THE DENETHOR SOLUTION

            "If I should return, think better of me, Father." Faramir paused, half turned, his face alive with pain, his eyes glittering brightly with the tears he would not allow to fall.

            Scrunched down in his theater seat, Charlie Venkman winced. He knew he wasn't a sensitive man; he'd never been particularly good at realizing the pain of others, but his lacerated nerves had opened him up to pain, and the suffering of an ill-used son pounded him like a sledgehammer.

            Denethor, the mad Steward of Gondor, didn't spare so much as a glance at poor Faramir. He continued pigging out on his feast, while the Hobbit Pippin's shock and disbelief all but screamed out for everyone to hear. Denethor didn't hear it, of course. "That," he said with awful finality, "will depend on the manner of your return."

            Charlie Venkman had never read The Lord of the Rings--he wasn't a book kind of guy--but he had seen the first two movies and thought they were pretty decent. He had envied the powers of Gandalf, got a charge out of Merry and Pippin, wondered if Treebeard would have set off one of the Ghostbusters' P.K.E. meters, and enjoyed the battle of Helm's Deep. Now, in this theater near the hospital, he had taken refuge for a few hours, hoping to lose himself in Middle Earth and The Return of the King, and to avoid the guilty thoughts that wanted to nag at his conscience. Charlie had spent a lifetime training his conscience to behave, to ignore his less-than-savory behavior, to find others to blame when things went wrong, but it was harder this time. What better than one of the great movies to lure him away from the images that burned in his brain?

            Faramir walked away to lead his men to their doom. His shoulders slightly hunched, he went with the steps of a man who would hesitate at the slightest hint of a kindness, of a good word. Poor little Pippin stared after him, outraged and disbelieving. Charlie winced. He'd seen just such a look on Ray's face when it all happened, Ray, unable to believe that Charlie had set up his son. Denethor didn't call Faramir back, of course. The man was seriously deranged. He might be mourning his other son, Boromir, but he'd mouthed off to old Gandalf, and claimed Gondor was his, even if it was his duty to turn it over to the King, when Aragorn came to claim his throne. From the title of the film, Aragorn would succeed, but that would have to play itself out.

            The scene cut away from Faramir, sent out by his own father, who should have valued him. Just so Charlie should have valued Peter. His conscience slid away from that. Orcs would probably register on the guys' meters. Demons did, after all, and the demon last night had been every bit as ugly as the pig-faced mother who led the orcs in Osgiliath.

            Don't think about that. Watch the movie.

            Faramir led his men through the streets of Minas Tirith, his face set in rigid lines, his pain all tucked inside. He had to know he was leading his men to their deaths. When Gandalf tried to stop him, he asked, "Where does my allegiance lie if not here?" God, allegiance to a father who didn't deserve it. Fathers shouldn't be granted allegiance because of an accident of birth. They should earn it. Yet Peter always jumped in when Charlie needed help. He might bawl him out and rant at him, and he might stiffen up and pretend he wasn't hurt by his father's actions. Charlie always coaxed him around. Greatest son a man could have, a son to count on.

            Was he a father to count on? Had he ever been, even once?

            The troops rode out of Minas Tirith and lined up for the hopeless charge on Osgiliath. Mad Denethor kept right on stuffing his face, so greedily the juices ran down his chin. Then he turned to Pippin, who stood rigid in his duty, hurting for Faramir, whom he probably didn't even really know. Maybe he was thinking of Frodo, out there on another seemingly hopeless quest. Charlie shivered when Denethor asked Pippin to sing for him. That drinking song he and Merry had sung while dancing on the table in Edoras didn't seem like the best choice, but here was Pippin claiming his songs weren't suited for great halls and evil times. The way he said the word "evil" gave Charlie a pretty good idea he thought Denethor was pond scum. But he had sworn allegiance and would stand by it. He wouldn't understand military strategy anyway. It wasn't as if the Shire had any battles. Whatever the case, he didn't protest Denethor's choice. Instead he opened his mouth and out poured a song so poignant it made Charlie's eyes sting. The song played out over Faramir's charge, and ended in a rain of arrows. The only good thing about the scene, from Charlie's viewpoint, was that he didn't have to see Faramir fall.

            "Mist and shadow, cloud and shade...."

            He'd already seen Peter fall. Seen Egon go down so hard they still didn't know if he'd make it. Seen Peter, lying there, bleeding from a wound in his side, his arm blistered from the heat of the demon's lobbed fire. Seen Ray turn once the demon was trapped and look right at Charlie for one split second before his face crumpled up the way Pippin's did when he finished his song, before he yelled, "Peter! Egon!" and ran for his downed friends. It was left to Winston to snatch up the full trap and dump it into Ecto 1--and use the mobile phone to call 911--before he ran to join Ray beside the two downed Ghostbusters.

            Charlie huddled deeper into his seat. The movie played out before his unseeing eyes. Peter would live, would recover. But he lay there, his burned arm buried in gauze, his eyes full of pain that was more than the burn, the wound in his side, and the mild concussion that kept him lying flat even when he begged them to take him to the ICU to see Egon.

            The orc army formed before Minas Tirith, and then the scene cut to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli walking the paths of the dead. The spirits of the betrayers came out of the very walls, just like something the Ghostbusters would try to bust, but so many of them. Charlie imagined Egon dreaming up some gizmo that would suck them all in at once. Hadn't he done something like that a few years ago when a "ghost legion" tried to attack Manhattan? Who you gonna call? thought Charlie.

            Aragorn stood up to them, demanded their allegiance, revealed himself to be Isildur's heir. He was the kind of guy an army would follow. Éowyn had already told him the Rohirrim would, even to their deaths. The four Ghostbusters would stand with each other even onto death, too. Charlie had seen it in their faces more times than he could count. Would anyone follow him?

            The scene shifted before the ghosts answered but Charlie knew they'd follow him. He carried the sword that was broken, all nicely reforged by the Elves.

            Could other things be reforged?

            And there was Faramir again, dragged home by his horse, a couple of arrows sticking out of his body. They rushed him through the city to his father, carried on a stretcher, and Denethor came out and started ranting about how his son was dead--fine time to worry about that when he'd pretty much murdered him.

            But wait. Pippin ran out and checked on Faramir--about time somebody did something practical instead of just wailing. "He's not dead." Faramir lived? Charlie sucked in breath. Faramir's survival suddenly became the most important point in the whole movie to him. Faramir had to live, to reconcile with Denethor. There had to be a reconciliation.

            But crazy old Denethor refused to listen. He ranted on about his sons being dead and the line of the stewards ended--a little late to complain now, when he'd sent Boromir off to Rivendell to attempt to bring the Ring to Gondor and Faramir off to almost certain doom. When his demented wandering took him to the wall where he could see the zillions of orcs arrayed in battle lines before his city, he lost it entirely and started bellowing for his soldiers to flee. Good thing Gandalf came along and whacked him with his staff. A take-charge kind of guy, Gandalf.

            Maybe you could give me a few good whacks while you're at it, Gandalf the White.

            Charlie wrapped his arms around his chest and watched the movie play out before him. He'd thought he'd be safe in here, caught up in a grand spectacle that would distract him from the real world just a few blocks away, from the son who wouldn't even look at him, from the man who lay comatose in the ICU, the man Charlie might have killed even if it had been the demon who had injured him. His son's best friend. If Egon died, if he lived but didn't fully recover, Peter would never forgive Charlie for the scam that had brought the demon to their attention.

            One hell of a battering ram started slamming into the gates of the City. And here came Denethor again with a torch and his men bringing Faramir on a litter. Geeze, he was going to burn his son alive! In his mind's eye, Charlie saw the demon fire lash up at his son, saw Peter throw up his arm to protect his face, even as he tried to forge his way through the ruined building to Egon's side. The burn didn't slow him, not one iota. He kept yelling, "Egon!" and only the sudden pain in his voice let Charlie know he even felt the burn.

            Frodo had a run-in with a humongous spider, and although Charlie had never been comfortable with creepy-crawlies, even the ordinary-sized ones, the huge spider didn't exactly cut through Charlie's memories. Sam rushed to Frodo's rescue, the way Peter had rushed to Egon's, the way Peter had faced up to the burning building for a friend's sake, while Charlie had hidden.

            And here came Pippin again. Denethor ranted about Faramir already burning. The guy was an idiot if he couldn't tell the difference between wound fever and fire, but then that was the whole point. He was an idiot. So was Charlie. Pippin rushed in, insisting Faramir was alive but nobody must have dared to cross the Steward. They stood around while Pippin tried to tear the bundles of wood away from the platform where Faramir lay.

            Denethor tossed Pippin out, released him from his service and told him to go and die in what way seemed best to him. Then he slammed the doors with Pippin on the outside. Charlie shuddered. It was all too real to him. Peter had pretty much slammed all doors in Charlie's face.

            Pippin ran through the burning city that he had first seen in the palantir, calling for Gandalf. Just so had Peter run through the burning building to get to Egon before the ceiling could fall on him. The demon's blast slowed him for all of two seconds--and those two seconds were all that was needed. A huge chunk of plaster slammed down on the fallen Egon's head, and while Ray and Winston guided the demon into two separate ghost traps that they'd flung out automatically, Peter had brushed away the debris. When he realized Egon was bleeding, blood pumping out of his arm from a sliced artery, he had sat there hunched over, ignoring his own injuries, applying pressure in the right place, begging Egon to wake up. Cowering in his sheltered niche, Charlie had a perfect view of his son's anguished face. When the traps' doors slammed shut over the demon and Winston ran to put the traps away and call for aid, Charlie followed Ray over to Egon.

            "We have to get him out of here," Ray was pleading. "It isn't safe. I know we're not supposed to move somebody when they're hurt, but if we got him on one of those boards...."

            Charlie grabbed a corner of a board and towed it behind him. "Here, son. I'll help."

            Peter lifted a face with tortured eyes. "You son of a bitch, you 'helped' too much already. If Egon...if Egon dies, I swear to God I'll...."

            "Peter." Ray's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it stopped Peter dead.

            "Come on, Ray," he said, abandoning his rant as unimportant in the reality of Egon's injury. "I've gotta tie something around this so we can move him."

            Charlie remembered looking uneasily over his shoulder at the burning chamber and wondering if he could run. The urge to abandon Peter and take off had been so strong it had required every bit of willpower he possessed to stand his ground. Peter glowered at him, but he didn't object when Charlie helped shift Egon very carefully onto the long wooden slat. He even took one end of it so that Peter could maintain pressure on Egon's wound. Peter let him, but Charlie didn't delude himself he did it out of acceptance or appreciation. If the demon had volunteered to help Egon, Peter would have allowed it and then busted it all over again once Egon was safe in the hands of the paramedics.

            As they picked up the makeshift litter, Ray turned and stared at Charlie for one endless second, his eyes full of reproach and disbelief. Just so had Pippin stared at Denethor.

            The only difference between us is that I'm not nuts, Charlie thought. At least he had an excuse.

            Some excuse.

            Rohan arrived, six thousand horsemen atop a hill, ready to charge down on the orc army. While they attacked, galloping through the unmounted orcs like hot knives through butter, Pippin recruited Gandalf to save Faramir. Charlie held his breath. Faramir's fate mattered to him. Peter, the psychologist, would probably talk about transference or one of those psychology terms he'd been known to spout, even if he would twist them around in layman's terms. He sounded like Charlie when he did that, and Charlie had always been tickled at his son's style, enjoying the fact that it bugged Egon.

            Would it ever bug him again? The doctors said they couldn't be sure if Egon had brain damage or not until he woke up. The longer he remained unconscious, the worse the odds became. It had been nearly a day. If Egon revived, his brilliant mind shattered, Peter would hate Charlie for the rest of his life.

            Well, what was I supposed to do? Let the demon run around free? I had to call the guys in. It would've been a sweet deal. I thought we could control it, make money. I didn't know it would go on a rampage.

            He shivered in his seat. More excuses, Charlie. That's what you're best at, isn't it?

            Denethor drenched himself with oil. There was Faramir, still alive, twitching slightly, his face glistening with sweat and oil. "Set a fire in our flesh," Denethor commanded. What the hell was wrong with these guys with the torches? They were just gonna do it? Mindless obedience? Come on, Gandalf.

            And there came the wizard, bursting in right on cue. Denethor, not to be thwarted, set the blaze himself, and Gandalf grabbed a spear or pike and knocked him off the fire. But Faramir lay there, the flames rising around him. Charlie's muscles tightened. No. No. No.

            In his mind's eye, he saw Peter, standing in a burning building, guarding his downed friend, the glow of the blaze reflecting off his face. Charlie remembered the sound of the distant sirens and cringed at the heat, the thought that the rest of the ceiling could come crashing down. The urge to drop his end of the makeshift stretcher was so strong he'd nearly done it. But they'd gotten Egon out, just before the ceiling fell. The sound of it crashing down behind them had awakened Charlie in the night out of a nightmare in which it had fallen on Peter.

            Small, valiant Pippin launched himself into the pyre and it took every ounce of his Hobbit strength to pitch Faramir out onto the floor. He had worried about being brave enough, but when the chips were down, he'd found his courage. He even beat out the flames in Faramir's clothing with his own hands. Charlie wondered if he would ever find that much courage in himself.

            He doubted it.

            Denethor had to get in his two cents worth. "You will not take my son from me." Yeah, right. He should have protected his son, seen he got treatment, valued him. Instead he'd compounded his command to send him to his death by attempting to insure it. What a son of a bitch.

            Just like Charlie.

            But Faramir's eyes opened. Denethor stared down at him from the fire in disbelief. Was it really the first time the old bastard had accepted that Faramir wasn't dead? He started to say something. Charlie couldn't make it out, but he hoped to God Denethor had started to tell his son he loved him. It could have been that. Major wishful thinking here. But then the flames took the guy and he ran, out through the palace, out along the rock that stuck out through the middle of the city and over the edge to fall in flames. No more than the bastard deserved.

            Heck of a thing for Faramir, though. Brother dead, father dead after trying to kill him a couple of times. He wasn't even going to get Gondor, not with Aragorn just waiting to take the throne. And there was Peter. Best friend/brother maybe dying, father useless.

            Charlie watched the rest of the movie in numbed shock, yesterday's fire more vivid than the rest of the battle. Merry stabbed the Witch King and Éowyn killed it. Two people who shouldn't have been in the battle at all, rising to unexpected heights. Legolas brought down a giant elephant single-handed. "That still only counts as one," said Gimli, who fought his way through the battle counting coup to keep up with Legolas. Talk about a weird friendship.

            Was it any weirder than Peter's with Egon?

            Charlie watched the Fellowship gather at Frodo's bedside when he revived after his rescue from Mount Doom, and wished with all his heart that the other three Ghostbusters could reenact that scene around Egon's bed. Frodo was all healed up except for his missing finger, and the Fellowship had been reunited. God, Charlie wanted a scene like that for Egon. He didn't think Peter would forgive him without it.

            There was only one more glimpse of Faramir in the movie, at Aragorn's coronation. He looked healed, but then there'd probably been a gap of time there. The city had been pretty much restored, to show it.

            Faramir lived and from that look he'd given Éowyn, he might have found something to live for. She didn't have Aragorn, after all, not with Arwen giving up immortality for him. Charlie decided he'd peek into the books and see if there was some explanation for the two of them together like that. Of course he was the Steward in his father's place now, and she was the granddaughter of a king. That ought to work.

            The rest of the movie, the Hobbits' return to the Shire, the Grey Havens, didn't move him. He kept thinking of Denethor.

            Faramir had lived. Peter would live.

            If Egon died, Charlie didn't know what would happen.

            When the end credits came up, he put on his coat and walked out. It was time to return to the hospital.

*****

            "Come on, Greg, let me go see Egon. The other guys have gotten to sit with him. I want to be there, too." When Dr. Labraccio hesitated, Peter pushed himself up on his elbows. The room swayed a little, and his stomach lurched, but his bland lunch stayed down. The injury to his side was no more than a long, shallow cut, but it had bled enough to leave him weak, and it pulled when he moved. He controlled the wince in hopes it would pass unnoticed. "See. I'm not barfing." When Labraccio lifted a dark eyebrow, Peter plunged on. "Come on, Greg, I've got to see him. Maybe I can get through to him. You know they always say people in--in comas can hear what's going on. Egon's in there. He's gonna be fine. But I have to be there."

            "You're not up to it, Peter."

            "I don't care. I have to be up to it. I can't just lie here and do nothing. What if...." God, he couldn't even say it. "What if it's my last chance to--to say goodbye?" He felt his eyes burn, and he blinked furiously. He didn't have the luxury of tears. He had to get in there and call Egon out of the coma. That it wasn't within his power was something he refused to let himself believe.

            Ray was with him now, Peter knew. He had the schedule memorized. Winston was with Janine in the waiting room; they'd been tossed out of Peter's room so the doctor could check him out. Janine had gone, taut and dry-eyed, but full of so much pain Peter could hardly bear to look at her. His dad had gotten them into this mess in the first place. If Egon.... If Egon died, it would be Peter's fault for buying into the old conman's scams one more time. You'd think he'd have had time to learn Charlie would always let him down. Letting him down was one thing. Killing his friends was another.

            No surprise that Charlie wasn't here. He'd probably taken off once he was sure Peter would live. Peter knew his father loved him, but it was one hell of a selfish love. He'd gone through it over and over, because no kid, even an adult kid, wanted to believe a parent would use him and put himself first the way Charlie always did. One more chance, in the hopes that he would do the right thing, that he would finally become what Peter wanted him to be, one more self-indulgence, and look what had come of it.

            This self-indulgence might mean Egon's death, or the destruction of his incredible mind.

            "I have to go, Greg. I have to."

            Labraccio's brow puckered. He looked like he'd been yanking his hands through his tangled curls. "In a wheelchair, Peter. For ten minutes."

            "Ten minutes? I should stay there, Greg. I need to talk him back."

            "You have a concussion, too, Peter, and that burn is a major second-degree one; you're at risk of infection and even blood poisoning, and we're determined. Your system has had a shock. I don't think you'd manage more than ten minutes, and I'd be a bad physician if I put you at risk."

            "I don't care," Peter insisted. "I don't care, Greg. What do I matter? I'm not gonna die of it. I might collapse after and take longer to get back in shape, but that's okay. Egon's more important."

            "Peter, if you're doing a guilt trip because your father messed up--"

            "Even if I am," Peter gritted out, "Egon still needs me in there. You think anything else matters?" Wallowing in guilt or blaming his dad wouldn't help Egon. He'd deal with those issues after Egon woke up. Because he had to wake up. He had to. All the years of their friendship couldn't end like this.

            Greg sighed. "Hell, Peter, I've seen you guys through all manner of crises. I've never seen a team like you four Ghostbusters. Okay. I'll take you in to see him. But I reserve the right to pull you out before you collapse. I know you're too damn stubborn to rest when you need to, but Egon's my patient, too, as well as my friend. Wait right there and I'll get a wheelchair."

            Peter forced down his impatience as he waited for the chair, for Greg himself to help him into it, to attach his IV to the chair. He tried to pretend he didn't feel lightheaded because he knew at the first sign of weakness he'd be back in his bed, and he couldn't let that happen. He gnawed on his bottom lip while Greg fitted his injured arm into a careful sling, padded so as not to put pressure on the burn. It hurt like blazes, but Peter didn't care. He shut down that part of his mind and concentrated all his energy on reaching Egon.

            Greg wheeled him to the elevator for the journey up to Intensive care, and they must not have passed the waiting room on the way because Peter didn't see Winston and Janine. Instead he met Ray coming out of the ICU. Ray's face was lined and tired, his eyes hollow. When he saw Peter, he lunged at him.

            "Oh, gosh, Peter, he still isn't waking up. He moved around a little, and turned his head when I talked, and the nurse in there said that was a good sign, but he still didn't wake up." He heaved a huge, shuddering sigh. "He looks so awful just lying there." He caught himself, and distress filled his eyes for worrying Peter with his words.

            "We're gonna wake him up, Ray. We have to." Peter lacked the strength to comfort himself. He didn't have the heart to defend his own actions. But Ray was so unhappy that Peter roused for his sake. "I'll get him back. It's my dad that brought this on, so it's my responsibility." If Egon was getting restless, he must be ready to wake up. He had to be. Maybe Peter could draw him out of it.

            Ray hadn't been able to, at least not yet, and Ray could coax a demon into going to church.

            Didn't matter. Egon would wake up because he had to. Because the alternative would be unthinkable.

            Peter could think of nothing else.

            Damn you, Dad, if he dies, I swear to God I'll.... He let the threat trail away. It didn't matter. Only Egon mattered.

            Ray's eyes softened. The fear didn't entirely ease, but it retreated. He didn't say, as he probably wanted to, "You shouldn't be up," but he reached out and gripped Peter's hands, careful not to disturb the IV or jar Peter's arm. His grip was warm and strong, and Peter wanted to hold on and not let go. He tightened his fingers around Ray's.

            "You can do it," Ray said. "You can get to him." He glanced past Peter to Dr. Labraccio, measuring the doctor's resolution, probably trying to figure out how long Greg would let Peter remain out of bed, then his worried eyes came back to Peter. "It's not your fault, anyway. But I know you think you have to do what you can." He tightened his grip. "Do your best, Peter, and remember, we're all here to help. We'll take turns with him until he comes back."

            Peter smiled at Ray. "I know you are. We'll get him back. But I have to try. I have to, Ray. Go and be with Winston and Janine," he said. "I'll go in and do what I can."

            Ray squeezed one final time then reluctantly let go. He mustered up a determined smile for Peter, squared his shoulders, and went off to reassure Janine and Winston that Egon was showing restlessness.

            Hope, even slight hope, was better than despair.

            When he saw Egon, Peter could hardly hold back the despair. Egon lay attached to monitors that gave out readings on a panel over his head, an IV attached, a temperature monitor on one fingertip. His arm was bandaged--Peter remembered all too vividly the way his arm had spurted blood and couldn't repress a shudder.

            As Peter came in, Egon's head turned, not in Peter's direction but just restlessly against the pillow. His face was pale, his eyes shut, his mouth lax, and only the slight motion, the rise and fall of his chest, and the steady monitor indicators proved he was alive. In his face Peter could see no sign of personality, no trace of the spark that made him Egon rather than just an animated corpse. What if there was nothing left inside for Peter to reach?

            Greg pushed the wheelchair right up to the bed, then his hand came down on Venkman's shoulder and squeezed. "Ten minutes, Peter," he said, and went away.

            For the first few seconds, Peter simply watched Egon. No wonder Ray had come out of here looking so desolate. There was nothing reassuring about the sight of Egon, nothing at all.

            Carefully Peter reached out and captured Egon's hand in both of his own. Duelling IV's, he thought fleetingly and pushed the thought away. Egon's hand felt cold, and his fingers didn't flex when Peter squeezed it.

            "God, Egon, I'm sorry," Peter blurted out, all the anguish he was feeling flooding that desperate cry. "I shouldn't have listened to Pop. I know you never trusted him. You shouldn't have to be the one to pay. It should be me."

            He didn't mean to wallow in guilt with Egon, but even as he let the words spill out he knew that, in a way, the confession was calculated. Maybe he could make Egon hear his distress. Once Egon woke up, Peter could shunt it away and reassure Egon, but just maybe there was a chance Peter's pain could reach Egon in whatever dark place he was trapped.

            The hand in his moved feebly once, clenched slightly, and relaxed again.

            "Egon!" It couldn't be that easy.

            It wasn't. After that involuntary motion, Egon's hand relaxed. His breathing went right on, steady and regular, and nothing else happened. Peter gazed into the unrevealing face and wanted to bawl like a baby. Weak as he was, he didn't think it would take much, but he held back. He'd already burdened Egon too much.

            "We got the demon," he said quickly. "Well, anyway, Ray and Winston got it." Egon needed to know that. But once it was said, it was time to get down to what was real. "Egon, you have to wake up. Come on, give me a sign here." He squeezed the unresponsive fingers. "Don't do this to me."

            Nothing. Not a sign that Egon heard anything. A marching band could parade through the ICU and he wouldn't so much as blink. "Egon, please," Peter begged. "If it hurts too much to talk, just squeeze my hand. Just move one finger, and I'll know."

            He waited. Nothing. No response at all.

            With a groan, Peter bowed his head and rested his forehead against Egon's hand. "Don't do this. Don't let the demon win." He sucked in breath. If only he didn't feel so woozy. He wasn't sure he could lift his head again without passing out. Greg had been right that he wasn't up to this, but it didn't matter. "I swear to you, Egon, I'll never trust my dad again. I won't let him near any of you guys. Doesn't matter if I get hurt, but he's got no right to risk you. I've got no right to risk you. I ought to be neutronized for buying into his scam."

            "Scam," said Egon in a blurry voice.

            Peter's head shot up so quick he had to catch his breath as the ICU spiraled around him. "Egon?" he pleaded, fixing his gaze on Egon's face. Gradually the turns settled down and Egon and the ICU stayed in place. Egon's eyes remained closed. His face looked as blank as before.

            "Talk to me, Egon," Peter cried.

            "Talk.... 'gon." Egon echoed.

            "It's me. It's Peter. You can do it."

            "Do 't."

            He was only mouthing back Peter's words. No awareness at all. He was hearing Peter. Was that progress? Or was it a sign his mind was...damaged? Wouldn't a guy be naturally confused at first? Even Egon couldn't be expected to spout complex formulas after being unconscious for a day. But the echoing words scared Peter so badly that his stomach rebelled and he had to swallow frantically to keep his lunch down.

            "Egon, open your eyes," he begged. "Look at me."

            The eyes remained closed. "Eyes," parroted Egon. "Look."

            Peter's heart thudded in his chest and he swallowed again against the bitterness of bile. "Egon!" he tried.

            Egon's eyes opened. He looked right at Peter, and there was not one shred of recognition or understanding in the gaze.

            Oh, God, no, it's true. He's brain damaged. It can't be. It can't.

            "Egon, look at me," Peter commanded.

            No reaction to the plea. "Look," said Egon and closed his eyes again.

            Peter sagged in the wheelchair, scarcely aware of the tears that slid silently down his face. "Oh, God, Egon," he moaned. "This can't be happening."

            An arm slid around his shoulders and hugged him tightly and he leaned involuntarily into the warmth and comfort it projected. He didn't care who it was. It could have been the relative of another patient in the ICU or an orderly and that wouldn't have mattered. "He doesn't know me," he whispered. "He looked right at me and didn't know me."

            "He will," soothed a gravelly voice in his ear. "He will, Peter. It takes time for somebody to come back from a coma. He'll be clearer next time, I give you my word."

            Peter stiffened as if he'd been given an electric shock. "Get away from me, you son of a bitch," he growled. "Get out of here. How the hell did they let you in here? I'll have you hauled away." He turned his head to glare at his father, and blinked, shocked out of his rant at the desolation and guilt that filled his father's face. He always tried to talk Peter around, never conceded that he was at fault. He'd twist it around to ladle on praise in hopes of distracting Peter, but Peter had never seen him look like that, as if he had finally realized he was pond scum.

            The unlikely display had to be the latest scam. Peter hardened his heart. "You get away from here. I don't want you within a hundred miles of Egon. Look at him. That's your fault."

            "I know it is, son. I know I'm a bad father. I know I'm not worth the dirt under your feet."

            "You called that right. What new scam is this?" Peter hissed. "God, who let you in here?"

            "I came to bring you out. Your doctor said it was time for you to be back in bed, and I have to say you look terrible, son."

            "How do you expect me to look?" He yanked himself away from his father, trying awkwardly to maneuver the unfamiliar wheelchair. Pain flared through his burn, making spots dance before his eyes, and he winced but ignored it.

            Charlie, still encircling his shoulders, must have felt the wince, because he groaned, "Burning. Burning. I wouldn't do it like he did, Peter. I never meant...."

            "I've got no idea what you're talking about and, you know what? I don't give a fuck."

            "I know he loved him in the end. But I always loved you. I can't be as bad as he was. Peter, you're my son. I know I've done terrible things, and I want to change. I can't do it alone. I need you to help me."

            "I think I've got enough on my plate right now, don't you?" He gestured at Egon with his IV'd hand. He didn't know what this new scam of his father's meant, and he didn't care. "Get out of here," he snarled. "Go away."

            Egon moaned faintly, and Peter jerked to attention and spun the wheelchair so quickly pain flared through his arm and through his whole body. He sagged, involuntarily, moaning in chorus with Egon, then forced the pain away, Charlie forgotten. "Egon?" he begged.

            Egon's head turned restlessly on the pillow, but this time it turned in Peter's direction. His eyes stayed closed.

            "See, you're upsetting him. Get out of here or I'll have an orderly haul you out of here."

            "I'm not Denethor, Peter. I won't be."

            The name rang a distant bell but Peter didn't care. "I know who you are. You're the biggest son of a bitch ever born. Go away." He turned his back on his father.

            Charlie put his hand on Peter's shoulder. "I'll be here for you, son," he said, and retreated. Peter didn't even listen to him walking away. Instead he caught up Egon's hand again and squeezed it. "God, I'm sorry, Egon. I don't know how the hell they let him in here. I won't get him near you again, I promise."

            Egon's fingers moved in his. "Promise," he echoed.

            Peter gazed at his shuttered face. "Please, Egon," he implored. "Just say something original, something that I didn't just say to you first. Just give me a sign that you're still in there."

            "Sign," Egon said. "Sign, Peter."

            Peter blinked. He'd said Peter's name. It was a sign. It was the first indication that Egon knew who was talking to him. Could it be.... "Egon?" he asked breathlessly.

            "Head...hurts."

            "Sssh. I know it does." He lowered his voice automatically. "I know it does. But it's okay. You're gonna be okay."

            Egon's eyelids fluttered. This time they didn't open all the way, only a thin slit, enough to show a slice of blue. At once he squinted as if the light hurt him. "Peter," he said, and the one word held satisfaction.

            Those troublesome tears spilled over again and ran down Peter's face, and he didn't even care if Egon saw them. "I'm right here," he said, and in spite of the fact that his head throbbed, his arm blazed at the slightest movement, and his stomach wanted to expel its contents if he so much as twitched, he felt hope blaze through him. "We're all here, Egon. We'll take turns. You're gonna be okay."

            The eyes opened a little wider, squinted. Peter would be blurry to him without his glasses. "...crying..." Egon protested. He tried to raise his hand to Peter's face, but Peter still held it in a fierce grip. "'s all right, P'ter."

            "It's all right," Peter agreed. God, that Egon should try to comfort him. "You can rest. You'll feel better next time you wake up. We can talk then."

            "Talk then," Egon agreed, but there was awareness in his eyes that hadn't been there when he'd echoed Peter's words before. His fingers tightened momentarily. "Y'r father...."

            "I know. I'll keep him away from you."

            "No, Peter." Egon struggled for awareness. It didn't come easily. He was barely awake yet. "Wait," he insisted. "Give me time...."

            "Whatever you want, Egon, I swear it."

            "Wait," Egon said, and his eyes slid shut.

            That coincided with the arrival of various medical staff. Egon's waking had probably set off a ton of monitors somewhere; elevated vital signs and such. A bevy of nurses and doctors converged upon Egon, checked readings, and clucked over him. A nurse urged Peter to let go so they could perform their examination, and he let them. It was hard to free Egon's hands. His fingers wanted to keep their grip, but he knew it was more important for the medical staff to do their thing, so he let go and allowed someone to draw him back to give the doctors room.

            "Bed for you," announced Greg Labraccio behind him, and whipped his chair away. "We'll let them check him out."

            Peter slumped in the seat, all the pain of his burned arm and throbbing head slamming into him. "He woke up, Greg," he said, and that one fact was the most important thing in the universe.

            "I saw. He may not remember all of that next time. He'll likely be vague the first few times he wakes up. But I heard enough to suspect he's going to be all right, and the monitors are looking good."

            Peter scrubbed his good arm across his eyes. "He's gonna be all right," he insisted, as if by imperial decree. He wouldn't accept any other options, not for a second. "Take me to the guys. I have to tell them."

            "I'm taking you to bed. Then I'll tell them for you." He hesitated as they came to the elevator. "I'm sorry about your father, Peter. He showed up, worried about you and remorseful, and I let him come in to bring you out. I had no idea you'd react that badly to him. I was just ready to retrieve him for fear he'd upset other patients when I realized it was probably your reaction to him that got through to Egon, so I held off."

            "My reaction?" Peter parroted back at him, every bit as blankly as Egon's earlier fumblings.

            "I didn't realize how much you blamed your father for Egon's injury," Greg said. The elevator doors slid open and he deftly whipped the chair in. "I'd never have let him in there, even for a second, otherwise. I thought you were upset and would need him, and there weren't any other patients immediately around Egon. I'll put an order through to keep him out, if that's what you would prefer."

            Peter sighed. "Keep him away from Egon," he decided. As for Peter, he might as well have it out with the old conman and get it over with. It wasn't as if Charlie had ever been a good father, anyway. Peter wouldn't be losing anything; you can't lose what you've never had. Why did the thought break his heart?

            And who the hell was Dene-whatzis? He'd heard that name somewhere recently, but his head pounded and the memory didn't clarify.

            "I will," Greg agreed. "No one but you Ghostbusters and Janine can see Egon, and of course his mother when she arrives tonight. Especially while he's in intensive care. If he continues to improve, we'll move him out of there tomorrow, but it's too soon to make that determination now. As for you, you'll be our guest for a few more nights while we take care of that burn of yours."

            Peter didn't protest, although he usually fought like crazy for discharge from the hospital. Egon was here. He'd stay, too.

            The elevator delivered Peter at his floor, and he silently let Greg wheel him back to his room. If his arguing with his father had called Egon back from coma-land, did that mean he owed his father something? Or did it mean that, even in as deep as Egon was, he'd felt Peter's pain and struggled back to respond to it? Charlie had been Charlie, scamming with a semi-convincing apology, that was all. Egon had been reaching out to his friend.

            No, Charlie hadn't done anything new. He'd just found different words to apologize. The panic in his voice, the self-blame, they were just additional tools in the conman's repertoire. Peter wasn't impressed; he hadn't been impressed by the excuses and apologies since he was old enough to understand their utter insincerity. Charlie had learned to sound sincere. He'd even told Peter once, "The secret of success is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you've got it made." A man who lived by that philosophy could never be trusted. Even if he ever really meant it, he wouldn't mean it for long. Nobody had believed the boy who cried wolf. Peter wasn't about to believe this new ploy.

            Greg put him to bed, and Peter sent him off to notify his friends. He knew the doctor couldn't hang around; he had other patients to see, rounds to make. But he vowed to do that much.

            Alone, Peter let himself relax against the pillows. Don't think about Pop. Think about Egon. Think about Egon waking up.

            Torn between joy and misery, he lay there, his arm throbbing with each beat of his heart. Egon was awake. Egon had known him, had understood. That was all that mattered.

            What had Peter lost? Nothing, because he'd always had nothing from his father. What had he gained? He'd gained Egon, recovering, aware, concerned, even in his own pain and confusion, for Peter.

            The scales weighed pretty heavy in the gain department.

            But a small corner of his heart ached for the loss of hope over his father.

*****

            Charlie Venkman didn't leave the hospital. Instead he rode the elevator down to the ground floor and wandered a bit until he found the ER waiting room. People were sitting there in various states of ill health and injury. A guy with a bloodstained bandage around his left hand sprawled in his seat staring at nothing, a woman with a hacking cough huddled in the corner, and any number of other people sat waiting, some with hovering family and friends, for their chance to be seen. Charlie selected a seat by the far wall and dropped into it.

            He couldn't walk away. He'd never seen Peter so miserable. Well, he'd looked that unhappy at Margaret's funeral, but there had been no one for him to blame then. Charlie had actually done the right thing about Margaret, been there for her at the end, held her hand when she died. Peter couldn't fault him for that.

            This time, he could.

            What would Faramir have done, if Denethor had lived? Would he have forgiven his father? Would he have welcomed Denethor back if Denethor had told him he loved him as much as he had loved Boromir? Would Faramir believe it? He had tried to do his best for his father, even if he had foresworn the ring, resisted its temptation, and the temptation to impress his father with a "mighty gift".

            Peter wasn't Faramir, though. He had given up trying to impress Charlie, knowing his father really was impressed by his son. The parallels were not the same. Faramir probably would have forgiven his father. "Think better of me, Father." Well, Peter knew Charlie couldn't have been more proud of him if he'd been the President of the United States. Peter might have said, "Don't use me, Pop," instead. Was it using to expect his son to help him, especially when the demon scam got out of hand? That's what Peter and his buddies did, fought demons and ghosts. Charlie had known they'd be there to bail him out. Egon might not trust him--well, nobody ever denied Egon was one hell of a smart guy--but he'd do it for Peter's sake. Charlie had always counted on the Ghostbusters' loyalty to his son. He'd used it, and he suspected he'd be tempted to do it again.

            Not that Peter would let him. 'Course Petey had been there at his friend's bedside, afraid he was going to come back a vegetable. Once he knew Egon was all right, he'd calm down, wouldn't he? He'd put it beside him and everything would be fine.

            That's right, Charlie, do a Denethor. Haven't you learned anything from this screw-up?

            He drew a deep breath. The problem was, such lessons never took. Charlie might not be the world's most honest man, even to himself, but he knew he had his weaknesses. The temptation to recruit Peter for another scam would come along one day. Could he override it? He wasn't a kid any more. What was there left for an old conman, if not the only family he had left? Could he clean up his act a little? He doubted he could ever quite go straight. He'd go on bending the law because it was all he knew. But could he straighten up where Peter was concerned?

            The scene at the pyre stuck with him, Denethor ready to burn his son, refusing to listen to Pippin's protests that he was alive. Charlie didn't want to be that kind of father. He hadn't done that, he hadn't put Peter down in favor of a magnificent older brother. Peter was Charlie's only child--well, that he knew about, anyway--and Charlie thought he was the greatest. Peter always helped him, always forgave him. Charlie counted on that. He used it as his trump card. Once Egon was better, Peter would get over this latest rant. He'd forgive him. It might be uncomfortable for a while, but he'd forgive him.

            For the first time, it dawned on Charlie that, just maybe, he didn't deserve it.

            "Think better of me, Peter," he said under his breath. A woman who sat near him in the ER waiting room looked at him curiously and then away. She had the beginnings of a colorful black eye, and a possible injury to her wrist from the way she supported the swollen joint with her other hand.

            All these people were here in pain. Maybe this was where he belonged. He was in pain, too. He'd deluded himself all along that Peter cared about him, that Peter would let him get away with anything. What if it wasn't true?

            Think better of me, Peter.

            That will depend on you, Pops.

*****

            "I knew he'd be okay. I just knew it."

            Winston looked at Ray's beaming face, at Janine's more wary one, and smiled a little himself. Greg had said he thought Egon would be okay. No 100% guarantees, just that Egon had roused, that he'd recognized Peter and seemed to know what was going on around him. He'd been vague and in pain, but the doctor had said he thought Egon would recover completely. Greg ought to know. He wasn't a neurologist, but he was a damned good doctor and he knew Egon, knew all of them. He'd become a good friend to the team over the years. If he said Egon would be all right, Winston was prepared to believe him.

            But Greg had also become aware of the Charlie problem. If Winston had any say in the matter, he wouldn't have let Peter's father within a mile of either Egon or Peter, at least not yet. The old guy got into his share of trouble--okay, maybe ten times more than his share of trouble, and he always dragged Peter in. Peter had to balance his concern for his old man against his worry that his friends could be endangered.

            "Pete sounds like he's having a rough time," Winston countered.

            Janine's face darkened. "His father caused this. Egon wouldn't be hurt now if not for Peter's father."

            Ray stared at her. "Peter's hurt, too, Janine. Sounds like he's blaming his dad, too."

            "He should," she agreed.

            Ray's eyes widened with distress. "But, gosh, Janine, don't you see how he'd feel about it? If he blames his dad, he has to blame himself, too. He knows Egon doesn't trust his father."

            "Smart of Egon," she snapped.

            Ray stared at her. "You better not blame Peter for this," he challenged her, his bottom lip thrust out. "We all agreed, Janine. We had to stop that demon, no matter what Charlie did. I like Peter's dad, even if I don't trust him much, but I bet he feels really bad now for hurting Peter and Egon."

            "But not for pulling the scam in the first place." Janine looked like she was prepared to stand her ground.

            Winston shook his head. "Janine, family's family. Maybe a relative isn't satisfactory, but they're still kin. If my dad were in danger, I'd be there for him, even if he got himself into it. Even if it put me in danger. That's what families do."

            "Mr. Venkman isn't Egon's family," Janine blurted out. "If Peter wants to take risks, let them be for him and not for Egon."

            "Egon is part of Peter's family," Ray cried. "We all are, and you, too, Janine. You wouldn't want Peter to go into danger by himself, would you?"

            She hesitated. "It's not right. He just does it over and over again, and people can get hurt."

            "Easy, little sister," Winston jumped in. "I bet you a month's salary that if you asked Egon about it he'd say it was his place to help Peter. You know he'd say that. I don't trust the old conman myself, but Pete would have helped him without us being there, and we couldn't let that happen. You think I'd let Pete stand alone against a demon? None of us would. Even if he wasn't family--and he is--it's what we do."

            "It's what we are," Ray insisted.

            Janine glared at them pugnaciously, then she sighed. "Egon better be all right."

            "Peter better be, too," Ray agreed. "I've sure got some things to say to Charlie."

            "Then say them, Ray," said a familiar voice from the doorway. "I deserve every one."

            They all turned to stare. Charlie Venkman hovered there, and Winston had to say he'd never seen Peter's father look so utterly chastened. Of course he was good at faking people out. If he'd been listening, he'd probably called up the most pathetic expression possible so that he could win them around. According to Greg, he hadn't won Peter around. Maybe Winston could get in a few home truths.

            "You sure do," Ray accused. "Don't you ever think? Don't you know how dangerous demons are? That place could have burned to the ground and killed us all."

            "I...didn't think," Charlie agreed, eyes lowered. He had risked one quick glance at them, and the utter hostility on Janine's face had made him take up floor study. "You boys--and lady--are right to fault me. I fault myself."

            "Well, it's about time," Janine snapped. "Assuming you actually mean it this time."

            "My boy and his friend are hurt. I mean it."

            "Yeah, for now. But then when they're better you'll do it all over again." Three cheers for Ray. He was usually such a softie that Charlie could get round him with a little mild penitence. Not this time, though.

            Charlie hunched his shoulders. "That's what I'm afraid of, Ray. I don't want to do it." He dropped into a chair and sat there, hands gripping each other, head bowed.

            Ray breathed a near-inaudible, "Aw," but Winston gave him a poke in the side.

            "I never thought I was a bad father. I love Peter. I'm proud of him. He's the greatest son a man could ever hope to have. Saving the world along with the rest of you. My son. But I am a bad father. Maybe I wasn't ready to burn him alive, maybe I didn't put him down, but I didn't put him first."

            "Burn him alive?" Ray shuddered. Winston could sympathize. The fire had been nasty. They'd only just managed to get out of the burning building when New York's Bravest had come rushing to the scene.

            "I don't want to be like him," Charlie plunged on.

            "Like who?" Janine asked blankly.

            "Put him down?" Winston repeated. "What are you saying, man?"

            "He was crazy, obsessed. I'm not crazy. I'm just a user. I use Peter."

            It wouldn't hurt one little bit to encourage this train of thought. "You sure do," Winston replied. "You say you love him. When you love somebody, you put him first. You probably con yourself into thinking you love him, but you put yourself first every single time. That's a hell of a thing. He'd put up with more from you over the years than you deserve, but what happened to Egon this time might finish it."

            "I know. That's what he said in the ICU." Charlie's hands dangled down between his knees. He looked up briefly. "What do I do, boys? I don't want to be like him."

            "Like who?" Janine demanded.

            "Denethor."

            Winston gaped at him blankly. "Denethor?"

            "You mean the steward in Lord of the Rings?" Ray asked.

            "I just saw the movie. Return of the King. He sent his son out to die. Just like I sent Peter."

            "Exactly like you sent Peter--and Egon," Janine retorted. "I'd think about that, if I were you, buster."

            Winston realized he was thinking about it. Knowing Charlie, he might now have the best intentions in the world. They wouldn't last forever, but they might last long enough to make him think a little the next time. The guy wasn't getting any younger. There might not be that many next times. Peter wouldn't turn from him forever, but it dawned on Winston that the longer he did, the better it would be for Charlie. The team had seen Return of the King. Ray had already seen it five times. For sure, Ray had wanted to kick Denethor where it most hurt. Winston wouldn't mind doing the same to Charlie Venkman.

            "When I get a chance to talk to Pete," Winston said, "I'm gonna bring up Denethor. Next time you try to scam us, I'm gonna remind him all over again--and you. So if you ever meant to clean up your act, this is the time. Because we're not gonna let you pull a Denethor again."

            That was the only way to do it. Let Charlie think he'd gotten away with it, and he'd revert. Next time he dreamed up a profitable scheme that touched on the paranormal, he'd try to suck Peter in. Peter did love his father--he would put his father's need before his own. But if the movie had dumped guilt on Charlie Venkman, then three cheers for Tolkien.

            "We sure aren't," Janine said fervently, and Ray bobbed his head in agreement. The three of them formed a pact, then and there, without the need to exchange so much as a word. They'd see that Charlie didn't revert. They'd protect Peter from his father. Maybe even from his forlorn hope that each new time would be the time that Charlie would do the right thing. A man had a right to expect his father to treat him right. Even when Big Ed Zeddemore had scorned Ghostbusting, he had never scorned Winston himself.

            "We mean it, Charlie," Ray agreed.

            "Because you're protecting my boy. Because I didn't. I know. I'll do better." He hesitated. "I'll try."

            Well, you couldn't ask a man more than that. Winston vowed he'd hold to his plan. He wasn't going to let Charlie Venkman endanger his friends and take advantage of Peter one more time.

*****

            The worst of the pain had eased. Egon could open his eyes without feeling like sadists were shining spotlights in them, and he could turn his head without the certainty it would fall off. He could think clearly again, and remember what had happened the previous times he was awake. He could even remember that first waking, with Peter begging him to respond then turning on his father out of his fear that Egon wouldn't be all right.

            Egon shuddered at the very possibility of brain damage. Once he'd realized they'd feared it, he had spent a few desperate moments reviewing the periodic table in his head, going over a complex formula or two, testing his memory. Everything worked the way it was supposed to.

            That just left one major problem to deal with. Peter.

            He had been pretty hazy when Peter was bawling out his father in the ICU. One more brief visit from Peter last night, still in his wheelchair, still with his IV, had proven that Peter was feeling bad about it all. He hadn't resolved anything with his father, and the way he had gazed anxiously at Egon and fussed over him proved that a large chunk of his distress was guilt that Egon had helped Peter deal with Charlie's mess and been hurt in the process. He hadn't said word one about it, of course not. That wasn't Peter's way. Instead Peter downplayed his own injuries. Egon let him.

            He knew from Greg that the IV was an antibiotic because the burn on Peter's arm had broken open during the rescue of Egon from the burning building, and that he would probably have to stay here at least another day and night before anyone would consider sending him home to be sure infection didn't take hold. Usually Peter would fight tooth and nail to be discharged from a hospital, but with Egon here, he didn't. He surely didn't believe Egon still needed protecting. The plethora of complex words Egon had thrown at him during last night's visit in an attempt to reassure Peter that there was no brain damage and to provoke him into complaint--an attempt that had failed--should have reassured him, and it did, but it didn't stop him from blaming himself for drawing his friends into yet another of Charlie Venkman's schemes.

            "We're here," said the orderly who was maneuvering the gurney. Egon had protested that he was well enough for a wheelchair, but in truth he was glad to remain horizontal for the journey. Discharge from the ICU was a reassuring sign, and Winston and Ray had come along to supervise and walked with him all the way. Janine hovered at his side, and Egon suspected she would have taken his hand if she believed she could get away with it. Instead, she contented herself with hovering.

            There was no sign of Charlie Venkman, and Egon was glad of that. He was furious with Peter's father, not so much on account of his own injuries but because of the way Peter had looked last night. Egon hadn't felt well enough to do much then, but he was feeling better all the time.

            "Egon!" Peter's welcoming cry roused Egon from his thoughts.

            "You'll be sharing a room with your friend," the orderly explained unnecessarily as he guided the gurney into Peter's hospital room, where a second bed waited.

            Peter was sitting cross-legged in his bed. He must have been deep in thought because he didn't have a book or magazine and the TV wasn't even on. Likely he had been brooding. Completely in character. Egon didn't mean that to continue for one second more than he could help.

            "Hello, Peter," he said. "You look better today."

            "So do you. They said you were coming down and I'd see you as soon as you got here, 's why I didn't come up to see you this morning."

            "I understand. They told me that."

            Their words were a little too stiff. Egon hated that. But they wouldn't stay like that, not if he had any say in the matter.

            The orderly shifted Egon into his bed, showing he was accustomed to tossing 6'3" men as if they weighed no more than chihuahuas. Egon was glad when the man finished. He still didn't feel that well when he wasn't lying supine. If the head of the bed did the work, he could lie at a slight angle, and the doctor had said that would steadily improve. It couldn't come soon enough for Egon.

            "Hey, guys," Peter greeted the others. "And Melnitz, too. I'd be honored if I thought you were here to see me and not Egon."

            "Next time, I ought to bring flowers," Janine said, a sarcastic edge to her words. "Considering it's not hay fever season, I could probably get away with it."

            "Considering it's January, I'll pass. I hate to even think of sneezing." He eyed her suspiciously. "I swear to you, if I sneeze even once, you're fired."

            Egon could empathize with that. His head still throbbed unkindly. Peter's concussion might be less severe than his own, but he wouldn't relish abrupt uncontrolled movement any more than Egon would.

            "You can't fire me," Janine retorted. "Slaves have to be sold."

            Peter rose to the challenge. "Hah. Soon as I get home, I'll put you up on eBay." The banter sounded normal, but there was a slight hesitation to it, as if Peter were doing it consciously and not naturally. Worse, an element of doubt lingered in his expression, as if he halfway expected Janine to fault him, not for the teasing, which was well within the bounds of Janine and Peter's relationship, but for his father. Oh, dear.

            "Slavery is illegal in North America, Peter," Egon said as mildly as he could. He would have enjoyed a little quiet time and a nap, but it seemed more important to reassure Peter that life was returning to normal.

            Peter's gaze sneaked back to Egon. "So, Spengs, how are you doing?" An innocuous question, and Peter was hardly ever innocuous.

            "I am out of the ICU, and that is progress. And yourself?"

            Peter gestured at himself with his IV-free hand. Either Ray or Winston had brought him his pajamas so he didn't have to resort to the indignity of a hospital gown, even though the IV had prevented him from sliding that hand into the sleeve. He'd draped his favorite green robe over his shoulders, and had a pair of old sweat socks on his feet.

            "I see you are aspiring to the latest in hospital fashions," Egon replied.

            "He's charming all the nurses. The socks complete the look," Winston kidded.

            "They must have a low charm threshold." A faint glint of resentment did show in Janine's eyes, and Peter noticed. Not good at all.

            "As that has always been the case involving Peter...." Egon began.

            Peter groaned, "Not you, too, Spengs," but his eyes warmed.

            Ray glanced from Peter to Janine, then caught Egon's eye. He nudged Winston, too. Of course Peter noticed. Even in pain and worrying about his father, Peter could pick up on the guys' signals. He didn't say anything, but his mouth tightened slightly. Egon tried to send a signal to Ray.

            Ray caught it. "Hey, guys, we were only supposed to stay a few minutes. Egon needs to rest. We'll come back in a couple of hours. Greg will get on our case if we let you two get too tired."

            "Yeah," Winston agreed hastily. He draped his arm around Janine's shoulders. Egon saw his fingers tighten momentarily.

            Janine stiffened, then she turned to Peter. Egon braced himself to intervene.

            "No flowers," she said. "Instead, I'm going to let you live, Doctor V."

            Peter knew forgiveness when he saw it. Perhaps Winston's urging was ill-timed, because Peter wasn't really in the shape to take it. Instead he said quickly, "I'll pass on the eBay thing, then."

            "We better get out of here before they break down and hug each other," said Winston quickly.

            "Gosh, yeah," agreed Ray. "The world might actually end."

            Peter and Janine threw them matching glares, so in sync with each other in that moment that Egon felt his tension relaxing. He blessed his friends for their perception--and thought longingly of a chance to tell Charlie Venkman what he thought in a few particularly pithy words.

            When the three of them had departed, neither he nor Peter spoke at first. Now that the initial need to appear at the top of his form had passed, Peter uncurled himself very carefully, favoring his bandaged arm and his side, and eased back against the pillow. From the careful way he lowered his head against it, Egon recognized a fellow feeling.

            As long as he lay perfectly still, Egon could maintain his alertness. He felt the need to do so. There were still issues here, issues that kept Peter tense and wary, issues that could never be resolved, not fully, just as Egon's own issues with his father had gone unresolved with his father to his grave. Egon had believed he had put his father's disapproval of his career choice behind him, but sometimes a surprising reference would bring the sting of it back. He often consoled himself with the conviction that his father might have come around had he seen proof of the worth of Ghostbusting. But Charlie Venkman remained a rogue who chose to use his son. Peter could have written him off, but Peter didn't do that. He would never completely write off anyone he cared about. Instead he hunched his shoulders against it and went on. Charlie didn't pull scams using Peter all that often any more. In between, it was likely possible for Peter to accept what he knew to be true, that Charlie loved him to the full range of his ability.

            A pity that ability was so selfish.

            Peter glanced over at him, "Hey, Egon, who's Denethor?" Naturally he would throw a distraction in first.

            "You know who he is, Peter. He is a character in Lord of the Rings. The steward of Gondor. Why do you ask?"

            "Oh, that guy. Pop said he wasn't Denethor." Peter's forehead wrinkled. "I hafta say, old Denethor made Pop look like your average saint by comparison." The wrinkle deepened. No doubt he was remembering the film the team had all just seen; it would be fresher in his mind than the book, which he knew Peter had read years ago. "Sending his son out to die," he breathed.

            "Charlie did not send you out to die, Peter," Egon insisted. "Denethor was fixated upon his older son and scorned the younger. He was not entirely sane."

            "He didn't love Faramir enough," Peter said in a very small voice.

            Anger surged through Egon, anger at Charlie whose failings always hit Peter hardest when he was tired and hurt and in need of the unequivocal parental love he more than deserved--and never quite received. Yes, Charlie adored him, but at his own convenience. It made Peter always seem second best.

            You are not second-best to us, Peter.

            Egon couldn't say that, of course. It would only illuminate the nature of the problem. "In the film, Gandalf pointed out that he would remember he loved Faramir in the end."

            "Yeah, with a big barbecue."

            "That your father made the claim indicates he knows he was at fault, Peter, that he actually recognizes his wrong. And that is a major point."

            Peter blinked at him. "He always does the apology number, Spengs."

            "But never quite actual guilt. Perhaps he can learn."

            "I'll believe that when I see it." Peter stared unseeingly at the ceiling. "Just like I'll believe that I can. God, I risked you guys again for his sake. You could have died. You could have been a vegetable, Egon. Because I bailed him out again." His jaw tightened, and his muscles were steel.

            Egon controlled his inner shudder at how close it had come. "Peter. Busting demons is what we do. We could hardly have ignored the situation. We'd have gone on that bust no matter who had caused the problem, and you know it."

            "Yeah," he said as if that was entirely beside the point. "And Pop counted on that. Just like he counted on me pulling you guys in to bail me out."

            "Naturally we would bail you out, Peter? Apart from the fact that it was our job, we did it for you, not for your father. Because that is what we do, the four of us, stand up for each other. That is what we are." He didn't see any yielding in Peter's taut body, and he sighed inaudibly. This would have been easier in a day or so when he didn't have to fight the mother of all headaches to keep going. But the longer it was left undone, the harder it would be to do, and the more time Peter would have to endure it. What he wanted to say was that his actions, Ray's, Winston's, were what family did, or rather what family was supposed to do. But that, of course, would only deliver another sucker punch when Peter was already reeling.

            "It's what friends do," he said instead. "You didn't recruit us, Peter. You didn't force us to help your father. We made the choice ourselves. You know that. Do you imagine for one instant that any one of us would leave you hanging when you were in trouble? You would never do that to us. And your father is not the only relative who has needed help over the years. Look at Ray's Aunt Lois. Class 7's in her house, and then the time that she was tricked into the Netherworld and you rushed to her rescue. Did you blame Ray for that? Did you imagine for one instant that Ray was to blame? Did you blame Winston's father the time we wound up in the Land of Lost Objects? Did you blame Winston?"

            "No, but that was different," Peter said immediately.

            "How was it different? Ray himself would say that Aunt Lois doesn't think, that she knows Ray will help her if her psychic adventures get her too deeply in trouble. Don't you see, Peter? Just because you know your father will use us and you hope each time will be different doesn't mean you're at fault. None of us blame you."

            "I'm not so sure about Janine," Peter mumbled.

            "Janine is my, uh, problem. She was worried about me. I'm sure she understands, really. In any case, she is your sister in all but blood and she loves you, just as you love her." Egon smiled faintly. "I know both of you would rather have your fingernails yanked out than admit it, but after all this time, you know it's true, just as it is true that I am your brother, that Ray and Winston are your brothers."

            "The best part of my family," Peter said in an undertone. Then he shuddered. "And he's my dad. What the hell is wrong with me that my own father doesn't...." He couldn't complete the sentence.

            "Perhaps the same thing that was wrong with me, that mine would not approve of me," Egon replied. The pain in that assertion was an old one, but no more fully healed than Peter's ongoing wound. The only difference was that Charlie Venkman came around every so often and knocked the scab off the wound. Egon's was more like an old ache that felt the changes in the weather.

            "That's different."

            "Tell me how."

            Peter opened his mouth, then he closed it again. Even as upset as he was he must have realized that to do so would only bring Egon pain. Instead he shook his head, grimaced and winced at the gesture, and muttered, "Stupid."

            "Me? You?"

            "Moving my head," Peter said. "But me, more than you." He turned his head far more cautiously and gazed beseechingly at Egon. "What am I going to do?"

            Egon drew cautious breath. His head pounded like native drums, and his stomach was sour and queasy, but he shunted away his physical discomfort and drew on the inner strength he relied on in moments like this. "You are going to do what you always do. Care enough for those who matter to you that you will forgive your father, and then, for the sake of all of us, but most of all your own, you are going to accept that you yourself do not need forgiveness, because you have done nothing wrong."

            "Just something stupid," Peter replied. "What do they call a guy who never learns from his mistakes?"

            "In your case, I should call him a very caring man who is willing to go the extra mile for those he loves. Which makes me extraordinarily fortunate to have your friendship."

            Peter's eyes glittered too brightly, and he blinked hard a couple of times. "Right back at you," he said hoarsely. Against medical advice, he slipped out of the bed and balanced himself against the side of Egon's, and thrust out his hand.

            Egon put out his own, and grasped Peter's in a firm grip. The one thing he couldn't alter was the fact that Charlie Venkman would never be able to love Peter as wholeheartedly as Peter deserved. Egon couldn't fix that. But because Charlie was thus flawed, Egon resolved that, no matter how many times the old man might find himself in trouble, Egon would go to his rescue for Peter's sake, and never count the cost.

            They hung on for an intense moment, then Peter let go. "Spengs, if you don't rest, Greg is gonna stomp all over me with jackboots, whatever they are."

            "I suspect I will soon be sleeping, Peter. Just as you should be in bed, for they will certainly complain if they find you up." Egon fought down a weary yawn. "You rest, too. I will wake if you need me."

            "Just like you did in the ICU," Peter conceded. "Thanks, Egon. You and the others are the best."

            Egon smiled at him and let his fatigue take him. At least he'd given Peter support, and hopefully, something to think about. At least Peter had listened. He might not believe it all yet, but he'd know Egon would never lie to him. It was a start.

*****

            "Peter, my boy." Charlie Venkman poked his head into the room an hour later. Peter had lain there listening to Egon's steady breathing, watching him sleep, knowing he would wake up and look at Peter with the usual bright intelligence in his eyes, and with no condemnation. Maybe Peter didn't quite believe he deserved that yet, but he wouldn't refuse it. It was balm to his soul, water to a parched man, the touchstone in his life. The guys were everything he could hope for, the best of brothers. At least he had that--and he'd made it for himself. He had this family because he'd actually earned it. That had to count for something.

            Now here was his pop. Peter studied Charlie as he hovered in the doorway. There was a lot more hesitation than usual in Charlie's face, and at the sight of Egon, he actually flinched and drew back, only to abandon his retreat when he realized Egon was sleeping.

            Or was he? His breathing had quickened. Maybe he was just being tactful, allowing Peter a "private" moment with his old man.

            "Wrong name," Peter said sourly. "I thought I was gonna be Faramir now."

            His father's face twisted, but then he straightened up. Peter could usually sense one of his cons a mile away, but this time he wasn't sure. Wishful thinking? Confusion brought about by his concussion? Actual repentance?

            If you believe that one, Peter, he'll sell you the Brooklyn Bridge next.

            Charlie edged into the room, crept up to the bed, and snatched up Peter's un-IV'd hand. "Son, I'm sorry. I know I got carried away this time. Demons. I hadda be crazy. If not for you and your friends, I don't know what I'd have done." He grimaced. "Winston and Ray took me to task, but not as much as that movie did."

            "Movie? Return of the King?" What the hell did all this have to do with Tolkien anyway?

            "I hadda get out of the waiting room. Janine looked like she wanted to zap me with one of your throwers."

            "I'll teach her the correct settings when I get home."

            Egon moved abruptly, then lay still.

            "I'll let you," Charlie said. "Son, when I saw that movie, and I saw that guy Denethor, being the worst father in Middle Earth, I knew I was the worst father in this world. I use you. I always said it was because I would be letting you in on a sweet deal, or because busting ghosts was what you do, and so why not come to you. But I was just using you. I don't know if I can learn any better. I might be too old to change. But I want to. Your buddy Winston says next time I show up with a scam, he's gonna say, 'Denethor' to me and remind me how close I came this time."

            Time and distance might insulate Charlie from the intensity of his unusual guilt, but Peter wasn't sure. He looked his father right in the eye and saw the sincerity the older Venkman had learned to produce at the drop of a hat. But behind it was a very real fear that, this time, he'd gone too far, and would find no forgiveness from Peter.

            The memory of the partially conscious Egon in the ICU echoing back Peter's words with no real awareness shot through Peter like the worst heartburn since the dawn of time, and he had to fight not to yank his hand free of his father's clumsy and earnest grip. Egon would probably thank the gods of science for one last chance to resolve things with his father. But Egon's father had never set out to use him.

            Just to devalue his life's work. Just to strike at the heart of Egon's self-worth.

            How could any man realize how much another man hurts? How could he put the separate pains on a scale and rate one higher than the other? Charlie probably loved Peter more than he did any other human being. Didn't that count for something?

            So he looked at his father expectantly and didn't reject him, just waited.

            "Son, Faramir deserved so much more than Denethor gave him. Just like you deserve more for me. I'm not the greatest guy going. I bend the law a little, and I use people. I know it. I even pat myself on the back for it. But I don't think your buddies will tolerate me dumping on you again, and I don't want you to ever look at me again like I was Denethor."

            "That will depend on you, Pop," Peter told him levelly.

            "I know. Ray and Winston made that clear. I'll probably screw up. I know I'm not perfect. I never was, probably never will be. But that movie scared the hell out of me. I'd say I learned my lesson--but I've got a lifetime of screw-ups behind me. I might not do so well."

            "No surprise there," Peter said, but without the rancor he'd expected to feel.

            Charlie recognized its lack. "Son, if you'll consider forgiving me for this mess, I'll try my best to do better."

            "Yeah, knowing all four of us will be watching out for any slip-ups," he conceded. "Hell, Dad, I'm used to you. I may not like you very much right now, but you're still my dad. You're--I was gonna say you're my only relative, but that's not true." He cast a fond smile at the pseudo-sleeping Egon, who shifted slightly as if the smile were tangible. "I've got three brothers and a sister, and they keep me going."

            "You keep them going, too," Charlie said surprisingly. "Peter, my boy, when I saw that movie, and then I saw you up there in the ICU, I knew for certain what a bad father I've been. I'm gonna try to do better. I may backslide, but I give you leave to kick my butt if I do."

            "Don't think I won't," Peter said with a sudden smile. "I'll enjoy it waaay too much to forego the privilege." He drew a sustaining breath. "But if one of my friends is ever hurt again because of anything you do, that's the end of it. And I mean it. Just telling you up front."

            Charlie hung his head. Damn, he was good at penitence. Peter didn't trust him, of course. He'd learned not to. The urge to believe this new and saintly father was strong, but he wasn't that much of a fool. What he did believe was that his father actually meant to try. And for somebody like Charlie, that was a major concession.

            "I understand, son." He tugged on Peter's hand and pulled him up carefully into a hug. "That little Hobbit guy, what's his name, Pippin, talked about 'evil times', and what he meant was that Denethor was lower than pond scum. Just like your old man. I think it's how I'm made."

            Peter chuckled faintly. "I think it is, too."

            "But you aren't like me, Peter. You're honest when I'm not. You're reliable when I'm not. You don't let your friends down."

            "In other words, you're a great father for raising such a paragon."

            Charlie grinned with genuine amusement. "Hell, no, son. I know it was all Margaret. Your mother was a good woman, far too good for me."

            "You've got that right."

            Charlie grimaced. "Well, I give you my word, my honest and true word, that I'll do my best not to screw up with you again. You may not like me very much right now, but you're my boy and I...love you." The words came hard. Charlie had never been a guy for baring his soul and spilling his emotions. "Best son a guy could ever have. Saving the world and all that. Saving me. Well, son, I'm gonna go now and let Egon go back to sleep instead of only pretending because he's watching out for you, but just remember what Winston said. I get out of hand, you call me Denethor. Makes the point just fine."

            "What a con man," Peter said, and was surprised to hear the almost-admiring note in his voice. "Go on, get outta here before I sic Melnitz on you. She wouldn't mind boiling you in oil, y'know."

            Charlie glanced uneasily over his shoulder, then produced a shamefaced grin. He gripped Peter's shoulders, bent down and planted a kiss on Peter's forehead, then he whirled and scurried out of the room before Janine could descend on him or Peter could say one more word.

            Peter sat there, torn between grinning like an idiot and cursing himself for being a gullible fool all over again.

            "He conned me," he groaned.

            "Did you expect anything different?" Egon asked without opening his eyes.

            "Never in a million years." But his fingers crept up and touched the spot on his forehead. He couldn't remember the last time his father had kissed him. Maybe Charlie really would try this time. Peter decided he'd allow himself to believe the trying part. And there was always Winston's shock therapy method. "Hey, Egon...."

            "Yes, Peter."

            "Think we ought to go and see that movie again when we're out of here? It must be something special if it can get to my pop that way."

            "It was an excellent film. I should enjoy seeing it again myself."

            "I suppose you think you're Gandalf," Peter retorted.

            "I am wise and brilliant," Egon said with deliberate smugness.

            "And unbearably full of yourself. Slimer can be Gollum. Janine better be Éowyn. I can see her with a sword taking on a Nazgûl."

            "I doubt we could cast ourselves in the parts, Peter."

            Peter, who liked the idea of being crowned King of Gondor and having a hot Elf chick giving up immortality for him, abandoned with a sigh the idea of admitting he wanted to be Aragorn. "You're supposed to be resting, big guy," he said.

            "Indeed. However, considering some of Gimli's lines, I have no hesitation in assigning you--"

            "Oh, no, you don't," Peter cut in before he could finish the sentence. He was far better looking than the Dwarf. Maybe he was no Legolas, but he wasn't bad, even all bruised and battered as he was.

            Egon opened his eyes, surveyed Peter thoughtfully, then nodded once as in satisfaction. "Faramir was intelligent, loyal, resourceful, and full of courage, Peter. It is no bad way to be." He closed his eyes and in less than five seconds was snoring gently.

            Intelligent, loyal, resourceful, and full of courage. Not a bad way to be. For the first time since it had happened, Peter realized he was going to come through it all just fine.

            With friends like his, how could he fail?

            And now, it might just be time to try that game of instant sleep Egon had down to an art.

            Peter settled himself as comfortably as possible, made sure he wasn't putting any pressure on his burn or his sore side, and closed his eyes.