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Feb. 27th, 2005 10:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gone_byebyeMay 4, Sometime in the 1980's
14 North Moore Street, Manhattan
“... great. Come on, Slimer, let's see if there isn't something in the freezer, okay?”
“OHBOYOBOYOBOYOBOY!”
Winston watched Ray go, the Ghostbusters' ectoplasmic mascot trailing eagerly behind him. Hanging up his proton pack, he shook his head. “Hey, Peter,” he called. “Got a question for you.”
“All right, but make it snappy. These fries aren't gonna eat themselves, you know.” Venkman set the bag down on the nearest flat surface- Ecto-1's hood- and looked expectantly across the car at his friend. “You want some?”
He ignored the offer. “Does your doctor know you're back on the fast food?”
“No, and he's not gonna find out unless someone tells him. Is that all?”
Winston sighed. “That's not the question... Pete, is it just me or is Ray really acting strange lately?”
Venkman's expression sobered quickly. “You noticed it too, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. Him and- well, I'd say him and Egon, but-”
“Egon doesn't count. Strange for Egon would be if he started acting like a normal human being.” He grimaced. “No, I know what you mean. He's been acting kinda weird ever since Gozer.”
“And it's gotten worse,” Winston said. “At first I thought it was just shell-shock.”
“More like falling off of building shock.”
“You know what I mean, Pete. I've seen that happen to guys before.”
Peter nodded soberly. He knew what Winston meant, all right.
“Getting twitchy, acting all jumpy around his friends... I mean, he tries to hide it, but Ray's a terrible liar, you know?”
“I know. I won fifty dollars off him the last time we played poker, and I wasn't even trying.”
“I”m going to pretend I didn't hear you say that. Anyway, lately he's been ...I dunno. He hasn't been all spastic any more, but he's still not acting like the Ray I know, no matter how hard he tries. I think something's gotten under his skin, and he doesn't want to talk about it.”
Peter's eyes narrowed; he glanced over toward the kitchen and the sounds of an ecstatic ghost devouring a good two months' supply of ice cream. “I bet I could find out, if I really tried,” he mused.
“Would you? I'd appreciate it. I'm starting to worry about that boy.”
“Sure.”
“Only one thing, Pete?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“Could you at least try and be tactful?”
“Tactful? Me? Tactful is my middle name.”
“I thought your middle name was 'trustworthy'.”
“Only when I need people to believe me.”
* * *
Psychologists learn early on in their careers that there will be times when their patients don't appear to want to talk about what's bothering them. There are courses of study devoted entirely to coaxing information out of patients who want to talk, but don't want to admit that they want to talk. They are complicated, deeply involved things, and have proved immensely useful in therapeutic applications.
Peter Venkman ignored all of that stuff and went straight to the metal box Ray kept in the back of the closet, behind the stack of comic books. There was a key somewhere, but he didn't waste time looking for it- they sold these boxes at K-mart for about twenty-five dollars a pop, and that told him all he needed to know. Mr. Lock, meet Mr. Straightened Paperclip.
Huh. There wasn't a notebook inside, just some family pictures, a couple of souvenirs, a battered old children's book with Ray's mother's name on the bookplate, an envelope with Ray's name on it-
Wait a sec. That was Ray's handwriting.
He'd re-seal the envelope later.
Dear Ray-
If you're reading this, it means you've just spent a span of time somewhere that I don't really know about and you want to know what's just happened to you. This probably isn't the first place you'd look-
No, thought Pete, just the first place I'd look. I know you well enough.
-but I know it's one that you'll eventually come back to. You're not going insane. At least, I hope you're not.
“Uh-huh. No offense, big guy, but right now you're not exactly Mr. Mental Health, are you?” Peter murmured. But he kept reading.
I'm you. A version of you, at least. From somewhere else, somewhere very much like here, but different in a lot of ways. And I owe you, this world's you, an explanation...
Peter stared for a while, and then read the rest of the letter through twice. Eventually he folded all six pages back up and tucked them back into the envelope. That explained a bit. More than he'd ever actually wanted explained, but it explained a bit. Assuming, of course, that there was proof. And there just might be, at that...
Ray wasn't in the kitchen; he'd gone downstairs to check on the containment unit. Egon was- well, he had no idea where Egon was, really. Winston was watching TV. So there was only Janine to notice as he casually wandered over to the lockers where they kept their jumpsuits. “Whaddya doin' Doctor Vee?”
Ordinarily he'd have discounted the entire letter. Even in this line of business, things didn't get that strange. Claiming to have experienced several days' time in a bar at the end of Time wasn't Ray's style; usually when the engineer had Little Moments they involved seizing up like a car engine with vapor lock on a Florida afternoon. Hallucinating an entire setting like that didn't sound right, either. Not unless it was something he'd seen in a comic book and taken too much to heart. That was possible, but there was something about Ray's letter to himself that didn't seem like a comic book. And there was one way of finding out, if page five wasn't just the product of post-traumatic stress.
“Oh, just breaking into my good buddy's personal belongings. Nothing serious.”
She rolled her eyes.
“It's all in the interests of science, you know.”
“I'm not listening to you, Doctor Vee. Not until you've got something worth hearing.”
He grinned. “That's my girl, Janine.” As she turned away, he opened Ray's locker and stuck a hand into his colleague's jumpsuit.
Pocket one: nothing. Pocket two: nothing. Pocket three...
Philotic Physics and the Ansible.
“Oh-kay,” Peter said, and started flipping through the pages. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Instinctively, he picked it up. It read:
If you're reading this, then put my book back right now, Peter. I know it was you.
He snorted, but put the book back where he'd found it, note and all.
This was going to be interesting.
14 North Moore Street, Manhattan
“... great. Come on, Slimer, let's see if there isn't something in the freezer, okay?”
“OHBOYOBOYOBOYOBOY!”
Winston watched Ray go, the Ghostbusters' ectoplasmic mascot trailing eagerly behind him. Hanging up his proton pack, he shook his head. “Hey, Peter,” he called. “Got a question for you.”
“All right, but make it snappy. These fries aren't gonna eat themselves, you know.” Venkman set the bag down on the nearest flat surface- Ecto-1's hood- and looked expectantly across the car at his friend. “You want some?”
He ignored the offer. “Does your doctor know you're back on the fast food?”
“No, and he's not gonna find out unless someone tells him. Is that all?”
Winston sighed. “That's not the question... Pete, is it just me or is Ray really acting strange lately?”
Venkman's expression sobered quickly. “You noticed it too, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. Him and- well, I'd say him and Egon, but-”
“Egon doesn't count. Strange for Egon would be if he started acting like a normal human being.” He grimaced. “No, I know what you mean. He's been acting kinda weird ever since Gozer.”
“And it's gotten worse,” Winston said. “At first I thought it was just shell-shock.”
“More like falling off of building shock.”
“You know what I mean, Pete. I've seen that happen to guys before.”
Peter nodded soberly. He knew what Winston meant, all right.
“Getting twitchy, acting all jumpy around his friends... I mean, he tries to hide it, but Ray's a terrible liar, you know?”
“I know. I won fifty dollars off him the last time we played poker, and I wasn't even trying.”
“I”m going to pretend I didn't hear you say that. Anyway, lately he's been ...I dunno. He hasn't been all spastic any more, but he's still not acting like the Ray I know, no matter how hard he tries. I think something's gotten under his skin, and he doesn't want to talk about it.”
Peter's eyes narrowed; he glanced over toward the kitchen and the sounds of an ecstatic ghost devouring a good two months' supply of ice cream. “I bet I could find out, if I really tried,” he mused.
“Would you? I'd appreciate it. I'm starting to worry about that boy.”
“Sure.”
“Only one thing, Pete?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“Could you at least try and be tactful?”
“Tactful? Me? Tactful is my middle name.”
“I thought your middle name was 'trustworthy'.”
“Only when I need people to believe me.”
* * *
Psychologists learn early on in their careers that there will be times when their patients don't appear to want to talk about what's bothering them. There are courses of study devoted entirely to coaxing information out of patients who want to talk, but don't want to admit that they want to talk. They are complicated, deeply involved things, and have proved immensely useful in therapeutic applications.
Peter Venkman ignored all of that stuff and went straight to the metal box Ray kept in the back of the closet, behind the stack of comic books. There was a key somewhere, but he didn't waste time looking for it- they sold these boxes at K-mart for about twenty-five dollars a pop, and that told him all he needed to know. Mr. Lock, meet Mr. Straightened Paperclip.
Huh. There wasn't a notebook inside, just some family pictures, a couple of souvenirs, a battered old children's book with Ray's mother's name on the bookplate, an envelope with Ray's name on it-
Wait a sec. That was Ray's handwriting.
He'd re-seal the envelope later.
Dear Ray-
If you're reading this, it means you've just spent a span of time somewhere that I don't really know about and you want to know what's just happened to you. This probably isn't the first place you'd look-
No, thought Pete, just the first place I'd look. I know you well enough.
-but I know it's one that you'll eventually come back to. You're not going insane. At least, I hope you're not.
“Uh-huh. No offense, big guy, but right now you're not exactly Mr. Mental Health, are you?” Peter murmured. But he kept reading.
I'm you. A version of you, at least. From somewhere else, somewhere very much like here, but different in a lot of ways. And I owe you, this world's you, an explanation...
Peter stared for a while, and then read the rest of the letter through twice. Eventually he folded all six pages back up and tucked them back into the envelope. That explained a bit. More than he'd ever actually wanted explained, but it explained a bit. Assuming, of course, that there was proof. And there just might be, at that...
Ray wasn't in the kitchen; he'd gone downstairs to check on the containment unit. Egon was- well, he had no idea where Egon was, really. Winston was watching TV. So there was only Janine to notice as he casually wandered over to the lockers where they kept their jumpsuits. “Whaddya doin' Doctor Vee?”
Ordinarily he'd have discounted the entire letter. Even in this line of business, things didn't get that strange. Claiming to have experienced several days' time in a bar at the end of Time wasn't Ray's style; usually when the engineer had Little Moments they involved seizing up like a car engine with vapor lock on a Florida afternoon. Hallucinating an entire setting like that didn't sound right, either. Not unless it was something he'd seen in a comic book and taken too much to heart. That was possible, but there was something about Ray's letter to himself that didn't seem like a comic book. And there was one way of finding out, if page five wasn't just the product of post-traumatic stress.
“Oh, just breaking into my good buddy's personal belongings. Nothing serious.”
She rolled her eyes.
“It's all in the interests of science, you know.”
“I'm not listening to you, Doctor Vee. Not until you've got something worth hearing.”
He grinned. “That's my girl, Janine.” As she turned away, he opened Ray's locker and stuck a hand into his colleague's jumpsuit.
Pocket one: nothing. Pocket two: nothing. Pocket three...
Philotic Physics and the Ansible.
“Oh-kay,” Peter said, and started flipping through the pages. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Instinctively, he picked it up. It read:
If you're reading this, then put my book back right now, Peter. I know it was you.
He snorted, but put the book back where he'd found it, note and all.
This was going to be interesting.
