Whatever

This is the P/E First Time story that I promised to Lethe so long ago for her assistance with my Latin in 'Regina.' It takes me a billion years but I do deliver! It's also my first Erotic AND my first full- on Slash story. God save us all.

Many thanks to Ms. Brandi Lovepance for her invaluable beta!

He looked fevered.

Egon's pale face shone through the steam of the hot bowl of tomato soup that Peter placed in front of him with all the flair of a happy French waiter. He followed that up with a tall glass of warm strawberry punch, a spoon, and a napkin folded into a swan. "Bon Appetit, Mon Sewer!" Peter lisped. Egon stared at his red meal.

"This isn't going to work, Peter." Egon leaned back from the steam as if it were poisonous and nervously stroked the white bandage encircling his long neck.

"It's worth a try, Egon. A nice, hot, red meal will take your mind off. . .a nice, hot, red meal. That's my theory anyway. It's either this or intravenous feeding." Peter sat at the small kitchen table opposite his friend and waited. "You're strong, Egon, you can do this."

Egon glared at him. "Are you insinuating I wasn't strong before? I'll have you know I resisted longer than any other human man in my position...!"

"Yes! Yes, you did! You kicked ass all over Salem's Lot," Peter quickly placated.

Egon rolled his eyes, calming again. "The parking lot of the Jerusalem restaurant does not equate `Salem's Lot'."

"Considering what was there, it equates! So, you beat Them and now, we're just trying to bring you all the way back from the Dark Side. And it'd happen a lot faster if you ate something." Peter picked up the spoon and held it out as if it were a cross warding off the unhappy man. Egon snatched it away irritably. He pulled his tomato soup closer and stirred in the sprinkling of basil artfully garnishing it. He added salt. He stirred it some more. Peter grinned with good-humored malice. "Think of it in terms of a scientific experiment. Pay close attention to your psychological and physiological reactions. . ."

Egon shot to his feet, slapping the table, and the dishes chimed from the impact. "I'LL GIVE YOU PSYCHOLOGICAL!!" he shouted. Peter laughed and slouched down until just his eyes were peeking over the tabletop.

"You could write a paper!" Peter shouted back. "It's for SCIENCE!"

Egon recognized Peter's suggestion. Horrified, he wilted back into his chair and held his head low. "I didn't. Oh, Peter, tell me I didn't say those very same words to you the first time you were suffering from. . .a paranormal disorder."

Peter reverted to a normal sitting position. "Yeah, you did, the first time I got possessed. And the second time. And the third time. Really, I've just been dying to use it on you." He reached over and gripped Egon's tense arms. "Revenge is a bitch!" He gave him a small shake and continued to grin until Egon registered the total lack of censure in his expression. "I finally gotcha, Mr. Tact!"

Egon brought his hands up and rested them on Peter's forearms. Oh, warm. His friend was warm. He gave Peter a weak smile. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I never realized how insensitive. . .." Peter released him and leaned back. Egon inaudibly gasped at the shock of the loss of contact and reached out to reclaim Peter's hands. Just in time he redirected his motions towards taking off his eyeglasses. Shaking out his swan, he began to scrub them. "I do apologize. I'll never say anything like that again."

Peter offered the spoon once more and smiled at the pale man across from him. "I'll believe it when I see it. Meanwhile, make it up to me. Eat your soup before it gets cold. C'mon, you'll feel better."

Egon reflexively tugged at his bandages, feeling choked, and took the spoon with a disgusted expression. "I don't want soup."

"Don't I know it! Eat it anyway. Lots of good nutrients."

"It's disgusting. It's vegetative. I might as well go out and chew grass." Egon stirred and stirred and made a face.

"It's got beef broth in it, too," Peter said patiently. "Geez, Egon, I'd be tearing through a steak, potato and Caesar salad by now. Of course. . ." His eyes lit up. "I'd never have gotten myself into your predicament in the first place." To his relief, Egon didn't jump up screaming. Progress was being made.

Egon's smile was stronger. "Be realistic. You'd be leading an Undead Army against us by midnight the first night. And you'd sing while you were at it. You have no resistance." He dribbled soup off the edge of his utensil and watched the thick, crimson liquid slowly drip into his bowl.

Peter pretended offense. "I'll have you know I'm ate up with resistance!" Egon's eyelids slowly lifted until Peter was thoroughly fixed under his gaze. Surprised, Peter realized at last that the lanky man wasn't wearing his wire-rimmed glasses, and the shadows of his eyelashes rested long and clear on his cheek. His expression was terribly sad and terribly amused. "Can you see me?" Peter asked.

"I see you perfectly." Egon unclasped the pin holding his bandage in place and unwound the cloth strip with relief. The punctures on his neck were clean and healing well. He brushed his knuckles along them absent-mindedly, with tenderness. "Perfectly."

"Without your glasses?!"

"I don't need my glasses to see you. The table, the chair, this revolting food is blurry but I can see you. A small. . .aftereffect, I suppose." Egon hesitated before coming to a desperate decision. He pushed his bowl aside and leaned over the table. "Don't change the subject. You think you could resist what was in the Lot better than I did?"

Pleased that Egon didn't seem as pained and depressed as he had been, Peter decided to run with his macho, joking claim. He crossed his arms and looked out on the world with snotty superiority. "I would have dusted those bastards by myself, armed with only a broken Popsicle stick. And it would have taken about three minutes. Less, depending on my mood."

Egon inched closer. "What about the. . ." he pointed at his temple, ". . .the mental persuasiveness, the. . .attractive aspect of their influence? Their ability to seduce?" He lightly tapped his full lips to emphasize his point.

Peter waved his hand, poo-poohing such a ridiculous notion. "Please, you're talking to the Master, here. Nothing can rival the power of my own inherent charm!" Peter buffed the nails of his right hand on his shirt and admired their shine.

"The Master of Salem's Lot? Indeed. Yes. Would you like to make a bet?" Egon breathed.

Peter looked at him, choosing a scornful expression to cover the sudden real concern for his friend. Was it his imagination or was Egon a little too insistent? "That would be a safe bet seeing as how THEY are all pushing up proverbial daisies. Unless you know something I don't?" he added casually.

Egon shook his head impatiently. "No. They're all gone. They're all turned to dust." He pointed at Peter. "Seriously. Would you like to make a bet on just how strong and resistant to. . .persuasion you are?"

"How?" Peter asked with suspicion.

"Do you want to bet?" Egon demanded.

Peter considered the facts. Yes, Egon was more emotional and temperamental since the Incident but all traces of the Dark energies that had governed him were erased. The PKE meters confirmed this. Egon was clean. His tormentors had died a fiery death so he was under no evil influence. But what the hell was he up to? "Okay, I'll bet you. What do you want?"

Egon gave a little chuckle. Then he coughed, sobering, and forced himself to think for a moment. Something plausible was needed. "I'll. . . ah. . .bet the purchase of a World Series ticket for you, if you'll bet a. . . new. . .new. . .set of encyclopedias for me."

"You want encyclopedias? Come on. . ."

"BET ME!"

"OKAY! Okay, geez, deal. It's a deal. Shake on it." Egon scooted his chair directly next to Peter's and they shook. Peter eventually pulled his hand back and massaged his numb fingers. "Okay, so, how are we going to prove my Iron Will? Want me to not eat junk food for a month?" Peter was troubled. Egon was too focused, too excited, too. . . close. He was only inches away and Peter could count the punctures in his neck. There were eight.

Sensing his discomfort, Egon drew back and held up his hands. "I'm in complete control of myself and my mental faculties. Really. Trust me. You can back off from the bet at any point, any time. Or you can outright lose. You'll only be out a few books. It's up to you." He leaned forward again, tense and waiting.

Peter coolly studied Egon, who was flushed and breathing deeply. What was going on? Was it something wrong? Certainly, Egon felt it was something important. What was it? Only one way to find out. "What do you want me to do?"

Egon laughed and bunched the shoulders of Peter's shirt in his hands for a moment before controlling himself. He let go. "You have to resist. . .me."

"You?!"

"Me."

"No problem! I mean. . .yuck." Peter's breezy demeanor masked his internal Scream-O-Meter going off.

Egon pointed at him, emphatic and earnest. "See? Yuck. YUCK! That's what I thought when They came after me. Well, that and `who sabotaged my proton pack?' but mostly `yuck.' But when They got Their hands on me. . .I did fight. I really did. For an eternity. But, in the end, it was such a relief to stop fighting. To allow Them. . ." Egon stroked the marks on his neck in remembered wondrous agony.

Peter watched him, fascinated and still as a cat.

Egon continued slowly. "Now, you see, I'm still human. But I'm not unaffected. I can see you without my glasses. It's as if you're more inside of me than outside and if I can see YOU so clearly, I can affect you."

Peter stretched away from Egon and extended his arm even further back. He flashed a peace sign. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two."

"Christ! You could never see that well before!"

"I just realized it now. We'll have to study the phenomenon. . .later." Egon stated with impatience. "As I was saying, I can affect you, I believe. If you can resist me you win the bet. I'm human, still, it should be easy. All right?"

All right? All right? Peter drew his hand through his hair and closed his eyes. "Question."

"Yes?" Egon was close again. Peter felt the breath of the yes on his face and opened his eyes to study his adversary.

"Why?" was all Peter asked.

"W. . .Why?"

"Yeah, why?" And you damn well better tell me the truth or I'm busting your ass back into the hospital, Peter grimly thought.

Peter's eyes were piercingly clear and Egon shrank away, uncertain. Had Peter seen right through the game? Of course he had; he was so difficult to deceive. Egon's defeated answer was so quiet Peter barely heard him. "I'm cold."

"You're cold?"

"I'm cold. I've never been so cold. And I'm so sorry. I can't believe I tried. . ."

Cutting off Egon's unnecessary apology, Peter's voice was low and relieved as he spoke with complete understanding. "Cold. Yes. That doesn't surprise me. `Paranormal Disorders' are terrible things. I oughta know. And I really do know." He put his hand on Egon's shoulder. "It's not so much a coldness as it is an emptiness. Right? `I'll never be the same again. I'll never be normal again. No one understands the hell I went through.'"

"I'll never be human again." Egon's voice was weary.

Peter smiled from the depths of his experience. "Never say never, Big Guy. I have, myself, been so cold. . .a one-man Antarctica in the middle of summer. . .and I would have sold my soul for any sort of warmth. I recovered. And I recovered again. And again. So will you. Again and again and again. That's the kind of life we lead. Not to depress you or anything?"

"No." Egon said. "I'm reassured. All. . .all things must pass. . .this, too, shall pass. And other such platitudes appropriate for this situation."

"Yeah, but I think you got it worse than I ever did, considering the nature of your attack, which, believe me, I wouldn't have wished on my worst enemies. Well, maybe some of them. . ."

As Egon looked at him with his sad, desperate eyes, a strange shiver tingled across Peter's skin. He could remedy this. He had that power and all Their power was nothing compared to his. He could heal. They could only destroy. Take that, Cold Undead Bastards. He rubbed his hands together and breathed in deep. Was this going to be difficult? Another delicious shiver skittered throughout his nerves. Yes, very. Well, maybe not much. Maybe not at all. Oh, well. "Okay, we know why you want to bet. Now, HOW are we going to test my resistance to you?" A muffled "Snerk!" sound escaped him.

Egon looked up, shocked. "You still. . .? I mean, you. . ."

"Egon, I hate the cold."

For a moment Peter was afraid that Egon had fainted, right there in his chair, but Egon drew in a deep breath and became steady. "You're sure?"

"I'm a doctor! I know what I'm doing!" Egon stared at him. Peter laughed and made his point as clear as he could through the sudden warm cocoon that had settled over his higher brain function. His rationale was the only thought left and he put into words what he most deeply felt, what was most vitally important now, at this moment. Instinctively, he knew it was right. "Be well. I want you to be well."

"Thank you," Egon whispered, eyes closed. Peter didn't know if he was thanking God or Peter himself. Egon continued, quickly. "How. All right. I'm allowed. . ." He glanced up at Peter, double-checking that he was, in fact, allowed. Peter nodded and Egon smiled. "I'm allowed to touch you. To affect you. But you can't touch me. If you touch me, that proves you have no resistance and I win the bet. All right?"

Peter sadistically looked up at the ceiling and considered for a moment. He actually had something important to consider. Was Egon already affecting him without realizing it? Why else was he agreeing to this? Did it matter? No. The cold. The cold was a horrible thing. "All right. Do your worst." He sat on his hands and grinned at Egon, daring him.

Egon breathed in deep.

Then he reached up, terribly slowly, and touched the top button of Peter's shirt. He unbuttoned it. Peter felt a fear that, strangely, didn't originate with him. He watched Egon count the remaining buttons. There were five. One down, five to go.

Panicked, Egon felt the need to explain himself. "Bare skin will facilitate my ability to influence you."

"Makes sense," Peter agreed. He'd never admit it but, deep down, he was rather amused. There was a pleasant warmth spreading through his body and his mind and everything was just fine. A last stray suspicion shot through his consciousness that he should be more concerned about this extreme test than he was. Eh. He'd think about it tomorrow. He waited for the next move.

Egon slowly reached again. Peter's buttons were tortoise-shell and they caught the light. Egon was fascinated by them. He didn't look at Peter. He was afraid if he drew too much of Peter's attention to himself he would be forced to stop. He pushed another button free with his thumb. Then another. Three buttons to go. He swallowed.

"HAI-YAH!!" And sprang. Peter's chair tipped over and he made a desperate grab for the table top to stop his fall. He missed. The strawberry punch spilled everywhere, soaking into the tablecloth. Scarlet drops splattered onto the white linoleum as the spoon, napkin, both men and the broken chair landed on the floor with an almighty CRASH!

Peter realized he was pinned. Before he could even register surprise, Egon shifted and leaned up, freeing him.

Egon sat there for a moment, re-gathering his courage. "Surprise tactic," he explained.

"Ah. Well, you see it didn't work." Peter wiggled his hands, still free. He reached up and waved them within an inch of Egon's face. "I'm not touching yoooouuuu!!"

Suddenly laughing, Egon reached down and tore open Peter's shirt. Three, two, one, the buttons flew in three different directions and Peter yelped.

Madness.

Madness and it felt wonderful. Egon splayed his hands on the muscular plane of Peter's stomach. Fascinated, he felt the heat of the soft skin penetrate his hands and slide along his cold nerves and veins until his very soul glowed. This was a living human being beneath him. He could feel the flex of the muscles, the heat of the flesh. Not something cold or evil or. . .reanimated. Peter was alive as Egon was alive and neither man was going to be consumed and destroyed. Truly Egon doubted he'd ever have the strength to separate himself from this. And he hadn't even started yet!

"Ahem. Excuse the delay. I was distracted." Egon closed his eyes. Fascinating. Even without sight he could still "see" Peter. The angle of his arms, the disarray of his hair. The light of his soul.

Egon was human still, yes, he was free of the evil, yes, he was unchanged, no. Hell, no. He began to concentrate with all the considerable desire within his own soul. Yes, he could affect someone.

Yes, yes, yes. . ..

He extended a gentle forefinger and drew a line from Peter's navel to his ribs and back over and over again. He could see the trail of warmth he was leaving behind and marveled that, probably, it was invisible to anyone else. He checked for a reaction. Peter's hands were flat on the tile floor and his lips were pursed with almost laughable determination.

Well, Egon was determined, too. He leaned over and huffed a warm breath on Peter's chest. Then he blew a fine line of cool air over that and was pleased to see a twitch in those still hands. He did it again, exhaling warm breath all over Peter's bare skin, not touching, not yet, but so close. Another puff of cool air and Peter was clawing the floor.

Egon smiled. Touching at last, he rested his mouth directly over Peter's heart and tasted the salt of the desire he was invoking. He pulled on the skin with a gentle suction and was rewarded when Peter gasped and drew his hands under his back, pinning his own arms underneath himself.

Peter was flushed and warm. Surprised, Egon noticed something else. "Oh, I've made a mark." He rubbed the red welt on Peter's pectoral. "I'm sorry." He didn't sound very contrite.

Gasping, Peter answered, "I've had entire names hickeyed on me, before. It'll fade."

"I suppose I could write EGON. That might be fun."

Peter groaned.

"Writing DIOXYRIBONUCLEIC ACID may be even better, I suppose."

"NO! I couldn't stand it!"

Egon stretched out and lay full length on top of Peter, allowing his weight to settle completely upon the other man's every perception. "That is the entire point." He ran his fingernails over the ribcage.

"No tickling either! Play fair." Egon walked his fingers up and down every rib and laughed at Peter's squirming. "I said no tickling!"

Egon moaned, a subliminal sound of desire that brought all the hair on Peter's skin on end. His chest and neck had the finest sheen of perspiration that gleamed in the light of the kitchen.

Suddenly, Egon placed his fingers over the pulse in Peter's jugular vein and both men became very, very still. Peter's heart began to beat even faster. Egon stroked Peter's neck and he cocked his head as if hypnotized by music only he could hear. He lowered his head and savored the rhythmic throb on the tip of his tongue.

Peter tensed. "Don't bite me."

"I can't. I'm human."

Egon bit.

Peter's back arched up from the floor as he felt the luxurious pressure of Egon restraining himself from breaking the skin. Peter freed his arms. He grabbed Egon by the shoulders and pressed him tightly closer. Egon growled against Peter's throat and roamed over the sensitive skin with his lips and teeth. Biting. Sucking. He regretted being human.

Peter threw Egon off and, rolling quickly, landed on top of his friend. Shocked, Egon looked up. "Well, damn. I lost the bet." Peter gasped with doubtful regret. Burning, burning brightly, he stroked Egon's lips with his finger. "I guess this would be our last chance to stop."

"Stop?!" Egon was aghast.

"Sorry, just a weird passing notion I had." Moving with torturous slowness he lowered his head. Egon could feel his warm breath on his face and tensed in an eternity of anticipation.

Seemingly content to let his patient go insane with waiting, Peter ignored Egon's lips and took his time, stroking the stubbled skin of his cheek against the face of his friend. He dipped lower, to the neck, the neck, the NECK and Egon panted, waiting.

Reaching down with his hand, Peter began to gently massage the crux of Egon's legs. He watched Egon start with surprise. The shock didn't last and very soon the body beneath him began to writhe uncontrollably. Peter didn't need bare skin to facilitate his influence and grinned to see Egon rendered mindless and speechless. He began to squeeze harder through the fabric, harder and faster, faster, as Egon's hips began to buck against his warm hand. "Can you feel this, Egon?" He clenched his hand and Egon gasped. "How does it feel? Good?"

"I would say. . .yes. . .oh, yes. . ."

"How about this? How does this feel?" He pressed down harder, walking a fine line between pleasure and a dirty self-defense move. "You want more?"

"Yesss. . ."

"Damn, you are smart. . ." Peter bit into Egon's chest and worked his hand in firm circles, pressing hard, around and around, squeezing with his fingers. . .

Too far gone to reciprocate, Egon clenched his hands on the back of Peter's shirt and moaned, deliriously lost and loving every moment of it. Never in his life had. . .never. . .never. . .please, never let this end.

"Don't stop. Please. Don't ever stop. . ." he chanted, his voice carrying low through Peter's body.

Peter raked his tongue across the tender punctures, all eight of them, and Egon practically levitated off the floor, howling. Peter gently licked them again and Egon gasped with sensation beyond his control. `They' hadn't felt like this. This caring, this gentle, this alive and hot. Peter clenched his hand again and Egon's body jerked in a burning, rhythmic release as his deep cries rebounded through the kitchen.

He weakly slumped against Peter's arm and was still. He felt himself being pulled close and reveled in the sensation. Warm. At last he was warm.

The blissful cobwebs in Peter's mind lessened and cleared and he looked down at Egon as if seeing him for the first time. Oh, my. Affected. They had both been affected. Affected? They were downright touched in the head. Given five more minutes Peter could have resisted the temptation to continue but that was five minutes more than he could stand. He stroked Egon's still lips with his fingers, again.

"Oh, my god, I killed him." Peter complained and, at last, closed his mouth over Egon's. Not gone quite yet, Egon returned the pressure and they greedily kissed their friendship away. Peter's every nerve and need was still aflame but he controlled himself. He moved his leg between Egon's thighs, keeping up a satisfying pressure there, and caressed his chest and hips, every part of Egon he could reach. Egon moaned in sated ecstasy as they rested. Unseen, Peter shook his head. Ohhhh, boy.

Peter, kissing Egon again, enjoying the strong, insistent pressure, soon forced himself to let go and sit up. Egon snarled and yanked him back. "Oof! Hey, Earth to Spengs?" He patted his friend's cheek, as if waking him from a fainting spell. "Wooooo?!"

Egon blinked and looked up, squinting. "Yes, Peter?" he mumbled thickly. Fine, blond hair, darkened with sweat, clung to his flushed face.

"I want you to do me a favor now."

"Anything." Egon replied in a voice so husky it sent shivers down BOTH their spines. "Anything you want me to do, I'll do." He rose up and attacked Peter's mouth again, seemingly satisfied with nothing less than to inhale Peter's soul. He drew back and gasped for air. "Anything you want. I swear," he insisted.

Peter's desire was a red haze fogging his mind but he controlled himself again. "I want something really kinky."

Egon's eyes opened wide. "What?" he breathed.

"I want to watch you. . .."

"Yes?"

"I want to watch you eat your soup!"

"PETER! NO! NONONO!!!" Egon collapsed. Laughing, Peter got up, hauled Egon's dead weight off the floor, and manhandled him back into his unbroken chair.

Egon glared, crossing his arms AND his legs.

Peter's chair was smashed so he pulled up a new one, ignoring the strawberry punch stain on the floor. Damn, they'd destroyed the kitchen. He wiped up what had slopped over the side and tested the temperature of the tomato soup left in the bowl. It was cold. Oh, well. Tipping back, he dug a clean spoon out of the drawer and held it out to his glowering. . .ah. . .friend? Yes. Friend, still, of course.

"Show me the sensuous way to eat soup, c'mon. . ." he prompted. Egon glared some more.

"I need to change my clothes. . ." Egon delayed.

"Eat it, Pardner, or I'll put your face in it!" Peter threatened, waggling the utensil.

Ignoring him, Egon picked up the bowl and drained every last drop in a few quick swallows. His toes curled with disgust and he dropped the empty bowl on the floor in protest. It didn't shatter, it bounced, and Egon stared at it with loathing. He turned back to Peter. "Gah! There. I ate the damned soup. Are you satisfied?"

Peter's eyes drooped with a humorous sensuality that left Valentino's intensity in the dust. "No, I'm not. Not at all." Egon clutched at his stomach with a sudden, uneasy pain. "And I won't be for a while, looks like." He got up and poured another glass of warm punch and held it out.

Egon looked at him doubtfully, then took the glass and delicately tasted the concoction. The thick sweetness of the blended strawberries. . .actually tasted good. His stomach roiled again but he stoically withstood it. Peter poured a glass for himself and sat down again, savoring it.

The two sat in silence for a while, slowly sipping their drinks as their respective bodies cried out in pain, want and denial in the middle of the wrecked kitchen.

"So, how `bout those Mets?" Peter couldn't help but ask.

"Shut up." Egon groused.

"Do you want an online encyclopedia program or the actual books?"

"Oh, that's right, you lost." Egon observed with surprise. The bet felt as if it had been made twenty years before.

"Since the World Series has been over for two weeks I decided to play to lose. I'm just a weak-willed hedonist, I guess." Peter began to look. . .somewhat thoughtful.

"I want bound leather." Egon decided.

"You want WHAT?!"

"The books!" Egon clarified. "I want the leather-bound, gold edged encyclopedias."

"Oh. Yeah, right. Okay, Spengs."

Sip.

Egon suddenly realized something important and looked up in shock. "Oh, my god! I lost control. . .."

"Y'think?" Peter answered gently.

"It's my fault! I'm sor. . ." Egon ran out of steam and stopped. He wasn't at all sorry. He re-focused on his drink. Strange. It didn't taste vegetative anymore.

Sip.

"What do we do now?" one of them asked.

"I don't know," the other answered. "We'll do whatever, I guess."

"Whatever?"

"Whatever."

They nursed their drinks for another five minutes and then. . .

. . .they smiled at each other.

The End

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