Egon, Egon, Egon," he chided, "I can't believe I've let you reach this point in your life without introducing you to the old west where men were men and a man did what a man had to do and he always got the girl and the horse and rode into the sunset."
"Sounds fascinating."
"You're gonna love it." Filled with new energy, Peter bounded across the room, fed the cassette into the VCR, then returned to the sofa and scrunched into the cushions, making himself comfortable beside Egon. With the remote control firmly in hand, he adjusted the volume and settled back with a contented sigh. "This was a great present, Spengs," he said softly, giving the older man's foot a nudge with his own. "Thanks."
"You're entirely welcome, Peter." Egon always tried to pick out appropriate gifts for all his friends, and Venkman was always delighted with any present; but this time Egon knew he had a winner. They'd sit here and watch John Wayne for a few hours, something that would provide a good diversion for Peter, and then Ray would be home and they could talk for a while before going to bed. Then tomorrow morning his mother would come over, Winston would be back, and together they would get Peter through this Christmas.
"Yeah, a great present," Peter murmured as the opening credits for She Wore a Yellow Ribbon rolled across the screen. "There's just one thing..."
In the middle of reaching for a piece of pizza, Egon froze and threw him a sharp look. "What?"
His head was resting against the back of the sofa and Peter turned, fixing the older man with a perfectly guileless look. "I guess this means now I'll have to get you one, too."
Egon hit him with a pillow.