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tuliptired · 5 months

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He’s Good People

Chapter 1: Ask me, I Won't Say No (How Could I?)

Pairing(s) Reader/Ray, Reader/Egon Reader/Winston

Summary: Janine's always told you that you had a strong "line of fate". Whatever that meant. When you lose your job and apartment, however, you're offered a (temporary) fix with her ever-generous employers.

Hopefully part of a series! A little Ray-centric- Check Ao3 for more tags and warnings.

read it on Ao3!

Today was the big day. You’d be working at your job at a major TV station for just about forever now, and it was about due time for a promotion. The pay was decent, enough to clothe and feed you and have the slightest amount left over, and you got to specialize in what you loved all day, everyday, while contributing to American television. The varieties of the entertainment industry.

But you were starting to come to the realization that maybe your skills were a little underappreciated. You worked quickly, feverishly, and passionately, after all. You’d be damned if you said you hadn’t been dreading turning up everyday for a little while now. You put off asking, figuring that you should be grateful to be employed at all, but coaxing from your very opinionated best friend you gained while interning in Brooklyn proved fruitful, as she sat on the phone with you.

“You’re worthy. You’re deserving, they’re lucky to have you, you’re doing them a favor by showing up,” she repeated the affirmation to you, undoubtedly breaking a rule or two as she used her work phone from her receptionist job for a personal call. She'd been your biggest supporter, from every new hairstyle or investment, and she knew you were more than capable of whatever a higher position could offer you. You, on the other hand, stared at your reflection in the mirror. You don't really know what you'd do if turned down. You need this, your heart clenches a bit.

You steeled your nerves, taking a deep breath in and a light breath out. “I am worthy, I am deserving, they’re lucky to have me, I’m doing them a favor by showing up,’ you chanted. The chord of the landline strained against the stretch you put it through from the kitchen to the bathroom.

“That’s the spirit,” she praised you on the other end. Before you could respond, a sharp beep interrupted you, and she groaned lightly.

“Other line. Listen, I gotta go, but I want details. You know where to call me- and call me as soon as you get word,” she ordered you, causing the fear in your stomach to reemerge, the moment coming closer. But, her voice did make you feel better, in a way.

“Thanks, Janine, pray for me,” you half-begged, desperation unashamedly showing in your tone.

“Mazel.” The phone clicked.

You took what felt like the hundredth calming breath, and it was only 9 am. As you exited your apartment, the world woke up around you, the walk to the bus a little more packed as you made your way down town. On the bus, there was an ad for the Ghostbusters across from you. You laughed to yourself at its presence, a square poster of the 4 men simply standing in a line. The only other design is a little tagline- ¨who you gonna call?¨

You´d always wanted to ask Janine about her place of employment, naturally. She only ever brushed it off as a day job that took up too much of her free time, but you were a bit more curious than that. Believing in ghosts and spirits and monsters wasn't something you were necessarily taken with, but if there's a ghost up somewhere in Albany, it's not your problem. Leave it to the professionals, if they wanted a call so bad. Their pseudo-celebrity statuses were admirable, though- their ads for drinks and toys and services took up 70% of your network’s commercial breaks.

You were practically dripping with a mix of assuredness, sweat from your walk, and a tinge of fear as you clocked in when inside the giant, bustling company. The walk to your workspace felt like you were walking into war, going over every point you wanted to make the moment you saw your supervisor. He was a little hard to get to, really. He was even able to convince you that the due date he had given you in writing was much, much earlier- and you believed him, until you were working overtime with your entire department for the 3rd night in a row for something you had a month to finish.

You were intercepted halfway to your desk, and your confidence dropped to your toes as his smile wasn’t the half-there, busy and distracted one he often held. It was deliberate. He wanted something from you.

“Y/N! Goodmorning, goodmorning. I need a quick word with you.” God damnit.

His sudden appearance derailed your ability to form respectable sentences, your fingers fumbling with the lapels of your shirt cuffs. “Actually, I was looking for you too,” your tone betraying you.

He led you into his office suite, a brown set of rooms that got less presentable as they went from reception to official-one-desk-two-chairs territory. He stopped you in the hall, where ambient lights illuminated pictures of happy talent, tv producers, and writers who struck it big under his guidance smiling big with awards in hand. “Spare a minute?” He put his hand on your shoulder. Asshole, you can’t refuse. You were already there.

He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s been a real busy season, huh? Lots of work. Lots of talented stars. SNL’s really jumping off, isn’t it?” You smiled with a bit of pride, knowing the time you and your colleagues put into the success of an experimental show like it, albeit behind the scenes.

“I’m gonna tell it to you like it is, ‘cause you’re a smart kid. You went to Columbia, right?”

Flattery. You answered anyway. “Yeah. Yeah, I was gonna put some time aside for my masters,” you try and broach the conversation back into your favor. Tell him about your ambitions, your qualifications, and the job will fall into your lap.

He had an unreadable expression, his manufactured appearance unwavering. His mid length brown hair and brown suit nearly blended in with his decor. A blank slate was important in entertainment, he told you one day, you want to be what boys and girls want to see, he said. “You’re gonna have a hell of a lot of time then, kid.”

You blinked, words tumbling out your mouth before you could measure them. “I beg your pardon?” You asked earnestly.

“Lots of work. Lots of talented stars,” he repeats. “It costs a lot to keep the boys and girls happy. Too much to keep certain departments as big as they are.” He swallows, picking up where he left off. “I figured, you’d feel better hearing it from a friendly face then some corporate robot, huh?”

You don’t remember how you got to the payphone, but you did, and you shakily entered Janine’s work number as tears and snot threatened to spill over the dam that was your face.

So there you were, her by your side, sitting under a tree in a nearby park, leaving work for a “personal emergency”, ignoring the voice of her boss as she made her way downtown. You felt bad, coating her shoulder in your sadness, but you couldn’t help it.

“He sounds like a total jackass,” she insisted. “I would’ve put my foot up his…¨ She looked down at you, your cries resigned to snotty sniffles. “You okay?” She asked softly.

You looked at her weakly. “Am I a loser?” You choked out, feeling absolutely miserable. This was rock bottom if you’ve ever been there. Jobless and bawling in a public park.

Janine grabbed your hands. “Don’t ever say something like that again. I’m telling you, your fate is something bigger.” Your eyes got glossy again, and she shook you around forcefully.

“No more crying! C’mon,” she hoisted you to your feet, head spinning and tears dried out of whiplash. Silently, you let her drag you to a grocery without protest, watching numbly as she stopped at a candy counter with you clinging to her arm.

“10 Crunch bars. And as many of those red things that can fit in the bag.” The man behind the counter obliged, not without looking at the pair of you like a mother and her overgrown child. She took the paper bag, and loaded up another basket with the supplies to make your favorite dinners from the grocer, not forgetting a large tub of speciality ice cream.

“I can’t ask you to buy all of this,” you said softly, but your voice broke into a quiver as you realized what buying something entailed. “Now that I have no-no money,” your voice, wet and weak, about to break out into another session of hot tears.

“If you start crying again I’m leaving you at customer service,” She threatened as she opened her wallet, making her way to the cashier.

“D’you think the corner takes applications?” You walked in tandem to the bus that’d take you home.

“We can find out together. I’ve been telling you, there are men at Playboy who’d pay good money for-”

“WOW, Janine, your voice is a little loud, no?”

Her attempt at making you smile worked, and you felt a little better at her side on the bus. Stuffing the sack of candy in your bag, the bus rocked gently as Janine rested the large grocery haul on her lap.

You were ready to just fall into bed, with or without Janine there, but your droopy eyes were snapped open upon seeing a white envelope taped to your front door. With further inspection, Janine watched sadly as you read that it was a water bill due ridiculously soon. The best you could do was knock your head against the plaster of the wall and hand her your keys.

You had a whole feast of food to be prepared laid out on your counter as you lay on the couch, weak and unwilling to do anything as you pressed your face into the cushions. “Is your oven always this…not on?” Janine’s voice came confused from the kitchen, a bundt pan full of box-mix-cake batter in her left hand.

“You’re joking,” you peeled yourself from the couch, crouching in front of the oven. One spark, nothing. Two, nothing. Three, four, five…not even a match could lit the stovetop nor the burners in the oven. You slid to the ground, defeated. “Kill me, Janine.”

You could hear her click her tongue, before a tiny bleeping filled the room. She apologetically moved her way to your phone, explaining that her boss(es?) were paging her. While you wallow on the kitchen floor, she dials in a number and waits, a little frazzled.

“I told you, it was an emergency.” Her eyes look to yours, silently asking for permission to spill the worst day of your life to some guy you don’t know. You close them, surrendering as you melt into the ground. Maybe this was rock bottom?

“I'm by the theater, it’s a bus and a brisk walk…you can manage without me for a night…4 grown men can’t problem-solve?...Peter- friend of mine got laid off, and they’re pretty upset, ok?...Yes. No, not that one…yes, that one. Ask them yourself, Peter.” She glances at you, annoyed as she holds the receiver out. Not having a speck of pride left, you trudge over, taking the phone limply.

The line is silent for a bit, except for distant, deep voices you can’t hone in on, expect for the fact that they were arguing.

“Hello?” A voice starts.

“Hello.”

“Real sorry about your job, dear. Tell Janine to bring you around and we can show you a good-” Whoever the hell is on the other end is interrupted by a frantic voice, interrupting as they take hold of the call.

“Hello? This is Dr. Stantz. Uh, Ray is better. Janine told my friend Peter here about your work situation, we wanted to let you know we’re real sorry. Let Janine know she’s not in trouble, but she needs to get here soon, ok?” Dr. Stantz sounds genuinely sympathetic, and you can’t help but be comforted by his words.

“Thanks,” is all you can manage, if not rudely then a little flat.

“If you ever need anywhere to go, our headquarters are open! We have food, hot water, Janine,”’ he laughs on the other end, a little awkward. And a little on the nose for comfort. You react freely in the safety of the private nature of a phone call.

“Thank you?” You answer honestly. He clears his throat.

“If I could hear from Janine, please?”

You wordlessly pass it back to your unamused friend, and she listens to the other end.

A loud, low rumbling in your laundry closet cuts through the calm. You glance at each other, assuming the worst as you swing the door open.

Bubbles spill out onto the floor, your washer unit shaking and leaking onto the worn out wood. All things, this is what gets you the hardest. Your washer can´t break now. Out of all the horrible, awful things, your washer can not break now. You can't even cry, it's so ridiculous. Standing incredulously in ankle deep suds, all you can do is stare at the appliance spit and sputter liquid onto the floor. Janine breaks your bout of shock, pressing the phone into her shoulder so she can reach you. Her voice urges you to unplug it, and before you could break down again, you´re leaning against the lid, with the sudden realization that all the water and soap could start an electrical fire.

You have to lean your entire torso against the top, arms fumbling for the chord buried somewhere in the dark space against the wall. Soon, your legs are dangling over the edge. It would be a funny sight, if the machine wasn't shaking so monstrously underneath you.

Suddenly, there's a large hand on the back of your thigh. It was a cold, unnerving touch, sharp points digging into the flesh of your leg. As you could look back, to tell Janine to let go, your receiver drops to the ground. Her face is ghastly pale, and she´s suspended in a scream. As you look down towards the front of the washer, the large, reptilian claws try to grab you, to pull you into the washer with it. Your eyes widen, and you scream as you clamor to get out of its reach, to no avail.

Janine’s at your side, prying the digits off of your skin, the claws no doubt leaving marks in their wake. You climb to the top of the machine, legs to your chest, and she slams the door on the arms enough times to force it shut.

Catching her breath, she backs up to the phone slowly, her eyes on you as if you yourself were whatever beast residing in your washer.

¨Ray.¨ She says his name as if there’s a 3rd party in your little apartment listening. ¨You´re coming to us.¨

4 men in brown jumpsuits are at your door. They look much more frazzled than they do in their ads. There´s…a crocodile? A monster? Living in your house? Your brain can´t form cohort thoughts as you blink, eyes drying out. One of them tries to console you as you sit in your armchair, breaths shallow and skin cold. You can’t even freak over the local legends standing in your home.

You only recognized one of them personally, from Janine´s birthday a few months ago. You couldn't stay the whole night, only dropping by to give her well wishes and leave her gift behind, but you can remember a brief conversation. You arrived around the same time, and he had opened the entrance to the building for you with ease, the handle notoriously always needing a bit of extra effort to haul the door open after being buzzed up. He walked you, explaining that her boyfriend forgot to pick up the cake, pointing to the box in his hand, which you shared a laugh over. In the time it took to get into her apartment, he explained that he was Dr. Ray Stantz, and he worked with her. You ingenuously told him he was the splitting image of a young comedian on the show you work for, to which he smiled, wide and a little embarrassed. Your conversation was cut short- Janine emerged from another room and dragged you over to some corner to see a mutual friend.

One of the men flipped between the paper on a notepad, fixing the arms of his glasses. ¨If you don´t mind, we'd like to see the markings the ghost left on you.¨ He requests in a baritone voice, dark and monotone.

¨Egon!¨ Janine scolded him, rubbing your shoulders as you sat.

¨Only if you´re okay with that,¨ another mediated, as ¨Egon¨ opened his mouth. He cleared his throat. ¨For research. Their research. Not mine. I’m not really a science guy-¨

¨Unbelievable,¨ Janine mumbled, ushering you up and out the chair. Before she could take you out the apartment, Ray grabs the doorknob- not to keep you inside, but to catch her attention. He looked at you both gently, if not a little urgently.

¨We´ll get rid of it no problem, promise. Real exciting thing you got living in your apartment.” He gives you both a soft smile, before opening the door and letting you out. Before you cross the threshold, she turns her head to address them as you grab your bag.

¨There better not be a hair out of place!¨ She shoots eaaaach and every one of them a look, the targets stiffening in the process. The man with the voice you recognize as Peter over the phone bids her farewell with a mock salute.

¨Yes ma´am, Janine!¨

¨I´m sorry about those guys. They´re,¨ she pauses, hand on her chin as you sit on the stoop, ¨the best in their field.¨ A little hard to believe, Peter had almost knocked down one of your trinkets on the way in and put it back a little too haphazardly for taste.

“They seem like interesting people,¨ is all you can manage. ¨Egon-¨

¨Don´t mind him. His brain´s big, but a little empty. He’s a peach.”

¨I was gonna say he was Columbia´s resident myth. I just couldn´t remember his name for the life of me.¨

Janine perks up a bit. ¨Oh? What was he like?¨ She pries, always in the mood for a little gossip.

You roll your eyes, albeit not really annoyed. ¨Well, I remember every girl in my major wanted to be the one to ¨break¨ him. Lots of turned down dates, lots of time wasted pretending to care about mushrooms,” you laughed at the memory. ¨He's still, just, not like that, huh?¨

Before she could answer, the entrance from the stoop is swung open, and said man is barrelling down the steps to the white van they tote around, hastily opening the backdoors and pulling something out.

¨What's wrong?” You and Janine say simultaneously.

He turns to you, pausing mid-action. ¨Nothing,¨ he shuts the van door, making his way back up the steps at a much more measured pace. ¨Everything is fine.¨ Your apartment window slides open, impossibly quick.

¨EGON! Hurry up and get back here, it's got Winston!¨ Peter´s head is half out the window, face dirty and shaken up. Egon blinks once, and then resumes his pace back up to your apartment.

After what felt like half an hour, the 4 men stagger down the steps, worn and beat as you lift your head off Janine´s shoulder to asses the damages.

¨We got him,¨ Ray manages a weak smile, holding a machine billowing sickly chemical smoke.

¨He got us, ¨ Peter says flatly as he leans against Winston, who´s jaw is sporting a deep bruise. Hair disheveled, faces dark, and clothes stained, the men breathe heavily as they can finally relax, dragging themselves to the van. Janine stops Egon, taking his glasses off and saving a lens from popping out.

¨He was real mean,¨ Ray explains, ¨but a Class III of that size! Insane! I´d love to find out where he came from. Amphibious, malevolent ghost living in my washer- I´d pay to be you!¨ He´s excitable, even when his hands have light cuts littering them, his palms raw and pink.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t expect you all to get,” you pause to address their injuries. All things that will manifest after a hard-night’s rest. “So banged up.” You cringed.

“It’s nothing.” Peter started. “Eges, gimme your calculator, I need to run the bill.”

“No way!” Winston protested, hitting Peter on his tender arm, making the man recoil in pain.

“Don’t worry about the pay,” Egon cut in as he examined the trap in Ray’s hands. “We should be paying you , this particular ghost opens avenues for more experimentation. And I don’t mean that lightly.” His inflection remained the same throughout his entire sentence.

“More?” Peter complained.

“The workbench is getting crowded, Egon. Not everything can be a breakthrough.”

“You can never be too sure,” Ray insisted, opening the van door for the men to haul in. “If this thing’s connected to that beast back in Coney Island that we’re makin’ big strides.” He turned to you and Janine.

You couldn’t help but ask, noting the deep scuff marks on the workboots each man wore. “Can I count on getting my deposit back?” Ray couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

He chuckled weakly. “Sure-”

“We blasted a chemical-leaking electrical machine inside an enclosed space with unregulated units of atomic energy. If you don’t want a malignant disease, I suggest finding a hotel,” Egon said from the front, the door still open. You could hear the thump of a boot against a car seat immediately after.

Janine bit her lip, thinking, suddenly unphased about how they didn’t heed her warning. “I’ve got my sister and her kids staying over,” she apologized. You weren’t mad, you knew how cramped her place could get, but also how much she cared for her family. Plus, Louis’ spring allergies would drive you up the wall. Ray’s frown deepened, before his face lit up. He got modestly close to you, lowering his voice.

“Tell you what, I wasn’t joking when I said we have space at the firehouse. Spend the night, it’s the least we can do.” He smiled softly in your little aside. His words reminisced of the one’s exchanged between dozens of young men and women during late nights at the TV station when they think no one’s around, and one of them is leaning against the wall. It was always sweet, and a little awkward knowing you’d have to make coffee across from them the next morning, but you couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Lord knows it’s been a long time before anyone’s even thought of you that way.

You don’t have any other options, really. At least not on short notice. You eventually nod, apologizing for impeding on their space.

“Don’t worry about it! My grandma used to tell me- be a fine fellow if you want faithful friends at your funeral.” What a boyscout. You couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face.

“There’s that smile. C’mon, we’ll take you and Janine.” That definitely made you feel something, somewhere.

In the front, Ray drove while Egon sat next to him, and in the back, Peter sat on your right, Winston on your left, and Janine ending up having to sit herself on your lap. Ray blushed and apologized as he turned down the radio once the car’s engine turned on, speakers playing 70s rock directly into your ears.

“We never formally introduced ourselves. Not me, at least,” Winston spoke up at your side, Janine leaning forward so he could see you properly. “That’s Dr. Peter Venkman, Dr. Egon Spengler, you know that guy,” he pointed to Ray who looked at him in the rearview mirror with mock-anger, “and I’m Winston Zeddemore.” What a friendly man.

“You don’t like the sound of ‘doctor Zeddemore’?” You asked quietly, noting how he was a little out of place with the group of scientists.

He shook his head, not offended. “Not me. I would be- my dad wanted me to go the minister route, but I’m former air force,” he explains.

“He’s still smart,” Peter adds at his friend’s defense.

“I know I am,” Winston sits back in his seat.

“Hey, you two,” Ray starts as he gets closer to the firehouse, “we have a bust in a few minutes. We’ll be gone for most of the evening. You can sleep, eat something. Ask Janine to read your palm!” He adds enthusiastically.

You laugh at that as the car pulls into the large garage. “She told me I had a strong “line of career”. Funny how that worked out?” She pushed your head back with her hand.

“Fate! It’s also the line of fate, ” she reiterated as Winston scoots back to allow you both out.

“Is it fate that you’ll find a bill for $1000 under our pillows?” Peter mumbles, as Winston slides the door shut again. You can see the guys bickering through the windshield as Ray pulls out, honking the horn twice and flicking on the siren.

Inside, Janine slumps into her chair behind the front desk as you look around in awe. As soon as you open your mouth to ask if you can help with anything, she’s herding you up the stairs.

“You’ve had a horrible day,” she states, “sleep.” Opening the door to a repurposed fireman’s quarter’s, you swallow thickly.

“I can’t sleep in their beds,” you protest.

She surveys the room, examining each bed. “Winston, Egon, that one’s definitely Peter’s..Ray.” She stops in front of his bed. “He won’t mind.”

You can’t even retaliate before she’s out the door, shutting it behind her. Sighing, you gave in, unbuttoning the top few bottoms of your oh-so-professional promotion-guaranteed outfit. You were pretty spent. But to sleep in this nice man’s bed? Maybe you were overstaying your welcome. A yawn disturbs your thoughts. Okay, you were exhausted, and he offered…

You had the most melancholy nap of your life, the kind you can only achieve after crying all day. You tossed and turned a little, walking up in the weird not-sleeping-falling-back-asleep state a few times. You hugged the thick comforter around you, lulling yourself back to sleep as the natural smell of the bed made its way into your dreams.

You dreamt of being in highschool again, crushing and writing diary entries about a boy who smelt nice and made you laugh. It all felt so cathartic, that when you eventually dragged yourself awake you realized where the nostalgic scent was coming from- Ray’s bed. Your face got a little warm as you were broken out of sleepiness, remembering where you were. As you slowly sat up, your back pressed against something behind the pillow. On impulse, you reached backwards, pulling out a worn, soft Smokey the Bear plushie. You smiled to yourself at the sight, forgetting your embarrassment.

You crept out the room, praying to whoever was watching over that the men hadn’t returned and seen you slobbering all over their pillows. To your relief, it was only Janine, nursing many papers spilled over her narrow desk.

“What’s this?” You read the documents, what seem to be job reports that get more and more detailed the more unorganized the desk looks. Janine has different colored stamps balanced on her lap, as she juggles with the stability of a thick, 3 ringed diary against her computer screen.

“Notarizing,” is all she says, trying to bite back her frustration. Moving behind her, you can see that her thick tome his open to a double page spread of the different ghost classifications. You found her problem- the hand writing in the journal was abysmal, notes were scratched out, rewritten, written over.

“Do you need any help?” You ask, picking up a paper that fluttered to the floor.

She sighs, pushing her desk chair out and rubbing her eyes. “I need a nap myself.”

She disappears up the staircase, and you hear a door unlike the one with the beds fall shut. Glancing at her desk- and at the clock, you lower yourself into the chair. It’d be a while until they were back, right? And you really couldn’t leave this mess for Janine. It wouldn’t hurt to give her a hand. Plus, stamps were always a funtime.

You’d been stamping for an hour. Your eyes bulged at the clock, and then back at the neat, orderly piles of reports organized by date and class. Suddenly, the garage opens, and the men file out. Ray smiles upon seeing you, holding pizza boxes in his hands.

“I’m sorry! Janine just needed a break and..” your voice falters as Peter whistles at your work.

“You look nice behind a desk. Maybe we should get an extra chair and keep you with Janine full time. And you could understand my handwriting,” he raises his eyebrows, zipping down the front of his jumpsuit.

“Thanks for helping her out,” Ray takes a look, pleased at the sight, passing the boxes to Peter who takes them upstairs. “You’ve got a knack for clerical work!” Odd compliment, but you’re willing to take it.

Egon’s curiosity gets the better of him, peering at the documents as he takes the stairs up. You swear you can hear him hum contently as he looks down over the railing, Winston behind him.

“Wanna eat with us? We didn’t know what you’d like, and we figured everyone likes pizza,” Ray starts to shrug his own suit off.

“I’m sorry, again. I take your secretary, your money, your room, now your food.” Ray shakes his head hard, closing his locker. He waves his hands dismissively.

“I’m telling you, it’s nothing at all. You’re good people.” His colloquialism makes you smile, stubbornly. You cave, following him towards the stairs as he walks backwards toward it. As you reach the second floor, the other 3 men were already seated at a table, distributing the food amongst themselves. You freeze beside Ray, nerves picking back up for whatever reason.

He leaned over and whispered in your ear. “We’re not freaks, you know. Just, 200-something-pound men who walk around in onesies and share a bedroom.” You laugh yet again, feeling a little dumb whenever you’re next to him, giggling every few seconds like a teenaged girl.

Upon seeing you smile, Winston smiled in turn and pulled a chair out for you, putting the ice he held to his jaw down for a second. Gosh, you’d have to apologize for that again. Sitting down, he even passed you a plate of food, the two biggest slices out of all the others.

“You live near the Benjamin Fairhooke theater?” He asks, knowing it’ll spark interest in Egon.

“Old spooky haunted Abraham Lincoln theater, Winston.” Peter takes a sip from a beer can.

“Lincoln was shot in D.C.”

“Never seen it.”

You wipe your hands. “Abandoned for years. Some kids got in trouble for sneaking in. They were pretty spooked- they say they saw a headless body walking around.” Egon perks up at that. “They’ve got some strict security there now.” Your brain pings for a second, remembering a not so legal secret you had been holding.

“I had a friend who used to do city maintenance there, before they abandoned the refurbishing project. He moved to the west, and left me with the masterkey.”

Egon’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. “I’ve been trying to get a reading on that place, but Ray’s not willing to come with me.”

“Ray’s not willing to break in with you, Spenges,” he cuts in.

“Do you want the key?” You offer, before you could think about what you said.

Peter groaned, slumping back in his chair. “You’re encouraging him.”

“Very much so,” Egon nodded.

After the food was finished, mostly by the 200-something-pound men not realizing how much food they really took. You didn’t mind- you were the guest, after all. Ray suddenly realized that it was fairly late, and you still didn’t have an official place to stay. As the guys stood up to get ready for the night, he spoke up quickly.

He looked hopeful. “You don’t mind staying the night, do you?” Before you could answer, he starts to speak again. “Our extra bed hasn’t been broken in yet, you can take mine if you’d like!” Neither of you realize it, but Peter’s watching with more intent than the other 2 men.

“Where would you’d sleep, Raymond?” Peter’s suddenly interested in the paint chipping on the doorframe.

“The extra bed, I suppose”

“That’s no good, you’ll mess up your back”

Something was unspoken between the two of them, their eyes having a conversation of their own. Ray’s big brain slowed a bit. “The…loveseat?” He offered, as if asking for permission.

Peter made a buzzer noise. “I’ve already tried- it’s too small. And ocupado. Janine. She’s tiny. We’ll wake her up, send her home- you two figure it out.” Peter corales the other two, confused men out the room and down the hall.

Ray looked stumped, and a blush was slowly creeping from his ears. He seemed to be battling something in his head, before he refused the force tempting him as he shook his head. “I can take the floor,” he decides.

“What! I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking me. I’m telling you.” He wouldn’t budge. He started to clean up the mess his friends ever so gracefully left behind, before you moved to help him.

“Just let me,” you responded to his face. Ever the host. You cleaned together quietly, but comfortably.

“I want you to know,” he bent over to put a spray back under the sink, “that we know what it’s like. To lose our jobs.” He stood to face you. You had a flash a shame hit your features, which you really couldn’t help. To the Ghostbusters’ credit, they had a good way of making you forget things.

His face was understanding. “Really, we do. We started this whole thing ‘cause we lost our jobs. It was a dumpy feeling.” You purse your lips, turning your gaze down. His head followed your eyes, and your stomach felt a little woozy as he physically commanded your attention.

“I wouldn’t say it so much if I didn’t think you deserved it.”

You let out a soft puff of air out your nose at the potential to make a joke. “You’re ready to believe me?”

His serious face melted into that of pride, his mouth splitting into a full-toothed grin.

“You’re something else. Hell yeah, I am!” He squeezed your shoulder, before having you follow him down the steps and into a basement. He stuck his head into a door and said goodnight to Egon before entering what looked like a laundry room.

He swiped a few articles of clothing on hangers, hanging over most of the room’s perimeter. There were t shirts, longjohn’s, plain sweatshirts, smocks, of varying sizes, though they look like they’d seldom been used. He settled on gray sweat pants and a gray sweatshirt, holding them up to you from a respectable distance to measure.

“The firemen before us left all this. Joke’s on them, right?” He folds them loosely, handing them to you before rummaging through a cabinet for a toothbrush.

Your face unintentionally twitches as he holds the plastic wrapped brush out to you, wondering if it’s been here as long as the clothes you had in your arms.

He glances down at it once, before waving your fears away. “Janine bought new one’s last week, I promise.”

After muttering an apology and leaving for you to change, he leads you back to the sleeping quarters, opening the door slowly. Winston was fast asleep, always the first to be out when the day’s work took a particular toll on him. Ray listened to the silence for a second, piecing together Peter’s absence and the sudden running of the shower down the hall. He leans over, excusing himself to get ready for the night and letting you know there was a bathroom connected to the room, albeit very small.

After a quick brushing of your teeth, you emerge at almost the same time as him. He nearly jumps out of his skin noticing his stuffed animal still on his bed, stuttering how’d that get there’ s and it’s for memorie’ s.

“Don’t be mean to him,” you mock-scold him in a whisper. His cheeks are still pink. He’s wearing a matching pajama set- which was enough to make you shake your head and giggle to yourself.

He looks down, noticing his pink pajamas. “It’s light red . And you should be disappointed I passed on my Dr. Thirteen robe.” He remembers the bear still in his hands.

“You want him?” He holds the little toy out to you, Smokey’s been very clearly well loved, as his fur and outfit are fading slightly. “Take good care of him,” he looks as if he’s parting with a child.

“Promise.”

He makes his way to a wardrobe as quietly as possible, pulling out a pillow and blanket for his sleep on the floor. “You want new ones? Sheets, pillowcase? I’m not sure how nice mine are.”

Your mind flashes to the nice smell his bed had, and you promptly shook your head.

He sets up on the floor, unconsciously choosing to sleep at your technical-side. You set Smokey up next to you, tucking him in, watching Ray lay out the bedding, before he sits back and sighs up at you.

“I know it’s not the Marriott. Sorry you hafta share a room with us.” Sure, he could’ve set his den up next to Winston, or taken Egon’s currently unoccupied bed, but neither of you were gonna complain. He refused to even entertain the idea of you sleeping on the floor of whatever the room the loveseat was in, so this was how it would play out. “I can imagine you don’t often bunk with people you just met before.”

“It’s just a night,” saying it was a little useless- you had no idea how long you’d need to stay with them. You had no idea about anything at all anymore.

He fell silent. “A night?” You couldn’t decipher why his voice had a despondent tone.

“However long you’ll have me.”

A pause. “As long as you wanted.”

The clock on the opposite wall was ticking softly. It was getting late, 11:30.

“Goodnight, Ray. And thank you, really. Thank you.”

“Goodnight. I can…wake you up before the guys do, if that’s more comfortable for you. We’ll figure something out, ok?”

You nod, and he turns off the lamp on the side table above his head.

12:05. A freshly showered Peter opening the door to two bodies out of the three, softly breathing.

“Raymond Stantz. You were supposed to get into the bed, too.”

“Go to bed, Peter.” He pulled the covers over his eyes.

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awingedinsect · 8 months

Text

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 3

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: sadness, cursing, talks of de@th, this is part of a series involving a lot more warnings but this chapter is relatively tame:)

Vessel stares down at his hands, blackened by ash. They tremble like brittle leaves on the branches of arms, the most important pieces of himself that- in this moment -he has no control over.

He sighs shakily.

The smell of smoke clings to him no matter how long he stands under the stream of the shower.

He runs his hands up through his hair, trying to work out soap he forgot to put in and feeling the strands stick between his fingers like glue.

He keeps his eyes closed, scrunching them harder in hopes that somewhere in the splotchy darkness he’ll be free of the images. But try as he might, there’s still fire, glowing bright and terrifying and pulling a building down on top of people he didn’t know, but feels guilty for losing all the same.

He licks his lips and bows his head back into the stream, suddenly noticing that sobs are wracking his wiry body.

He’s cold.

The air of the motel bites at his skin when he finally steps out, hair dripping. He doesn’t bother to towel off, just stumbles around lamely across the carpeted floors in search of a hoodie and boxers. He still feels numb. Had that all been real?

Two things happened tonight in that bar that had never happened there before. One, a fucking fire. And two, him. And although the two things are in no reasonable way linked, he can’t help but think about it.

He didn’t do anything, did he?

Besides fuck up the stage and probably break that poor guys arm, that is. At the time, it felt like the end of the world. Though in hindsight it’s nothing compared to the rest of the night. He can worry about that much, much later… or just never.

He finally dresses and plops down at the end of the queen-size bed, staring at the blank tv. The outdated box zaps to life as he finds the remote, hoping the sound will drown out the thoughts turning his brain to a fire of its own. And of course, the news is on.

“Nine dead tonight after a fire in the ’Blacklit Room’ bar.” The reporter says, holding a mic to her thin lips as siren lights bathe her face in red and yellow. Behind her stands the blackened remains of the bar, still swarmed by firefighters dousing the embers with massive hoses. Vessel feels his throat go tight, a phantom rope pulling on him and fastening him to the screen. He can’t watch. And yet, he does, wet eyes flickering across the staticy display till the last plumes of smoke dissipate in the night sky above the reporter's head.

“Though it is still unclear what started the fire, it is believed to have been related to electrical wire malfunctions. More will be uncovered as the sight is examined.”

“Fuck.” He hears himself choke, now suddenly too overwhelmed to see at all. He pulls the strings of the black hoodie on his head and hides behind the fabric, this time determined to block out the light. He needs a drink. Or seven. And despite his exhaustion over the course of the day, his head is spinning so fast he feels like he could fling open the door and run indefinitely.

…but from what, he doesn’t know.

The small black keyboard on the nightstand glints at him in the blue light as he flops over onto the pillows. He needs to sleep. He needs to sleep. He needs to…

He pops two sleeping pills and tosses the bottle into a drawer. The scratchy sound of commercials fills the room and luls him into a thoughtless haze, the musty smell of his wet hair clogging his nose.

“Trouble getting to Sleep?” The tv asks. “Try Eden, the answer to all your troubles. Studies show that 70 percent of people having issues with Sleep saw changes within one week of taking Eden, along with elevated…”

His eyes finally fall closed.

•••

One week goes by before his phone dings.

Nobody has called to ask how he is, or if he’s even alive. Though, to be fair, he’d told no one about the gig.

He’s been half expecting the cops to come pounding on the door of the motel, locking him up for however long you get for murdering nine people. “You’re charged with possession of a keyboard in a public place and being somewhere you and lots of other blokes also were during the worst possible time.”

As improbable as it is, it doesn’t stop the anxiety attacks or the dreams every night. And no matter how many actual jobs he applies for, it seems the lack of sleep has taken a very visible toll on him.

He jangles his keys in the old door, smelling of the tube and frying oil-not-to-be, and pushes into the tiny dark room that soon will be above his budget.

He settles into the swivel chair and swipes his face, opening his phone with intention to doom scroll.

Hey Vessel:)

The text is from an unknown number.

This is Venus. Me and the gang were thinking about you and wanted to see how you’re holding up. Are you doing alright?

He blinks a few times, making sure he’s reading the message correctly. Venus? The girl from the bar? He doesn’t even remember giving her his number, but the sudden realization that he wasn’t even sure if she survived punches him in the gut. He opens the notification, thumbs hovering over what might as well be blank keys.

I’m fine. Then as an afterthought, he adds, how are you?

He watched the little dots as she types a response, wondering what kind of a conversation this might turn into. He doesn’t have a lot of conversations. But then the message comes through, and he feels almost touched by the words on the screen.

Alive, and if you are too I then I’m over the damn moon. I was worried for ya, just a little nervous to reach out and find out. You treating yourself right?

He remembers her smile, the black lipgloss and her twinkling eyes. The snag of her fishnets on his jeans. He’d forgotten how nice the attention felt, how much he liked her. But the past week has been anything but normal. He types back slowly.

Trying to.

Did that pretty voice make it out of the fire in one piece? She asks.

His heart skips a beat. He hasn't sung since that night at all, and the thought that there might be a concern hasn't even crossed his mind. But all the same, he replies with a simple-

Yes.

They go back and forth for a bit, making Vessel nearly forget the horrible circumstances he finds himself in. It’s nice, and probably the first time he’s smiled in weeks.

Finally another message pops through, and he startles.

Hey, not to be a downer. But I could use some help. At the Blacklit Room I had a box full of momentos, jewelry and guitar picks and a few other things left over from my mom. She actually owned the place once. You think you’d help me and the gang try and find it later today? There’s not alot left, but hey, it’s worth a shot!

The thought of returning to that place makes his skin crawl. He never thought he’d have to, and he never wanted to. But the story strikes something deep in him, remembering softly where it was that he got his keyboard.

Besides, it could be nice to see her and the others again. At least better than his usual routine of scrolling and flipping channels until he physically can’t keep his eyes open any longer.

I’ll help.

He sends the message. A seconds later the reply is on his screen, finished off with a sparking emoji.

Great! See ya at 9, cutie. Gotta go in the dark and beat the cops.

That makes sense. There’s still tape all over the place, and there’s bound to be prying eyes, even though the place sits a little apart off the main road.

Got it.

He sends the message, then peels himself out of the chair in search of a leftover bagel sandwich he thinks is still in the mini fridge.

#sleep token fanfiction #vessel sleep token #vessel #sleep token iii

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