Thing Is: Chapter 14/14 (Egon x You)
It's finally done! Sorry for the long wait. I highly encourage you to re-read the fic if you want to enjoy the payoff ;___; again, sorry for taking forever
LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44586838/chapters/171778174
If you prefer reading here, I'll post the whole chapter below. Enjoy!
It’s not like there were any signs of the circumstances being better than dire to begin with but the sight ahead is an absolute eyesore.
As soon as Egon stands besides Ray in (what seems to have been) a great hall, his assessment checks out. The walls are overgrown with signs of neglect and exposure. Piles of rubble and gunk are covered in dust so thick it’s coated in sticky clamps of grey ooze and granules, molding together as a heavy sediment of old fibers and rot. Its particles hang in the air. Erode the wooden floor. Gnaw at the old carpet.
The carpet is what catches Egon’s attention. It’s entirely inconspicuous but upon closer inspection a large eldritch symbol peers from underneath. It’s different to the ones from upstairs— the shape is darkening and a black smoke hovers over the floor— as if someone was pressing a burning seal there.
This is what it looks like, Egon thinks, the symbols being made. Fascinating how the process requires no cultist to physically draw the circle. Usually there’s at least one crazed shaman who initiates a ritual like this. The chanting must be an instigator enough— and that only proves how unusual this setting is. The whole thing must have been preplanned by a long-dead ancestor.
The boys are already standing there, surrounded by multiplying voices of fishfolk. With fewer damp planks in the way, the noise sounds raspier, almost hostile.
Egon lets you in, then takes a look at Ray. He’s staring at the sigil, cheeks clouded in thick cigar smoke, face scrunched.
“I don’t know what it is”, he mumbles. “But I don’t like it one bit.”
Peter uses his proton rod to fold the corner of the carpet, revealing more of the image. It’s a big illustration branded in wood. The biggest defined shape is a circle filled with inscriptions in an unintelligible language— or various dialects— judging by the sparse (but patterned) placement of individual symbols.
Egon crouches down at the rim. He knows it’s the voice of the hive, the dialect belonging to the Great Old Ones and their offspring— but his translator is only capable of processing auditory input. It’s an oversight on his part. He should’ve been prepared.
“Do you mind?”, he asks, waving at Peter’s rod.
Peter stares at him for a few long seconds before going “ah” and pushing the rest of the carpet away.
The circle, as it turns out, is but one of sixteen. Each of them same size, framing a massive, intricate artwork: a huge oval, enclosed within the confines of floating words and curved lines. There’s a figure there— a well-dressed human with a distinguishable face devoid of emotion. His glassy, bulging eyes stare back at whoever dares to challenge them, captivating the viewer with unexpected reciprocation.
Egon’s impressed. Whoever had burned the portrait, must’ve been a great artist. These lines are sharp and purposeful, they emphasize just as much as they leave unsaid. The rest of the sigil could be some cultist’s job, simple shapes and symbols easy to recreate… but this? This is a masterpiece.
“…Hey, I know that”, he hears your voice from beyond Winston’s shoulder. “It’s a portal.”
“You sure about that? Looks like a regular seal to me. A huge-ass one but a seal nonetheless.”
Egon fixes his gloves, stands up and turns to Winston.
“Maybe”, he affirms. “But there is no need for a seal to be this big. Besides, their continuous effect is like a steady beam of radiation, they can’t suddenly change their properties and start exuding smoke after decades of dormancy.”
“…Are we sure about that?” Ray interjects. “Eldrich horrors have been around for millennia and we’ve only started cataloguing them, like, a hundred years ago? I mean, at this rate, anything’s plausible.”
Egon must admit that Ray’s point makes sense. Despite having studied arguably everything there was on the topic— heck, analyzing your father’s journals!— he can’t be sure. Your father was a cultist for a little more than twenty years and while it sounds impressive in human standards, it objectively isn’t. In all his knowledge and even he couldn’t have known what kinds of cosmic forces had been brewing for millions of years. It’s a terrifying concept, how small and insignificant humans are in comparison. Simple minds, weak cognition. Whatever glimpses of Yog-Sothoth have seeped through the veil, human brains were unable to process. Ancient truths have been shrouded in myths to make them a bit more palatable for the average person. If these scraps of knowledge are the only straws people grasp for, how impossible is it to uncover the full extent?...
“No, no”, you wave your hands. “Egon’s right. They’re trying to wake him up, I’ve seen this thing before.”
“Wake who up?”
When everyone looks at the portrait, the answer is terrifying.
Egon knows what’s about to happen. The chanting will get loud and oddly unanimous, sealed with a loud command. Then— silence— and amidst the deafeningly mute crowd, a disfigured monstrosity will emerge from the portal, solidifying its shape, gaining autonomy and speaking to the Collective while crawling out to the world. Whatever happens then is going to be horrible and affect everybody. He’s at a loss. Time’s running out.
He opens his mouth and turns to you but your stare takes him off-guard. Your eyes seem to plea for guidance and in that moment he knows only one thing: you’re under his protection. There’s a future ahead and he’s determined to take you there.
“Your father mentioned a summoning ritual in the diaries but did not describe it in detail”, he says in a soothing voice. “How did it go?”
“Well… the last time it burned my house to the ground and that’s when it was over.”
“Why did it burn?”
“I don’t know”, you worry your lip. “Some candles, perhaps? I can’t think of a reason fish people would utilize fire in their practices, nor generate it.”
“I may have an idea”, comes from Peter’s mouth and both of you look at his eerily glowing face which— as Egon quickly gathers— is lit by flames emerging from the markings on the floor.
All of you step back. The portrait is burning.
Flames engulf the gentleman’s eyes. Thick tongues of fire are bleeding from a pair of bulgy pupils onto his face, deepening sickly sunken cheeks and pouring ash down his chin. The circles around him catch a spark in an instant— spreading like a disease, gnawing into the deeply carved ridges, devouring carefully drawn lines, leaving nothing in their wake.
Peter aims his proton rod and shoots straight into the man’s face, scribbling over it. It’s wishful thinking— as if an act of vandalism could prevent the impending doom. In a typical ghostbusting fashion, though, Venkman wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t try demolition first (it also requires very little forethought and may give instant results) but to nobody’s surprise, it changes nothing.
“Worth trying though”, Peter exclaims, doing his best to outshout the chanting crowd. “Let’s stick to the plan!”
Egon takes the yap-cap from Winston, while the others (you included) adjust their proton rods and aim at the sigil. Presumably that’s where the creature will emerge but Egon’s studied enough mythos to stay vigilant. These beings are unpredictable. They’re sentient. Dangerous. A mere assumption that a man is able to control what he summons borders on insanity.
The swarm outside seems to move in an organized manner now. They’re approaching. This cannot be a good sign.
The fire consumes the portrait within seconds but doesn’t spread any further: the circles and symbols surrounding it are intact, save for an eerie glow which seems to come out of them. Ash sticks to the wood in an ungraceful bile of sop. The shoved carpet soaks sparks and cinders falling from the flames— and they go out with loud hisses, amounting to yet another layer of noise.
When dozens of wet palms slide across the ruined walls, the voices become grinding. They hit all registers at once. What’s worse, Egon observes, is that they seem to be fueling the pillar of fire, now reaching half-burnt ceiling supports. Any moment now.
“The command is ready”, he states, firm. “When the monster comes through, shoot him and hold in place until I put the helmet on its head.”
“What if it doesn’t have a head?”, yells Peter, grinning because that’s, apparently, hilarious.
Exactly like Egon’s predicted, the ritual’s done in half a minute. The tongue of fire escalates until it licks the ceiling, its hue turns green and that’s when chanting abruptly stops. Egon glances at your team. Winston and Peter are wielding their proton rods in front on them, ready to shoot— Ray does too but his facial expression betrays worry. You stay behind the guys and though you’re holding the charged weapon, your grasp is tentative.
You’re scared. Uncertain. You’re in the back and that’s a good thing from a strategic point of view but Egon wishes the two of you were closer. He wants to reach for your hand. He wants to calm you down. He wants—
“It’s coming through!”
A large tentacle shoots through the portal. The pillar of fire bleeds with green blotch, as if a ghostly force was turning it into an unholy veil. The sticky limb raises as high as it can, stretches and slams into the wooden panels. The floor is old and frail. It cracks. Splinters dash around.
The monster’s suckers stick to the floorboards and the a wall. It folds and squeezes into all nooks and crannies, fills the crevices with slick tissue like a heavily kneaded, oily dough would fill a form. Except it doesn’t stop there— doesn’t sit still— it squelches, pounds, gurgles, breathes.
After one limb comes another. Then two, then three more. Each of them pierces the wood further until the floor is reduced to a cracked frame, supporting the boys and you on a few broken planks and sheer willpower. The tentacles squeeze through the hole until the eighth (last?) of them comes out with a pop— and in that moment Egon’s skin turns pale.
He liked being prepared. He knew the creature would emerge in its entirety. He should’ve known better than to construct a human-sized helmet and expect it to fit. Thinking about it now, it’s an entirely foreseeable problem— we’re talking the Queen of the hive, not some random pre-infected half-fish humanoid whose size would fit within the US measuring standards.
The creature is massive. It’s huge. It’s gargantuan and slick and moving, which makes it almost impossible to climb up to reach its head.
He’s about to die from embarrassment at the incriminating level of stupidity when Ray’s weak gasp slaps his other cheek.
“…There’s no head.”
And— fuck— of course! Of course there wouldn’t! Of course a literal extraterrestrial eldritch entity with stupefying anatomy would develop No. Fucking. Head! Why would it?!
Perfect. Everything’s perfect, the whole setup is perfect, the circumstances are ideal.
“Hey, Spengler!” Peter yells with that idiotic half-smile. “No head! Who would’ve guessed, right?”
“Eat shit.”
Winston, as per usual, is the sane one. He nudges Egon with an elbow.
“What does your device need to access, exactly?”
“Brain”, Egon says. “Well. The subconscious.”
“Don’t octopi have some brain in their tentacles? We could strike one of them and put it to the…”
Winston looks at Egon’s hands— at the yap-cap’s egglike shape and its, frankly, pathetic size— then says:
“…nevermind.”
Egon deflates a bit. He considers allowing himself to feel an emotion (rage, anxiety or irritation) but there’s no time for that. He’ll have some time to process everything afterwards, either back at the station or in jail.
“Venkman?”
“No stupid ideas, boys!”
The four of you exchange looks because at this point all ideas are equally stupid— but Ray seems a tad more excited (and alert) so he’s your best chance of survival. No time like now because one of the massive tentacles lifts from the ground, then smashes a window and slams into the floor with full force. Peter and Winston leap back and hold on to the windowsill. You manage to grab the latter’s hand and he pulls you towards his chest. Egon only catches a glimpse of your hair protruding from under Winston’s glove. That’s good. That’s safe. Now, where’s Ray?
Ah.
As it turns out, Doctor Raymond Stantz is currently sliding downstairs through a gigantic hole in the floorboards.
Egon doesn’t think too much. Ray is his best buddy after all, the only person on Earth who’s allowed to freely snack on Egon’s Cheez-Its. He tightens the hold on the yap-cap, pins the translator to his belt and leaps after Ray.
A sleeve rips on a nail, a knee bumps against an old wooden panel and an elbow hits a pipe but overall, Egon somehow manages a happy landing. Ray’s even luckier— a burnt remnant of a dining table broke his fall and offered just the amortization he needed.
“Ray?”
“I’m okay”, he coughs, “better than okay!”
They stand up. Pat their sooty jumpsuits. Thick clouds of ash fill the air.
“It’s the adrenaline”, Egon informs. “Don’t get comfortable.”
Egon assesses their surroundings. They’re in the middle of debris in a dim room— two walls are gone so the chill and murmur of the crowd outside pushes through the rubble. They’re a whole four-meter gap from the rest of you and the hole in the (now) ceiling is dripping with slime. There’s no chance they’re gonna make it back up there unless they go all the way back to the main staircase. It’s impossible. Not with the tentacles filling the corridor.
They’re screwed. They’re so screwed…
“No, no! Seriously, I’m okay!” Ray has that full-blown teeth-showing grin and a spark in his eye. “I know what we gotta do!”
Egon looks at him. Ray’s fall might’ve been more severe than he thought.
“Let’s plug the cap into Ecto-1’s siren”, he beams.
…or?...
“Look: how do you normally convey a message?” Ray continues. “It’s not through some elaborate coding or inception, it’s literally by talking! And talking is one person speaking while others are listening! Why don’t we…”
“…transmit the command into all of their heads…”
“…by simply announcing it? I mean, even the blob-mother must have ears somewhere if she responded to their calls.”
Egon smiles. Raymond is a genius.
The crowd is standing outside. Some of the fishfolk are in the way to Ecto-1 but there’s no time to overthink it: Ray leads through the piles of burnt wood and rusty piles towards the car and Egon follows. They pass the dirt and junk, their boots squelching in pools of leftover slime until they reach the corner— a hole— a passage outside.
The swarm is there. Ray gulps as large groups of people are not his forte. Peter would know what to do.
Ray approaches the line of people, lifts his hand in a terribly unconfident manner and says:
“…Um. Excuse me?”
They don’t even turn to face him. Their eyes are glued to a flailing set of tentacles which are now, somehow, twice as big as Egon’s assumed upstairs. They’re straightening up. They’re stretching above the mansion, uncurling their tips and that means preparation for another attack.
Ray and Egon dash through the crowd. The creatures don’t pay attention at all and that’s perfect— the boys are sliding through the masses straight towards the car. Egon’s already untangling the wires, preparing the tips to fit into Ecto-1’s radio. If this works, they’re going to get rid of everyone, no casualties, no more damage. If it doesn’t…
Egon opens the door and slides in. He doesn’t fumble with the jacks, his dexterous fingers move across the slots with ease and precision. The power is on, the loudspeakers maxed out Ray’s outside, setting the siren towards the aliens’ general direction. Egon takes out the translator, types a simple command, then triple-checks for mistakes. Meanwhile, Ray takes out a walkie-talkie, summons Peter— then waits. Egon closes his eyes. Let it work, let it work, let it work…
“Cover your ears, NOW!” Ray yells into the receiver.
Egon presses a button.
Bug wgah'nagl.
The tentacles freeze. The crowd’s stuck as well. For a moment, everything’s still.
Egon holds his breath.
Then, like from one organism, a thick line of ooze evaporates from the fishfolk. The people wake up. Their faces change. Features soften. Eyes go back to their usual size, cheeks rose up and the sheen of slime previously covering their skins seem to disappear altogether. The cloud flies towards the tentacles, forms an elaborate symbol above it and opens a door— a portal— a swirl.
The ancient eldritch entity levitates. Its limbs form a cord, as if it was trying to take as little space as possible. It rises up and disappears in the gaping hole in the sky.
The cloud follows and seals the portal shut.
Egon exhales.
Ray knocks on the windscreen.
“Did it work?”
“…It worked.”
“It worked?!”
“They…” Egon nods, “…went home. I told them to go home and they went there. They actually bought the idea.”
Ray bursts out laughing. The sound is so clear and loud, it warms Egon’s heart.
The crowd looks entirely normal now. Humans are back, looking at each other, making eye contact, scared, confused. They aren’t controlled by any higher being. They’re free to make their own choices. They are…
…leaving?
“Where are they going?!” Asks Ray but before Egon’s able to say anything, three familiar figures emerge from the crowd, dirty, sooty and slimed. Winston’s leading you (alive, unscathed) with a hand on your upper back, while Peter saunters like a common drunk and blurts:
“I’m not sure why but I really wanna go home, pronto.”
___
You load the sooty suit you wore into the machine.
“I feel like this past week’s just one criminally long day”, you hum, tying up a neat blue apron around your waist. “I’m so ready to start fresh. You have no idea.”
Egon observes you. Shades under your eyes are present again but you’re relaxed: motions light like a breeze, gaze soft and warm. Despite exhaustion you climb to your tiptoes every time you lift a garment, as if you were celebrating the victory and freedom in a language you’re fluent in. It’s a dance and you’re a ghostbusting fairy.
“I’ll do the laundry. Go to bed.”
“Not a chance”, you scrunch your nose. “You’re the one who’s just expelled a whole alien species from Earth. The least I can do is clean up, lemme.”
“You’re likely exhausted after the past few days. I, on the other hand, am still running on leftover adrenaline. Since I won’t be able to sleep for a few more hours, I may as well do something productive with my time.”
“Pfft. Whatever you said is probably reasonable but sounds like blah, blah, blah.”
Egon smiles.
“That’s exactly what I’ve said.”
You’re still you. Languid eyes linger on his face for a few seconds, as if trying to figure something out through the thick fog of weariness— until you make a funny face and reach for your apron. You untie the bow, take off the strap and slide the garment onto his neck.
“Here you go. Oh no, wait.”
You reach for his locks and help them fall onto his forehead. Fluffy fringe hangs loose. You comb your fingers through the strands and he doubts it’ll smoothen them out but he allows the contact— you’re close, skin’s warm and the scent of his soap is like an invitation.
“There. I like… It, uh.” You say, take a breath and whether you want to add something playful or sincere, it gets stuck in your throat.
“Noted. Now go to bed.”
“I don’t wanna leave you—”
“I’ve gathered. It’s flattering.”
“Uh, no! I mean— here, with the laundry—”
“Sure, sure. You aren’t even able to maintain a conversation. Go to bed. I’ll come upstairs as soon as I finish up here.”
“Egon...”
The washing machine’s unapologetic rattle fills the silence. Egon ponders. You were so brave earlier today— but the stakes were high, the noise was everywhere— and it’s easy to muster up the courage when time is of the essence. Everything’s different now. You’re almost shy, unsure. It’s a stark contrast to how vehemently you professed your love for him earlier today— and yet, the love is here— palpable but quiet— like a warm breeze on a summer night— like a patient glow of a lantern on the porch.
He lets out a small sigh. Takes a step. Presses his forehead to yours. He lets you ease into the touch, waits for you to take a few breaths— to feel the locks you like so much tingle your skin. Rubs the tip of your nose with his. Dips down. Tastes your lips.
It’s merely a press but you shudder.
The quiet of the station keeps the air warm. The rattling noise morphs into a low, pleasant hum. Your skin smells like his whole world and Egon fights an urge to ease further.
He takes a deep breath, then feels you move away an inch or two.
“Wait, I…”, you sigh, “…I need to make sure. I’m sorry but… If this is just a fling, I don’t want… I can’t…”
Egon straightens to take a proper look at you. Your eyes are glued to the floor because the tension is too much to handle. This isn’t the time for playful exchanges, this is a plea for honesty— a wound that scarred in an ugly way and threatens to tear when pulled.
The light is dim. It tickles your hair and skin but the shadow creeping from behind waits is there to swallow you whole. He weighs his words.
“The Ghostbusters have always operated on borrowed time”, he states. “Soon we’ll face another lawsuit for vandalism, trespassing, collateral damage and the mayor will do everything in his power to shut us down for good.”
A flinch crosses your face. You nod, defeated— but Egon’s not done yet.
“I’ll tell you what happens then.” He leans closer. “I’ll ask you an important question and if you say yes, we’ll buy a house. Somewhere quiet, preferably a ranch so that you can overwrite your father’s imprint with a whole new chapter— this one built on loyalty and genuine affection. I’ll keep teaching you, if you want. I’ll set up a lab in the basement so that I can continue my research and I’ll ask you for assistance during busts and sample collection.” He takes a small breath and adds: “We can be a team. We’ll be taking our kids into the fields and teach them how to aim, out into the wilderness to have s’mores, and maybe even our gigs. We’ll investigate urban legends and see if we can help any.”
You stare at him, searching his eyes. Your lip wavers. It’s a reaction of some kind but whatever you’re feeling seems too complex— he needs to reduce it to something he can label— something he can understand.
He decides to go on.
“We’ll spend our evenings together. Indulging in touch, if you please. You’ll embroider your clothes. I’ll build a few really cool toys. You’ll make sure they actually look the part and that they don’t break down after one use. I’ll keep replacing your terrible cheap soap with my own nurturing, skin-softening mix and add that mint-raspberry scent you like, so you don’t notice—”
“…You what?!”
He halts.
“…Ah. I might have failed to inform you.”
“You’ve been swapping my soap?...”
“Your skin was irritated after washing the dishes. I couldn’t let that slide.”
“How long?”
“One hundred and sixteen days”, he states and suddenly tenses up. “…Have I overstepped?”
You seem amused— good?— but your eyes are glossy— bad?— and he quickly ponders whether invading your sanitary life was his first and last nail to the coffin.
But then…
But then.
Your palms press against his chest like feathers— then gently hook some woolen creases, too shy to clench, too desperate to flee. You stand on your tiptoes. Rest your cheek against his neck. Your skin is soft to the touch and he almost crumbles when your entire body presses against his and— oh dear— you’re sinking into him— for the love of God— you’re warm and tender, and beautifully hopeless— and he can barely think straight.
Curious thing. You nuzzle deeper, until he feels the graze of your lashes as you close your eyes and hears you breathe in his scent. You’re his now, needy, pliant and unabashedly cradled into his shape. He glides a thumb along your jaw and feels your body tremble and— oh, If a mere caress makes you so weak, what else is he capable of?
He backs a little, lifts his hands and laces your fingers together— guides yours between his— his tips slide past your nails, along the phalanxes, down to the crevices. You’re painfully still and he lets you adapt because touching and touching are two different things.
The shortening breath on his skin is intoxicating.
“Egon”, you breathe into his neck and when he steps back to look at you, your face is flushed, eyes dazed.
You’re absolutely gorgeous.
You poor thing, he cradles your cheek— and you melt into the touch, languid eyes pleading for as much as he’s willing to give. This, he thinks, I understand.
“I’ll be upstairs in a few minutes.” His whisper tingles your lip. “I’ve missed you for longer than I’d been aware.”
___
Tonight is the first time Egon sleeps for eight hours straight.
Maybe tomorrow you’ll finally bring in your stuff.
Maybe in a year you’ll proudly wear his surname as officially yours.
Maybe in two years, you’ll move to a beautiful ranch house in Summerville, where you’ll host a heartwarming get-together with all the boys. It’s there where you’ll be raising your beautiful daughter, Callie for another twenty years— crafting her costumes for school parties, rejoicing her resounding success at a swimming championship and sharing campfire stories on chilly nights under the starry evening skies while eating s’mores and playing with a bunch of little Stay-Pufts.
(And if an ancient power ultimately takes your life—
(And if grief and horror consumes the world one day—
(And if Egon is forced to use the yap-cap on his beloved daughter to make her forget everything about the years they’d spent together and save her life from certain death—
—is yet to be seen.)
For now, only one thing is certain.
Starting now you’ll walk together— every day, every month, every year — and into the Afterlife
