RGB snippet (preslash)
Jan. 1st, 2003 12:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gilascaveThis is a draft of the first of a sequel to What Are Friends For? When I get either more snippets done, or actually work them into a single story, I'll post 'em on the RGB list. Til then, enjoy!
snippet one
Peter carried the newspaper into the living room, carefully balancing it in the crock of one arm as though the paper were fragile as glass. He tried to apparent casual, as though he weren't doing exactly that -- he didn't think anyone was nearby, but he didn't want to take any chances.
He'd last heard Ray and Winston down in the basement, talking about practical matters of engineering. He hadn't listened long enough to puzzle out *what* they were doing, only noticed that the undercurrent of their conversation lacked the urgent tone that meant something was about to explode, implode, or turn into a giant demonic marshmallow.
Slimer was with them, Janine was at her desk, and Egon was out of the building entirely. Bertrand's Bookstore got its weekly shipment on Wednesdays, and when the Ghostbusters were free, Egon liked to go down and look through the new arrivals. He insisted that he was merely looking for books for his own library, but back when Peter had accompanied him on those trips, he'd seen that Egon spent more time deriding the books he didn't wish to buy, than selecting ones to purchase.
Egon had stopped inviting him along, since....
Peter shook his head and made his way over to the long couch facing the television. He'd had his long talk with Egon, and Egon had professed to feel neither fear nor anger anymore about Peter's deception, and his true nature. Egon had even showed a scientific interest in Peter -- wanting to subject him to an array of tests similar to the ones he'd first put Slimer through.
Peter remembered how long those tests had taken, and had quickly pointed out that any such tests would be useless unless he dropped his shields. If he did that, every level 3 and above would home in on him. Egon had conceded the point, but was now trying to design tests which would not require Peter to lower those shields.
Other than that, however, Peter had noticed that Egon had spent less of his free time in Peter's vicinity. He hadn't asked Ray or Winston about it -- Winston tried to act the same, but he was nervous and didn't try to disguise it. Ray was his usual enthusiastic self, treating Peter little differently than he had before. He continually encouraged Peter to talk about things -- old lives, his powers that he couldn't use, the Netherworld he'd escaped from. Ray seemed to treat the whole thing as an epic tale, exciting and adventurous. Peter tried hard not to dissuade him of that impression, while still answering his questions honestly as he could.
Putting his feet up, Peter unrolled the newspaper and spread it on his lap. It didn't matter if Egon was still having problems accepting...well, everything. At least -- it mattered, but there was nothing more Peter could do to change it. He picked up the front section of the paper and scanned the headlines.
Politics, world events, economics. Huge events that impacted the world as a whole, and the country or city in general.
Not what he needed.
He flipped through the pages of the front section, but only found more of the same. Politician visits, the UN debates, a docker's strike on Hong Kong affects the price of toys in Minnesota. Peter set the section aside, not surprised. He never found much on the front news section, but he liked to be thorough. Didn't want to miss anything that might be what he was looking for.
The Metro section was more often useful than the front, so he set it aside to rule out the sections less likely to be what he needed. The Sports section, classifieds, Culture and Entertainment sections all ended up in the pile beside the front news. Finally he'd weeded the newspaper down to three sections, and he settled himself in to read.
He scanned the stories, judging their content with a practised eye. Good news, good news, more wide-ranging impact that meant little unless it was your street or local park that was being debated by the city council. The usual spate of 'how to' columns, and feel-good columns he ignored as well, finally finding, buried in the back few pages, the stories he wanted. Human interest, they called them. Investigative reporters who wanted to wring your heart in compassion for the victims being cruelly set upon by whichever big bad guy happened to have found them.
The old man who couldn't convince the hospital to visit his dying wife, because of his own dubious health. The family being turned out of their home because of a dead-beat dad who had run off with their savings. The daughters killed in tragic accidents and the sons being arrested for drugs and beating their girlfriends.
These stories Peter read. Alone, with no one to stumble upon him, he sat and read. Buried himself in the details, in the journalist's graphic words and photographs showing how desolate and desperate the grieving mothers and starving children could be.
He knew how the journalists would stand there and say 'ok, one more picture, and try to look *really* sad'. He knew how the articles could be skewed in the victims' favor, skipping over whatever they might have done to get them into their situations in the first place. He knew he was being played for sympathy -- but that was the point. That was exactly why he was reading them.
When he'd nearly lost his best friends, when they'd discovered what he was and turned away from him -- and accepted him back -- he'd begun to feel something. *Something*. He didn't know what, even now. He knew what Ray had called it, and he knew that those tears he'd shed were the first he'd ever cried. But the...thing that he'd felt with them, he had never experienced before.
And so far, he'd never experienced again. So he was trying. Trying to subject himself to the pitiful and heart-wrenching and all those things that made Ray and Winston and Janine and Egon feel the things he didn't. He stared at the pictures of the women clutching their hands together, fearful and hopeless for their future. he read and reread the articles describing how horrible things were going and what awful things were in store.
So far all he'd noticed was that some of the journalists were more competent writers than others. He'd also noticed that one of the photographers believed himself to be an artist, always managing to take photos with a weird angle, or odd lighting, or garish splash of contrast that, in Peter's opinion, did exactly what the journalist was not trying to achieve.
But he'd never felt anything. He'd never noticed his breath catch, never noticed his stomach tighten, never found himself even wanting to know how it all turned out and hoping it had turned out for the best.
When those stories were exhausted in the day's paper, he would turn to the obituaries, reading the memorials and eulogies with the same care. He would look through the listing for those who died young, pausing over the children who'd died at the youngest of ages, and he would think about the parents and family left behind. He would read the memorials of those who died of AIDS and whose listed survivors included no partners or spouses and imagine that the grieving lover had been spurned in that final moment.
He read, and reread, and spun fanciful stories about each person represented, making up worse and worse circumstances until Peter thought -- surely that would be enough. Surely *anyone* would feel something for them.
Never even a twinge.
He always followed the obits by reading the advice columns. He had no idea why he read in that order -- often as not the advice columns were no better nor worse than anything else he'd read. But he'd caught Ray, once, sniffling over the newspaper and Peter had asked him why. Ray had explained that he'd been reading 'Dear Maggie', some mother wondering how to comfort her son who'd lost his dog. Peter had privately -- then and now -- thought Ray just a soft-heart. But, given that Peter was trying to soften his own, he figured it would do no harm to subject himself to the inanities of advice columns as well.
As a psychologist, albeit not human, himself, Peter had always found advice columns pointless. Now, after reading them regularly for weeks, he found them merely absurd.
Today was no different. Sighing, he closed the newspaper and began to gather it back up. The others would want to read their preferred sections, and Peter never wanted to leave the sections he'd pulled on top. He didn't want to explain what he found interesting -- didn't want to explain his experiments which had so far failed.
In his entire existence, Peter had been hit by thousands of things. Some hurt, most didn't, and very occasionally he had been hit by a brick. His feet hit the floor and he stared at the newspaper in amazement.
He screamed and threw the paper into the air, spinning around to run downstairs. He stopped as he found Egon standing in the doorway.
"Winning lotto numbers, Peter?" Egon asked, calmly.
Peter ran over to him. "Does feeling embarrassment count?"
Egon blinked. "Pardon?"
Peter grinned. "Hey, Egon, wanna hear about the brick that just fell on my head?" He grabbed Egon's hand and dragged him into the room towards the couch. Egon followed, and Peter noticed the very slight smile on his face.
snippet one
Peter carried the newspaper into the living room, carefully balancing it in the crock of one arm as though the paper were fragile as glass. He tried to apparent casual, as though he weren't doing exactly that -- he didn't think anyone was nearby, but he didn't want to take any chances.
He'd last heard Ray and Winston down in the basement, talking about practical matters of engineering. He hadn't listened long enough to puzzle out *what* they were doing, only noticed that the undercurrent of their conversation lacked the urgent tone that meant something was about to explode, implode, or turn into a giant demonic marshmallow.
Slimer was with them, Janine was at her desk, and Egon was out of the building entirely. Bertrand's Bookstore got its weekly shipment on Wednesdays, and when the Ghostbusters were free, Egon liked to go down and look through the new arrivals. He insisted that he was merely looking for books for his own library, but back when Peter had accompanied him on those trips, he'd seen that Egon spent more time deriding the books he didn't wish to buy, than selecting ones to purchase.
Egon had stopped inviting him along, since....
Peter shook his head and made his way over to the long couch facing the television. He'd had his long talk with Egon, and Egon had professed to feel neither fear nor anger anymore about Peter's deception, and his true nature. Egon had even showed a scientific interest in Peter -- wanting to subject him to an array of tests similar to the ones he'd first put Slimer through.
Peter remembered how long those tests had taken, and had quickly pointed out that any such tests would be useless unless he dropped his shields. If he did that, every level 3 and above would home in on him. Egon had conceded the point, but was now trying to design tests which would not require Peter to lower those shields.
Other than that, however, Peter had noticed that Egon had spent less of his free time in Peter's vicinity. He hadn't asked Ray or Winston about it -- Winston tried to act the same, but he was nervous and didn't try to disguise it. Ray was his usual enthusiastic self, treating Peter little differently than he had before. He continually encouraged Peter to talk about things -- old lives, his powers that he couldn't use, the Netherworld he'd escaped from. Ray seemed to treat the whole thing as an epic tale, exciting and adventurous. Peter tried hard not to dissuade him of that impression, while still answering his questions honestly as he could.
Putting his feet up, Peter unrolled the newspaper and spread it on his lap. It didn't matter if Egon was still having problems accepting...well, everything. At least -- it mattered, but there was nothing more Peter could do to change it. He picked up the front section of the paper and scanned the headlines.
Politics, world events, economics. Huge events that impacted the world as a whole, and the country or city in general.
Not what he needed.
He flipped through the pages of the front section, but only found more of the same. Politician visits, the UN debates, a docker's strike on Hong Kong affects the price of toys in Minnesota. Peter set the section aside, not surprised. He never found much on the front news section, but he liked to be thorough. Didn't want to miss anything that might be what he was looking for.
The Metro section was more often useful than the front, so he set it aside to rule out the sections less likely to be what he needed. The Sports section, classifieds, Culture and Entertainment sections all ended up in the pile beside the front news. Finally he'd weeded the newspaper down to three sections, and he settled himself in to read.
He scanned the stories, judging their content with a practised eye. Good news, good news, more wide-ranging impact that meant little unless it was your street or local park that was being debated by the city council. The usual spate of 'how to' columns, and feel-good columns he ignored as well, finally finding, buried in the back few pages, the stories he wanted. Human interest, they called them. Investigative reporters who wanted to wring your heart in compassion for the victims being cruelly set upon by whichever big bad guy happened to have found them.
The old man who couldn't convince the hospital to visit his dying wife, because of his own dubious health. The family being turned out of their home because of a dead-beat dad who had run off with their savings. The daughters killed in tragic accidents and the sons being arrested for drugs and beating their girlfriends.
These stories Peter read. Alone, with no one to stumble upon him, he sat and read. Buried himself in the details, in the journalist's graphic words and photographs showing how desolate and desperate the grieving mothers and starving children could be.
He knew how the journalists would stand there and say 'ok, one more picture, and try to look *really* sad'. He knew how the articles could be skewed in the victims' favor, skipping over whatever they might have done to get them into their situations in the first place. He knew he was being played for sympathy -- but that was the point. That was exactly why he was reading them.
When he'd nearly lost his best friends, when they'd discovered what he was and turned away from him -- and accepted him back -- he'd begun to feel something. *Something*. He didn't know what, even now. He knew what Ray had called it, and he knew that those tears he'd shed were the first he'd ever cried. But the...thing that he'd felt with them, he had never experienced before.
And so far, he'd never experienced again. So he was trying. Trying to subject himself to the pitiful and heart-wrenching and all those things that made Ray and Winston and Janine and Egon feel the things he didn't. He stared at the pictures of the women clutching their hands together, fearful and hopeless for their future. he read and reread the articles describing how horrible things were going and what awful things were in store.
So far all he'd noticed was that some of the journalists were more competent writers than others. He'd also noticed that one of the photographers believed himself to be an artist, always managing to take photos with a weird angle, or odd lighting, or garish splash of contrast that, in Peter's opinion, did exactly what the journalist was not trying to achieve.
But he'd never felt anything. He'd never noticed his breath catch, never noticed his stomach tighten, never found himself even wanting to know how it all turned out and hoping it had turned out for the best.
When those stories were exhausted in the day's paper, he would turn to the obituaries, reading the memorials and eulogies with the same care. He would look through the listing for those who died young, pausing over the children who'd died at the youngest of ages, and he would think about the parents and family left behind. He would read the memorials of those who died of AIDS and whose listed survivors included no partners or spouses and imagine that the grieving lover had been spurned in that final moment.
He read, and reread, and spun fanciful stories about each person represented, making up worse and worse circumstances until Peter thought -- surely that would be enough. Surely *anyone* would feel something for them.
Never even a twinge.
He always followed the obits by reading the advice columns. He had no idea why he read in that order -- often as not the advice columns were no better nor worse than anything else he'd read. But he'd caught Ray, once, sniffling over the newspaper and Peter had asked him why. Ray had explained that he'd been reading 'Dear Maggie', some mother wondering how to comfort her son who'd lost his dog. Peter had privately -- then and now -- thought Ray just a soft-heart. But, given that Peter was trying to soften his own, he figured it would do no harm to subject himself to the inanities of advice columns as well.
As a psychologist, albeit not human, himself, Peter had always found advice columns pointless. Now, after reading them regularly for weeks, he found them merely absurd.
Today was no different. Sighing, he closed the newspaper and began to gather it back up. The others would want to read their preferred sections, and Peter never wanted to leave the sections he'd pulled on top. He didn't want to explain what he found interesting -- didn't want to explain his experiments which had so far failed.
In his entire existence, Peter had been hit by thousands of things. Some hurt, most didn't, and very occasionally he had been hit by a brick. His feet hit the floor and he stared at the newspaper in amazement.
He screamed and threw the paper into the air, spinning around to run downstairs. He stopped as he found Egon standing in the doorway.
"Winning lotto numbers, Peter?" Egon asked, calmly.
Peter ran over to him. "Does feeling embarrassment count?"
Egon blinked. "Pardon?"
Peter grinned. "Hey, Egon, wanna hear about the brick that just fell on my head?" He grabbed Egon's hand and dragged him into the room towards the couch. Egon followed, and Peter noticed the very slight smile on his face.