*"It's time I found myself
Totally surrounded in your circles,
My friends..."
Kenny Loggins, "Celebrate Me Home", 1977*

*December 24, 1978*

So there his car was, broken down in the snow at the side of the road, and Peter Venkman was pissed.

And cold.

And stranded.

No good deed ever goes unpunished, he told himself glumly as he slammed the hood down. He should have known that by now. Playing all noble and still driving his now-ex-girlfriend home to her folks' on Christmas Eve like he'd promised when they were together, and what did it get him? Stuck on the turnpike on his way back, 9 o'clock at night - when all *sensible* people, he thought sourly, were already home and jump-starting their holidays with mugs

of cider and little cups of eggnog - with his fingers numb and grease-stained from ineffectually twiddling and diddling around under the hood in a futile effort to get the damn car to start again.

Peter blew out a frosty, exasperated breath as he jammed his cold hands deep into his pockets, and made himself think. Okay, so the car wasn't going to

move without the assistance of a tow truck - like he had the money for that on him tonight anyway - and frankly, for all he cared, they could just consider it abandoned and tow it away to the nearest junkyard. So that meant he was on his own as far as getting back home tonight. He supposed he could call his roommates for a pick-up, although he doubted they'd be too thrilled to head

out into the cold on a rescue mission. Not their responsibility, he reminded himself. His mom? No, her heart was acting up again, and since her car was probably in nearly as bad shape as his, the last thing they'd need was for her to come out after him and have something happen. Best thing to do was just to hike to the nearest exit, look for a bus stop, and make it back the hard way. *Wouldn't be the first time either, dammit.*

From the cold interior of his failed wheels, he grabbed gloves and a black knit scarf, pulled on another sweatshirt over the one he already wore and then donned his jacket again and buttoned it all the way up. Then, resigned, he began what looked like a long walk to the next exit off the turnpike.

He hadn't gone more than maybe a half-mile when the sound of one vehicle separated itself from the whoosh of the rest passing him by, slowing and approaching where he carefully trod at the shoulder of the road. A blue pickup truck, its load covered against the elements with a tarp, paced him as the driver leaned over in the dim cab to roll down the passenger window. "Need some help, pal?" he called, white teeth flashing in a dark face lined by middle age. "That your car back there? The Chevy Nova in the snowbank?"

"Yeah." Peter fidgeted his scarf more tightly around his throat. "Conked out on me a while ago."

"Want me to take a look at it?"

He shook his head and kept walking. "You'd be wasting your time."

"Oh, you never know. I'm not bad with fixing things. Better with building things, but... C'mon. Hop in." The passenger door opened and the driver quirked a beckoning finger at Peter.

Peter hesitated for another fraction of a moment, then figured "What the hell" and climbed in. He shoved aside any random thoughts of stranded motorists being kidnapped and murdered by seeming roadside rescuers - even he couldn't be that cynical about human motives on Christmas - and remembered to mutter "Thanks," as he slammed the door. Slowly and carefully the driver backed up along the shoulder, until they were back where he'd begun.

His new pal hopped down from the high cab, paint-speckled boots crunching in drifts of snow as he headed for the back of his truck to flip aside the tarp and dig through a well-equipped tool box. Peter tailed him, feeling somewhat sullen and self-conscious with unasked obligation.

A flashlight suddenly appeared, shining in his face, and he drew back against the glare. "Hold this for me, willya?" Peter automatically obeyed. "Now pop the hood for me and let's take a look at this baby."

By the strong beam of the flashlight - an improvement over the vague starlight and yellowish streetlamps he himself had tried to work by, Peter admitted - his Good Samaritan tested the connections under the hood, adjusting some with small pliers and either tightening or loosening others with a small wrench. At one point he sent Peter back into the car, to crank the ignition, to no avail. After a while, he at last nodded gravely and announced, "Yup, you're right, she's not going anywhere tonight. I think your alternator's shot."

"Figures." Peter sighed. "It's about the only thing I haven't replaced on it yet this year." He shifted his feet in the gravel and wondered where he'd come up with the money for this repair.

"Chevy Nova. 'No va'." "Good Sam" chuckled as he rolled the model name over his tongue in obvious amusement. "You do know in Spanish that means 'doesn't go', right? That name's one of the biggest marketing mistakes in history."

Peter smiled wanly and shrugged with a bonhomie that he didn't feel. "Yeah, I've heard it a time or two before." *Or maybe even ten.*

"It's a shame your car's living up to it, especially tonight." His benefactor shook his head sympathetically as he walked back toward his truck, Peter automatically following him though he didn't quite know why. "So can I give you a lift somewhere?"

Relief flooded him at the offer, especially since he was cold and tired enough at this point to accept it in the spirit it was offered. "Hey, if you can just take me to the nearest exit, save me a couple miles' walk, I'd really appreciate it. I'll take a bus back home from there." He climbed back into the warmth of the pickup's cab, locking the door and buckling himself in before sagging back against the bench seat.

"Hmm." The engine roared back into life and in another moment they were rolling along the road. "Those buses are going to be on holiday schedule tonight, you know. Might already be too late to get you back home courtesy of the Port Authority."

"I'll deal." Peter stared out the side window, with a gloved finger wiping away the condensation his breath left. "I can probably call someone to pick me up if that's the case."

"Why don't I just take you home?"

He stiffened. "Really. You don't have - "

"Now what kind of good Christian do you think I'd be if I left a kid like you by the side of the road on Christmas Eve? Not a chance. C'mon, son, let's get you home. Where do you live?"

"It's gotta be way out of your way," he protested. "I have an apartment with some friends all the way over by Columbia University."

"That's not a problem." His voice was so stern that it brooked no further protest, and Peter kept his mouth shut as they changed lanes and headed in the direction of Manhattan. For the balance of the half-hour it took to get to Peter's neighborhood, they rode in near total silence save for quiet gospel music playing on the truck's radio, and the occasional question asked and answered. Peter gave terse instructions, directing a turn here, a stop there, until finally they pulled up in front of the genteelly shabby building in which he and his roommates lived.

Peter slid out of the high cab of the pickup, suddenly uncertain about how to part company with his unexpected guardian angel on this dark, cold night. Somehow saying "Thanks" didn't seem quite enough, so he grubbed deep into his pocket, finally found a five-dollar bill, and awkwardly held it out. "Hey, um, can I give you this for gasoline?"

"No, you can't." Another smile flashed, this one kind without being condescending. "Something tells me you need it more than I do."

"But- " Peter tried, and was promptly overridden.

"And if you feel you should give something, then just drop it in the collection plate at church tomorrow morning." Peter felt it wise to keep his mouth shut about his poor attendance record at worship. "Now I gotta get home to my family. Have a merry Christmas, pal. And try to keep out of trouble with your 'no va'." He waved a decisive farewell as he wheeled the truck around, heading back in the direction from which they'd come. Peter stared at the pickup, at the mud and road salt obscuring the name of the construction company painted on the door panels, until it had vanished around the corner. Then he turned and trudged up the cleared walkway to let himself into the building.

He was still well down their hallway when the door to their apartment flew open. "Peter!" There was no mistaking the bundle of energy that was sophomore engineering whiz Ray Stantz as he bounded into the hall, brown eyes wide. "Wow, where have you been? We were getting worried!"

"Car trouble coming back into town," he explained briefly, stepping inside and shucking his outer layers of clothing. After the warmth of the cab of the truck, and then climbing three flights of stairs, now he was too hot. Ray helpfully took the discarded jacket and sweatshirts and hung them on hooks set in the back of their front door. "I abandoned it by the side of the road where I hope someone will shoot it and put it out of *my* misery."

"Why didn't you call us?" Egon Spengler, the other genius he had the dubious good fortune to room with, came out of the kitchen, a mug of something fragrant and steaming clutched in one hand.

"Don't ask," he started, sighing, but then realized that giving such a dour impression of his evening wouldn't be fair to the person who had gone so far out of his way to help. "No, it all worked out. Some guy took pity on me and gave me a ride home when he couldn't kick the car back into life."

"Here." Egon shoved the mug into Peter's hand. "Drink this. It's wassail."

"Really?" His eyes widened as he stared into the brew. "Real wassail?"

"Of course. Would you expect anything less from me?" Egon gave him such an arch look of genuine offense at the question that Peter grinned despite himself.

"No, I wouldn't," he agreed, but could not resist adding under his breath, "Just, please God, let it be potable."

"And now please come sit down by our fireplace," Egon continued as Peter took an experimental sip of the homebrew and decided that it indeed would do.

"We don't *have* a fireplace," Peter reminded him. "Just *how much* of this stuff have you had already, Egon?"

"Ah, but Raymond has built us one for the holidays, as a special treat." Egon, brows arched, inclined his head in the direction of an odd new addition to the apartment's décor across the room.

Well, that explained Ray's eager exuberance, or at least some of it. Two space heaters, side by side, with tin flashing cut into the shape of flames and then airbrushed with brilliant reds and yellows and oranges, were set against the far wall of the living room, next to their TV and close enough to the couch that they could appreciate the heat while watching their favorite programs. Peter sat down and made a show of extravagantly stretching his feet toward the heat source. "Hey, Stantz, you really know how to make the holidays merry." Ray beamed at him as he vanished into the kitchen.

He had a feeling for why Ray - of all people, considering the kid didn't have a bit of family save for that one slightly daft aunt who was spending the holidays out of town this year - had put together the mock fireplace for their small shared apartment. Peter's dad was as undependable as ever, and as usual his mom wasn't well enough to make much of an effort beyond inviting all three of "her boys" over to Christmas dinner, but it was Egon's family who'd thrown everyone for a loop this year. Peter was ineffably pissed at Egon's parents for being so deep into their own pain at their impending divorce that they were unable to see what it was doing to Egon, and thus had left him to fend for himself this holiday. Maybe their only son was well into his twenties, but hell, no matter how old you were when your parents broke up was a guarantee of emotional pain and suffering, no matter how hard Spengler was trying to hide it. And Peter didn't have to be only a semester away from his bachelor's in Psych to know that.

At least his personal woes seemed to be far from Egon's mind tonight. In a stage whisper sure to carry throughout the apartment, he leaned over and asked Peter, "Shall we let Ray have some wassail?"

Peter hissed back, "Nah, he's not old enough to drink yet."

"You barely are," Egon reminded.

"Like that ever stopped me," he countered with a snort, just as Ray came out of the kitchen, from the mug in his own hand already having made his own decision about drinking the wassail.

He settled himself down on the couch beside Peter, hyperactive and chattering happily. "You know, one of my friends has a tow bar. I think he stayed in town for Christmas. I can call him tomorrow and we'll haul the car back. I can work on it for you." Then he bounced back up, almost knocking over his mug. Peter wondered if the strong brew would really melt the upholstery off the couch if it happened to spill. "Hey, my girlfriend gave me a great Kenny Loggins album. You'll like it. Let me put it on." He dropped the LP onto their communal stereo and turned the volume not up, but down. "It'll be great for background music while I read us 'A Christmas Carol'. Egon, have you seen the book?" He began an eager search through the clutter of their shared apartment, crying out in unabashed delight as he finally found it, "This is going to be *great*!"

Peter shook his head, not for the first time wondering if Ray Stantz was for real, then decided that it didn't really matter anyway, and just closed his eyes and settled back as the music, accompanied by Dickens' familiar words, began to play.


* * *

*Epilogue*

"Ed Zeddemore, where in heaven's name have you been?" His wife Mamie, who he loved as much as life itself if not more, stood in the entryway of their cozy, overstuffed home, hands on her angular hips and a stern look in her eyes. "You were supposed to be home two hours ago!"

"Oh, be quiet, woman," he remonstrated good-naturedly, handing her his overcoat. "Some college kid's car broke down on the turnpike and I gave him

a lift home. Took me a little out of my way." By the softening in her expression he knew he was instantly forgiven. "But what's the big fuss about? It's only 10:30. We don't open gifts until midnight anyway."

"Well, one came early and it can't wait. Come on into the kitchen." She took him by the elbow and practically dragged him down their short hallway.

The family - his family - was waiting for him around the kitchen table, with cups of coffee in hand and a platter of aromatic cinnamon buns set like a centerpiece before them all: Chuck; Frankie (no, he was an adult now and preferred to be called "Frank") and his wife Delores, who'd given him and Mamie their first grandchild earlier this year; and....

"Winston." The name fell out of his mouth in his surprise as, a hesitant smile on his face, his youngest son rose from his seat and stepped toward him. "I didn't know you were coming."

Winston shrugged effacingly, hesitating before his father. "I just felt like heading home this year, Dad. I haven't been back since I got out of the Army. Thought maybe it was about time." He cleared his throat, obviously a bit uncomfortable; the two of them had long had a fractious relationship and the last few times they had spoken, Ed recalled, their words had been harsh and unforgiving. "I don't know how long I'll be here," Winston went on, "or what I'll be doing, but I'm thinking I might stick around for a while...."

"It's good to have you home, son." Ed stepped forward, closing the awkward space between them as he pulled Winston into his arms, and for the time being, for at least this Christmas Eve, all conflict between them melted away.