(no subject)
Ray doesn't talk about his birthday.
It's not a question of not wanting to think of age. It's that his birthday falls squarely in the middle of October. When he was in the academic world, that meant midterm season. Once he started Ghostbusting, it meant the busy season. For the past forty-seven years he's been in another world entirely, and only the Tolnedrans and Arends bother putting names on the months; since none of them corresponded to 'October', he ignored his birthday entirely. In fact, he'd all but forgotten about it until last night, when Peter told him that in honor of his birthday they'd just let him sleep in the morning. He's grateful. It's the best birthday present ever.
At least, he thought so until he woke up to something cold and metallic poking him repeatedly in the shoulder and the sound of "WHURF WHURF WHURF" in his ear. "Nguh," he says. "Francis, what-"
He opens his eyes enough to spot the post-it note stuck to the robotic dog's head. It just reads "GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW" in Janine's handwriting. Groggily, he swings himself over the edge of the bed, sticks his feet in his slippers, and heads for his favorite pole. One screeeTHUNK! later, he says, "Janine? What's. . .up. . . with-"
My. There's a lot of guys here in suits. Dark suits. With things in their ears. And one guy in a blue suit with nothing in his ear, but a smile on his face and a good hearty handshake, and a big booming cheerful voice that only begins to penetrate Ray's early morning fog as the flashes go off. He's heard this voice in person before. What the hell is the President doing here? Yeah, he was in town for the UN meetings about the Deep Ones, but what's he doing here?
Ray does his best to smile and look alive, and nods when he thinks he should, and wishes he had some coffee. At least he doesn't have to follow the President around on his tour of the Firehouse. That would be cruel, trying to walk that far. One of the Secret Service men is kind enough to give him a sizable travel mug of coffee (it's got the White House seal on it, which is cool in a vaguely weird kind of way), but it's not quite enough to wake him up as far as he'd like. He'd been right in the middle of a really good REM cycle and his thought processes are still trying to revert.
When the president comes back, Ray's dimly glad of his habit of sleeping in his clothes during October. Sure, a T-shirt and sweatpants aren't exactly the sort of thing you're supposed to wear to meet the President, but they're better than being photographed in your pajamas. He makes an effort to smooth his hair down before the cameramen come back. It doesn't really help, but at least the other Ghostbusters are there to get the pictures taken at the same time. That should be enough distraction, right? Right. And at least the cameramen go away shortly. Maybe that means the President's going to leave now. He'd like that. He could get some more sleep if that happened.
But no, the President's not going away. And the sleep isn't coming back, either. It's not going to come back for a long time, because as soon as the last cameraman is off the premises President Winston turns to the four of them and says, in the soberest voice Ray has ever heard a politician use:
"It's been a great visit, but this isn't a social call."
"Surprise, surprise," mutters Peter. The President nods.
"I've got a question for you guys, actually." He takes a deep breath, interlacing his fingers. "What's two-and-a-half cubits long, one-and-a-half cubits high, one-and-a-half cubits wide, and melts Nazis when you open it?"
There is a silence the likes of which has not been heard in New York City since before the first ancestors of the Manhattan Indians crossed the river to get to those promising-looking islands on the other side.
"Because it's been stolen."
It's not a question of not wanting to think of age. It's that his birthday falls squarely in the middle of October. When he was in the academic world, that meant midterm season. Once he started Ghostbusting, it meant the busy season. For the past forty-seven years he's been in another world entirely, and only the Tolnedrans and Arends bother putting names on the months; since none of them corresponded to 'October', he ignored his birthday entirely. In fact, he'd all but forgotten about it until last night, when Peter told him that in honor of his birthday they'd just let him sleep in the morning. He's grateful. It's the best birthday present ever.
At least, he thought so until he woke up to something cold and metallic poking him repeatedly in the shoulder and the sound of "WHURF WHURF WHURF" in his ear. "Nguh," he says. "Francis, what-"
He opens his eyes enough to spot the post-it note stuck to the robotic dog's head. It just reads "GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW" in Janine's handwriting. Groggily, he swings himself over the edge of the bed, sticks his feet in his slippers, and heads for his favorite pole. One screeeTHUNK! later, he says, "Janine? What's. . .up. . . with-"
My. There's a lot of guys here in suits. Dark suits. With things in their ears. And one guy in a blue suit with nothing in his ear, but a smile on his face and a good hearty handshake, and a big booming cheerful voice that only begins to penetrate Ray's early morning fog as the flashes go off. He's heard this voice in person before. What the hell is the President doing here? Yeah, he was in town for the UN meetings about the Deep Ones, but what's he doing here?
Ray does his best to smile and look alive, and nods when he thinks he should, and wishes he had some coffee. At least he doesn't have to follow the President around on his tour of the Firehouse. That would be cruel, trying to walk that far. One of the Secret Service men is kind enough to give him a sizable travel mug of coffee (it's got the White House seal on it, which is cool in a vaguely weird kind of way), but it's not quite enough to wake him up as far as he'd like. He'd been right in the middle of a really good REM cycle and his thought processes are still trying to revert.
When the president comes back, Ray's dimly glad of his habit of sleeping in his clothes during October. Sure, a T-shirt and sweatpants aren't exactly the sort of thing you're supposed to wear to meet the President, but they're better than being photographed in your pajamas. He makes an effort to smooth his hair down before the cameramen come back. It doesn't really help, but at least the other Ghostbusters are there to get the pictures taken at the same time. That should be enough distraction, right? Right. And at least the cameramen go away shortly. Maybe that means the President's going to leave now. He'd like that. He could get some more sleep if that happened.
But no, the President's not going away. And the sleep isn't coming back, either. It's not going to come back for a long time, because as soon as the last cameraman is off the premises President Winston turns to the four of them and says, in the soberest voice Ray has ever heard a politician use:
"It's been a great visit, but this isn't a social call."
"Surprise, surprise," mutters Peter. The President nods.
"I've got a question for you guys, actually." He takes a deep breath, interlacing his fingers. "What's two-and-a-half cubits long, one-and-a-half cubits high, one-and-a-half cubits wide, and melts Nazis when you open it?"
There is a silence the likes of which has not been heard in New York City since before the first ancestors of the Manhattan Indians crossed the river to get to those promising-looking islands on the other side.
"Because it's been stolen."