eebydeebyderby - Tumblr blog

eebydeebyderby · 1 year ago

Text

Are You Ready?

A one-shot in which Reader tends to a badly-injured Egon Spengler in the firehouse during a blizzard lockdown.

General info:

Female reader insert, Hurt/comfort, Egon Spengler whump, friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending

~4.0k word count

Content Warnings:

Blood, description of injuries (he'll be fine, I swear)

The world is frozen over.

The city is in complete lockdown as the blizzard rages outside, the worst storm since the ten-day ice freeze of 1931. It was quite sudden, with the city only getting three hours of notice as the eye of the storm approached from the Atlantic. There was quite a frantic scramble outside as people scurried around to secure spots, with sirens and car horns and chatter echoing through the city. But, the only noises coming from outside now are the deafening howls of the blizzard. Emergency services will be completely unavailable for the next twelve hours until the worst of the storm passes, and rolling blackouts are expected throughout the city’s power grid.

Egon sits cozy in his lab, where the sounds of the storm are only a faint whisper. He has the entirety of the firehouse to himself, a rare luxury that he’s eagerly enjoying. It isn’t that he dislikes his coworkers—far from it, he’s quite fond of everyone—but, for the most part, solitude is his preferred state. He doesn’t have to worry about entertaining anyone, doesn’t have to worry about carefully treading around delicate social customs that he so-often blunders through.

He hears footsteps descending towards the lab and he's immediately annoyed. He was looking forward to his night of solitude and now that was ruined.

“Egon?” a voice calls out. “Are you down here?”

Oh. It's you.

Immediately his annoyance fades, replaced by a nervous excitement that bubbles in his chest. “Yes. I'm down here.”

You trot down into the lab, fresh-eyed and brightly awake, despite the late hour. He can't help but smile a bit at the sight of you, so charming and lovely with a blanket tossed around your shoulders, your arms full of old, tattered textbooks and notebooks. “I didn't know there was a lockdown,” you say sheepishly. “I was napping upstairs with my walkman and I guess I missed all the storm alerts. Is it alright if I work down here for a bit? I hate the idea of being alone upstairs during the storm. It's spooky, you know? All that wind rattling the windows. I know you were probably wanting to be alone, and that you don't really like people just barging in here, and you probably stayed so you'd be alone, but…”

You trail off, and he sees the nervousness on your face, the fear that he'll reject your presence like he’s done countless times with other people. But, he's never kicked you out. Never you. Still though, you're hesitant. “You're always a guest I look forward to having. I want you to make yourself comfortable and stay as long as you'd like.”

You smile, and he sees your nervousness relax. “You know, I'm glad it's you I'm here with. I really like spending time with you.”

His heart flutters in his chest and he can't help but preen. “Likewise,” he says simply, hoping the heat burning in his face isn't too noticeable.

You settle in nicely at one of his spare desks and get to work. He returns to his own tasks, but can’t help but occasionally glance at you. You're sitting at the edge of your seat, lightly bouncing your knee and deeply concentrating on your work, silently mouthing words under your breath as you pore over the ancient texts. Brittle pages and old books are scattered around, with one heavy textbook even open in your lap as you scribble in a notebook, jotting down the spiritual intonations of civilizations long dead. He loves you. You’re radiant and splendid and wonderful and delightful and he loves you. He's loved you for quite some time.

You catch his eye and for a split moment he's absolutely mortified that you caught him staring. But you just smile warmly at him, melting the icy pit formed in his chest, and he can't help but give you a half smile in return. You put your pen down and turn to face him. "What are you working on?"

"I'm resetting the trap I set next to the sweets drawer and changing out the bait."

"Did you finally catch that rat?"

"No. I caught Venkman."

You scoff and shake your head a bit in disbelief.

"I blame myself a bit. In hindsight, I should not use one of his favorite treats as bait. I apologized and offered to buy him lunch tomorrow. Overall, however, he was a very good sport about it.”

You cock an eyebrow, and there's a glint of mischief in your eyes that is so endearing to him. "Peter reached his grubby Peter fingers into a trap and expected not to be…trapped?"

He nods.

“What happened next?”

"Ray took him to get it stitched up," he says, raising his coffee mug to his lips.

"Really? The veterinarian was open that late?"

He snorts into his coffee, spilling it down his chin, and you laugh. He catches your eye and can't help but smile as he wipes his mouth on the back of his lab coat sleeve. Your laughter is in no way derisive and adds a lovely glow to your face, and it's a delightful sight for him to take in. Then, he notices it again, like he's done countless times before: there’s a melancholy about you.

Beneath the sweetness of your smile, the brightness that flashes in your eyes when you laugh, he always catches a fleeting glimpse of something. Something he can never quite place, something he can never string into coherent words. He’s barely able to notice it before it fades away from sight, disappears beneath the depths in your eyes. He can’t see it anymore, but he knows it’s there. It's always been there, since the day he met you. He often imagines himself wrestling it to the surface, grappling it until he's able to free you from its grip entirely.

He shakes his head a bit. A stupid thought. He's almost embarrassed at the absurdity of it.

The lab falls back into silence. He returns to his tasks, and you return to yours.

“Egon?”

The sound of his name in your voice is so lovely and sweet, it almost sends shivers down his spine. “Yes?”

“If it's not too much of an inconvenience, could I borrow your copy of Tobin’s Spiritual Guide?”

“Of course. It's no inconvenience at all.” He makes his way over to the huge bookcase that lines the entirety of the walls on both sides of the old fireplace and slides the ladder over to the proper section. He climbs a few feet up to the shelf labeled “Spiritual Entities, Cryptids, and Other Beasts” and starts scanning through the titles of the books when the rung of the ladder he’s standing on snaps beneath him.

A jolt of panic shoots down his spine as he tries and fails to find footing; the sharp metal of the broken rung tears deeply through the side of his thigh as he falls and he hits the ground with a harsh “Oomph!” The broken ladder clatters next to him on the ground, dripping and spattering blood off its broken rung. He gasps. “Shit!” he hisses under his breath. His hands grasp his thigh and hot blood spills between his fingers, soaking through his pants and pooling onto the floor. The pain hits him all at once, tearing the breath from his lungs—a stabbing, searing, sickening pain that splinters viscerally through his entire leg. He cries out a bit at the fresh waves of pain that course through him like venom with each heartbeat that sends blood gushing between his fingers. The back of his head bumps the ground and he squeezes his eyes shut, his breathing grows rapid and shallow as the room spins around him. He's light-headed. He's dizzy. He's nauseous. He's going to pass out—

“Egon, move your hands.”

Your voice is surprisingly smooth and calm next to him, and it tethers him back from complete panic. You’re kneeling next to him, the large first-aid kit open on the ground next to you. He complies and you slip a tourniquet under his leg. He groans and grits his teeth, unable to suppress the whine that escapes his lips as you tighten the tourniquet around his thigh as much as you can.

“Sorry, sorry,” you sputter. He sees the split moment of panic on your face when you feel his blood on your hands, hot and viscous, wrong and horrifying, but you quickly reel it back. The bleeding almost instantly slows down to an ooze, but it aches terribly.

“Don't cover it up yet,” he says quickly, seeing the pads of gauze in your hand. He props himself up on his elbows, trying to will his heart to stop beating so rapidly. “I need to see how bad it is.” You wordlessly hand him the scissors from the first-aid kit and he deftly cuts off his bloodied pant leg just below the tourniquet. He hears you gasp and he needs to suppress his own as he sees the extent of it. The deep wound flays him nearly to the bone on the outside of his thigh, extending more than a foot long. “Shit.” He lays his head back on the ground, nervousness coiling around his throat. It's bad. It's undoubtedly very, very bad. And it fucking hurts.

Your voice is quiet when you're able to finally summon it. “What do you say we do?”

“It needs to be cauterized.”

“Isn't cautery outdated? Shouldn't we just keep the tourniquet and wrap it up?”

“Emergency services will be unavailable for at least ten hours, and the tourniquet will have me septic in less than six hours, but I'll bleed to death without it. Dressing alone won't adequately stop the bleeding, stitches are too shallow.”

“Alright. I trust your judgment. What am I supposed to use for the cautery tool?

“I have a battery-operated welding blade in the drawer at the welding table.”

You wince and swallow, hard, looking down at your hands covered in his blood, already beginning to dry and crack on your palms. “Okay, okay. I'm gonna wash my hands real quick and come back. Then just tell me what to do from there.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“ ‘Sterile non-stick gauze. Lidocaine 5% mucoadhesive wet dressing. Sterile sodium chloride saline 0.9% solution. Isopropyl alcohol 99%,’ ” you mutter under your breath, reading the labels of the various tools you pull out of the first-aid kit. “My reluctance kind of comes from the fact that I…really, really like you,” you say as you scrub your hands down with rubbing alcohol. “If you were Venkman then I’d be delighted at the chance to stick a blade in your leg.” You set the bottle of alcohol on the floor. “Okay, just running this through real quick one last time: first I rinse with saline, then I do the cautery, then I put the wet dressing, then the dry dressing.”

He nods.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Okay.” You slowly exhale. “Okay. Step one: saline rinse.” You crack open the bottle and hold it over his leg. “Are you ready?”

He nods, a knot forming in his stomach.

“Okay.”

He involuntarily sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes his eyes shut as an icy chill washes over his leg, immediately followed by a fiery sting that courses through his leg like venom. It's bitingly cold and freezes him to the bone, but it also burns so, so badly. He grits his teeth but a slight groan still escapes his lips, followed by a strangled whine. He's immediately ashamed and clenches his jaw so much that it aches, focusing all of his energy on staying quiet. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, sweat forming on his brow.

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, that's done.”

He sharply exhales the breath he didn't know he was holding in and he struggles to pull enough air into his burning lungs with shallow, rapid panting.

“Hey, Egon?” Your hand slips into his and his heart flutters in his chest. “Hey, you're doing good. You're going to be alright.” Your voice is so soothing that he wants to believe you. His eyes are still shut, but he nods.

“Next is this.” You pour rubbing alcohol all over the welding blade in an attempt to disinfect it. The harsh, acrid fumes sting the inside of his nose and burn the back of his throat as it splashes on the ground next to him. “This is insane. This is absolutely insane,” you mutter rapidly under your breath. “I feel like I’m torturing you.”

“You’re not.” He tries to sound confident, but his voice is strained and shaking. “Don’t feel guilty.”

“I’ll do my best. How long should I keep this thing on your leg?”

“A minimum of ten seconds, no matter how badly I react. Anything less would not adequately stop the bleeding.”

“No matter how badly you react,” you repeat under your breath. “Fuck, dude…” You shut your eyes and for a moment you look like you're about to cry, but you manage to force it back down and open your eyes to reveal a frightened, brittle resolve. You switch on the welder and the little old machine sputters to life. He hears the crackling of the heating element and a sickening shiver runs through him, settling heavily in his stomach as a nauseating dread. The dark gray blade glows a faint red and yellow with the heat burning through it. “It’ll be over soon. Just ten seconds.” You sigh, and he sees your brow furrow as you steel your nerves, forcing yourself into a state of strained calmness. “Are you ready?”

No. He's terrified. He's in pain. His composure is failing and he doesn't want you to see him completely fall apart. “Yes.”

“Okay.” You hold up the makeshift cautery blade and take aim, putting your other hand and knee on his upper thigh to keep him still. “Now.” You plunge the blade into his leg.

He screams.

His entire body convulses but you keep his leg pinned firmly beneath your knee. The pain is blinding and searing and overwhelming and he screams until his throat seizes and he's desperately choking for air. His vision blanks and he's nearly on the verge of passing out when—

It's over.

You pull the blade away and his entire body goes limp. His head is spinning and his chest burns. Tears run down the sides of his face and he’s gasping and panting between sobs, unable to catch his breath. He cries out again with the icy jolt that shoots up his leg when your shaking hands press the wet compress to the freshly cauterized wound. He tries and fails to steady his breathing, fails to stop openly sobbing as you wrap the dry dressing around his thigh and remove the tourniquet.

He's ashamed that you're seeing him cry. Egon Spengler, a man who prides himself on prioritizing rationality over emotions, is reduced to a sobbing, quivering mess in front of the woman he's in love with, his clothing and the floor beneath him soiled by a sickening mixture of saline and his own blood. His face burns with embarrassment. How pathetic he must look to you, the facade of the level headed scientist shattered. Frustration boils within him and tightens within his chest.

Oh. Your hand grazes the side of his face, and his attention snaps to you. Your touch is warm, gentle, and so, so soothing. You're talking to him. You've been talking to him this whole time, but it's only now that his scrambled mind is able to actually notice it.

“Hey, it's okay. It's okay,” you whisper to him, stroking his sweating, clammy face. “It's over. You're gonna be okay.” Your other hand slips into his and he weakly grasps your hand in return. You continue talking to him for several minutes, gently stroking his face and occasionally squeezing his hand as tears flow down his face. There's sincerity in your gestures of comfort, a deep genuineness that can only be made through love. Still, though, he can't stop crying, but he's no longer self-conscious about doing so in front of you.

Eventually, his breathing begins steadying a bit and his heart stops beating so wildly in his chest. The lidocaine dressing starts taking the edge off the pain, leaving behind a dull, painful ache that throbs through his entire leg. It still hurts terribly, but it is far from overwhelming.

A headache starts to settle heavily behind his eyes. His entire body shivers violently despite the heat burning through him. Nausea curdles in his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut but it isn't enough; the lights still ache deeply and seem to tunnel through his head.

You gently lift his head and put a damp rag on the back of his neck. He gasps at the chill that shoots down his spine, but the relief it brings is almost instant. His nausea wanes; the painful throbbing of his head begins to dull as you delicately lift his glasses off his face and set them safely aside. You place another damp rag on his forehead and he's grateful that you cover his eyes, completely blocking out the light.

You're tossing the blanket you brought down earlier over him when the lights go out, leaving the two of you in complete darkness. The coffee maker stops gurgling, the heater stops rumbling, and the lab is left in near complete silence, the only noises coming from the raging storm howling faintly outside. “Crap…” You rummage through the first-aid kit for a flashlight. “Egon, I’ll be right back. Try to get some rest.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Egon. Egon.” You gently nudge his shoulder, rousing him from his heavy doze.

He groans and grits his teeth with the dull agony that settled in his leg as he slept, heavy and stiff; his hands instinctively grasp his thigh in a futile attempt to try and relieve some of the pain.

“I know, I'm sorry, but your temperature’s spiking a bit and I need you to take some ibuprofen to try and get it down. I also found a couple Vicodin in Peter's things that I think you'll appreciate.”

He takes the small handful of pills and voraciously downs both water bottles you offer him.

He's bundled up under several blankets, warm and cozy, despite the discomfort of the hard floor beneath him. The fireplace crackles and spits as the only light source in the lab, animating the shadows of the objects it illuminates in its soft, hot glow. “Power's still out. Pipes are frozen,” you say, rising to your feet. His eyes follow you as you toss another hunk of wood into the fireplace, sending a pleasant wave of heat over him. “But we're doing alright.” You glance at him. “You’re starting to look a bit better.”

“Where did you find wood for the fireplace?” he asks.

“I can't tell you. Also, Peter's nightstand is now missing.”

He snickers. The pain in his leg has already started lifting, replaced by a faint, floaty feeling. “Of all the places to grievously injure myself, next to the fireplace is a lucky break.”

You look at him intently, and there isn't a hint of humor on your face.

“Sorry,” he says just a bit too quickly, his face practically steaming with embarrassment. He clears his throat and scrambles a bit for a change of topic. “I really admire you—especially in the way you handle yourself in an emergency. I admire a lot of things about you.”

You scoff. “I see the Vicodin is kicking in.”

“If anything, I think my mental faculties are more perspicuous with the hydrocodone. The distraction of the pain is much less pronounced.” He slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, wincing a bit, but the pain is just a fraction of what it was, throbbing dully deep in his leg. “Though, I must say that our recent experiences together have also given me a greater sentiment of closeness to you. I feel safe with you. I’m sure part of this mentality is just the narcotic inhibiting my usual reticence, but for the most part, I believe it’s authentic.”

“Egon.”

You kneel next to him, and he has trouble seeing your face in the harsh shadows cast by the crackling fireplace. One of his old coats is draped around your shoulders and it’s far too large on you, which he finds so, so endearing. A burst of affection washes over him, bubbles in his chest and brings warmth to his face. The urge to kiss you is overwhelming, almost primal. He catches your eye and leans forward.

You read his intentions and pull back. You gently place your hand on his chest, nudging him back a bit. “Look, I'm not sur--”

“Please, I want to kiss you.”

“Egon.”

“I love you. I’m in love with you,” he blurts. “I've been in love with you f—”

“Stop! Stop it! Stop talking!” That melancholy about you suddenly rushes to the surface and bursts forth as tears in your eyes and you clench your jaw, bite the inside of your cheek, but the tears flow freely down your face. You sigh, annoyed, and avert your gaze, impatiently wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “Look, Egon, this is not a conversation I'm ready to have right now. I am so fucking overwhelmed as it is, okay? I just…Fuck, don’t do this to me now.”

His heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach and he lies back on the ground. It’s not an outright rejection, far from it. But, it still aches deeply in his chest as you weep next to him, your head bent and your palm on your forehead.

“I'm sorry,” you say quietly, your voice thick with tears. “It’s just, it’s been a really bad night. If I hadn't asked you to grab me that stupid fucking book then none of this would have happened. And I have my own goddamn copy upstairs! I just didn't want to go grab it! And I almost killed you because of that!” You lift your head. “Seeing all that blood, hearing you scream like that…Oh my God, that was so awful. Oh, Egon, I'm so sorry…” You sigh, summoning all your courage for your next words. “I love you. I really do. I love you so much that it sometimes keeps me up at night.” He’s positively euphoric at hearing these words. His heart soars, but your next words send it plummeting back to the bottom of his stomach. “But, Egon, I feel so terrible about it.” A sob hitches in your throat and you struggle to keep your next words steady. “Look at this fucking mess we're in…”

He reaches for your hand. You see him, but don't protest as his fingers intertwine with yours. His other hand slowly reaches up and gently cups the side of your face. You lock eyes with him, and he sees the sorrow aching so deeply within you, your vision blurred by the tears flowing freely down your face.

“I love you,” he says simply, delicately wiping a calloused thumb beneath your eye.

You shake your head. “How could you?”

“How could I not?” he answers earnestly.

You crack a small smile. You press a kiss to the palm of his hand and hold it against your face, delighting in the warmth of his touch. He's absolutely exhilarated at this, and he smiles so brightly at you that you can't help but smile back, despite the fresh tears spilling from your eyes. He sees it now, the reason behind the melancholy about you:

You love him.

You love him so deeply that it burns through the core of your very being. That love for him that would flash in your eyes every time you smiled at him, everytime the brightness of your laugh lit up your face, has now rushed to the surface and painfully burst forth as tears running down your face.

You bend down and plant a soft kiss on his forehead, still holding his hand in yours as you lie down next to him in front of the fireplace.

#egon spengler #egon spengler x reader #egon x reader #ghostbusters x reader #reader insert #ghostbusters fanfiction #reader x character #x reader #whump #ghostbusters hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort #ghostbusters whump #OC

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eebydeebyderby · 1 year ago

Text

Can We Talk?

A one-shot in which reader tries to comfort Egon after a lab accident leaves him shaken and a bit injured.

Inspired by this post for Whumptober for Day 1: Apology, but it leans much more towards hurt/comfort than true whump. Thank you for your patience as I start getting back into writing <3

General info:

Egon x Reader, established romantic relationship, hurt/comfort (Egon gets got), minor injuries, gender neutral reader

~1.8k words

The trap clatters to the ground when you regain consciousness, smoking and hissing at Egon's feet. You shake your head a bit, trying to clear your head, regain your bearings as you slowly look around. The lab is in complete shambles around you: papers scattered and fluttering about, tables turned over, equipment thrown on the ground, an overhead light is shattered and sparking.

You turn around to find Egon looking intently at you from just a few feet away, proton gun still buzzing in his hand, the trap still smoking at his feet. He's completely disheveled, his glasses askew and his hair a complete mess. His face is expressionless, completely blank except for the tears burning in his eyes as his fingers slowly ghost over the side of his face, the stinging handprint on his cheek painfully red and already beginning to swell into an aching bruise.

Your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach and you gasp. “Egon, what happened?”

He stays quiet.

You start moving towards him but freeze when he sharply recoils away from you, backing into a bookcase and knocking several books to the floor around his feet, startling you both.

Your heart starts pounding in your ears and your chest tightens, threatening to stifle your breath. “Egon, I'm scared. What happened?”

He just stares at you, blinking rapidly.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Nothing.

Then, finally, he shakes his head. His breath catches behind the lump in his throat and he struggles in vain to try and swallow it down, his entire body trembling from the tension building in his chest, threatening to burst.

You slowly, very slowly, walk towards him, broken glass and equipment crunching beneath your shoes. He all but flattens himself against the bookcase, but still lowers his proton gun as you approach, halting just a few feet from him.

With delicate, deliberate movement, you reach towards him, making sure he sees and knows your intent.

When your hand is about an inch from him he squeezes his eyes shut. Your hand grazes the uninjured side of his face and he sucks in a breath. His eyebrows knit together and he tries to keep his breathing steady, but he's unable to bear it and flinches from your touch. You yank your hand back, accidentally knocking a large thermos off a table. It hits the ground with a harsh, resounding clang, startling you both once again. His gaze fixates on the thermos as it rolls along the floor behind you. You keep your eyes on him.

“I'm sorry; I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry,” you sputter.

Complete silence falls between you two. The only noises you hear are the sparking of the broken light fixture and your own heart pounding in your ears.

"Egon, whatever happened—I'm so sorry; I would never want to do anything that hurt you. I'm sorry. Whatever I did back there, I’m so sorry." The words spill from your mouth before you can process them. You open your mouth for a split second as your mind scrambles to find something else to say, anything, but it draws a blank and you remain quiet. Then, you mutter, “I love you. I never want to hurt you.”

His gaze snaps up to lock onto you, and it breaks your heart to see the tears welled in his eyes, so close to spilling over as he uses all of his willpower to hold them back. Egon is never one to express emotions openly, always keeping them guarded behind a shield of polite detachment. But, here you can fully see the sorrow etched on his tired face, the hurt and vulnerability and conflict and, something else, something you can't quite place—

He breaks eye contact and swallows. "I th—” His voice cracks and he clenches his jaw for a moment. “...I think it would be best if we separate for now." His voice is strained and unsteady. He swallows again, avoiding your eye. Then, he manages to eke out, “I…I need space. Please.”

His request hits you hard and you feel your own emotions swelling in your chest. You force yourself to take a deep, slow breath and you're grateful that your wildly beating heart calms down a bit.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I'll be upstairs in the bedroom.”

The room is dark and quiet when you walk inside. The sky outside is beginning to lighten with the dawn approaching over the city skyline, bathing the room in a faint blue glow through the window. You sit down on the foot of his bed and think, think, trying to recall what happened before you regained consciousness in the wrecked lab.

The two of you were alone in the firehouse. You remember helping Egon tinker with a live trap—the mechanism for releasing the entity into the containment unit was malfunctioning, and the two of you were trying to fix it. There was a loud bang, a flash of light. You remember yelping, then dropping your screwdriver, then crumpling to the ground, then—

Nothing.

There's a tentative knock at the door, tearing you from your thoughts. “Come in,” you say.

Egon slowly opens the door and walks inside, his entire body still trembling. The bruise across his cheek is swollen and darkened into a splotchy red. “Can we talk?” he asks quietly, his voice thick with congestion.

"Of course."

He sits down on the bed next to you and you have to suppress the urge to wrap your arms around him. You're facing him, but he faces the floor, arms slung over his knees and his hands clasped tightly together, trying not to meet your gaze. He sighs, unable to keep himself from shaking with nervousness. "I…don't know where to start."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

“It…The entity, it…” The lump in his throat seizes up and he quickly becomes overwhelmed. He sighs, starting to get frustrated with himself, and shakes his head.

“That's alright,” you mutter. “It's alright.”

Silence falls between the two of you. You stay quiet, wanting to give him as much time as he needs. Your gaze wanders over to the window; the horizon over the city skyline now glows with the faintest hint of pinkness beneath the cool blue dawn. The street outside the firehouse is quiet, but you still hear the faint noises of traffic from the city. It's still too early for the birds to be awake, and you wonder if—

"I know it wasn't you.” His voice nearly startles you, and your attention immediately snaps to him. “It wasn't. I know it wasn’t, but I just…” He lifts his head to look at the ceiling, hands clasped firmly together in his lap, and you see the tears burning in his eyes. He clenches his jaw, trying to stay grounded.

“Egon, can I touch you?”

He nods hesitantly, still shaking like a frightened dog.

You stand up and slowly bring your hand up to the uninjured side of his face. He braces himself, squeezes his eyes shut, fearing a strike he knows isn't coming. “Hey, it's okay,” you coo. “It's just me.” Your fingers graze his face and he tenses, clenching his jaw as you gently stroke his cheek with your thumb, feeling the light scratch of his stubble. Your hand gently cups the side of his face and you delicately tilt his head up to plant a kiss on his forehead.

The tension gripping his entire body finally bursts. He exhales sharply and gasps as tears flood down his face and you immediately pull him into a tight hug, cradling his head against your chest. Sobs spasm in his throat and he wraps his arms tightly around you, trying to pull you as close to himself as he can, despite his glasses going askew and digging sharply into his skin. His breath comes in short, abrupt gasps that rack through his entire body.

“Oh, Egon…” you mutter, running your fingers through his hair. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“I-I know it…it w-wasn't you,” he sputters between gasps. "It—...You would n-never say th-the things it said,” he swallows, struggling to force down the lump in his throat that’s stifling his words, and his voice steadies a bit, “or raise a hand to me, but it...it weaponized things that…that only you would know, things that I-I confided only to you and it—...I know it wasn't you attacking me, I know it wasn't.”

His voice thickens as emotion swells in his chest and fresh tears drip off his jaw. He pulls away and looks up at you with red, swollen eyes, absolutely exhausted, markings dotting the areas around his eyes and on the bridge of his nose where his glasses were digging into his skin. You slowly bring your hand up the side of his face again and this time he leans into your touch as you stroke his cheek. He sighs and closes his eyes, relishing your touch, allowing himself to start gradually relaxing, fatigue weighing heavily on him.

You look intently at him, reading the emotions etched plainly on his face, and you recognize the one from earlier that you couldn't quite place. You scowl a bit. “What's the guilt?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you, a bit befuddled.

“Egon, come on. I've done things to you that would patronize Babylon the Great. I can tell when you're keeping something.”

He smirks briefly through his tears, the half-smile that is so delightfully Egon. It quickly fades and he sighs, trying to keep his breathing steady. “I should've been more cautious. It's my fault the entity broke containment.”

Your brain scrambles between saying, ‘why do you say that?’ and ‘no, it isn't’ and you blurt out, “Why do you isn't?”

“I knew you'd disagree.” He pauses, and you see a slight glimmer of humor return to him. “At least, I think that's what you're attempting to do.” He lies down on the bed and gestures for you to follow. You're more than happy to oblige and lie down with your head on his chest and your hand on his collarbone. He slings an arm around you and sighs deeply, sinking into the bed and allowing drowsiness to start taking control.

“I think we should put some ice or something on your face,” you say, curled up against him.

He shakes his head. “Ice only works to temporarily replace one form of discomfort for another. It does nothing to actually aid healing.” He’s quiet for a moment and yawns deeply. “The lab is in complete disarray,” he mutters.

“It's always in complete disarray.”

He snickers. “You know what I mean.”

“How about we worry about it later?”

“Alright. We'll worry about it later.”

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