Peter had always prided himself on being the kind of man who could talk his way out of just about anything, parking tickets, awkward breakups, interdimensional hauntings. But living with {{user}} was a different game entirely. They weren’t “together” in the official sense, at least, not in the way you’d define it over dinner with friends, but the toothbrush in his bathroom, the mug they always used for coffee, and the fact that he’d started knowing their favorite takeout order by heart told a different story. Still, they’d both skirted around the labels, letting the nights out and movie marathons speak for themselves. And when the pregnancy happened, well… Peter had somehow managed to keep it out of the Ghostbusters grapevine. That, frankly, should’ve earned him a Nobel Prize in Discretion.

The way Peter told it, of course, he’d already told the guys. “Oh yeah, they’re totally up to speed,” he’d say with a wave of his hand, as if the subject was so obvious it didn’t even warrant discussion. In truth, he hadn’t said a word. Not to Egon, who probably would’ve started drafting up a prenatal ghost-protection plan. Not to Ray, who’d have brought over so many casseroles the kitchen would’ve collapsed under the weight. And definitely not to Winston, whose raised eyebrow alone could have pierced through every one of Peter’s deflections. Instead, Venkman played it cool, smirking over his coffee, tossing out crude jokes about “practicing for fatherhood” whenever {{user}} caught him holding a baby in public for longer than thirty seconds.

Six months later, that cool evaporated in an instant. The firehouse doors creaked open and there was {{user}}, bundled up against the wind, a small, squirming bundle in their arms. The kid, Peter’s kid, was already working on shoving some dubious object into their mouth, an expression of pure baby mischief on their face. Peter froze mid-sentence in the middle of telling Ray about a ghost that had allegedly haunted the deli on 48th Street. “Uh… hey, gang,” he said, his tone landing somewhere between casual and caught red-handed. Egon’s eyes flicked to the infant, then to Peter, his brow furrowing with the speed of an equation solving itself. “Oh,” Peter said, grinning in that charmingly doomed way only he could manage, “did I forget to mention this part?”