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tuliptired · 4 months

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hi! could you write anymore little looks at a humanities ta!reader x egon in college?

Do Wah Diddy Diddy

Pairing: Egon Spengler/Gn!Ta!Reader

Warnings: Reader is drunk for most of it

The egon/reader tag is so barren ;( Why nobody else dressed like a slut tonight?

INSANELY better formatting on Ao3!

Egon left his lab, surprisingly, stressed. His major didn´t often stretch him too thin, he knew what he was doing and how to do it best, but it was just that time of year. Lots of work, and not a lot of time to do it. He always managed, with lots of coffee and little sleep, it was just a fact of academia.

The outside world reflected the inside ecosystem of his fellow students, buzzing with life and blazingly hot. Plagued by the heated air trying to cling to the classroom, you cracked a few windows open as you taught in place of the absent professor. This wasn't out of the ordinary- the man trusted you enough to run a class, and you ran it like a natural, admittedly. But today was a little strained, your daily seminar not getting to the level of intensity it usually did. Egon would’ve made a comment on it as he got the last word in, but he decided against it. While you were a TA, there was more emphasis on the “A” in times like these, evident in how you scoured through notes for other classes when you had a spare minute.

They worked independently, before you lifted your head out of a notebook, one of many fans blowing some of your hair off of your forehead. You glanced at the clock, before quickly setting up a projector and unboxing a handful of identical, thick books.

“Big assignment,” you started, a few complaints sounding from the students, “it wasn’t even me this time, blame Mr. Coulms.”

He left the lecture room in a worse mood than he entered it, the thick tome under his arm. A play. He was a great reader- he could read each edition of Tobin's Spirit guide cover to cover in an hour if he was looking to cite something. Scientific journals were light entertainment to him. But plays? You actually had to dissect a play. To dissect it, you had to read it- well.

He leaned against a bookcase, in the not-leaning-but-leaning way that he does, so as not to disturb the books. He would be searching for something like Ray was, crouched on the ground and investigating the bottom shelf, but he wasn’t in the mood, glaring at the text he was given before placing it on an empty shelf beside him.

They were tucked away in the basement of the Public Library- it was one of the few places that they could ask for books about harnessing pure protonic energy and campfire stories of the 30’s without being looked at weird. Peter messed with the straps of his bag, ready to go and saying so for the 3rd time.

“In a minute, Peter.” Ray placed a few books next to him, searching for the right one that happened to be inconveniently smaller than the one’s surrounding it. He looked up at Egon sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, Spengs. But I did this one in high school, and it was a lot of fun!” His optimism was cut short as the rest of the books along the wood fall towards the middle like dominos.

“It won’t be hard, Egon. Do the voices.’ Peter procured a rubix cube from his bag. Egon seriously didn’t know why he carried it around, as it was never once solved.

Ray fumbled with the books as he tried to Dewey-Decimal their placements in his head. “I’ll help. Just, uh…” He looked around at the mess he made. “Can you look around for ‘Ghastly Apparitions of the Appalachian’? We’re gonna need it, too.” Egon only nodded, eager to clear his head a bit. He remembered the author well enough, weaving through aisles to find the proper section.

He didn’t make it far, there was a reshelving cart in his way, his feet coming to a halt. As he looked up from the roller, you were standing there, hands on your hips.

“Doesn’t look like you’re studying very hard.”

He sighed a puff of air out his nose, as you peered over his shoulder. You saw two men on the ground, grabbing handfuls of discarded books. “And your friends are messing up my hard work.”

He glanced back at the men, then back at you. “Is there anywhere you don’t work?” He didn’t intend to be in a confrontational mood this afternoon, but a bad class will do that to you.

You pointed to a pin on your chest, which read your name in small print under ‘BOOKKEEPER’.

“Nope. How many people do you know have a gold plated name tag?”

“Waste collectors and prison guards.”

“Did you need a book? Because you’re in the library?”

He had his hands resting on the handle of the cart, not noticing until you dragged it to the side, taking away the partition between you. “Ghastly Apparitions of the Appalachian by Gregory Lederer.” He expected you to not know what he was talking about, and stand there dumbfounded. But you pushed past him, making your way to the “L” aisle of the General Knowledge section.

Your eyes scanned the spines of various options. “I don’t remember this play taking place in Appalachia,” you moved on to the next row. He followed you like a dog, unsure of what to do while you helped him.

“It’s personal. Scientific.”

“The title’s a little oxymoronic, then, no?” You finally found it, examining the covers quizzically.

As he reached out for the book, you pulled your hand back. Egon wanted to be annoyed, but it wasn’t in him.

“Actually read the play. Do the voices.” Your own voice had the tone of someone trying to reason with a child. He reached his hand out, again, and you placed the book into his palm, conceding.

Though you had a modest smile, Egon couldn’t help notice your tired look, under eyes darkening despite your efforts otherwise. He could understand, this was a hard time for everyone, no matter their field. Before he could show you his commiseration, against his better judgment, you let the book go limp in his grasp, passing by him with a small “see you, Mr. Spengler”.

Peter appeared in his line of sight amongst the maze of shelves, as Egon stood dumbly. A voice told him to “clean up my basement” as he passed by.

“It appears we’re not wanted here. Let’s go, Egon.”

When it was officially late, you sat in your dorm, finally having time to sit and work. You had to skip a proper lunch, mindlessly putting a baby carrot in your mouth every 10 minutes as you snuck a binder under your desk at the Public Library. By the time you were on your bed, feverishly taking notes, checking notes, and reading notes, you were barely halfway done with your studying itinerary. This week was sufficiently kicking your butt, to say the least.

The door opened and shut, revealing your roommate, Christine, setting her bag down on the chair nearby. You barely verbally acknowledged her, looking for a specific page in your textbook. She gave you a once over, before making her way to the fridge, but unable to stop taking you in.

“Did you hear what I said?” Christine asked you, skeptical.

“Don’t think so-” Page 392.

She poured herself a glass of something, eyeing you as she did. “I said, you need to relax a bit.”

That was easy for her to say. As much as you appreciated her and her companionship, all Christine did was relax. Still, your flow was disturbed, and you reluctantly put your materials down.

She continued now that she had your attention. “You don’t hang out anymore. It’s Friday.” She crosses to stand in front of your spot on the bed, effectively tapping you in the conversation.

“There’s some guys in my advertising class throwing-” You can tell what’s coming next, and you shimmy past her as she exclaims in protest.

“Come on,” she follows you around, nearly pleading with you. You sighed, stopping as she leaned up behind you. It wasn’t that you didn’t like fun, or being with friends- parties just stopped being your scene a few semesters ago. How’s that for maturity?

“I’m telling you like I’ve told you a million times before. That’s just not my domain.” Christine spun you around, intent on not giving up until you caved.

“You guys always get drunk, then you get pissed, then I’m dragging you home and helping you puke it all up.” She rolled her eyes.

“We’ll only have a little- and,” she pointed an accusatory finger to your chest, “to be fair, you wouldn’t have to do all that if you drank a little yourself.”

You pointed the same finger back at her. “So we can all puke together? What a fun night.”

Christine made the sign of the cross then, pointed her fingers to the sky virtuously. “I swear on my life; we’ll know when to stop.” When she opened her eyes, you still weren’t convinced.

“Pleeeease? If it’s lame, we’ll leave and rent a video and get a pizza. But you might have fun.” She looked at you with those big blue eyes, and it took all of your strength to resist. She pleaded with you again, until you finally broke, covering your ears.

You groaned dramatically. “Alright, fine, fine. I’ll go to your stupid frat party and get smashed on cheap beer.” Christine cheered, making her way over to the phone.

“I’ll call Dean and Lisa and-” you flopped back onto your bed. Staring at your long forgotten work, you wondered if this was the right choice.

Egon read the line, waiting patiently for Ray to respond from the copy he borrowed himself, as the man read for all other 11 characters of the play. It was about two rulers from warring countries forced to live together in a dungeon, but he just couldn’t grasp what was so special about that. It was late into the night, the dorm only illuminated by a few lamps and the little bit of light pouring in from under the door. After hours of trying to evade it, both men had only made a small dent in the long drama.

Ray pushed his reading glasses up. “You need more conviction, Egon, I don’t feel like your wife right now.” Egon closed his copy, putting his forehead in his hand against his desk.

“I don’t think this is working.”

“Are you doing improv? ‘Of course it’s not working, you-”

“No, Raymond. This book isn’t working.” Egon slid it away from him, the bright red cover hurting his eyes, and his pride.

Ray looked sad for his friend, taking off his glasses. “The only way to do it is to read. I’m sorry.” He tossed his book onto his bed. “But we can take a break. Whaddya wanna do?”

Egon remembered it was Friday, the day most young adults would use to unwind. He reached into the drawer beneath him, emerging with a miniature Tesla coil Ray had fashioned.

“You read my mind, Spenges!”

The two men were engrossed with messing around with it, placing numerous objects on and around the transformer- granted that any other flammable or conducive thing they owned was moved out of the way. As Ray teased the sparks with a pencil, he suddenly recalled something, eyes flashing and wide as he dropped the writing utensil.

“Peter has my car!” He grabbed each side of his head, almost comically as he could picture it- a nice, clean Camaro being trashed by beer and bodily fluids.

Ray was just short of spiraling, stuck on either racing down to the party himself or bawling in the spinny chair. “I’d go there myself- and strangle the life out of him,” he nearly wept, covering his eyes.

Egon let his eyes shut, before willinging himself to his feet. He’d never, ever associate with any sort of party, let alone one at a fraternity. But Ray loved that car, his dad’s graduation gift to him that’s been his pride and joy since freshman year. His friend barely even drove it around, afraid to raise the mileage too much. He didn’t doubt Ray’s conviction, or ability, to show it to Peter for going against his wishes, but the engineer was in hot water with the hosting students. One complicated party trick gone wrong, and the front lawn was ablaze quicker than he could control the little ball of plasma. It was their sophomore year, but he still wasn’t welcome near the block of brownstones he managed to devalue.

“Thank you, Egon, I promise I’ll repay you,” Ray’s eyes were glossy with tears as he pressed his face impossibly close to the glass of the window, trying to spot his baby driving somewhere down the street.

Time lessened the heat, Egon thought to himself. It was dark, but not a long walk off campus and a block or two away from the party. It wasn’t hard to find it, either- the music was loud and the bacchanal activities spilled out onto the street and into neighboring yards. No sign of the car. He wrinkled his nose. In the last stretch of freshman year, Peter tried convincing him and Ray to join a fraternity, rattling off a laundry list of reasons that it’d be a thrilling experience for the trio. He was obviously unsuccessful, and dropped the idea when he realized that it’d be hard to make friends in the already tight knit community.

Egon didn’t dare touch the doorknob, evading people lounging on the stoop as he entered the large house after someone, using his foot to keep the door open. It smelt strongly of booze in the hot, dimly lit apartment, music still blaring from an unknown source. Not to mention the hazy smoke that was billowing through the air, hard to avoid with his height, much like the sounds of two people making out behind the couch. Infection central. How were all these people still going this late? He had to step over the passed out body of some guy without a shirt to get to the kitchen.

As he stepped from the carpeted area to the tiled floor, arms quickly wrapped around his middle. His head snapped down, and there you were, head buried in his chest.

“Hi, Egon,” you smiled sweetly up at him, eyes glazed over and voice syrupy, not as precise as you made sure it was. He blinked a few times, noticing not only your shoes standing on his, but the fact you called him by his first name.

“Hi.” He reveled in the confusion, before pulling you away from him, gently. “Have you seen Peter? Peter Venkman?”

You thought about it, before the memory flashed back into your recollection. “Dr. Love? He left with my friend Christine.” Your voice slurred the words “left” and “with”, the same way Ray did when he was so smashed he couldn’t stand. Junior year was a sight to behold.

He remembered how he handled drunken Ray, noting how warm your shoulders were under his fingers. “You’ve been drinking?” He asked despite himself. Being a gentleman was above personal vendetta. It was odd, seeing you dressed like this, out of the professional attire you took pride in every day. Your ability to pick clothes with an anal retentiveness rivals even him- the only college student in a pressed dress shirt, a sweater vest, and slacks.

“Like, one or five. Itsfine, I’mfine,” you waved your hands around dismissively, before placing them over Egon’s. “I didn’t know you could party, Egie.” He ignored the heat that stung the muscles in his cheeks.

“I don’t.” He went along with it as you started swaying the two of you back and forth lightly. “Did you come with any other friends?”

You went silent, thinking again. It was evidently hard to think and sway, and you eventually fell back into him, unable to keep your balance. “DeanandLisa went to get…food. And they told me to stay here. So I took’a nap.” You nodded to yourself.

“When?”

You couldn’t answer. He peeked sideways at the clock- 3:19. Wherever your friends went, they weren’t going to be back for a long time.

Your arms were still around him, head back on his chest as his hands hovered over you, awkwardly. It was barely audible, but you were mumbling along to the song playing throughout the rest of the house. He should’ve felt a smug pride, watching you who were once so confident drool on yourself, stumble over your words, and paw at him, but he couldn’t. Egon felt a lash of guilt at the idea of leaving you behind, telling Ray that Peter was long gone, and going to bed. You were obviously inebriated- with no friends and too juiced to know not to sleep on the floor, he couldn’t just let you stay in this dump.

That’s how he ended up herding you out the door, but not before you stumbled about the apartment, saying good night to everyone. He was on your heels as you banged on a socked-bedroom door, bidding whoever was on the other side farewell, but he wasn’t quick enough before you were shouting your goodbyes down the stairwell of the basement. For being wasted, you were surprisingly fast. He finally got you outside, the skin under his fingers actually cooling as you left the cramped party.

“I didn’t take you to be a party-person,” he confessed, hand on the small of your back to stop you from running across the street to greet the cat staring you down.

“I’m- wait,” you did in fact run, having to kick off your shoes for efficiency before bending down rather ungracefully to pet the feline like a child would, fingers splayed and pushing its ears back unintentionally. He watched on as you skipped back to the sidewalk, grabbing a street sign for stability when you reached him.

“I’m not,” you resumed as he steered you on. “But- it was Christine! She showed me her’fake eyelash…es and convinced me!” You looked to him to share your disbelief as you told the story, shoes waving around as you moved your hands. “I’couldn’t say no!”

Egon found himself smiling. “I have a roommate very similar.” You were surprisingly easier to talk to when drunk. He wasn’t burning up, or scrambling for his words like he normally did when you teased him, making the scientist detest you more and more for your ability to confuse him. His thoughts ceased, as you got closer to campus, but walking with increasing difficulty.

It was when he had to catch you before tripping over yourself that he swallowed his inhibitions, wrapping a hand under you. He wasn’t the strongest out there, maybe even a little weak, but he could support your weight until you reached home. As you let out a small noise of surprise though, he felt a primitive sense of manliness, your figure pressed to his in a bridal carry.

“Soooo strong.” You praised him, voice trailing off as you let your head hit his shoulder. He had to remind himself that you were drunk, none of this really meant anything. You’d wake up, and decide to torment him after taking an aspirin. His grip weakened as his smile did.

“Don’t drop’me,” your hands clawed at the fabric of his shirt, and he adjusted his hold.

“I won’t,” he watched you close your eyes, face content. “I won’t.”

You were halfway back to the dormitory. He could feel you stirring, looking down and finding your eyes fixed on the night sky.

“What’s up there?”

“Ursa Major.” You pointed lazily.

“That’s a plane.”

You stiffened in his arms. “No, it’s’not. I know this. It’s the bear.” You managed to cross your arms over yourself while in his hold. He felt bad, provoking you while inebriated.

“Then it’s the bear.”

“Put me down,” you hit him on the chest a few times, willing him to reluctantly place you on your own two feet. You shook off his attempts at still holding you, intent on trying to make it home on your own. You stormed off along the path, nearly veering off into the grass.

“Where are you going?” He couldn’t hide the concern behind his voice, trying to keep up with you as you took on a sudden irritation towards him.

“Home.” You kept your pace, before slowing, battling something in behind your eyes in your drunken state. “You think I’m dumb.” Egon stopped in his tracks in a moment, before walking behind you again.

“That’s not true,” he said simply, throwing away his feud with you when sober. He thought of you as one of the smartest people he knew. And you managed to make him look like a mere child while baring your smile at him.

“Maybe I’like being drunk,” you retorted to no one in front of you. As you slowed, so did Egon, watching on as you looked on down the dim, street lamp lit path. When he followed your gaze, he saw nothing but the darkness of night ahead of him. Suddenly, you fell forward, uncaring and weightless. He wasn’t quick enough to catch you, heart dropping to his toes before you simply rolled over onto your back. Your knees were scraped, rapidly drying blood mixing with the gravel and dust of the ground over your lacerated skin. Before he could worry too much about it, you merely laughed, full of glee as your eyes were transfixed on the stars, arms out like you were a star yourself.

You passed out pretty quick after that, a little heavier in his arms. To say Egon was uneasy was an understatement, but at least you were out for a bit. He struggled to get the door to the building open, and even more so getting up to your dormitory floor, only narrowly avoiding hitting your head against a door frame every so often. Taking a quick look at the plates on each door, he was relieved at finding your surname printed on one. After a few discreet knocks, however, no one opened up, either passed out themselves or simply not home. Searching for solutions, he sighed, again, gently laying you against the baseboards. It wasn’t his most elegant idea, but it’d have to do as he reached in his pocket for a pad and paper. He simply scribbled the words “Passed out, sleeping in 244. Please pick up when you get home.” Pressing it in the space between the room number and the wood, he picked you up for the third time and made the trek back to his own place.

You looked peaceful, as Egon decided on putting you in Ray’s bed, alcohol and cotton pads ready. Ray wasn’t home himself- and it’d be unbecoming of him to put you in his own. He hummed to himself, your current state reminding him of the deuteragonist in the play you gave him. They were affluent and sybaritic, imprisoned while drunk and jovial, to the aggravation of the protagonist, tied to tradition and analytical. He hoped that whoever you were in chains with took the liberty of cleaning your open wounds like he did.

Apparently, the sting of disinfectant is enough to rouse the unconscious awake, as the liquid being pressed to your skin made you jolt back to the present, sucking in air between your teeth and nearly kneeing him in the nose. You rushed to sit up as properly as you could, bringing your legs to your chest.

“What’re you doing?” The pain must’ve been worse in this state. He suddenly felt very, very bad about not waiting until you were awake to take care of it, but he remembered that you couldn’t make proper decisions for yourself like this. He wet another pad, though warily. Who was Egon to say that he could make proper decisions for you, sober or otherwise?

He approached you gently, showing you his materials. “Sanitizing. It could get infected.” Maybe that was a bit overzealous, but germs love untreated, open flesh.

You calmed, letting your legs dangle over the bedside again, the exaggerated idea of losing a leg scarier than the cleaning agent in his hand. “Oh.” He figured you were sobering up, even by a bit, from the way your words slurred less and you clung Ray’s blanket to yourself, night’s activities catching up with your tired body. You looked around as he worked quickly, taking in the room.

“You’re messy.” Egon raised his eyebrows once at that, prepping another pad.

“We’re scientists. And Peter.” He could hear you laugh weakly above him. It felt nice, to make you feel nice. Egon felt oddly at ease, on his knees, cleaning you up- as dubious as it sounded. He moved on to your other leg, remembering your situation. “Would you like to stay here? Your friends aren’t home.”

Silence as he wiped away the grime. Your voice sounded again. “A sleepover.”

He resisted a yawn, letting it escape through his nose before catching sight of the clock. “Sure.”

You didn’t say anything else. Better for him- he was sure you didn’t have a key and he was a terrible locksmith. You were leaning back on your hands.

“My doctor.”

He bit back the smile and blush that spread over his face with a clench of his jaw. You were still drunk, no matter how coherent. And wrong. “Not yet a doctor.” He was done bandaging both your injuries some time ago.

“Doctor Egon,” you drew out the word, giggling to yourself. He’d let it slide, this time. Misused titles were disdainful in academia. But he supposed being a stickler didn’t matter so much, now.

Eventually, he rose to his feet, eyes honing in to a surface level scratch on your cheek from the fall. He held your jaw lighty, thumb careful to not graze too much over it. It wasn’t severe, but he assumed you’d prefer to not have a deep scar there for the entirety of the summer to come. He thought about summer. He’d be here, on an internship, while you’d be away, probably away with your friends again. You’d get drunk, seemingly trusting the people around you far too much until you’re hurt- worse than you are now. Whatever meathead you’d spent the night with wouldn’t know first aid if it was thrown at him. Egon soaked in his jealousy, eyebrows falling over his eyes, before coming back to his senses, soaking one more piece of cotton and gently tapping it to your face, a small adhesive placed to protect it.

“Kiss to make it better?” He let go of your face, moving to the kitchen sink to wash his hands as you giggled to yourself again. It was awfully late, now.

“You should get some sleep,” he dried his hands off. He would miss you, but time was the only fool-proof remedy- and daylight was quickly approaching.

“No fun,” you complained, but you still settled into Ray’s bed, pulling the comforter around yourself. He contemplated what to do, get into his own bed or just wait for you to sleep instead. You rolled over to face him.

“Are you sure you don’t want my help with the play? I’m not supposed to, though. But I can do the voices.” Right. The play. He eyed the book, forgotten about in the corner of his desk.

“I’d rather you rest.”

“You should sleep, too.” He could tell you were fighting your own exhaustion. He pulled out his chair, moving Ray’s coil to the side to make work of his assignment again.

“I’d rather you did, first.” He opened to the page he left off on.

“Egon.” You sounded scarily sober. He turned in his seat to face you.

You freed yourself from the blanket a bit. “You’re tired. You always look tired.” Another state of inebriation was taking hold of you. Maudlin. You were drunk. It didn’t mean anything.

He chewed at the inner part of his bottom lip before speaking again. “You’re very stressed. And you’re going to wake up feeling like hell.” He searched for the right words to convince you to let yourself go. “I’ll sleep too, and we can talk to each other in our dreams.” A little ridiculous, but it’s not the craziest thing he’s said to a tippler.

The hammered part of you was contemplating it, before you smiled and nodded. Before he went back to his work, you called for him one more time.

“Egon?”

“Yes?”

“I need a lullaby.” You had the same devilish, teasing look in your eye as you did when you were sober. He looked around in confusion as you looked towards him expectantly, before he surrendered, winding up a small snow globe that Peter kept out, even in Spring. As it played, you shook your head.

“No, sing the one by Manfred Mann.” He grabbed the edge of the blanket, pulling it over your head as you laughed uncontrollably to yourself.

“Goodnight.”

Egon had fallen asleep over his book some time later. As he came to, he looked back, hopeful to still see you, sleeping soundly. His hope faltered as he took in the empty space, neither his roommates returned or your spot on Ray’s bed filled in by your shape. There was a strange emptiness in his chest, knowing you were gone in a matter of hours. The only proof of your presence was the used bottle of isopropyl in the corner of his desk.

His breath slowed, light of the early morning burning into his eyes as he slowly rose out of his chair. Walking off, not sure if he was going to shower, or eat, or what, he noticed a small paper on the pillow. He picked it up, wondering if it would disappear in his hands.

“Thank you, Doctor.” He folded it back. You were drunk. It didn’t mean anything. But he still smiled.

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