Give Pete his comeuppance just reward.

Rebecca woke to a kiss, Ray to a match, and Kevin to a spectral cat perched by his head, nudging him with his nose.

Things had been slowing down for Peter. He’d made a name for himself again, counseling people whose fears were awakened by ghosts, and helping ghosts to cross over (it really helped with the ECU’s storage capacity). But now he was tired, and he needed a rest.

Only an hour before, Peter had gone to bed, got comfortable, and let out his last sigh. Vigo had been the one to nudge him awake again.

The little blue eyed cat had died only a year before at an age far older than most cats ever got to be. Since then he’d been hiding out at Peter’s heels, a quiet spirit attached to one still living.

Peter had gotten up, looking around for the cat food in his stupor before realizing he was still in bed. Vigo meowed up at him and nudged his body’s pulse-barren wrist. He had to sit down, but found no physical relief in the action. The cat jumped onto his lap and purred.

A hand smoothed over spectral fur and held the cat close to his chest. “Hey, Vigo. I missed you.”

Peter set the cat down and stood up. Something felt different. “It doesn’t hurt.” A grin came over his face.

“Sorry, Vigo. I don’t think you’re gonna have a lap to sit on so often anymore.”

The cat crossed the room and pawed at the door. Peter looked back at his body. “You know, this is all new to me. You’re gonna have to show me the ropes." A pause. Something nagged at the back of his mind."Somebody’s gonna find me…” his voice was low with awe. (It sounded strange. He wondered if he could even be heard.)

"You're right. We should go. Maybe let them down easy." There were three people in the world he knew who could possibly find him in his state.

He sat on the edge of Rebecca's bed, his dim green aura glowing on her face. She saw a young man, clean shaven and healthy. His dark hair was a little long, as he'd kept it for most of his life, but the curls floated like he was under water as he leaned down to kiss her cheek.

The loud scuff of a match against paper alerted Ray to someone in his room. Pete stood at the foot of his bed clad in coveralls and smoking a cigarette. Spectral smoke floated to the ceiling in a circle of dim light. He smiled, waved goodbye. A jar of mood slime near the bed bubbled with positive energy as he dissipated.

Vigo purred and nudged at Kevin's face.

"Wake up."

Was that Smartin's voice?

Kevin sat up to find Peter sitting at the foot of the bed, that old, weathered looking man he'd always known. He was dapper as ever, too, wearing his floppy hat and sporting a cane.

Vigo stepped over the covers and hopped into Peter's lap. He ran a hand over the cat's head.

"Kevin, I'm dead." He waited for the young man to signal understanding before he continued.

"I have to go away soon. I'm not strong enough to manifest for long. But I'll always be here. Okay?"

He reached down beside the bed and picked up Mike Hat. The dog had died even sooner than Vigo, and he knew Kevin missed him.

"Somebody wanted to say hi." The dog licked Kevin's face as the last of Peter's psychokinetic energy dissipated. Mike let out a joyful yip, and was gone.

Give Pete Frank his comeuppance.

Warning: Several common squicks ahead. This is supposed to be gross, even though I tried to keep it from being excessive. Don’t judge me. I’ve got weird interests.

Frank was bent forward, staring at the stage floor with the pulsing lights reflecting off of it and trying to get his bearings. He felt so dizzy he was nauseous, or was it the other way around?

One hand kept him steady, propped against a chair the stage crew was using. The pounding music coming from the stage did nothing for his head. Frank knelt a little further down, one hand on his distended gut. Sure, he wasn’t a skinny guy, but this wasn’t normal. Something was swollen and painful in there, and he was willing to bet money it was his liver.

Even Peter noticed. He’d made a crack about him looking pregnant. What was it? Oh, when are you due? Frank had given him a death glare and pointed to his watch. Venkman was wanted onstage.

Frank let out a groan, grateful he couldn’t be heard above the music. What he’d forgotten was that his microphone was on. A reply came back through his headset.

“Hey, Frank. You okay down there?” One of the lighting technicians scaled a ladder and knelt next to him, one hand on his back.

“Yeah, Zed, I’m fine. Just queasy. Probably ate something bad for lunch. You gotta get back up there and operate that spotlight, you know. That thing doesn’t move on its own.”

Winston nodded. “Yeah, Jill’s got it for now. C'mon, you need a break. Why don’t you head for the green room? I’ll help you.” He took his arm and helped him to stand. It was all Frank could do to keep from shouting in pain. He was unsteady on his feet, and he had to lean against Zeddemore as he adjusted his sunglasses to keep the stage lights out of his eyes.

Out in the hallway, Frank let go of Winston’s arm, doubling over and retching all over the tiled floor. There was nothing but blood and bile. Winston grabbed his arm to keep Frank steady, just in time to feel a tremor go through his arm. He breathed harsh and heavy, collapsing onto his backside to lean against the wall.

“I’m calling a hospital, Frank. You didn’t eat anything today, did you?”

Frank went a little pale, shook his head in confirmation. He waited as Zeddemore made the call, the tile decorating the wall cool against his skin. God, these people needed to hire a decorator…

Winston crouched down to face Frank. “I need you to take off those sunglasses, Frank. They want me to check your eyes.”

He might have protested, but Frank was too sick to move. He didn’t much feel like yelling. Winston lifted the glasses and Frank opened his eyes. A frown plastered Zeddemore’s face.

“What did you do to yourself, man? Your eyes are yellower than Lucifer himself.” He shoved his phone in his pocket. “They’re telling me you got acute liver failure. They’re gonna be over as soon as they can. Can you move?”

Frank let out a weak sigh and tilted his head just enough to symbolize a shrug. “Not very acute now, am I?”

Winston shook his head and slung Frank’s arm over his shoulder. “That’s not funny, man. You’re really sick. Both ways.”

“That didn’t do it for ya, huh? What about, ‘I knew I was full of piss and vinegar, but up to the eyeballs seems excessive.’”

“You’re a regular Rodney Dangerfield, Frank. Come on, we’ll find you a place to lie down.”

The ambulance arrived several minutes later. The concert went uninterrupted. Winston called from the hospital when it was over to say that Frank was in a coma. Nervous jokes went around about Frank’s sleeping habits. “It’s a good thing he’s in a coma now, he needs it. The man never sleeps.”

A day or so later, he didn’t wake up.