Sheila Paulson

(a tag to Drool, the Dog-Faced Goblin)

Originally published in Ghostwriters

A tortured shriek sliced through the silence of the midnight firehall, jerking Egon out of a sound sleep so abruptly he wasn't sure at first what he had heard. Sitting up wildly he recognized the cry; it was Peter. With a hasty snatch at his glasses, he settled them into place and whirled to stare at the man in the next bed, aware of startled, blurted questions from Ray and Winston across the room as they woke up and struggled out of tangled blankets.

After the wild cry Peter subsided into frozen silence, lying huddled under his blankets, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He might have called out in his dream without waking, but his body was tense and rigid and his breathing was too rapid to convince Egon he was still sleeping. Holding up a hand to still Winston and Ray's queries, he ventured, "Peter?" Drifting overhead, Slimer gibbered nervously, clutching his little blanket.

No response, but Peter's fingers gripped the covers more tightly. "Maybe he's still asleep," Ray ventured doubtfully. "Gosh, it must have been a bad dream."

"No, ya think?" The sarcasm in Peter's voice was nearly muted by the quiver he fought to control. "Tonight's nightmare was brought to you in Technicolor, special effects courtesy of ILM." As Winston hit the light switch, Peter opened his eyes and pushed himself to a sitting position against the headboard of his bed, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Sorry, guys," he added hastily in a tone that was abruptly distant. "Go back to sleep. I'm okay."

Egon frowned, casting a doubtful glance at the other two. There was a note in Peter's voice that didn't sound normal at all, something almost...unfriendly. As if he'd picked up on Egon's doubt, Venkman flashed an unconvincing grin that was far too bright. "Don't worry. I'll go down and stretch out on the couch in front of the TV. Won't wake you up again." He hauled himself up, letting go of his covers reluctantly as if they had been a protection he didn't want to yield up. "I can probably find something cool on the tube, babes in bikinis. Put me to sleep in ten minutes and give me the kind of dreams little Petey Venkman really likes, instead of..." Eyes on the floor, he trekked across the bedroom into the hall, pausing to flick on the light out there. His shoulders were tight and his whole posture shouted 'leave-me-alone' as vividly as if he'd cried the words aloud. He was gone almost before they realized he meant to leave. Egon took one quick step after him, hand outstretched, then hesitated, turning quickly to the other two.

"Whoa, that didn't sound good," Winston remarked as Peter's footsteps faded on the spiral staircase. "What the heck was going on there? I never heard Pete sound quite like that before."

"Oh, gosh." Ray snapped his fingers in realization. "You think it could have been that giant roach that chased him?"

"Giant roach?" Slimer echoed, glancing around wildly before he gathered himself up and shot straight up through the roof and out of the bedroom altogether. A second later, his slime-smeared blanket fluttered down to splat against Peter's pillow.

Egon frowned. He remembered clearly the shapeshifter they had fought that day, ending up at Madame LaFarge's carnival, where the friendly little goblin, Drool, had helped them to capture it. The team had tried to stop the nasty entity before returning to the carnival--and they had used Peter as the bait to draw it out so the rest of them could get a clear shot and blast it. The being had appeared to Peter as a cockroach as big as a Buick, and poor Peter, whose love for roaches ranked right up there with his fondness for the Ebola virus, had complained mightily as it chased him around the old warehouse. Egon could remember him insisting to the entity that he was good to cockroaches, that he never wiped the counter and left dishes in the sink. But he'd yelled for help the whole time with a note of panic in his voice that had sounded different from the team's usual yells when pursued by nasty spooks and specters out for their blood. For a long time the other three had been unable to get a clear shot without risking hitting Peter. The entity had probably planned it that way.

"Well, I know I sure wouldn't have liked to have the cockroach from hell come after me," Winston muttered. "But Pete really does have a thing about bugs. Probably be worse for him than it would have been for any of us--and I know it would have grossed me out in the worst way. Guess he's entitled to a bad dream about it."

"No lie," agreed Ray with ready sympathy. His hair stuck up in spikes around his face. "I bet he's embarrassed that he woke us up like that--and because of a bug, too."

Winston nodded. "Yeah. He sure didn't want to talk to us about it, did he?"

Egon's frown deepened. "No, Winston," he said thoughtfully, stroking his chin as he tried to put the clues together. "It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to us about it, it was that he didn't want to talk to us about it?"

Perplexed, Winston scratched his head. "Huh?"

"He didn't sound very friendly, did he?" Ray murmured around a capacious yawn. "I thought he was just uncomfortable because he woke us up. Ever notice how Peter is so quick to help when one of us has a nightmare, but he doesn't like to ask for help when something's bugging him?"

"Bugging him?" Winston lifted an eyebrow and Ray grinned in response. "Goes with being a psychologist, m'man," continued Winston as he stretched and yawned. "I read an article about it. They think they're supposed to have their act together and it feels like failure if they need help. Lot of people in similar professions get that way. It's why there's a lot of burnout in social work. Crazy, isn't it, when all of us need help eventually?"

"I don't believe that's it," Egon replied. He shook his head. "No, that's far too easy. Dr. Venkman is never easy."

"Man, did you call that one right," Winston grinned. "Ten easy ways to deal with something and one tricky one, Peter will opt for the tricky one, each and every time. So what do you think is up, homeboy?"

Egon hesitated. "I'm not sure. But I believe I need to find out."

When Egon reached the second floor he discovered that Peter wasn't trying to sleep. Instead, he was curled up in a corner of the couch, clutching a throw pillow tightly against his chest. The television was on and Peter's face was turned toward it but Egon was certain he would fail a test on what he was seeing should anyone chose to give one. Likely just as well. It looked like an infomercial on wrinkle cream. Not exactly Peter's program of choice.

He didn't even hear Egon until the physicist sat down beside him on the couch, then he jumped wildly, the pillow shooting from his hands. For an instant he hovered on the edge of jumping up and walking away, but then he sagged back. "Do you mind, Egon? I'm watching this." His voice held not one shred of encouragement or welcome.

"So I observe," Egon replied mildly. "You'd do anything to prevent wrinkles."

"Huh?" Peter glanced at the screen, momentarily abashed, then he hardened his face. "I want a little privacy here," he snapped, hostility crackling in every line of his body. "So trundle off back to bed and leave me alone." He gestured dismissively with one hand.

Egon couldn't remember the last time Peter had sounded that cold when speaking to him. His voice almost held hatred, but there was something else underneath it, something softer and more vulnerable. Peter might appear superficial to strangers--Peter even encouraged them to think so--but Egon had long realized what a complex man he was. This time, though, Spengler didn't have a clue.

"What's wrong, Peter?" he asked softly.

Peter whirled to stare at him in astonished disbelief. "What's wrong?" he demanded incredulously. "What's wrong, Egon?" The question must have confirmed whatever it was he was upset about. "God, if you hafta ask..." His voice trailed off and this time he did get up and walk away toward the stairs that led down to the garage. Two steps down, he jerked to a halt, retreated hastily, and flipped the light switch first. The dream must have disturbed him if he didn't want to face the darkness, even in a place as familiar to him as the firehall. Or maybe he simply wanted the light to chase any potential cockroaches away.

Egon followed him down the stairs. "Peter, wait. I'm trying to understand. Was it something I said?"

Peter stopped on the landing and whirled to face him, a combination of hurt and resentment on his face. "Think about it real hard, Spengler, and maybe it'll come back to you," he proclaimed before he turned and practically ran down the last few steps.

Egon found him at Janine's desk, his hands pressed against the desktop, his head hanging down between his shoulders. Ragged breaths that were halfway to sobs whistled out. Sensing Egon's presence he stiffened and turned, looking curiously at bay. From the shadows in his eyes, the nightmare's effects still clung to him.

"Was it the cockroach, Peter?" Egon asked softly.

"Shut up. Shut up." Peter's hands came up to fend Egon off. "Don't mention co--those things to me."

So it was the cockroach. But it was more than that, too. Egon could see it in the staring eyes, eyes that held pain and--was that betrayal? Peter looked around wildly, seeking a means of escape and, finding himself pinned against the desk, he did what he always did when he felt himself to be at a disadvantage. He attacked.

"Throw me to the wolves, sit back and watch, think it's funny. God, Egon, I thought we were a team here. Guess not. All you care about is saving your own precious hide, and I'm only good for bait. And then you tell me I wasn't much help, was I? Okay, next time, we'll send the Bogeyman after you and stand back and enjoy it. Goddamn it, Egon, get away from me, leave me alone." He pushed wildly past Egon and started for the front door.

For the first few steps, Egon didn't even follow him. Instead, he stood stunned, recalling the scene at the warehouse. Yes, the guys had chosen Peter to act as bait without hesitation--but he usually volunteered to take such risks on his own, often while pretending to do anything but. Egon remembered how they had kidded him as they waited for the shapeshifter's arrival by listing every potential threat he might face, and he could have sworn he'd seen humor on his face as they named off entity after entity.

Peter had run from the cockroach but the whole team had done nothing but run from the entity while trying to work out a strategy since they encountered it. Surely he wasn't ashamed of that. No, it was because the shapeshifter had assumed the form of a giant cockroach that it had hit him so hard. Peter hated roaches, but he always complained of them so humorously that one could never be quite sure whether or not he meant it as a joke or whether he was genuinely terrified of them.

It was Peter's way, though, to cover up his insecurities with humor. Egon had never quite taken his reaction to cockroaches seriously; but Peter had never encouraged any of them to take it seriously. After years of learning Peter's defense mechanisms, Egon should have recognized this one, too.

Shaking himself out of his speculation, Egon lunged after Peter and caught him at the door, his hand on the knob. "You'll be the hit of the neighborhood out there in your pajamas, Peter," he said in normal, teasing tones.

The humor didn't work, but the actual words did. Startled, Peter glanced down at himself then pulled his hand away from the doorknob. He didn't unwind, though. Instead he drew himself up with great dignity and said in an icy voice, "Get out of my way, Egon," before he stalked toward his office in another panicked retreat.

Egon went with him every step of the way. "It was something I said," he realized, recalling Peter's earlier complaint. "I said you weren't much help. Is that it? But no one would have been any help in such a situation."

"Yeah, thanks." Peter's voice was hard and brittle enough to shatter at any second. "Put you up against your worst nightmare, Egon, and see how well you'd do. Guess I'm not entitled to the same leeway." He must have realized the words exposed his vulnerability because his shoulders went taut and he pushed open the gate and stalked into his office, unable to meet Egon's eyes.

Egon abruptly saw it as Peter must have seen it, at least after his nightmare. The other three had casually served him up to the monster roach and then delayed stopping it while it chased him all over the room. Afterwards, when it had escaped, they had faulted him for their failure to trap it. Especially Egon. Of course that hadn't been how it really happened; the guys had never had a clear shot till the end because the giant roach had always managed to be directly between them and Peter. Egon's complaint had been automatic; the guys kidded each other that way all the time. But, to Peter, who had been served up a ghastly image of all his worst nightmares rolled up into one gigantic monster, it would have felt that way. He'd been a little quiet since they returned home from the Poconos, but none of them had been very talkative. Having to trap Drool, who had been harmless and good-hearted and self-sacrificing, had bothered all of them, although Ray kept insisting hopefully that Drool would find friends in the containment unit.

"Peter, I'm sorry," Egon began.

His friend spun around and met his gaze head on. "Yeah, right, Egon. Thanks. I think. Until next time you need a Judas goat, right?"

Judas goat? Oh, dear. "Peter, tell me about your nightmare."

The psychologist hesitated for a split second then he said very rapidly and very bluntly, "Okay, yeah, so it caught me and it was eating me, and you guys just stood there lined up against the wall with your throwers against your shoulders and said, 'well, he wasn't much help, was he?' And then you shrugged and walked away and left me there." A massive shudder racked his body. "Guess I know how important I really am around here, don't I?"

Oh, god. Egon was shocked at the horror of the dream. Peter probably hadn't realized he felt like he'd been hung out to dry until he had it. Now, caught up in reaction, he must believe his friends were willing to sacrifice him and not even care. Of course he knew better inside and, under normal circumstances, he'd cope far better, but this was immediately after the dream, and after an experience that had tweaked his atavistic dread in the worst possible way.

He could tell Peter how vital he really was, how none of them would even want to be here if Peter weren't here, too, but he had a sneaky feeling the psychologist wouldn't believe a word of it. That didn't mean he couldn't try, though.

"Peter, you know that isn't true."

"Sure I do. I just saw a prime example." Peter's eyes glittered too brightly. Realizing it, he turned his back on Egon and stood pointedly waiting for him to go away. His shoulders were hunched under the red and white striped pajama top.

Egon didn't go away. He couldn't. Instead he walked up behind Peter and put his arms around him, pulling the struggling man back against his chest. Peter fought him but not quite hard enough to get away, a fact that gave Egon hope, since he knew Peter could have broken loose and decked him without effort. Of course Venkman's muscles didn't loosen; he was taut and unyielding, but he didn't push himself free.

"Sometimes I am an idiot," Egon remarked. Ordinarily, this would have been a prime opening for Peter, who would have retaliated gleefully with a list of exaggerated examples of Egon's idiotic behavior. He didn't retaliate now. Instead he drew in quick, urgent breaths as he struggled against tears. Egon tried to imagine the horror of the dream, being devoured by a giant roach while his friends stood by and watched, unconcerned. He wanted Peter to think back and remember how diligently they had pursued the roach, yelling for Peter that they were coming, so that he would realize they had tried. Far better for Peter to be afraid than to be neutronized by a thrower because they'd fired too hastily. He couldn't say that, though. He couldn't even offer justification, because they had picked Peter and staked him out as bait. They had taken turns like that with every member of the team over the years; it had simply been Peter's turn. None of them had guessed what he would be bait for, of course. Could the shapeshifter have read enough of Peter's mind to know how best to demoralize him?

Realizing Peter didn't intend to respond to his conversational gambit, Egon plunged on. "I become caught up in my work. I never have been a 'people' person. Any skills in that area I possess, I learned from you, but I didn't learn enough to become you. Sometimes I am totally insensitive and, for that, I apologize."

Peter didn't relax. He was still poised to jump away the minute Egon let go. Egon didn't let go. Peter's body vibrated with tension. If the nightmare hadn't awakened the others, he would have hauled himself into control by morning and been much harder to get through to--and he wouldn't have let his unhappiness show. He'd have been wisecracking and covering up like mad, the way he always did. Time would have made him realize the dream was not a true estimation of his value to the team. This way was better, even if it was harder for both of them right now.

"You called that one on the money, Egon." Peter was working very hard to keep his voice steady, but he wasn't ready to yield yet, either to his emotions or to Egon's repentance.

"Peter, none of us realized," Egon tried again. "We'd all been running away from the entity from the moment it first attacked us. He could hear Peter in his mind now. "Help! Help! Help! Please help!" There had been sheer desperation in that last cry. Why hadn't he heard it at the time? Because he, Ray, and Winston were just as desperately trying to stop the shapeshifter before it could hurt Peter. He said so.

"You took your time about it."

"Peter, we could not get a clear shot until we actually hit it," Egon explained. "Think back. You know that. You know we would have stopped it sooner if it were humanly possible. You know it, because that's what you would have done if it were one of us."

Peter shivered; Egon could feel it through his entire body. "It was a--a cockroach, Egon," he blurted out. "It was a giant cockroach and in my dream it was eating me." This time his voice did break, but he called it under control immediately. "I'm...scared of--of roaches, Egon," he confessed abashedly. "Little bitty things you can squish with your thumb, and I'm scared of them."

"That was no little bitty thing," Egon countered, realizing that might have been a mistake from the way the body he held stiffened. "I mean, your fear of it was well-justified, Peter. You needn't feel bad for fearing it."

"Or for yelling like a baby and running away?" Peter countered.

"Which of us has not yelled and run away any number of times in the course of the job?"

"Yeah, Egon, but that was being sensible. Sometimes the only thing to do is run."

"Q.E.D."

"Whatever that means," Peter grumbled, proving he understood by continuing immediately, "Yeah, but not in blind panic like a baby."

"Those other threats we ran from were not our greatest fears, either. I can imagine how it felt to you, that we had thrown you out to be attacked by the thing you feared the most. That wasn't what we intended and I am positive you know that."

Peter's muscles relaxed slightly. "Maybe," he conceded. Then he added in a rush, "Yeah, I probably know it." He sagged back against Egon, accepting the comfort of the embrace, then he caught himself and stiffened again and admitted in a small voice, "I just don't feel it yet."

"Know this," Egon said firmly. "Each one of us would have jumped in its path in a heartbeat and risked our lives to save you, and you know this very well, Dr. Venkman. That we didn't have a clear shot and I was foolish enough to make an insensitive remark does not negate the fact that any of us would die to save your life--and you know that."

"None of this dying stuff," Peter growled, but the tension wasn't gone yet. Egon hadn't quite reached the heart of the problem. Peter had felt like the team had hung him out to dry, but he knew that was a panic reaction and he would work past it. He was far too competent a psychologist not to, especially since Egon was reinforcing it and since Peter's abundantly healthy ego would not allow him to believe anything else. "I know you guys would. I guess the nightmare just made me forget it for a little while." He was still shaking a little, though.

Egon tightened his grip around Peter. "If you can't tell me right now what is still bothering you, Peter, then there is something very wrong with our friendship."

Peter shivered and tightened up again. "God, Egon, that dream punched all my buttons. The c-cockroach, and thinking you guys didn't c-are."

"You didn't really believe that. Not inside, where it matters."

Peter's head moved from side to side in negation. "No, not really. Heck, I'm a great guy. What's not to care?"

"Peter!" Egon said sternly.

Venkman pulled away so abruptly that Egon's abortive grab failed to snag him. He circled around his desk, deliberately putting it between himself and Egon, and he raised eyes that were brimming with unshed tears. As Egon stared at him in alarm, one broke free and slid, unnoticed, down his cheek.

"Oh, god," he breathed. "What if it had been one of you the cockroach was chasing? What if I--what if I had panicked and--and didn't help? What if it had--had eaten you?" The minute he said the words aloud, horror ran across his face and he put up his hands to hide his tears.

So that was it. Peter had chosen to believe his friends had sacrificed him to the roach--because he wasn't sure he'd have been able to protect them if one of them had been the bait. Egon wanted to reach out, to offer soft reassurances, but he didn't think that would cut through Peter's distress. Instead he made himself stand tall and straight. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say."

Peter's shoulders quivered a moment more then he registered the meaning of Egon's words and he took his hands away from his face to stare. His cheeks were wet but his eyes were blank and uncomprehending. "Wh-what?"

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt because that nightmare was so unpleasant--yes, Peter, I know that is an understatement!--but think. I happen to know your fear of heights is very real, yet who was it who went out on that narrow ledge last month and saved Ray when he was hanging from his fingertips? Don't imagine I overlooked the panic reaction you were so determined to downplay after the fact, although I said nothing at the time. Who was it who went down into that well on the end of a rope to rescue the child that Class-5 knocked in three weeks ago? You didn't even know that little girl, Peter. Yet you insisted on going down. Think. When someone else is in jeopardy, you always put aside your fear and face it. You take risks for the rest of us that you might not take for yourself. If it had been me the roach pursued, or Ray, or Winston, you would have been leading the charge to the rescue, the way you always do. I have no doubt of that."

"You don't?" Peter sounded so vulnerable Egon suspected he would be dreadfully insufferable in the morning to cover up for his moments of weakness.

"No, none whatsoever. I did not know how serious was your dread of cockroaches; I've seen you kill them and make wisecracks about it, and I've seen you whine and complain about them and exaggerate your fear to make us doubt its existence but never to give me reason to believe your fear of them was that intense."

Peter squirmed. "Okay, well, yeah, I have to give you that one, Spengs," he admitted. "You think I want to admit that the great Peter Venkman is afraid of a bug?"

That sounded much better. Peter was finding the strength to pull his control into place. Egon had known it wouldn't take too long; Peter was a strong man who had stood up against horrors that would send most people screaming into the night. The dream had shaken him, and no one is at his best in the middle of the night.

"Did you think we would mock you for it?"

Peter hesitated. "Some have," he admitted, squirming a little. Then he relaxed, his breath going out in a whoosh. "Just--not you guys. I'm sorry, Egon. I wasn't fair to you."

"No, you were simply being human, and that is allowed."

"Hey, you're coming on with this psychology stuff," Peter said brightly. "I must be rubbing off on you."

Egon pretended to shudder. "Horrible thought."

"Hey, yeah, you'll start sleeping in, in the mornings, and watching Bogart movies, and--"

Egon lifted an eyebrow at him. "And making smart remarks, and avoiding work? I think not, Peter. I far prefer my own lifestyle."

Peter grinned shakily. Scrubbing a not-remotely-abashed hand across his face to eradicate the evidence of his breakdown, he stood there for a second, drawing in deep breaths. Egon knew the signs. As the tension snapped, he might still lose it, and he'd hate that. What had happened up till now had been honest reaction and he could live with that. He would view anything further as self-indulgence and it would embarrass him terribly.

"In any case," Egon continued hastily, "I much prefer to go to bed at a reasonable hour, to lead an examined life, to value and maintain my intellect, to attend the opera--"

Peter's grin turned genuine. "Opera! Okay, deal. I'll stick with my life, because if there's anything I hate more than cockroaches, it's Valkyries. How any sane and sensible man can do anything as dangerous as going to the opera is beyond me."

Egon slid his arm around Peter's shoulders. "For a man of culture--"

"Culture?" Peter complained. "Give me a break here." But he leaned into the circle of Egon's arm as they started for the stairs, falling into step as if they had been designed to walk in perfect unison. "Culture? That's another name for being a stuffed shirt, and you know it. Culture! The opera sucks, Egon, and that's the bottom line. Sic a Valkyrie on a guy, listen to all that screeching, put up with Divas who play mind games... Give me a Rangers game every single time."