Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When they discovered the river of pink slime flowing under the streets of New York City, Ray barely managed to collect a sample before the river tried to eat him. Now, in their makeshift lab, the sample sits benignly in an ordinary, clear plastic, food storage container, looking like harmless strawberry jello.

Ray is not fooled. He eyes the sample with suspicion. It might just be his imagination, but he thinks it eyes him back.

Ray and Egon are trying to come up with experiments to do on the slime sample with what they have on hand. Kitchen implements mostly. The firehouse lab needs to be fully re-equipped now that the Ghostbusters are back in business.

Nobody else is in the firehouse tonight but the two scientists. It's late. Peter has his own apartment now, paid for with his TV show money. Winston and his wife Tiyah moved to the suburbs in '87. Ray and Egon sleep at the bookstore apartment usually, but are now, some nights, back here in the old bunkroom.

Three years ago, they'd had to close down Ghostbusters. They'd been required by law to continue maintaining the containment unit downstairs, yet court ordered not to operate as paranormal investigators anymore, so they'd done their best to make other use of the building. Until recently reopening, the firehouse had been mostly storage, all the forbidden Ghostbusters gear boxed up. It was a place to park Ecto1. They rented the top floor out to Louis Tully's accounting firm. Venkman keeps his pool table there. A couple arcade games that no one but Slimer ever plays, given to them five years back by a promoter during the Ghostbusters fame.

It's exciting to be investigating anything paranormal again. Ray's sparkling eyes are wide. He's talking fast. Egon smiles to see him engaged like this. It's been too long since they stayed up late in a lab together.

Ray is currently documenting his experience in the tunnel under Dana's street. He's saying into an audio recorder, "At first, I was just surprised and fascinated, you know? The old transit tunnels are pretty cool. It was neat to be under the street like that. The river of slime was glowing pink! There was so much of it! It was sorta ethereal, um, pretty, I thought, at first."

Then, looking up at Egon to be sure he's listening to this part, Ray continues, "When I was happy, the slime was happy. I know how that sounds, Spengler. When you guys didn't pull me up right away, I got scared. I could hear you talking to the cops up there. Yikes. Then, get this! When I got frightened, suddenly, the slime seemed to notice me! Egon, I swear this stuff has some rudimentary sentience and it reacts to human emotion! When I got scared, it acted scary! Tentacles reaching for me!"

Ray presses stop.

"You're proposing that the slime river under Dana Barrett's building has psychoactive properties? The river perceived your emotions and reflected them back to you?" Egon is holding the Tupperware of slime up to the light.

It is rose pink, completely transparent. His curiosity piqued, he turns the container this way and that under the lab lamp, and for a moment, the slime seems to regard Egon back. That is unlikely, as it has no eyes nor brain to process visual stimuli, yet Egon feels the distinct sensation of being "looked at".

Egon "hmm"s thoughtfully.

Other men would have put the slime down immediately. Egon decides to poke it.

First, he turns out the light.

"Not glowing," Egon notes. He turns the light back on.

"Maybe there needs to be a certain amount of movement or kinetic energy to generate the glow? The river was flowing. Or maybe the mass caused the glow? This could be too small an amount," Ray notes aloud and on a yellow legal pad in ink. No one else but Ray can read Egon's writing, so Stantz almost always takes the notes. Peter and Winston will want to know all about this. He tries to jot down everything for them.

Egon smears some on a slide. They take turns examining it under the microscope. Egon first.

"To the naked eye, and to the touch, it's similar to standard ectoplasm, but not identical," Ray says, stirring the slime in the container with a spoon. "Not as sticky. Less elastic."

"The amount of movement at the micro level is phenomenal. These globules are highly active. It's a river of slime in miniature," Egon says, looking through the eyepiece. The miniscule pink globs that compose the ectoplasm, not exactly cells but something similar, pulse and flow across the slide.

"It's also remarkable that it continues to maintain an internal temperature of 98.6 degrees, though sitting out at room temperature. Almost like it has...body heat. That's wild, man," Ray's taking the Tupperware bowl's temperature and weighing it.

Looking into the eyepiece, Egon notices, when Ray starts talking, the flow changes direction abruptly. The globs all start flowing towards Ray.

Egon looks up from the microscope, over at his lab partner. He detects signs of fatigue and low blood sugar. Unsure of Ray's emotional baseline, Egon asks, "Raymond, when you spoke just now, were you feeling a strong emotion? The slime changed it's flow at the sound of your voice."

"It did? I was feeling tired, but also pretty happy. I always get excited when we encounter new paranormal phenomenon and it's fun to be here with you, Spengs," Ray chatters unselfconsciously.

Egon feels a warm burst in his solar plexus to hear that Ray likes being here as much as Egon does. He knows, but it's still nice to hear.

Unnoticed beside Spengler's hand, a little bubble of effervesce pops in the slime container.

Ray keeps going. "I feel that rush you get making a discovery. Still sorta scared about the river trying to eat me. Worried about Dana and her baby. Missing Peter and Zedd. A bit hungry. Wish I could have a cigarette. Um. Not sure what else."

"I am unsure if those emotions are the cause of the flow reversal," Egon looks down at the slide again, wondering what it would be like to feel so many things at once. Egon's emotions are much more binary- comfortable vs. uncomfortable. The blobs have sped up their activity. Almost like blood cells being pushed towards a heart.

Egon thinks aloud, "It could be psychomagnetic, drawn to consciousness?"

"Well, I was the only one talking, so it might just be responding to auditory stimuli. The sound of my voice. Maybe the underground slime river was reacting to me yelling for help, too. Might be a volume or pitch thing instead of an emotional thing. Let me see if it flows towards you when you talk?" Ray proposes.

Egon lets him have at the microscope and crosses to the other side of the room, opposite of the direction the slime is flowing.

"Testing. Testing. Testing." Egon says loudly.

"Slime is not responding to emotionally neutral auditory stimuli so far. No change to flow direction," Ray makes a note. "Egon, can you emote? Can you conjure a strong feeling and then speak?"

Spengler looks stiff, "No. That is Venkman's department."

"Huh," Ray says, peering down at the globlettes again. Asking Spengler to get emotional on command was probably a long shot. Ray goes for a Peter Pan quote, "Any happy little thought?"

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens," Egon says dryly, deadpan Sound of Music lyric reference.

Ray laughs, not looking up from the eyepiece. From where Egon stands, he notices the container next to Ray fizz in time with his chuckle.

"Ray, when it tried to eat you, how did you feel?" Egon asks, walking closer.

Ray stands up, hmms, looks up and to the left, trying to remember. He shivers as a memory of the fear rises in him. The feeling of dangling on a rope over something ancient and evil. Having the river swell and writhe beneath his feet. The boys not pulling him up even when he yelled.

He says, "Scared shitless."

The slime bubbles. A lot.

Egon nods towards it and Ray looks. The bubbles settle.

Egon asks, "Remember when Peter got that bad case of poison ivy?"

Ray hisses, awash with sudden visceral sympathy, "Oh gosh, poor Pete, that was awful."

The slime burbles. They let it calm again.

Egon says, "October 21, 1970"

"The day we met," Ray says without hesitation, and they just look at each other for a moment, feeling sharp gratitude for that day and every day since.

Between them, the container of slime plurps and bloops sweetly, toasted marshmallow scent in the air for a second.

Hating to break up the warm fuzzies but curious, Ray gets an idea. "Egon, I'm going to say two mean words to you. Ok?"

"Ready," answers Spengler.

"Walter. Peck."

"Urrrgg!" snarls Egon, instantly furious. "Peck!"

A huge blorp of the slime plops and fizzles, smells slightly sulfurous.

"Yell at the slime like it's Peck," Ray suggests, with a mad scientist grin. That's ridiculous but it's late and fun and they're alone.

Egon inhales and lets the slime have it.

"Your mother!" he yells at the bowl of goo, standing over it. "You interfering a-hole! Peck, you absolute nincompoop! You outta be the one locked up! Why, of all the-"

He stops yelling and has to go wipe his face. The slime bubbled up so quickly at his Peck induced fury that it splattered him. Egon got a good splash of it up the nose and across the forehead. He cleans it off.

The slime was rolling like it was coming to a boil, but it is not hot. Ray takes its temperature again. It remains 98.6.

Calming himself, Egon says, "It doesn't burn my skin on contact, seems non-corrosive, but we should put on safety goggles before we continue, Raymond."

"I got some on my skin when I was transferring the sample," Ray confesses. "It wasn't unpleasant. Washed off easily. Water soluble like standard ectoplasm. But I'm wearing gloves next time I move it. Too unpredictable."

"The slime still seems angry," Egon remarks, attention back on the bowl . He himself is in emotionally neutral observation mode again yet the slime still bubbles with Peck rage, "It can contain the emotion longer than the duration of the initial emotive input. Could be charged like an emotional battery, perhaps. Can you calm it down, Ray?"

"Um." Ray watches it perculate at them irritably, "I could sing it a lullaby?"

Ray tries-
"Rock a bye baby,
In the tree tops,
When the wind blows,
The cradle will rock,
When the bow breaks,
the cradle- er- oh.
On second thought, that song is terrifying, now that I really listen to it."

The slime seems to agree and has not calmed down a bit. It snaps and pops.

"Shhhhhh," Egon tries soothing. "Good slime. Sweet slime."

The bubbles do calm slightly.

"Positive reinforcement? Affirmations?" Egon suggests.

Ray and Egon look down at the little furious bowl of goo.

"You're really...um...pink," Ray is not good at compliments. He laughs at himself and tries again, "You have a fascinating viscosity."

"You've got a lot of research potential," Egon talks to the slime the way some people talk to sweet dogs, "You're a remarkable scientific discovery. I am sorry I yelled at you. Yes, I am. You're not Walter Peck, are you? No, you're not."

The slime seems happier. Neither are quite sure how they know that, but they do.

"Alright, Spengler, how about this?" Ray proposes. "We split up the slime sample and test more than one emotion at a time. We put the same amount of slime in several graduated cylinders. We expose each to a different emotion and measure the effervescent reaction by how many milliliters the slime rises up the sides."

"How do we expose it to emotion? We each talk to a beaker?" Egon asks.

"Maybe," Ray is struck by how music is often emotional, "or we play each one a different song!"

Ray goes to collect music devices. He gathers one alarm clock radio from the old bunk room, one cassette player with a dusty shoebox of cassettes from the garage, and Louis's hefty CD player boombox with a leather case of CDs.

Egon carefully portions out slime. The slime seems curious but not upset to be divided.

"Louis has terrible taste in music," Ray says, going through the CDs. "But I found a few options. Ecto 1 has a radio, as well, if we want to put a beaker on the dashboard. No way to control the song variables, as we can only pick radio stations, not specific tunes."

"I ran out of graduated cylinders and beakers, some of it had to go in coffee cups," Egon has measured exactly three ounces of slime into several different containers. He removes his gloves and washes his hands at the kitchenette sink.

"I also found you something to eat," Egon adds, crossing back and handing Ray a box of Cheese Its.

"Thank you, dear Spengs," Ray says, happily snatching the box and plunging a hand in.

Egon smiles and helps himself to his lab coat pocket Twinkie, stashed for just such moments. They forget to eat regular meals when they're on a case.

The two munch companionably and look through the music options, debating which emotions certain songs spark. There's even a whale sounds CD Louis uses to calm hyperventilating clients that have to pay a lot of taxes. Also, they found a few old horror movie VHS tapes to play on the TV for fear. Eventually, they've scrounged up a variety of emotional inputs.

Ray and Egon spread out so that the various slime samples can't "overhear" each other, though they're just guessing the radius of how far the slime's perception extends. Egon and his samples stay on the second floor. Ray takes his samples downstairs. He sets up several music stations, as far from each other as he can.

One on the tool bench, with the clock radio set to a classic country station. Fingers crossed, one of those tearjerking old Appalachian ballads comes on soon. C'mon Hank Williams.

One on Janine's desk, with the CD player playing Barry Manilow's "Copacabana" from Louis's collection. Not sure what emotion that is supposed to spark. Ray thinks of it vaguely as the "showgirl" sample. "Yellow feathers in her hair, and a dress cut down to there" is surely a mood.

Another, he sets on the dash of the parked Ecto1, radio tuned to WFXY "Foxy" 103 playing the late night smooth R&B radio show Quiet Storm. Barry White is definitely going to be on any minute. Or Sade or Luther.

For his control, he puts a coffee mug of slime in an old Styrofoam cooler to act as an improvised "sound proof" box. Covers it with a blanket for additional sound padding. He has no idea how sensitive the thing's "hearing" is, but this will dampen it at least a bit. If it's reading emotions through scent, it should also block pheromones.

Then, Ray goes outside to smoke, taking a sample with him. Sets it on a newspaper box's flat top and observes it. Standing under the street light, he watches the pink goo fizz and sparkle as he gets the pack of cigs out of his coat pocket. He notes that the slime "feels" his rush of dopamine as he anticipates craving relief. He lights and inhales. At the surge of nicotine through his blood, the sample bubbles up rapidly. The cylinder container trembles on top of the metal box. It would've rattled off the edge if Ray didn't catch it. He smokes. The bubbles calm as he calms. He and the sample are both chill by the time he inhales down to the filter. Nicotine is such a bitch. He thinks he should show this to Egon next time Spengler demands that he quit smoking. He swears to himself that he will quit. But that's what he always says.

Back in the firehouse, Ray's other samples don't seem to be doing much. He heads upstairs to tell Egon about the craving relief reaction.

As Ray climbs, a sight awaits him at the top of the stairs. Jackie Wilson's song "Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher" is playing at full volume on the cassette player and Egon is dancing.

A huge grin breaks over Ray's face. He hasn't seen Egon boogie like this since their stoner days in the 70s. Spengler spots him frozen spellbound on the top step, but he doesn't stop dancing, instead he beckons for Ray to join in. Egon pretends to throw an imaginary lasso over Ray and rope him into the room.

Ray loves to dance. He is the life of the party at any gathering with music. He immediately grooves over to Egon with the nicotine slime beaker still in his hand.

"What's going on up here, Egon?" Ray can't help giggling a bit at Spengs's rusty moves.

Spengs can dance, and sing too, but no one else knows this but Ray, Winston, and Peter. He has excellent rhythm. Spengler's big brown eyes are half lidded behind his glasses and he's grinning wide, dimples showing, head thrown back. His hips moving, shaking his barely-there booty.

"God, he's cute," Ray thinks.

The once calm slime in Ray's hand begins to fizz like champagne as he dances nearer to Spengler. He notices it's response. Was it the song or his raging crush on Egon? Both variables?

Ray dances with Egon. The song is fast and cheerful, an old favorite.

Egon shouts over the music, "The slime likes Jackie Wilson!"

"I can see that!" Ray calls back.

Egon's glass beaker of slime on the table beside the cassette player burbles and plorps, in perfect rhythm with the song. It almost seems to be dancing, too.

"The slime wasn't doing much with just the song playing, but when I started dancing a bit, it was a catalyst, increasing the sample's response ten fold," Spengs shouts, doing a passable version of The Twist. "Raymond, it's not just the emotion of the music alone. Something to do with the human nervous system's response to the music, I think."

Ray puts his slime sample down next to Egon's sample. He lets it hang out with its buddy on the lab table and his beaker quickly starts rocking out, too. Egon and Ray dance together a bit more, watching their slimes shimmy, but also stealing glances at the other's moves. The song comes to an end. Egon pushes stop on the tape. Ray tries not to be disappointed to see Egon still once more. The grin remains, though. Ray grins back. They both feel remarkably happy.

Egon says, no longer having to shout. "I set up the other sample with the movie Kujo playing on the VCR."

"We have a tape of that?" Ray asks, wondering where that came from.

"First, I observed from afar. Controlling the movie by remote. The slime was inactive, even during the scenes when characters on screen were most terrified," Egon continues. "Not a bubble. Not until I sat down close by and watched a couple minutes of movie with it. When I myself felt fright and disgust, the slime reacted. To me. Not Kujo. I think it wanted to bite me."

Ray's dark eyebrows go up. Thinking face.

Egon asks, "How are your samples responding?"

"They've all been still. No bubbles. The only one that reacted was the one I took with me on my smoke break," Ray tells him about its nicotine craving relief response.

"Perhaps we should listen to the music with the slime? Try to personally feel the emotion of each song? Use our nervous systems as the conduit by which we conduct emotion into the slime medium?" Spengler suggests.

"Back to testing only one sample at a time?" Ray clarifies."If it might bite, we shouldn't be alone with it."

"Agreed. The slime doesn't seem to respond to recorded emotion, only real time human interaction," Spengler answers. "We ourselves have now become a factor in the data."

"Fair enough," Ray agrees.

It's late enough for him to be a bit loopy. Egon, too, if the dancing was any indication. This might take all night, but that's okay. Ray's still game. How hard is it to sit around listening to songs with your best friend and some pink ectoplasm? Not hard. Ray can't actually think of anything he'd like to do more than spend the night in the company of Dr. Egon Spengler and a scientific conundrum. Especially if there might be more dancing.

He'll make coffee. Sleep is for people who aren't in love with a nocturnal parapsychologist.

Chapter Text

"This stuff is really weird, Egs, but what isn't with this job?" Ray wonders, hands on hips, contemplating the next sample.

"Weird. Affirmative," Egon agrees, he's on his second Twinkie of the night. Needs the blood sugar high after their last sample just kicked his ass.

It's so late, it's early, about 2AM. They're downstairs in the office/garage bay.

"I've been meaning to tell you, ever since I splashed some slime on my wrist earlier while putting it in the Tupperware, I think I might be- kind of- ," Ray stumbles over the beginning of the confession but then the end comes out in a rush,"-I feel like I can intuit what the slime wants from me. It's communicating. I'm picking up a general impression. Not words."

"Ah," Egon nods. Instantly believing Ray, of course. The look on his handsome face is one part fear, four parts scientific excitement, by Ray's calculations. He says, "Same for me. Especially since it splattered my face, I feel it...watching me, listening, without sense organs, Ray."

"Peter's gonna lose it, man. Psychic slime!" Ray hoots.

"Raymond, what do you think about this particular sample?" Egon asks, quirking a dark brow, gesturing towards the one on Janine's desk. "What does it want?"

"I think, it hates this song," Ray answers.

They're standing before the "Copacabana" sample. The slime in that cylinder radiates slimey dislike at the two scientists.

"Agreed," Egon nods. He stops the Barry Manilow CD. The slime seems relieved.

Ray asks, " Can you please flip through the CD case and find something better, Spengler? I need to jot down a few more things about the saddness sample."

They've only just recovered from the sad country song experiment. Two men in lab coats, sobbing their eyes out on the tool bench, while George Jones drank himself to death, and Tammy Wynette got divorced, and Loretta Lynn struggled to overcome childhood poverty, and Patsy Cline went out walking after midnight. When Willie and Waylon warned everyone's mamas not to let them grow up to be cowboys, Ray had to click it off. After about five minutes more crying, he stopped feeling like a coal miner's daughter and could go blow his nose and splash water on his face.

Poor Egon had to lay flat on the cold concrete floor recovering for twenty minutes. He rarely cries and when he does, it's intense.

That vial of slime is now charged with pure sadness and probably should only be handled with a hazmat suit and tongs. They put an upside down bucket over it and weighed it down with bricks. Not much of a containment unit, but it will do til morning. It had turned a depressing greenish grey color, clouded up, and smells of bitter grapefruit pith, whisky, and salty tears. They probably need to play some Jackie Wilson for it when this is over to cheer it back up. Ray makes a note of it, a reminder not to leave the slime in misery.

It is odd but both Scientists feel a weird sense of elation now. All that saddness drawn up, felt and surrendered. After bawling, Ray feels a little high. Now that he can peel himself up off the floor, Egon too, is flushed and smiley. There's a releasing, cleansing side effect. Ray notes that down.

Egon finds a CD and puts it in the player. Ray hears the whir of the drawer sliding shut. Egon choses a song. Hits play.

All of a sudden Sam Cooke's "You Send Me" croons out of the speakers. Ray looks up from his notes to see Egon holding out his hand, inviting Ray to slow dance with him. Ray freezes for a second, surprised. Egon manually pulls the notepad from his stiff grip and sets it aside, gently removes the pen from his startled hand, and pulls Ray up and into his arms.

Sam Cooke's sweet as honey voice sings out in the big, green tiled cavernous space-
"Darling, you-u-u-u send me
I know, you send me
Darling, you send me
Honest you do, honest you do
Honest you do..."

At first, they dance with an awkward gap between them like they're at a junior high dance and a chaperone is going to come over and yell at them if they get too close. For the first couple steps both try to lead, and then neither lead, then both try again, but then it's somehow settled. Because Egon can't dance backwards, Ray has to let him lead. He doesn't mind. They find their flow in a heartbeat or two.

By the second chorus, Egon's hand on the small of his back has pulled Ray right up against him. Chests and bellies together. Ray can feel Egon breathing. Ray's arm on Egon's shoulder holds him in a half hug. Ray's left hand is held in Egon's right hand, electricity tingling between their palms. Eye contact this close is uncomfortable, so Ray closes his eyes and leans his head onto Egon's shoulder. They spin slowly around the old firetruck bay, melting into each other.

"At first I thought it was infatuation,
But woah, it's lasted so-o-o long,
Now I find myself wanting you,
To marry you and take you home, woah...

You, you, you, you send me
I know, you send me
I know, you send me
Honest you do..."

You Send Me is pure longing, a swoon turned into song. Pure romantic bliss. Each pining, soaring, aching note stabs Ray and Egon in the heart. Sam Cooke's flawless pitch unfurls something in the listener's inner ear. It's indescribably beautiful. Ray can't stop dancing to take notes or even to open his eyes to observe the slime sample's reaction. He's awash with how much he loves Egon, nervous system completely overwhelmed by it. How wonderful it is to be held in Spengler's arms, pressed against his long lean form. How good he smells. How big his hands are, the way they touch him. The way Spengs' body feels moving against Ray's. How safe and brilliant and amazing Egon is. To Ray, the aroma now wafting from the slime sample smells like Twinkies, ink and the ozone of hot proton packs.

For Egon, Ray in his arms is perfect gravity, the core of our very Earth. Ray is the concept love made solid and real. He is only human, yet also a cosmic phenomenon like antigravity, absolute zero, or light speed. To Egon, the slime smells of Ray's clean hair in the sunshine, a whiff of engine oil and a hint of fresh Chinese take out. Dr. Egon Spengler feels quite sure he could hold Dr. Ray Stantz until the stars burn out at the end of time.

At the end of the song, they stop swaying but don't let go. They both look into each other's eyes, inhale and say the words, "I love you" at the exact same time, the exact same tone. And then, they both laugh, exactly the same. Startled by the synchronicity, it breaks the spell a bit.

"We should do the next experiment in the bunkroom instead of in the front seat of the Ecto," the very wise Egon says, lips against Ray's temple. At 45, he feels too old to make out in a car, they haven't done that since Columbia, and he's quite sure that four chords into a sexy song, he'll start kissing and kissing Ray and not be able to stop. It sounds fantastic. He doesn't want a gear shift or steering wheel in the way. Or clothes, for that matter.

"Bunkroom. You're not ready to go to sleep?" Ray asks, just to be sure.

"Not in the slightest," answers Egon, eyes dark and mischievous.

"Oh, good," Ray presses their foreheads together, nuzzles Egon's nose with his own. "I'm not done experimenting, either."

Spengler is only an inch taller, though it seems more with his wild, wonderful hair. Ray can't quite let him go yet, even to go upstairs. Their dance has become a tight hug. Egon's elegant professorial hands start to roam. Things might have gone further, but the next song that automatically plays on the CD player is a sad ballad.

Not wanting to cry again, Ray snaps out of it. Looks around. He's clearheaded enough to notice the sample. The love charged slime sparkles with carbonation. A froth of pearly pink microbubbles happily foam over the top, overflow down the side of the cylinder, and run across the desk onto the floor. It's oozing straight towards the couple.

"Get it, Ray!" Egon jokes. He doesn't feel scared of this small river of goop at the moment, too love vibed up, but intellectually, he understands it is very creepy to have the slime target and approach them. It has some sort of limbless locomotion. Fascinating.

"I think I will grab some gloves and get that in a jar with a lid on it before we go upstairs," Ray decides and with a sigh, pries himself away from Spengler's warmth.

Empty arms now, Egon groans with sweet longing, then moves to turn the CD player off.

"You could bottle this. Sell it in the shop as a love potion," Egon suggests, tidying up.

"Wouldn't that make everyone else in New York City fall in love with you, too? No way," Ray grins back. He grabs gloves and a spatula to scrape it up. Over by the work bench, he finds a jar of screws with a lid and dumps out the screws. So armed, he wrangles the pulsing, burbling, definitely flirting with him, love slime into the jar. It smells to him like a Nestle crunch bar, wool sweater vests in Autumn, and the nape of Egon's neck. He screws the lid on tight.

"I think I'll dab it behind my ears as a perfume," Spengler jokes. He wipes up any remaining residue with blue shop paper towels. Carefully disposes of them and his gloves afterwards in biohazard bags that will be incinerated.

"Mmmm," Ray thinks the idea has some potential. "But, then, I'd never get anything done. But you."

"I am prepared to donate my body to science, if I must," Egon says with a smirk.

Ray gives Spengs an affectionate little pat on his high, narrow rump, and then goes to turn off the Ecto 1's radio so the battery doesn't die. When he opens the door, Barry White isn't currently playing, thank goodness, he would probably pass out. Instead, it's a commercial for a Chicago pizza place, which makes Ray feel suddenly intensely hungry, mouth watering for melty cheese until he can grab the slime sample and escape the vehicle. He smells tomato sauce for a few minutes after. Tastes basil in the back of his mouth.
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3AM

Upstairs in the bunk room, Ray is drying off after their shower, while they chat about the day's findings. Egon sits cross legged on the bed in just a pair of soft cotton pajama pants. His wet hair curls charmingly.

It's starting to rain outside, they can hear it drumming on the roof. Thunder in the distance.

There's a slime sample in a Tupperware bowl on the bedside table. They've got a lid on it this time so it doesn't spill itself out and try to ooze over to them. Egon drilled some small airholes in the lid to let air pressure out when it begins to bubble. The cassette player waits near it. Also some lube. Water to drink. PKE meter. Handcuffs. Fire extinguisher. First aid kit. Just in case. This is literally fuck-around-and-find-out science they're doing, best to be prepared.

"Any good sexy songs? I can't get Foxy103 to come in up here. I suppose we don't need music for this. We're generating the emotional input ourselves, this time," Ray says, thinking aloud.

He would light candles for mood, but they have a no combustion during experiments rule. No idea if pink slime is flammable yet. They'd have to set a sample on fire to test that and that seems horribly wrong. He feels quite protective of it.

Egon's folding up his glasses and leaning over to place them on the dresser. He says, "We could use pornography to focus sexual energy but I find it unsavory and unnecessary."

"Uck. Yeah," Ray agrees, as a demisexual person, with hyperfantasia and mirror synesthesia, pornography is gross and off-putting to him. Strangers who aren't in love having sex? No, thanks. Images that will replay in his photographic memory forever? Double no, thanks. Besides any porn mags around the firehouse are probably under Venkman's old mattress and definitely won't be Ray's type. He's Egon-sexual and the actual Egon is right here, so why bother?

"Something relaxing? We could try the whale songs?" Egon proposes.

"We don't know what those sounds mean in whale language, Egie. What if they're humpback mating calls and we drown trying to have sex underwater in the bathtub?" Ray laughs. "Or they're baby whale lullabys and we fall right asleep? Then we don't get to have sex at all."

"Orca pod arguments, which could start a big fight, resulting in no intercourse," Egon nods, agreeing. "We need a known factor for the catalyst."

Towel around his waist, Ray rustles through the tape box. He smiles and holds one up, saying,"Got it. Thanks be to Zeddemore. It's Marvin Gaye's Let's Get It On."

"Perfect," Egon agrees.

Ray puts it in the tape player. Rewinds it.

"Are we just going to do what we feel like doing and see what the slime does in reaction?" Ray asks, dropping his towel. Egon growls softly. Ray smiles, "And we note if our sexual experience is enhanced or influenced by the presence of the slime?"

"Alright," agrees Spengler, face flushed, eyes on Ray's body. Then, he side-eyes the Tupperware bowl of pink goo, "I feel it watching us, Ray."

"Yeah, nosier than Venkman, this stuff," Ray agrees. He gives the plastic container a friendly tap. He asks it, "Are you ready?"

The pink slime is already bubbling a bit, eager and restless. Anticipation rolls off of it in waves. It seems to indicate consent with a little burbling ploot sound and a brief phosphorescent shimmer.

"Was that a slime wink?" Ray wonders.

"Ready, Spengs?" he asks before pushing play, double checking despite obvious evidence of Egon's enthusiastic consent tenting the front of his pajamas, and the fact that they barely made it out of the shower and into this room before getting started. Not wanting to be cold and wet on a tile floor was the only motivation strong enough to get them in here.

"Ready, Ray," Spengler's grin is wide enough to display his pointy canines, the sight of which always make Ray a little feral. Fascinating what little details you find incredibly hot about a person after almost 20 years.

Ray pushes play.

Chapter Text

The funky intro to Marvin Gaye's song "Let's Get It On" comes out of the small speakers. Instantly, the erotic edge to Gaye's voice seems to heat the room ten degrees. The opening lines immediately beg the listener for sex, causing blood to rush south in Egon and Ray's already aroused bodies.

"Woah," Ray says, pupils dilating with a flood of desire. He unconsciously licks his lips. If he thought he was desperately craving a cigarette earlier, that is nothing compared to the craving he feels now for Egon's body. Holy shit. Ray yanks back the covers and jumps into bed.

"Can we start already, please?" Egon goes from sitting patiently on the bedspread to quickly scrambling under it with Ray.

"Yes," Ray says, breathless, reaching for him.

Egon and Ray crash together in the middle of their bed. At the touch of all that skin, bare chests and arms colliding, lips meeting- their senses are immediately swamped with input. At first, Ray's observant hindbrain is still aware enough to mentally note that the slime is likely doing something to their nervous systems. Their nerve endings and sense organs are unusually perceptive. It feels so good, they want to put their hands everywhere, touch everything at once. Their joining is half way to a wrestling match, something primal about it. A fierce race to explore the most skin.

Egon is on top for the moment, roughly pushing Ray into the pillows. His tall angular self pressing down into the heaven of Ray's padded, muscular form. Egon's lips on Ray's, his tongue in his mouth, it's somehow incredibly familiar and entirely new at once. Tasting him is the most delicious thing. He wants to do it forever.

Ray's palms feel too sensitive, just running his hands over Egon's back, erotic. He can feel every detail of the muscles and shoulder blades moving under his hands. Egon's skin is velvet. The weight of his body on Ray's chest feels like home. The scent of his freshly shampooed hair and the scratch of his stubble does, too.

"I feel so-" Ray tries to put words to it but Egon's mouth is too scrumptious to waste time on language. Instead he rolls them over so that he can take control. Ray licks into Egon's mouth and then dives to greedily kiss his throat. Ray shoves his knee between Egon's legs, straddles a long lean thigh. Pinches his nipple between callused fingers.

With Ray on top, Egon can grab Ray's magnificent ass with each hand and press their hips together. Ray grinding down on him, their erections caught between their bodies, thin cotton frustratingly still between them. Ray's full lips break away from kissing Egon for a second and at the absence of their sweetness, Egon makes a whine sound that he has never heard himself make before. He doesn't feel even slightly embarrassed.

"Spengs, take your pajama pants off, for science," Ray says, eyes smoldering hot as he yanks Egon's waistband down past his lovely hips. Hot hands over silken skin. "Off! Pants!"

Egon lifts his butt off the bed to help Ray get them all the way off. They're instantly forgotten, kicked down and lost somewhere in the covers. Ray's fingers are wrapping around him and his mouth is sliding down, fast and hungry, over Egon's cock and then Egon doesn't have any thoughts at all.

Marvin Gaye's voice sings of the joys of good sex, his high notes orgasmic cries and his low notes groans of ecstasy. He sings,
"Giving yourself to me,
would never be wrong,
if the love is true."

Of course, neither Ray nor Egon can pause to take written notes. Usually, even in the throws of passion, some part of their highly scientific minds is still capable of calculation, observation and notation. Not tonight. Now, neither researcher even has words other than yes, more, now. Fuck science.

Ray feels Egon's cock in his mouth and is struck by the body's engineering, the way it fits against his soft pallet, how the head of it just slots into his throat. The perfect design of it. The slide of it over his tongue. The bittersalt taste of precum. Egon's hands gripping his head and the filthy slurp sounds his own mouth makes. Getting lost in the rhythm, in Egon's rising breath sounds and the way his hips rock up, fucking Ray's mouth. The sensation of how beautifully they fit together. Ray could come from this sensory perfection alone, he realizes and that is definitely unusual. His own cock is throbbing already. He kneels between Egon's spread legs, sucking him, ass up in the air, heat building inside of him, almost there- only stopping when the hands in his brown hair yank quite hard. Ray comes back to reality to hear Egon saying, voice a low groan, "Wait, wait, Ray. Not yet."

Ray lets go and rocks back on his heels, eyes glassy and lips pink. Egon is panting, spread before him, a feast. Ray kneels, awaiting instructions or permission. He would do absolutely anything this man might request or allow. That's not the slime effect, it's how Ray's naturally wired when it comes to Egon, but tonight the intensity of his wanting is painful. His hard red prick is bobbing, it's so eager. Egon's brown eyes are watching it hungrily while he catches his breath. Ray wonders if he can cum from being looked at. If Egon doesn't hurry, they're about to find out. He feels at once like a teenager, and like he must be billions of years old, because hasn't he always wanted Egon since the begining of time? Eons of wanting him. Every lifetime before and after this one stretching into infinity, there is only wanting Egon.

The next song on the tape is Marvin's ode to "Sexual Healing". Possibly the only song in the multiverse sexier than "Let's Get It On." A song that can make a person's toes curl even without any mood slime involvement. If any other song came on next, perhaps Egon could have kept enough brain cells online to realize just how much danger they are in. Not from the slime. But from humans. If there was any blood left above his neck, he might be really worried right now. People would pay any price for an aphrodisiac like this. Countries would go to war over it's mind control capabilities. It could easily be weaponized, the Kujo slime made that clear. Word of this slime should never, ever get out to the military or to corporations. Later, Egon will lie awake thinking about how they would be safer from governments and terrorist organizations if they had a Tupperware of uranium on the bedside table. Future Egon will plan a meeting with the Mayor, hoping they can clear the tunnels of slime before New Yorkers start snorting lines of this pink stuff and attacking each other. All those thoughts will come at sunrise, when he lies awake, awash with post orgasmic clarity. But in this moment, present Egon can't think about any of that.

For now, Egon can only feel. He pulls Ray up towards the pillows so they can kiss some more. Ray's skin, mouth, hands, cock, ass, hips, nipples, thighs. A body he knows better than his own. Half a lifetime of love making with this person. He feels overwhelmed by lust and gratitude, passion and safety. Egon's entire world revolves around this brilliant sun of a man. Ray forever.

The slime sample could be glowing in the dark and levitating a foot above the end table, for all they know. They forget about it completely until it's time for lube and Ray glances over while grabbing for the bottle. The slime is still perched on the bedside table where they left it but pink steam is coming out of the little holes drilled in the lid. The container is completely fogged up. It shivers and jitters on the tabletop. Egon gets his attention again, and Ray's distracted.

The thing about the song Sexual Healing is that much like sex itself, it's complex. A layered song about a complicated time in Marvin Gaye's life. It is at once, a celebration of the sexual liberation Gaye felt in the midst of his divorce from his wife Anna, and at the same time, a cry for help tinged with shame and grief. The surface of the song is joyously, sensually hedonistic, but there also is an underlayer of pain, sorrow. Marvin was helplessly, fatally addicted to cocaine and far too young groupies, during the time of the song's recording. He sings like a man who is both free for the first time, and painfully aware that his freedom will destroy him and is harming others. His voice waivers between lust and angst on every note. It's an incredibly raw song set to a slightly disco funk beat. It's almost a relief when it ends and Ray can use the brief silence between songs to click the tape off.

Now their only soundtrack is the rain on the roof, the squeaks of the mattress, and the gasps their bodies wring from the other.

Ray and Egon are in sync during ordinary sex, of course. They've been making love a long time and know exactly how to push the other's buttons, where and how to touch, what to say and do. It is comfortable and satisfactory. They're passionate, adventurous, curious people, both capable of hyper focus, total honesty, and intense attention to detail. Their sex life is an expression of their deep love and attraction.

- But this! -

It feels like Egon can read his mind, that as soon as Ray thinks "there!" or "faster!", that Spengs doesn't even have to be told, his body is just automatically doing exactly what Ray needs it to do. There is a rightness to every move, like a key in a lock. Their bodies come together with a sense of connection, completion and wholeness.

The slime's influence does not push them past their boundaries of safety or sanity, make them hurt each other or do anything they wouldn't normally do. Instead it seems to amplify and focus their attraction, make things more intense and heighten responses. The biggest difference is the sense of urgency, the sensation that without this contact, Ray and Egon would wither and starve. The instinct that they MUST have each other NOW to survive.

"Something to do with the nervous system's fight or flight survival response," Ray will think, later when he can make thoughts. Chemically, there must be something happening with Dopamine, Oxytocin and Serotonin. The slime is making Egon a drug to him, addicting him.

At the end, in perfect synchronicity, they both cry out as a simultaneous orgasm is wrenched from their bodies. The crescendo crashes over them like a wave sweeping them away. Heartbeats roaring and gloriously alive. A climax that goes on and on. Ecstasy ripping screams from their throats, almost too loud to hear:

"BLAP!! SPLAT!!!"

The noise of the lid exploding off the container, immediately followed by the slime splattering the bunkroom ceiling with percussive force.

Chapter Text

In the morning, getting the orgasm slime down off the ceiling of the bunkroom is not as difficult as Ray had imagined it would be. He'd pictured ladders and gloves, facemasks and eye protection, a putty knife and scrub brush.

It is Egon who gets the idea to just ask it nicely.

He stands below and asks the pink stain above his head, "Would you please come down?"

The mood slime seems to be fond of him and agrees wordlessly. Egon holds the Tupperware bowl up for it. It gathers itself, then lets go of the ceiling and falls into the container with a wet plop. Not a drop is spilled and the dingy ceiling seems no worse for wear.

Egon carries it down to the kitchen/lounge/lab, cradling it to his chest like he's holding a basket of puppies.

On the second floor, Ray is surprised to see Egon back from slime clean up duty so quickly. He was just about to come and help. Egon sets the bowl on the kitchenette table and they both regard it thoughtfully while Egon tells Ray how it cooperated with him.

"There's pure orgasmic essence. In a bowl. Looking at us right now," Ray says the obvious aloud. "You communicated with it and it obeyed a request."

"Affirmative," Egon agrees.

They stare, it stares back.

"Okay, then," says Ray and he finishes breakfast. Sweet cereal, black coffee.

He will have to think about all of this while he sells books. Shop is open in about 45 minutes. Almost time to go.

"How are you feeling today, Raymond?" Egon checks in. Ray sometimes gets dopamine drop after intense experiences and last night was definitely intense.

"Great! How about you?" Ray asks, green and brown eyes warming with thoughts of the night before. Egon's hand briefly runs down his arm and squeezes his wrist. Ray feels a hot flicker of desire. Wants to take Egon back to bed desperately for about 7 seconds. He blinks and reason pushes it away.

"Highly satisfactory," Egon answers, leaning over and giving him a kiss. There's an edge to the kiss that says more than just 'good morning'. It says, 'I would very much like to experiment with you, all damn day.'

The slime bubbles at them that it is also quite satisfied by last night's experiments. And does anybody want to play with it, now?

Ray and Egon break away from kissing and smile at it.

Peter, coming up the stairs, clears his throat, "Hey, are you guys flirting with that bowl of jello? What's jello got that I ain't got?"

At Pete's entrance, Egon and Ray mentally grapple with a moment of awkward indecision. Confess immediately or hurry off to work? No one can keep a secret from Venkman. They will tell him everything, it's only a matter of when.

"What in the funky vibes is going on up here?" Pete wants to know. His extrasensory perception has been triggered immediately. His pale eyes narrow. "What have you two nerds been getting up to, and how come I miss all the fun?"

Ray stands, deciding to run away. He says, clearing away the remains of his breakfast, "No time to explain, Pete. We'll meet back here at 18 hundred tonight and we'll tell you and Zedd about it at the same time, okay?"

Venkman hates that. He whines and makes a sour face at Ray about having to wait.

Egon looks relieved. He doesn't want Venkman and the orgasm slime to get to know each other better. That seems like an extremely combustible idea. The bowl of slime has been fizzing and jiggling seductively since it heard Peter's voice. He points at it warningly, slaps the lid on it and hurridly hands the container to Ray, saying, "Take this with you to the shop today please, Raymond. It should remain under observation."

"Agreed," Ray takes it.

Venkman striking a suggestive pose, says, "If I'd have known that's what you're into, Stantz, I woulda turned myself into a gelatinous glob years ago."

Ignoring Peter's amped morning flirtation, Ray tells Spengler, "Gather the other samples and the control from downstairs, would you please? Lock them up. We need to play them some Motown happy songs stat. Especially Kujo and Country."

"Understood. I have just enough time before reporting to the research lab," Egon answers, nodding.

Their eyes lock for a second. They don't dare kiss goodbye. They can't. Far too risky with Ray holding the Tupperware under his arm. Might easily go all naked and frantic on the kitchen table and there's no time for that. Plus, Venkman.

Ray skedaddles past Venks, who is giving him an amused and hungry look. His ordinary general horniness is slightly exaggerated by the proximity of the slime, Ray thinks, side stepping Peter's half hearted attempt at a butt grab. Bit early early in the day and sober for that. Peter's definitely influenced by the slime. Time to go!

"Bye!" Ray yells, before the slime makes him fall to his knees in the kitchen. He really has got to escape before the incredibly handsome (and definitely monogamous) Winston Zeddemore reports to work. Ray's dignity will not survive the day intact.

Ray thinks the call of the slime feels like dark magic. "Is this what Samwise felt when forced to hold the ring of power for Frodo? Hoo weeee."

Ray does not look back as he pounds down the stairs away from Peter's grabby hands and temptingly devilish smile.

Egon's voice behind him, "Peter, down boy."

"Aww, Mom," Pete jokes.

Halfway down, Ray hears Janine's voice below, "What's with all these jars of goo down here? Dr. S, if you're doing an experiment on me again without my permission, I'll-"

"Not at all! I'm sorry, Janine," Ray says, talking fast, barely stopping by her desk. "Egon will be down in a moment to clear it away. Experiments ran late. We're not testing on you. Don't touch anything. It's dangerous."

Ray avoids looking at her big beautiful blue eyes and her soft creamy skin and the way that she cocks her head just so. He's gotta get the mood slime away from Janine as fast as he can. It starts getting hotter and hotter in his arms, in the mere seconds he's standing by her. Oh, she's so pretty. Red shiny lips. So smart, too. The slime is rattling the lid and the scents of lipgloss, earl grey tea, and a certain secretary's sultry perfume waft out of the airholes at Ray. He runs.

Ray's out the door and halfway down a city block before the slime's bubbles calm. He can see his panting breaths freezing in the late December air. The cuttingly cold walk to the shop sobers him up a bit.

"Cool it, please" he begs the bowl of overly friendly pink orgasm.

It plurps enchantingly up at him, zero remorse.

What have they done? They're going have to throw this goo in the fires of Mordor.
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Safely inside of Ray's Occult Books, Ray steeps calming tea in a big clay mug.

The Tupperware sits on his glass display case, shimmering and plarping at him flirtatiously. He really should put it upstairs but he gets the feeling it wants to stay close.

The answer, clearly, is to chill the slime out. What is an occult bookstore in 1989 without Enya's Watermark CD? Of course, he has it loaded in the shop stereo. Gregorian chants, too. So, Ray plays calming songs, Enya inviting them to come sail away on the Caribbean Blue. Monks set to house beats.

Stantz tries to hold a peaceful vibration, he really does. The trouble is that everything in the bookstore suddenly strikes him as explicitly sexual.

Ray is surrounded by yoni and phalluses, gods, goddesses, fertility symbols, wands and chalices. Oh no. He didn't think he wanted to fuck an amethyst geode until right this moment. Bad idea. Ray's eyes go to the tantric sex book section and then dart away to erotic fiction. Over there, the onyx obelisk suddenly looks like a big black dildo. Terrible idea.

He panics.

He doesn't have any customers yet, so Ray runs to the door, about to flip the sign to closed. He'll go upstairs, lock the slime in a closet, and wank furiously until the urge to fuck the universe passes. He can't possibly greet customers today. Fingers fumble at the lock, and suddenly there's Egon, coming in, and oh thank god, pulling Ray into his arms and kissing him. Ray's trying to climb him like a tree instantly.

"I called in sick," Egon says, when Ray's tongue isn't in his mouth for a moment, seeing as he's licking his way down Egon's chest, having removed necktie and shirt buttons from his path. Ray's hands are busy at his belt. Egon is shedding his overcoat, pulling his arms out of sleeves.

"Good," Ray tells Egon's belly button on his way down to the floor.

Egon has the presence of mind to reach back and lock the bookshop door. He only made it one step inside. He flips the sign to CLOSED.

"Oh god, Ray! We need to-" Egon was going to say, 'get away from the windows,' but Ray's mouth takes away his ability to find any more words for a while.
.
.
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They can't make it upstairs but they do somehow manage to drag themselves into the stacks a bit. They're hidden from the glass door and big front window by tall, densely packed bookshelves.

Ray's been stripped down to an undershirt and one black sock. Egon somehow still has on glasses, shoes and slacks, though they're down around his knees.

"Fuck me, Egie, please," Ray is panting, sweating, thinks he must have a fever of 105 right now, that he will burn to death if Egon doesn't help him put the fire out at once. All the sweet kisses and soft touches in the world aren't enough. "More. Hurry!"

"Lube is upstairs," Egon is just as breathless, his exhalations already coming out as moans. Spit will only go so far. They need real lubricant.

"Too far! I need you now!" Ray is hardly ever bossy, Egon wants to please him more than he has ever wanted anything on earth. The need in Ray's voice goes straight to the root of his cock.

"Yes," Egon tries to get up. He tries to tear himself away and run upstairs to fetch it. He doesn't want to hurt Ray.

Suddenly there's a thunk and a rolling sound. Something thuds into Ray's side. The Tupperware. The pink slime has jumped off the counter and rolled itself over to them. It twinkles and bloops hopefully.

Egon, Ray and the slime clearly all have the same idea. Ray and Egon exchange a look. They should not indulge this impulse.

"Remember Kujo. We shouldn't," Egon warns. He wants to so badly. Ray can feel how much. The slime can feel how much. Why is he trying to resist?

Pop! The slime pops the lid and slithers out, blush pink and quivering with desire.

Ray just says, "Yes! Please! Hurry!" and moves onto his hands and knees, ass an invitation for Egon and the slime to climb in.

Egon holds out his hand and the slime floops itself onto his palm. It's the perfect body temperature and unbelievably slick. It radiates want and promises of pleasure up Egon's arm. Under these conditions, even Dr. Egon Spengler cannot remain rigidly logical, he's a Vulcan gone Pon Farr. So against all reason, he rubs the sentient slime on his cock, and slicks Ray's entry with fingers coated in it, until Ray cries for more and then he pushes into Ray, and fucks Ray and the slime together.

"Oh!" Ray gasps out. It feels as though his own momentarily untouched penis is pushing inside of a tight opening. It isn't. The sensation is so clear, he has to look down to be sure. As Egon backs out of him, he feels the sensation of backing out. What in the world?

"Ahh! I can- Oh!" Egon is trying to talk back there. He pushes in again, groans, says, "Ray, I feel- oh!"

Ray can feel Egon's hands on his hips, and can also feel plump and yielding hips beneath his own hands, which are most definitely pressed, empty, palms to the floor. He rocks himself back onto Spengler and feels the sensation of penetrating himself, curious to decipher it, he does it again. Egon makes an animalistic sound with each stroke.

"Spengs!" Ray pants, throat a bit hoarse from last night's screams of pleasure. "I can feel what you're feeling!"

"So can I," Spengs answers and Ray doesn't know if he hears it aloud or in his head, maybe both.

There's Egon's consciousness, superimposed on Ray's awareness like a double exposure photograph. The echo is not quite as bright and real as the sensations Ray is experiencing with his own senses, but almost. It seems, they've achieved merged consciousness, a state that is supposed to be possible in ancient mystical sex practices, Ray has heard of it, but Ray and Egon have never lost their borders like this, never blurred into one bodymind. This is something sacred, reserved for mystics, high priests and powerful witches.

This is the kind of sex that makes you sad because it must end at some point. The type of sex that breaks your heart because you realize mid stroke that you can't make love to this person as your full time job, from now on forever. Eventually you will have to stop- to eat food, pay bills, take out the trash, go to work- and that seems like wildly unfair nonsense. It's sex so good, that it reminds you that you're going to die some day. Sex that whispers to your ancient caveman brain that one of you will probably have to live on earth without the other for at least a short while.

It is sex that makes Ray and Egon cry and moan and pray and cum so hard, the guy who owns the Deli next door bangs on the wall and yells for them to shut the fuck up already.

Ah, New York.
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After two rounds of the trippiest sex of their very trippy lives, Ray and Egon lay sprawled naked on the floor of Ray's Occult Books. The slime is a small clear pink puddle on Ray's chest, unblemished by it's adventures, a little happy pool in the hollow of his sternum. All three rest in the afterglow.

"We're going to have to tell Pete and Z about this, aren't we?" Ray asks the ceiling and Egon.

Egon has no words yet. He nods. Mouth slack.

"Not Janine though," Ray's face roars with a blush at the mention of her name and the idea of what might happen if they...

Egon shakes his head no, definitely not Janine. No slimey chemistry experiments with Melnitz. Danger of catastrophic explosion too great.

"This is really dangerous, isn't it?" he says, as some implications are dawning on Ray. "Bad people might kill for this stuff. There's a whole river of it! Shit, Spengs."

Egon nods his head yes, this is extremely dangerous.

These two physicists are men who build miniature nuclear reactors and carry them on their backs for fun and profit, they don't scare off from dangerous substances easily. They run towards ghosts for a living. Both are terrified. Well, a small sprinkle of terror, on a massive pink cloud of being supernaturally well fucked and madly in love. It's a complicated state of being, Egon and Ray-ness.

"Dana's in real trouble, isn't she? The Zuul possesion made her vulnerable to this. Oh, man! Egon, if a strong evil spirit were to tap into that massive river of slime, use it as a medium of psychic transference- no telling what it could do, right? Posses somebody! Mind control an army! Rule the world!" Ray's mind is making connections to his special interests, as usual.

Egon reaches sleepily for Ray's hand and telegraphs his agreement through touch. He's been thinking about it since dawn. He has ideas for ways they could use the slime to fight what's coming.

"What about New Yorkers? How many people have pink slime flowing under their feet, amplifying their emotions up to 11, and they don't know?!" Ray tries to do the math on Dana's street alone. "The vibes have been real bad out there. That's why we're getting ghost work again, isn't it? Something is coming. Something bigger than the Scoleri brothers. Whatever entity is drawing that much Psychomagnotheric ecotoplasm to this dimension, it is planning something big."

Egon nods his head again. He can't keep his eyes open. He's gonna get up and save the world just as soon as he has a quick nap.

"We don't even know everything this miraculous pink stuff can do, yet. We need to run more tests. We need to get the other guys in on this. And we need to warn Dana, maybe Louis too," Ray's analytical mind wants to start making long lists, but is body says no.

He yawns, too blissed out to maintain the state of alarm. The slime telegraphs contentment into his heart center. Ray knows Egon will fix it. He'll help. It's going to be fine. He feels Egon drifting off to sleep beside him. tugs at his consciousness. The rosey little puddle on Ray's chest looks no different, but somehow he knows it's now taking a well earned nap, as well. Before he can organize his thoughts, Ray drifts off to sleep, too.

In their dream, Ray and Egon float together in a vast, warm, pink sea of orgasms.