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tuliptired · 10 months ago

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He's Good People Ch.3

Chapter 3: I Didn't Mean to Take Up all your Sweet Time (I'll Give it Right Back to Ya, One of These Days)

Pairing(s): Gn!reader/Ray, Gn!reader/Egon, Gn!reader/Winston

Summary: (Winston centric, briefly Egon centric) To get out the firehouse, you 're invited for a day out on the town with the "common man" of the Ghostbusters, and he won't stop opening doors for you

Warnings: Reader wears masc presenting clothes for like one paragraph

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE :((( hope a longer update makes up for it!

read it on Ao3!

It was fairly late into the night. You felt weird about going to bed while none of the others had returned, like you were overstepping. You were content with being curled up in a chair as Egon annotated a book in the dimly lit lab. He had offered you one of the many works from his personal collection, but the words started to lose their meaning after the first handful of pages. Maybe he ought to read it to you, instead. You set the book aside, much more interested in watching him. He had his sleeves rolled up again, fairly unnecessary because he was only working with paper and pencil.

He discarded his work for the second time that day, looking over at you. The need for sleep was creeping up on him, as his eyelids sat low and his gaze remained soft.

"I´m sorry for boring you."

"I´m not bored. Are you tired? You don't have to stay up with me."

He put the pencil back into a mug full of others. He rose from the workbench, opening the book to a heavily noted page. Crossing over to where you were sitting, Egon joined you, holding it open for you to see. There were large, square photos of terrifying looking sculptures. Upon further inspection, they were really just recreations of exotic animals. A boa constrictor, an alligator, a giant salamander, a…platypus. Behind each of them stood a Victorian era man, beaming with self-worth at the spectacles surrounding him.

“See him?” He pointed to the man. “That’s Benjamin Fairhooke. He had a penchant for imported animals. And too much money. So much so he had the theater near your building constructed to show them off.” He turned the page to a large spread of the theater in the late 1800’s, advertising an oddity show.

“They started showing plays and operas soon enough. But everyone knew how passionate he was. Piranhas-in-the-bar sink, frogs-on-the-staircases-passionate.” There was a photo of Fairhooke next to a woman. Despite her exquisite clothing, elegant features, and extravagant jewelry, she had a fairly sour expression, while he still beamed at the camera, an iguana in his lap.

“That was his wife, Claira. Their marriage was falling apart while ticket sales peaked. They held their son’s wedding reception in the lobby of the theater.” He had a grainy photo bookmarked. There was a newlywed couple, normal. Claira’s in the background, though. Not happy her son was just married, but instead staring down the barrel of the camera like it was a gun.

“She had just found Benjamin in a parlor, tending to a snapping turtle. She got so mad, she took the shovel from the fireplace and managed to decapitate him in 10 minutes.” Holy shit.

He could feel your shock. “I know. She left him there for the rest of the night. They searched for weeks, until they found his body. She told them everything- just not what became of his head. His animals went missing, and his kids wanted nothing to do with the theater. Local legend says that the souls of his then neglected animals are still searching for Claira. Anywhere she could be. But it fell into obscurity. Everyone who believed in it died at the turn of the century.” He shut the book.

“So. The ghosts of a bunch of critters are running around my block, looking for his murderer? And one ended up in my washing machine?”

“Essentially. I’ve wanted to investigate since I heard the story, but it was always word of mouth. I only just found it buried in an anthology of neighborhood ghost stories in Ray’s store.” He sighed, getting up and placing the book back into its place on his shelf. “He was pretty excited about my findings. He always is. But he’s been dragging his feet about it.” Egon looked worried, if not at least a bit frustrated, as he took a seat back next to you, knees touching unintentionally. You could understand, this was his longtime friend, after all. This all seemed very perplexing to him.

“Maybe he’s just scared? Of what he’ll find?” The words really don’t serve much purpose other than to soothe his nerves- they don’t convince you, even as they fall from your lips. Ray was a discerning and generally happy man, but he was still brave. He wouldn’t be a paranormal expert, a Ghostbuster if he was scared of what he loved.

You could tell his fears were still there. You placed a hand on his, silently grateful as you felt that they were still the same hands you held earlier.

“I promise, the moment I can get back into my apartment I’m gonna look for the key.”

There was the predecessor to a smile, before he had a look that read as accepting defeat. “I apologize for you being stuck with us so long. Only a day more.” Before you could protest, tell him that you’re having a wonderful time and you’re sorry for being in their hair, you heard cursing downstairs, followed by heavy steps approaching, making you jump.

Ray and Winston joined you upstairs, covered in thick, oozing slime of some sort. Winston held a smoking machine like the one Ray had after cleansing your house, only this time a bit more scratched up.

“It wasn’t a mannequin at all. God-damned-ghost-komodo-dragon on its hind legs. Sprayed us bad- we hosed ourselves off 6 times on the way home.” Winston tried wiping the slime moving from his glove to his wrist off on his pant leg, only making the viscous substance spread more.

Ray didn’t look angry, but he wasn’t bouncing off the walls. “This is big. Y’know that old theater-”

“I already explained it.”

“You’re kidding.”

‘’No. I explained Fairhooke, Claira, the ghosts. All of it.”

Winston could feel the start of a petty back and forth, so he discreetly asked you to follow him. He laughed and shook his head as he went down the steps to the very bottom of the firehouse. You had seen this room when Ray brought you down for pajamas, and you recognized the door he had peeked into, but not what was on the wall. A large, red electrical looking panel stared back at you.

“Ray taught me how to do this when I was new here.” He went through the motions of showing you how they used it to hold ghosts. You were glad he took the extra step and explained what it really did under the surface, because lord knows you were puzzled.

“He even made a rhyme. ‘When the light is green, the trap is clean’”.

“Does this make me part of your team now?” You complain, purely jokingly.

“You don’t wanna be? I wouldn’t mind.” You had to hand it to him, he had a charming way of disarming you. He didn't give you time to respond, as he made his way to the laundry area. He came back with new pajamas, softer looking ones.

“I hope these are a little more personable.” He handed you a light purple t-shirt, and dark purple sweatpants. There was thought behind these, definitely not something they had laying around in the hamper.

You smile at the consideration. “Thank you.” He returned it, very white teeth and all. He gave you privacy to change, and was peeling his suit off upon your return. It looked incredibly uncomfortable, the mire of today´s job trying to stick to his skin. He finally got the soiled jumpsuit off, and it stuck to the floor like a glue trap. As he stuffed it into the industrial washer, another one tumbled out a laundry chute and onto a pile of dirty, but not slimy, clothes. He sighed, carefully picking up the soiled suit and garments and placing them in, too.

“What is it, anyway?” You watched on as he poured a cocktail of different, unmarked liquids, which you assumed were non FDA approved cleaners for these kinds of unconventional stains.

He pressed the washing machine closed, turning a few knobs and pressing a few buttons. “Ectoplasm. As graceful as it sounds.” You follow him, as he makes his way back up the steps.

“Like sticky skunk spray.” He stops in front of the sleeping quarters, and it gives you a moment to wonder why exactly you were still following him. As you start to mull over it further, he places his pointer finger over his lips.

“We oughta get out of here tomorrow. Ray’s gone to bed without dinner. Bad sign. It’s not pretty when he and the professor get into it.” He explains, voice hushed.

“Are they okay?”

“They will be. Ray stresses for a day, but he always apologizes, ‘cause he’s scared to lose his friend.” Winston smiles familiarly, thinking of the men he’s grown to know well over the past 5 years since his initial hiring. You can’t stop the spread of warmth under your skin as you think, too.

“Kindred spirits. I hate to see them both so worked up.”

“They can’t help it. They’ve got a new distraction running around.”

You don’t have time to process it, again, before he’s halfway back down the steps to the first floor. You lean over the railing, just as he passes Janine’s desk.

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t stop walking, until he reaches the exit. “I promised my mom I’d stay over. Be up early tomorrow, ok? I’ll take you on a joyride.”

“Goodnight,” you wave, as he gives you a two finger salute, letting the door shut behind him.

You can’t really sleep- you don’t want to, anyway. Egon’s still upstairs, Peter’s with Dana, and Ray’s in bed by himself. As tempting as it is to go up there and console him, you really don’t want to come off as pushy. So, you had an apron tied over your front, sleeves rolled up and gloves on as you worked to scrub the slime out of blanched fabric. What a night.

The stickiness was seldom coming off, but you noticed progress. It would bubble and sud with the soap, but it was nothing a frequent rinse didn’t get rid of. The only problem was that it was thick, and it sat deep in the absorbent material. You lost track of the hours you spent, going down the line; Soaking, scrubbing, rinsing, scrubbing, rinsing, soaking- over and over. The need for sleep left you, as this housekeeping mystery kept you unwilling to give up until it was completed.

There was a click of the heavy door, and your thoughts of finishing the task as you feverishly scraped a suit against a large washboard suddenly ceased. Winston stood at the door, dressed and holding 2 cups of coffee-shop-coffee.

“Good morning,” his face was both impressed and fearful. You figured this was enough, as most of the slime sat mixed with now greenish water in the large sink. You carefully transferred it to the dryer with the others, and peeled your gloves off.

“Goodmorning,” you wiped some soap off your cheek with your wrist.

He handed you a cup. “You think you deserve a shower after all that?” You walked out the laundry with him, the warm liquid having the opposite of its desired effect as it made you the slightest bit sleepy.

Your shower was quick and to the point. In the few days you’ve been there, your towel has had a permanent residence on a hook by the door, a fair distance from the other 4. You figured this would have to be your second day in the blue sweater, but you didn’t mind all that much. You managed to wash it as well the night prior, so it was dried and fluffed as it waited for you.

Winston ran into you on your way out the bathroom, something dark in his hands. He unfolded it, and stepped behind you to put it on your shoulders.

“What’s this?” You whipped your head around to watch his movements.

“Had to pick this up from my mom’s, too.”

It was a dark purple jacket, the sleeves needing to be cuffed by him in order for your hands to appear. You could see a wide, black stripe wrap around the back and little pinstripes around the collar. You knew Winston was a more eccentric dresser than his coworkers, the brightly colored laundry telling you so, but to take something so nice from his mom?

“I can’t take this, She doesn’t even know me.”

“It’s mine. And it’s going to a good cause.” He drops your wrist. Taking a step back, he examines his work with a hand on his chin, an unsatisfied look on his face. He figures out what’s wrong, as he grabs the zipper from the bottom and pulls it up, the blue of the sweater underneath now hidden. There’s a pleased smile on his face as he takes another step back, before starting down the stairs.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the car,” and he disappeared.

While you were excited to get out again, to have some sort of normalcy for a day, but the urge to check the kitchen overtakes your legs. Your heart feared for the worst, you peek across the threshold, and you could’ve died then.

Egon was at the little table, pancakes, eggs, and coffee on two plates in front of him. The thing was, yours was untouched. He sat there, hands in his lap, face unreadable, until he noticed your presence. He didn’t light up, his features didn’t change, but you could’ve sworn there was a slight, upward twitch of the inner corners of his eyebrows. You felt a sort of nausea wash over you, that settled in your chest as you thought of what to say.

Walking towards him felt condescending, as if you were increasing the parameters of whatever obviously negative emotion he was feeling, but it was the proper thing to do. You folded your hands in front of you, unthreatening. Benevolent. He looked at you through his eyelashes, like a wounded animal.

“I’m sorry. That I wasn’t around this morning.” To anyone else, this would seem melodramatic. A meal skipped out on between 2 people who have known each other for 2 days. But the way there was a flash of forgiveness, that you saw so often in the downcast faces of those young men and women around a coffee pot, weeks after their indulgence of passion. One of them did something. And the other so desperately wanted things to be okay again. They’d be engaged. You saw it on the faces of teenage actors, as their parents commented on a poor performance, before bringing them ice cream. It was the small injustices, from the people that you loved.

He opened his mouth to speak, before a honk from the garage cut him off. Winston was calling you, the unfortunate timing making you cringe.

“I’m sorry, again. I won’t be gone long.” He didn’t respond as you retreated to the door.

You reluctantly disappeared out the room, before appearing one more time.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You take your leave down the stairs, the garage door open as the Ecto-1a runs idly. Winston leaned over, opening the passenger door for you. Settling in with a huff, he turned to you as you pulled your seatbelt on.

“Ready?” When you nod, he pulls the car out the garage, and onto the street. After a few minutes of driving from the firehouse, he reaches for the glove compartment, his hand emerging with a cassette in a purple case.

“Hope you don’t mind Mj,” he grins as he slides it into the car’s slot. The singer’s voice fills the car, and he eventually joins in. He has an amazing singing voice, honestly, and you’re too compelled to take pleasure in his gaiety as he drives.

“The Jackson 5: Jackie, Tito, Marlon, Jermaine, and Winston,” you tease him. The city’s awake with you, as children took their lessons on the blacktop of the school’s playground, and grandmother’s bought fruit placed in their foldable carts. A handful of dogs howl as your highly decorated car passes by.

“I could never take Michaels place,” Winston crosses his heart, the cassette starting to play a Stevie Wonder song. He nodded his head along to the beginning of “Signed, Sealed, Delivered”.

He enjoyed himself for the whole song, even roping you into joining in. Eventually, he turns the volume down a few notches.

“What music do you like?” He questioned, nodding in acknowledgment as you listed off your current favorites. As he waited at a red light, he skipped a few songs, claiming that you’d like this one more after the inventory you gave him.

You take another look around, as the setting gets more and more unfamiliar to you. “Where’re we going, anyway?” You tilt your head.

“Right now, I’m thinking the music store. But I have other ideas, too.” He pulls up to the curb of an aptly named record shop, shutting off the engine and opening your door from the outside before you could protest. The inside was fairly simple, musical equipment sitting on shelves behind a desk, records stretching around the perimeters of the room, and cassette tapes in the square middle.

The layout intrigues you, as your brain pings at recognizable albums. You shy away from Winston, flipping through a few records in your favorite genre. He reappears at your side, a small box of blank tapes in his hands.

“Are you recording something?” You continue to browse. He shakes his head.

“You’re gonna need your own tape to play in the car. We all have one.” He peers over your shoulder casually, taking in music he’s never heard of. You shake your head apologetically, fearing the effort it’ll take. He picks up an album you’d been eyeing.

He turned to look at you, eyes earnest and eyebrows slightly raised. “Make space for yourself.” Simple words. He wasn’t asking a lot from you. But he was speaking to you- I want you to survive. I want you to live.

You have nothing to do but nod your head, no point in protest. He has a pleased smile, and examines the album a little more before putting it down. Something else catches his eye, and he brightens, mouth open in awe. There’s a full stack of reddish yellow squares, and he spins around to show you, eyes twinkling like a little kid.

“Tommy! I thought you didn’t carry Hendrix!” He chides the man excitedly, flipping the album around. You stand behind him to read the song list as well. Tommy merely shrugs.

“Best guitarist since Berry,” he proclaims to you. “Absolutely insane sound.” He had such a look of delight on his face. It was different from Ray’s- it wasn’t analytical, he probably didn’t know everything he could’ve about what he loved, but that only made him love it more. Winston’s joy was simple, but it wasn’t unimportant. As he talked on about the man he looked up to, his soft eyes crinkled, a wide smile meeting them.

“I wasn’t allowed to play him.” He pulled out his wallet, paying for not only his newfound treasure, but the empty cassettes and your own personal favorite. “Not when I was at home, or when I was deployed.” Tommy handed him the items in a plastic bag. “But I paid my neighbor a nickel to let me when our parents weren’t home. I lost a lot of commissary that way, when I got older.” His story had a boyish tone to it, as he held the door open for you. He wouldn’t stop opening doors for you, insisting on it as you got in the car.

“Are you hungry?” His question makes you recall the other companion you’d forgotten at the firehouse, your heart filling with cement. You agree to lunch, knowing he really wouldn’t let you refuse.

Your next destination is a little restaurant, the area busier as midday approaches and working class America is looking for something to eat. When you enter (and he holds the door), there’s a teenaged boy behind the counter, packing orders and taking cash. The interior is smaller than you assumed, as the floor is taken up by the buffet-style kitchen behind the spot to order, and a few tables and chairs. It smells amazing, though, and the menu looks even better. Winston watches you pridefully as you marvel over what to get, before his voice breaks you out of your stupor.

“Know what you want?”

“I can’t decide. It all sounds great,” you confess, the idea of choosing making your head hurt.

Winston chuckles at your response, guiding you to a little table and making you wait there as he chooses for the both of you. After letting some highschoolers get in front of him so they could get back to school before the hour ended, you see that he’s an exceptional conversationalist, becoming instantly acquainted with the people in line with him. He asks them about their day, listens intently, and when asked about his own he gladly replies with “day out with a friend,” pointing to you. You give a bashful wave to him and his newfound comrades.

He speaks familiarly to the kid at the register, counting things off his fingers, and even slipping him a bill that was definitely not a part of his total. He soon has two styrofoam containers in his hands, steam rising out the slight openings. He opens yours for you, the water vapor and aroma hitting you like a punch. There’s greens, mac and cheese, and fried fish staring you down as your eyes widen. While you were stuck in your hypnosis, he reached over, cutting your food for you.

It was like you died and went to heaven, before being sent back to finish your plate. You almost absentmindedly held onto the table to keep you tethered to the Earth.

“You guys have kept me fed all weekend,” you say between rushed bites. It’s true- this is the best you’d eaten in a while. You swallow. “I can’t remember the last time I was able to stop and make actual food.”

“Egon treats you to breakfast, I treat you to lunch.” He raises his hands in a shrug. “Good?”

“Amazing,” you chew. “You seem to know this place well,” you suggested.

“I take lunch here everyday,” he wipes his mouth on a napkin.

“I can see why. Is it a favorite?”

“No, my favorite is the Jamaican lady down the corner.”

You raise an eyebrow, setting your fork down as he blissfully kept eating. “But…you know everyone here, they know you, you come here every day.”

He blinks. His tone is slightly quieted. “I know. But the owner’s trying to put his daughter through college. Any penny I can give to him counts.” He talks as if the act of selflessness was the simplest thing in the world. It amazed you, how easily kindness and servitude came to him. In your short time with him, he was nothing but humble and friendly with everyone he interacted with. The small smile that spread on your face was one of admiration, and genuine mystique at the kindly man across from you.

You chatted for a bit longer, about growing up, your families, before you were both finished. He tossed your trash, and bid the teen at the register goodbye before walking you back to the Ecto. Once inside, you couldn’t help but lean your head against the glass, your lack of sleep the previous night manifesting after eating so good.

“I think that knocked me out,” you tried hard to suppress a yawn in your throat as he turned on the ignition, soft rumbling making it harder.

“There’s a word for that,” he laughed. That was the last thing you could remember, before waking back up. The car was still parked in the same spot, and as you sleepily looked around, Winston sat in the same spot, peacefully reading a small book. Your stomach dropped as you noticed the time- nearly 3 o’clock.

“I am so sorry,” you stumbled through an apology, sleep still sticking to your panicked words. He simply took his reading glasses off, eyebrows raised as you rambled.

‘I don’t mind. I had my book.”

“I didn’t snore, right?” Your skin burnt.

He paused. "It made a good ambience.”

You threw your head into your hands, Winston snickering at your expense as he started the car again. He drove out the area, sidewalk now full of families coming from school and work, in addition to teenagers loitering for a bit before they headed home. The scenery became less cozy and residential, and slowly became more retail, tall buildings advertising clothes and businesses. You recognized it as being your downtown area- albeit the parts you felt too low-income to pursue.

“What’s next?” You wondered if there was dried drool on your chin.

“I doubt anyone is talking to anyone back home.” Winston bit the inside of his cheek. He kept his eyes on the road, thoughts behind his eyes. He had a bittersweet look on his face, before speaking again. “When we didn’t have anything to do- or any spare money to do it with, my mom took my siblings and I to the department store.”

You’ve heard quite a few personal stories in the last few hours. Maybe it was his way of connecting. You decided to probe. “What’d you do?”

His face softened a bit, recounting the positive parts of the memory. “All types of fashion shows. Found future gifts to our dad. Made our mom promise to find us shirts just like the ones on the rack- and she did. We pretended we were the richest kids in the world. Preacher’s kids, we weren’t…terribly poor. But there were reminders. Mom made it better.” He smiled fondly, despite the car being stuck behind a bus.

The car moved forward. “I’m sure she’s the reason you turned out so well.” The car suddenly stalled, and you were honked at from behind. Eventually, you were parked against the busy sidewalk of a wide, tall building. The sheer size was enough to intimidate, as you still sat in the car, gazing at the top of the structure as he had the door handle in his hands.

You were estimating the floor count, before you felt a hand grab yours. His palms were soft, slightly calloused, but warm nonetheless. He looked down at your conjoined hands, before simpering back up at you. “So you don’t get lost.”

As Winston guided you through the bustling floor, your anxiety was substituted for security. The makeup counter was absolutely packed, as were the prom dresses upstairs. That made a fair amount of sense, as the school year would be ending soon. While on the escalator, you can see all the patrons, hurrying in and out with their bags. At the top, something in the toy section catches your eyes. Winston lets himself be led over.

“What a find,” you take a rectangular box off the shelf. It’s a nearly identical Smokey the Bear plushie, just a newer model. There’s a tribute to the old one printed on the back of the packaging. Winston watched as you reveled in the coincidence.

You remember his presence, and the lack of context he has for you suddenly admiring a children’s toy. “Ray sleeps with an old one. Smokey’s seen better days.” Winston smiles as you place it back on the display.

“Why not get it for him?”

You shake your head swiftly. “I’d be dishonoring your mom. I thought the point was to not spend money?”

He picked the bear back up. “She also says that you can’t take money to the grave. Maybe it can be a goodbye present? We can find something for Egon and Peter, too.”

You think on it. At this rate, there wasn’t much for you to repay their kindness with. Well-thought-out gifts paid for with Winston’s money will have to do, for now. You agree, before disembarking to a clothing department. You end up in the men’s section, articulate and hip pieces you couldn’t even dream of affording. Winston gazes up at the flashy, electric purple suit vest on a mannequin, as you sit back on a chair behind him.

“You like that one?” You sit up.

He puffs out a laugh at the outfits' pure hedonism. “It’s a lot. Even for me.”

“And you want it,” you rise, skimming the racks for the matching pieces in his size as he protests. You wordlessly hand them to him, and he surrenders, disappearing behind the entrance to a men’s dressing room. In the meantime, you’d look for Peter’s gift. To be fair, you knew him the least out of the 4 men. But Winston had told you he messed around too much in the lab, and lost his favorite tie to a small fire. He apparently never had time to replace it, and Winston could remember the exact brand, style, and color, so you figured he could single out the one you were looking for out of a short stack of silky, red fabrics.

As you waited in a warmly lit lounge area by the fitting room, he emerged, holding his arms out and up to model it for you. The satin of the cream colored undershirt fit around him nicely, the bright vest even coming in at his waist a bit. He had the full ensemble on, even down to the suede loafers. He looked like a moviestar, even if he was too humble to actually admit it himself, the price tag swinging underneath his arm.

“It’s something,” He looked at himself in the mirror, hands on his square hips.

“It’s great, that’s what it is,” you say honestly.

“You like vampire-soul-train?” He turned.

You put your hands up defensively. “I love vampire-soul-train.” He continued to look indecisive about it, confidence visibly falling. “Are you gonna come back for it?”

“Where would I wear it to?” He peeked at the price tag one more time, dropping it like it burned his fingers.

You shrugged. “You don’t need an occasion. Sometimes it’s just fun to dress up. Ask Janine.”

He laughs. “I guess you’re learning from the best.” He looks down pleasantly surprised at what he’s seeing on the floor. “If anything, I’d come back for the shoes.” He looks at you through the reflection in the mirror. “Did you find anything?”

You look around at the dozens of clothes behind you. “I guess not.” There’s a lot to choose from, and a lot of bright colors fighting for your attention. It’s all a little overwhelming, looking at clothes you’d fall in love with and never buy. You end up standing in the middle of the department, scratching your head swimming with uncertainty, until Winston taps you on the shoulder.

“They have it in your size.” So you matched.

“We look like a magic act,” you tease him, remembering Peter’s tie situation. After he pinpointed the correct match, you admired yourselves a little longer- at least until the staff were tapping you on the shoulder and asking if you needed anything, courteous smiles twitching as they watched you saunter around in their merchandise.

You looked at more things in different departments- jewelry that you tried to convince Winston to re-pierce his ears for, home decor you’d have if your place was bigger. Eventually, he gladly paid for the 2 gifts, the large bag in which they were placed sitting next to you at an ice cream counter. As you ate, you both came to the conclusion that Egon deserved a decadent little chocolate cake from the dessert store you were at, and you hoped it would keep in the fridge overnight.

“You ready to go home tomorrow morning?’ He put his spoon in his mouth. Butter pecan. You groaned lightly. You wanted to give them their space- and their money back, but it was like the ending to a pleasant dream, going from companionship and a warm place to sleep in a hard time to a now-damaged apartment and job fairs.

“As ready as I can be. Thanks, for putting up with me this weekend.” You put your spoon down.

“You won’t get rid of us that easy. We’ll be there to help you clean up.”

“The 4 archangels. I promise, when I get back on my feet I’m finding new ways to repay you all.” He dismissed your offer.

“It’s the minimum. Louis’ office was in the boiler room for a bit, you know.” He lightened your guilty mood. As he smiled, you noticed the now dark bruise against his jaw. Impulsively, you reached out and manipulated his face gently.

“Does it still hurt?”

There’s a crash from the first floor. You both rush to the balcony railing, watching as people run to the exit, as feral growls vibrate around the large store. Winston grabs your hand again, though less tender now, running down the steps of the now disabled escalator against waves of people running up instead. When you reach the bottom, you watch in terror as an angry alligator destroys the store. As you looked on, you could see that the tail of the beast was vaporizing in front of you, as it hissed out a slime like the one you worked to wash out early in the morning. This wasn’t just an escaped animal. It was a ghost. Winston came to this conclusion at the same time that you did, pulling you towards the exit and to the Ecto.

“Should we call Peter and Ray and-”

He opened the door to get his equipment. “They won’t get here in time. And they won’t have any of this.” He grabbed a proton gun, staring down at it before sighing. “I’m gonna ask you to do something very dangerous.”

Your eyes flickered down to the weapon in his hands, before your mouth fell open. “Absolutely not. Dr. Spengler said that it was ‘unregulated units of atomic energy.’” He ignored your protests, putting the proton pack onto you. He pulled the belt tight around your waist.

“It’s easier than you think,” he said hurriedly, adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “Have you ever flown a plane?”

You stare at him, eyes blown and wide, before burying your head behind your hands. He pries them off gently, placing them each on different points of the gun. “Well then it’s just like driving a car. You shoot the ghost with this, okay? Just keep holding onto him, and I’ll open the trap for you. We’re gonna do it, and we’re gonna do it together.”

Before you could revel in him talking you through it, he’s pushing you inside. Herds of frightened customers cling to the walls, out of the way of the ghost, and make room for you and Winston as they quietly whisper to each other that help has come. The alligator is ripping up a display, the woman in the ad subsequently dressed in Victorian style dress. Winston creeps up towards it slowly, before advising you to stay behind one of the makeup counters.

“I’m gonna tell you when. When I do, hit this button. That’s all. Okay?” You purse your lips, nodding, and crouching despite the nerves being felt in your weak legs. He leaves you behind, the ghost with its back turned as it tears up the poster. From your hiding spot, you can hear it notice him, growling loudly as it charges. He signaled you, and you popped up like a toy, shaky fingers igniting the stream.

He did the same, exclaiming loudly as you immobilized the spirit. He advised you to raise it up slowly, as the phantom flailed around.

“What now?” You called over the volume of the particle accelerator whirring like crazy on your back, separated from your skin by a spring jacket and a sweater. He didn’t have an answer.

He hesitated. “You didn’t manage to grab a trap while you were out there, did you?” You could have fainted. You saw his stream falter. “I’ll be right back. Keep holding him- I’ll be two seconds!’

His stream stopped, as he sprinted out the door, nearly slipping on ectoplasm in the process. The ghost thrashed harder, trying to resist the force suspending it in the air. You felt like the weight of holding up an adult alligator suddenly, and your arms couldn’t keep up with its fight. Your stream gave out for a split second, and in that time it was free, and on the floor. It locked eyes with you.

Your cry for Winston echoed throughout the department store- hell, throughout the city as you ran as fast as your legs could take you around the floor once, then up one of the escalators. You skidded to a stop at the end, as the chaos of the escaping crowd managed to knock down a large glass case, sending glass all over the floor. Your momentum didn’t stop you soon enough, and you slid over the shards before falling to the waxed floor. The ghost got closer, sending your heart to your toes as it opened its mouth, expelling a wave of noxious green slime. You saved your pride, ducking out of the way at the last second. You only had a moment to celebrate your triumph, as a quick movement of its ghastly tail reminded you of its ability to interact- and harm, the physical world.

You got back on your feet, before noticing Winston run back inside out of the corner of your eye. You needed to get back downstairs, but all of the possible ways down were blocked. A large decoration swung from the ceiling, reaching fairly low to the ground. The ghost was creeping closer, teeth bared. If you die, please let your soul haunt the firehouse.

Your nerves steeled themselves for you, hesitating on the ledge, before taking your literal leap of faith as the ghost lunged forward. You squeezed your eyes shut, only opening them when you felt your sweaty palms make contact with the course rope. You slide quickly, before remembering you actually had to catch the violent apparition. You reach weakly for the gun swinging behind you, forgotten, and feebly aim your gun at the glass part at the railing where it watched you. The glass shatters in its wake, and as you continue your ride down the rope, the ghost is caught in your stream, the speed at which you’re moving dragging it through the air. You reach a safe enough distance to the ground, letting go of your hold on the rope and dropping on your knees unstably.

Winston’s been watching from the floor, regaining his strategy as the ghost hovers ahead. He sets his stream on it, and kicks a trap directly below. Your ears are ringing, and your heart’s beating at a thousand miles a minute as he calls on you to lower the spirit. With diminished resistance, the ghost is caught in the trap, smoking rising to the ceiling. The entire store is quiet. The smoke reaches the alarms, setting off the sprinklers, and the hostages erupt in celebration.

Winston lays an arm around your shoulder, speaking low into your ear. “I told you, it was easy. You’re amazing.”

But you're still in a daze, and Winston recognizes it as he gently guides you to the car, avoiding reporters and even a few policemen. Before he takes you to the passenger side and aides you down into the seat, he raises your hand for everyone watching the news in the tri-state to see.

“Y/N came, saw, and kicked its ass!”

You don’t say much as he drives back to the firehouse, siren on. You suddenly startle back to consciousness, turning to him in disbelief.

“I caught a ghost.”

“You sure did.”

You laugh weakly, rubbing your eyes. Your laughter picks up, before it turns hysterical. You crank down the window, sticking your upper body out in ecstasy. This was the most alive you’ve felt in your entire adult life, and you let everything in the car’s path know.

“I caught a ghost!” You cry out as the Ecto drives through the city’s streets.

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