Untitled   Rating: PG-13 
Pairing: M/M 
Spoilers: "The Man Who Knew Too Little, "Starman", and "Call of the Wild"
for sure, probably others 
Notes: The "Vecchio" mentioned is Kowalski.  Set before COTW, despite the
spoiler notice.  "Gregorian" is "monodic, rhythmically unstructured, and
sung without accompaniment", although I'm not entirely sure that it helps
to know that... 
Warnings and Disclaimers:  The usual - unowned but not unloved, yadda,
yadda, yadda.  If they get dirty or overheated, I'll hose 'em off before I
put 'em up.  Anything more than a friendly handshake is at your own risk,
folks, just like real life. 
Feedback: yes, of course!.  Comments to mhhealey@iastate.edu 

*********************** 
Gregorian 
M. 

*  *  *  *  *  1  *  *  *  *  * 

The rookie gulped and tried to remember how lungs work.  Lift brings air
in, press sends air out.  Lift.  Press.  Right.  Good.  In.  Out.  Now,
legs.  Lift, press.  Lift.  Press.  Through the door, around the corner,
up the stairs.  Another door.  People.  Noisy, living people.  Thank God. 

The desk sergeant looked up with a tiny smile.  Sending a youngster into
Mort's lair for the first time was always entertaining.  The toughest ones
often provided the best sport, and newly minted Officer Carroll was one
tough rookie.  Sergeant McNair sent the unsuspecting young braggart for an
autopsy file and waited with anticipatory glee. 

The frown became a scowl.  Carroll was gratifyingly sheetlike and shaky,
but empty-handed.  He staggered to the front desk, eyes white-rimmed.  His
mouth worked, but no sound emerged. 

Lips pressed to convey disapproval, and coincidentally to suppress her
amusement, McNair asked, "Is there a problem, Carroll?  I sent you for
that forensics report ten minutes ago.  March right back downstairs and
don't come back without that report." 

Wide-eyed and still mute, Carroll shook his head violently.  Catching
sight of another favorite target, McNair raised her voice slightly. 
"Detective Vecchio?  Forensics is done on that double homicide, but
Carroll here needs some help getting the results from Mort.  Would you go
below with him and show him there's nothing to be afraid of?" 

Detective Vecchio's already pale skin lightened a few more shades.  McNair
watched the conflict play across the detective's angular features, and bit
back another smile.  Vecchio looked over his shoulder quickly, but he was
alone today.  No red-clad guardian angel to the rescue. 

"Ok.  Sure.  C'mon, Carroll, let's give Mort a shout."  The still-silent
Carroll in tow, Vecchio strode quickly to the stairs.  McNair's attention
was taken by several uniforms struggling past her desk with what looked to
be the very belligerent cast from A Chorus Line.  Moments later, Vecchio
came surging up the stairs and through the doorway, without Carroll or the
folder.  McNair sighed.  Some days it was just too easy.  Vecchio skidded
to a stop in front of McNair. 

His voice sounded surprisingly calm as he leaned forward and spoke quickly
into her ear.  "Mort was passed out on the floor.  I left the kid to keep
an eye on him.  There's a pulse, but it's really weak.  I called a bus",
he forestalled her reach to the phone, "The EMTs should be coming in the
back way.  If they come through here, send 'em down.  I'm going to wait
with him before the kid passes out, too."  Moving at twice his usual,
already-frenetic, speed, the detective spun around and ran down the
stairs. 

McNair was too surprised to either reply or resist the slow sag of her jaw
towards the counter.   Moments later, she recollected herself enough to go
inform the captain.  Word of Mort's latest surprise spread through the
stationhouse with the rapidity of a brush fire. 

Two paramedics were steered firmly toward the basement steps, one
grumbling in a good-natured way about the waste of making a pickup where
they were used to a dropoff.  Fifteen minutes later, two subdued EMTs and
a seething Detective Vecchio pushed, pulled, and followed the gurney
bearing Dr. Gustafson's motionless form to the ambulance.  Vecchio dashed
upstairs, then shot out the front exit before McNair could ask any
questions. 

When Carroll appeared again on the main floor, the autopsy folder was
clutched firmly in his shaking fist.  McNair pumped him shamelessly for
information, but learned little.  Mort had lost consciousness on the far
side of the room, invisible from the doorway. His current work in progress
lay, peaceful and untouched, on the table.  In the breathless silence,
Mort had seemed as much at eternal rest as his temporary associates. 
Carroll thought it was part of a joke at first, standard rookie hazing,
but Mort didn't stir.  He'd hit his head as he fell, the blood seemingly
too abundant to be real. 

Vecchio had not been amused by the jocular paramedics, and they'd done
their jobs under some serious head-kicking threats.  Apparently, the
detective had been given the responsibility of notifying Mort's relations
and offering the sympathy and social resources of the department to those
mysterious beings, which is why he'd slipped McNair's grasp so quickly. 
Carroll had been awestruck by the slight detective's protectiveness, and
had found a new hero to emulate.  McNair sighed and wondered briefly how
such a simple pleasure could go so absurdly off-kilter. 

 * * * * * 2 * * * * * 

Fraser met Ray at the hospital as soon as he could get away.  Ray noticed
the red serge come through the doorway with relief.  There was something
about the beacon-bright RCMP dress uniform that inspired confidence, or
perhaps it was simply association with the man it clad.  In any event,
after a string of unpleasant surprises and uncomfortable surroundings,
Fraser's arrival was the first positive note in an otherwise crappy day. 

Forthright as ever, Fraser asked bluntly, "How is he?" 

"Stable, but serious.  The docs think some kind of heart thingie made him
pass out; Mort was just coming around when he got here.  I was watching
from outside while they were treating him.  They started up with the tubes
and wires and stuff, then all of a sudden they all got to moving real
fast.  Later on, the doc said something about a sudden drop in blood
pressure.  He was trying to be all cool about it, but I could tell he was
a little shaky.  That don't inspire confidence, for sure." 

"What can we do now?" 

"Well, they keep asking about what meds he's on and stuff.  I called
Frannie to check his file, there's nothing on there about a regular
doctor.  Even the 'In case of emergencies' contact is blank." 

"Is that unusual?" 

"Not for somebody with no family, no.  But Mort was talking when they
wheeled him in, he was really anxious about getting a message to some guy
named Gregor.  I told him I'd take care of it, but damned if I know how." 

Fraser paused for a moment, in an attitude Ray always thought of as
"computing-mode".  Finally, he said consideringly, "You know, Ray, Mort
was probably very disoriented by this sudden illness.  It's possible that
he's confused, and that this 'Gregor' is someone no longer available." 

"No longer alive, you mean?" 

"Well, yes.  It's also possible that he's a recent acquaintance.  Have you
tried Mort's home?" 

"Not yet.  I've called a couple times and let it ring, but nobody answers
and if he's got a machine, it's broken.  You think this Gregor may be
staying there?" 

"It's somewhere to start.  If we can gain entry, a review of the contents
of his nightstand and medicine chest might yield the medical information
the doctors requested." 

"Good point.  If nothing else, we can stick a note under the door or
something.  We can do that on our way back to work." 

Fraser looked troubled.  "Shouldn't someone stay here with him?" 

"For what?  He's in ICU right now, no visitors.  I've got almost three
hours lost time on this already.  We'll check one more time on him, tell
the nurses to play nice with this Gregor guy if he comes by, and ask them
to call when he wakes up.  C'mon, I'll drop you." 

Reluctantly, Fraser agreed.  They made a quick check on Mort's condition,
notified the staff about the enigmatic Gregor, and called Frannie again
for Mort's home address.  Once there, no one answered the bell.  Ray
scribbled a short note of explanation, which Fraser insisted on recopying
in a more legible and grammatical form, and deposited it through the mail
slot in the front door.  An inappropriate use of U.S. Postal Service
property, certainly, but more secure than affixing the note to the outside
of the front door.  After a short discussion encompassing the suitable
disposal of Ray's handwritten note, which Ray insisted to the point of
threatened violence was just fine in the plantless pot on the front stoop,
they returned to their respective duties, and planned to meet again at the
hospital after work. 

 * * * * * 3 * * * * * 

"I have to see him.  Just for a minute.  Please?" 

"I'm sorry, sir.  Dr. Gustafson is not yet allowed visitors." 

"I won't touch anything.  I'll just look at him from the doorway.  He HAS
to know I'm here.  He'll ask for me.  When he wakes up, he'll ask for
Gregor.  That's me.  I promise I won't be in the way."  The winsome
sincerity was lost on the charge nurse, but the name was not.  She was
about to escort the coltish young man to Dr. Gustafson's room when a quiet
voice intervened. 

"You're name isn't Gregor."  A simple statement, neither challenge nor
question, made by one of two men as they stepped away from the elevator. 
The dark-haired man in uniform and his untidy blond companion stepped back
neatly from the whirlwind spin of the young man before them. 

"Constable Fraser!  Maybe you can help me.  I have a friend here and they
won't let me see him.  All I want is to see him and let him know I'm
here.  Please." 

"Who is this guy, Frase?" 

Uncharacteristically, Fraser ignored the detective.  "I'm somewhat
surprised to see you here.  I thought the UFO tours through Roswell would
have kept you sufficiently busy." 

The cherubic face fell.  "I had to get out of the tour business.  As you
know, NASA took the bus back for some supersecret retrofitting, and a
regular van just couldn't provide the same alien-friendly ambience." 

"I see.  And Miss McKenna?" 

Enthusiasm returned, redoubled.  "She's wonderful.  We see each other a
lot, and talk on the phone for hours."  Fraser raised one eyebrow, and
waited.  "Well, she's pretty busy, so maybe we don't see all that much of
each other.  But we talk all the time."  Both eyebrows rose, until young
not-Gregor broke eye contact and muttered, "Restraining orders.  I can't
go into Roswell, and I'm not supposed to see Audrey.   But it's all a
misunderstanding.  She's really crazy about me." 

Ray's initial pique abated as he slowly realized he was being fed clues to
the young man's identity.  A moment later, he knew why introductions would
be a Very Bad Thing.  "So, if you're not Gregor, why are you trying to get
into Mort's room?" 

Surprised, the sweet-faced cherub turned his attention to Ray.  "I am
Gregor.  Matt calls me that." 

"Mort." 

"What?" 

"Mort.  Not Matt." 

"I call him Matt.  And he calls me Gregor.  It's just something we do. 
Look, you can ask him yourself, okay?" 

Fraser glanced at the nurse.  She shook her head.  "Dr. Gustafson isn't
awake yet." 

"Pretty handy, eh, Frase?  Look, I don't know what kind of scam you're
trying to run, but you leave Mort alone."  Ray was rapidly achieving 'kick
'em in the head' mode.  Fraser tried to think of a way of forestalling
bloodshed, but without success. 

Hands spread placatingly, the impostor said, "I got a note about him being
here, and I just wanted to see that he was okay.  That's all." 

"May I see the note?"  Fraser asked.  He examined the crumpled scrap
closely.  Quietly, Fraser spoke directly to Ray.  "This is the one you
wrote.  The one left outside the house." 

"See?  You're so suspicious.  I'm not doing anything wrong.  I got a note,
and I'm here."  Smugness struggled under reasonableness in the smooth
tone. 

"What about the other note?"  challenged Ray. 

"What other note?"  Puzzled.  Innocent. 

"The one Fraser wrote.  The one we put in the mail slot." 

"Oh, I didn't pick up the mail.  I saw this note and came right here." 

"Uh-huh.  Tell me, you a good friend of Mort's?" 

"Yeah.  Best friends.  I mean, I know we don't look like we've got too
much in common, but he really likes me a lot.  Took a shine to me, he
says.  He's always giving me stuff, helping me out.  He even lets me live
in his house." 

"Uh-huh.  You live in that house with Mort?" 

"Yes.  So?" 

"So, why didn't you see Fraser's note, that was right on the doorstep
INSIDE the house, but instead you picked up my note, the one all crumpled
and trashy and unob... uh, stuck in a flowerpot?  OUTSIDE the house.  If
you're such a good friend and living in the house, why were you outside
reading the garbage, huh?" 

"Well, I picked it up because trash doesn't belong in a flowerpot.  Can I
help it if I'm a tidy person by nature?  If I like to help my friend keep
his house nice and neat?  And I didn't get the other note because I forgot
my keys this morning and got locked out." 

"Locked out. So you came down here to the hospital to check on your good
friend Mort, and maybe borrow his keys, right?" 

"Right," the young man vigorously nodded, relieved.  "I was waiting out
front for Mort to get home, so he could unlock the door and let me in, and
while I was waiting I saw that note.  So here I am." 

"Out.  Go away.  Some people may be stupid enough to believe that bull
about you and Mort, but I'm not one of them."  Ray advanced threateningly
and the young man stepped back.  "I don't know what your game is, but I
know you.  You can't tell the truth if your life depended on it.  That
means you're lying.  I don't like liars much." 

"I'm not lying!" Looking the picture of innocence betrayed, the impostor
cast around for support.  "Constable Fraser, you believe me, don't you?" 

"The evidence seems convincingly against you.  The names, the
circumstances, the notes, the matter of the keys.  And you've shown a
propensity for fabrications that mitigates trust." 

Ray had continued stalking forward until the dark-haired man had his back
against the elevator doors.  Ray pushed the "Down" button beside him, and
his prey flinched.  He closed his eyes against Ray's next, very soft,
words. 

"Leave.  Don't come back.  I see you here again, and you'll make this trip
without the elevator." 

The man who was not Gregor fell backwards as the doors opened, stumbling
until the far wall stopped him.  Ray reached around and lit the "Lobby"
button, sending his trembling foe away without further ado. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray saw Fraser frown and shake his head once
at the nurse.  She nodded a grim reply, and returned to the desk.  The
impostor would not be welcomed back. 

 * * * * * 4 * * * * * 
The next day, Fraser knocked gently on the open door as he and Ray entered
together.  Mort brightened slightly under the startlingly white bandage
before he turned and identified his visitors. 

"You were expecting someone else," Fraser said.  Mort had asked about his
friend the moment he regained consciousness. 

Mort half-smiled and turned his head away.  "Of course not.  I wasn't
expecting anyone." 

"Perhaps not," persisted Fraser, "But you hoped to see someone else." 

"Ghosts and dreams, Constable.  The usual companions of an old man.  It
doesn't matter." 

"His name isn't Gregor."  Again, Fraser captured the peculiar intonation
that made a brief, neutral statement into an exposition of so much more. 
Ray braced involuntarily.  Fraser's random shots in the dark tended to
spark fireworks. 

Mort took a long, slow breath before he replied, simply, "I know."  Shrewd
eyes measured the visitors carefully, weighing an impulse to confide
against a lifetime's habit of silence.  "Gregor was someone I knew, a long
time ago.  My best friend at a time when friends were a luxury.  We
endured many hardships together, Gregor and I.  We were closer than
brothers." 

"You were lovers?" Fraser probed gently, and Ray jumped, staring hard at
the back of his partner's head. 

"He loved me, and I, him."  Mort smiled softly, lost in the past, then
returned to the present with a snort.  "Don't look so surprised, I wasn't
always this old and wrinkled, you know.  We were survivors.  Sometimes he
was all that kept me alive.  Sometimes I was the one to keep him alive. 

"We were lovers in intent only.  Survival took precedence, there was no
energy for affection beyond shared warmth.  It was enough that we knew our
feelings."  He took a breath.  Then another.  "After the war, after
liberation, Gregor wanted that to change.  He wanted to love me.  I wanted
to be left alone.  His love was strong; it terrified me.  I didn't want to
be different.  I was tired of being different, tired of the struggle, of
the constant challenges.  I'd had a lifetime's experience in persecution,
and all I wanted was to be left alone. 

"I met a girl.  Lovely and warm.  As strong as Gregor, in her own way. 
And I married her, to my shame, because she loved me and wanted me as I
was.  Because her love didn't frighten me.  Gregor didn't understand why I
couldn't do what he asked, I didn't understand - ah.  So much.  Too much. 
I put all of myself into becoming a nobody, indistinguishable from the
nobodies around me.  A quiet life, that was the extent of my ambition." 

Mort sighed, a low rumble.  "Gregor emigrated to Israel, and died there in
the war of '57.  Stupid waste.  He never forgave me for the choice I
made.  I never loved him as he deserved.  I carry that regret with me
always. 

"Margit and I came here.  She dreamed of America, of the abundance and
freedom.  How could I deny her that dream?  It was an abundance of alcohol
and the freedom to drive under its influence that killed her.  She was
thirty-two, and carrying our first child. The child of our old age. 
Forty-four years old, and I thought my life was over." 

Mort's eyes closed for a moment.  "It wasn't.  It still isn't, despite the
best efforts of these ham-fisted charlatans.  When I finally realized that
I couldn't hide from myself, I stopped worrying so much about being
different.  Everyone's different. 

"You think I'm a foolish old man, and you're right.  But my foolishness
isn't harming anything or anyone.  The boy knows.  He hasn't complained." 
His gaze sharpened suddenly.  "You know about Gregor.  You must have seen
him.  Is he here?" 

"He was," Fraser slowly admitted.  "At least, a young man calling himself
Gregor was asking for you at the desk when we arrived last night. There
was some question about his veracity, and he was unable to account for
several discrepancies in his explanation." 

"He's got a history of  taking advantage of old people.  Not," Ray was
quick to add, "that you're an old person or anything.  But you're, you
know, kinda older and all, and we thought he might've been trying to pull
something on you without you knowing it." 

Drily, Mort said, "I doubt that, Detective.  But thank you for the kind
thoughts.  You sent him away?" 

Fraser nodded, no longer convinced that they'd acted appropriately. 

"Poor boy, he doesn't like to be alone.  Didn't it occur to you that I
don't give out housekeys to strangers?" 

Nervously, Ray cleared  his throat.  "He didn't have a housekey.  That's
one of the things that were a little hinky.  Said he got locked out." 

"We weren't certain of his intentions.  I'm still not certain that the
young man we spoke with is the young man you know." 

"I see.  Let me describe him.  Young man, about twenty-five.  Dark hair,
cut short.  Dark eyes.  Round face, about five-foot-ten or so.  Slender. 
Tells the most entertaining stories."  Mort paused, then locked eyes with
Fraser.  "Canadian.  The name he gave me was Ian MacDonald." 

Fraser looked away.  "I was afraid of that." 

"The same fellow, then?"  Mort settled back onto the mattress with a
grunt.  "I'll be indisposed for another day or two.  In the meantime,
Detective, Constable, I'd appreciate you finding my friend and telling him
that this has all been a terrible misunderstanding.  I'd also like to see
him, if he can forgive me for having such surprisingly protective
friends.  Take my keys and let him back into the house.  He usually leaves
his keys on a hook at the back door.  Return them." 

"Look, Mort, we thought ..." 

"I appreciate your thoughts, Ray.  And your good intentions.  But my
concern right now is that my young friend is homeless and probably in need
of a hot meal.  Find him, feed him, and let him come home." 

"Yes, sir.  Uh, any ideas about where to look?" 

"Take my keys.  Go to the house.  Open the door, turn on a few lights. 
Wait.  He'll come home." 

 * * * * * 5 * * * * * 
Ray sat in the darkest corner of the room, in an easy chair dragged from
under a reading lamp.  The drapes were drawn, but the glow of occupation
gleamed gently into the city night, an invitation he hoped MacDonald would
answer soon.  He'd already spent two nights in Mort's darkly comfortable
house, sleeping uneasily on the old sofa and racing home to change for
work in the morning. 

This was the worst part, waiting for Fraser to get back from his nightly
hospital visit.  The house was as old as Mort, and Ray wasn't used to the
squeaks and groans, the sighs and creaks, the unsettling creepy old house
noises he heard while he waited.  The stereo was on, but it was playing
Mort-music at Mort-volume, useless for dancing or even listening.  He
tried to read, but couldn't decide between "Modern Forensic Techniques"
and "Inuvik Today".  He'd even tried to whittle, copying Fraser's moves so
clumsily that he gave up before accidental amputation became a real
possibility. 

Waiting sucked.  Waiting quietly and alone sucked giant yellow Twinkies. 
Without the cream-filled center.  His stomach gurgled.  Great.  Alone in
an unlocked, spooky house, waiting for a pathological liar, and slowly
starving to death. 

Enough, already!  Ray was halfway to the kitchen before he realized he was
talking to himself.  With a shrug, he silently resolved to switch places
with Fraser from then on.  Let the Canadian sit in an empty, scary house
waiting for a creepy fellow countryman and talking to himself. 

Ransacking the refrigerator, he'd scared up half a loaf of bread, mayo,
pickles, three kinds of sliced cheese, and the better part of a meatloaf. 
At least, he devoutly hoped it was meatloaf.  He began assembling the
gleanings into an assortment of sandwiches.  A large bag of chips and a
two-liter bottle of Pepsi completed the snack.  He'd just pulled a chair
out from the table when he heard a hesitant knock at the front door. 
Holding his breath, he crept to the kitchen doorway.  Hand on holster,
just in case. 

Trepidation and concern colored the soft voice from the front room. 
"Matt?  Matt, are you awake?  The door wasn't locked, anybody could have
walked in.  I got it, so don't get up.  You wouldn't believe what I've
been doing the last couple of days." 

"Probably not.  Want a sandwich?"  Ray watched Ian turn gratifyingly
ashen, then had to speak quickly to keep the terrified young man from
bolting.  "Look, it's okay.  I'm not going to hurt you.  Mort told us
about the mixup, and wanted to be sure you got home okay.  He's still in
the hospital, so I've been hanging out here waiting for you to show up." 

"The door was open." 

"I know.  And I got your keys right here for you.  It's alright.  C'mon. 
I'll drive you to see Mort after I eat.  You hungry?" 

Suspicious, eyes wide, Ian nodded cautiously. 

"There's chips and pop and some sandwich stuff.  Look, I'm sorry about the
elevator thing.  It was a mistake, okay?  Just come on in, sit down, and
have a sandwich."  Ray smiled, putting all his considerable charm into the
gesture.  Ian's lips twitched in response, but he didn't approach the
kitchen until Ray withdrew to lock the back door. 

When he turned around, Ian was sitting gingerly at the table, helping
himself to the food already prepared.  Ray checked a rash impulse, and
merely sighed inaudibly as he brought out another plate, cup, utensils and
cut a few more slices of meatloaf. 

One thing missing.  "Ketchup?" 

"Icebox door, bottom shelf, on the right," Ian answered automatically. 
"Bring the Grey Poupon next to it, too, please."  He twitched suddenly,
and looked at Ray apprehensively. 

Ray smiled again.  Ketchup and mustard were right where Ian said they'd
be.  Despite what Mort had said, Ray preferred doing his own independent
confirmation work.  He scooped up both condiments and deposited them on
the table. 

Chewing companionably, about halfway through the first sandwich, Ray
asked, "So, why's Mort call you Gregor?" 

The question seemed friendly enough, but Ian hesitated before answering. 
"He said I looked like a guy he grew up with.  Gregor.  Met him at camp,
he said, and I figured it was camping-type camp or day camp like I used to
go to when I was a kid.  I didn't think of other kinds of camp until I
saw, well, never mind.  He's pretty cool about it.  Anyway, he calls me
Gregor sometimes.  Like a nickname.  Almost never calls me by my real
name." 

The blond detective thought of his dark-haired partner wryly.  "Yeah, I
hear ya.  How'd you meet?" 

"Oh, around."  Ian twitched again as Ray's glance sharpened into a glare. 
"At the market.  Two blocks down, there's a market on the corner.  I was
just standing there, minding my own business, and this old guy comes up
and slips me a twenty dollar bill.  Now, I may be from Canada, but I've
been around.  So I ask him what he wants.  I mean, I don't do stuff like
that.  He just smiled at me and said I looked like somebody he used to
know. 

"I didn't need the money, you know.  I have plenty, but it's tied up in
escrow and stuff right now.  And a computer crash made my credit cards no
good.  So I didn't need the money, but an extra twenty really helped my
cash flow.  I tried to explain it, but he just waved me off.  I asked him
where I could find him, to pay him back when the bank got my cards figured
out.  He said I could walk him home, that he'd like to have dinner with
me, and then I'd know where to put the money when I could pay him back. 

"Like I said, I'm not just off the boat.  This guy hands me a twenty, then
he wants to feed me dinner.  I was pretty suspicious, but he looked okay. 
Friendly.  And he's really old, so I figured why not?  He's probably just
a lonely old guy who wants some company for dinner." 

"And you were hungry," Ray put in, as Ian reached for another sandwich and
a handful of chips. 

"Well, yeah.  So, we had dinner and we talked.  He's a cool guy."  Ian
suddenly looked uneasy.  "He's going to be okay, right?" 

"Yeah, he's coming home, probably tomorrow.  That's why we needed to find
you.  He's going to need some help getting around for a couple days,
somebody to keep an eye on him, make sure he isn't overdoing it." 

"What happened to him?  I mean, he went off to work at the usual time and
he looked okay then." 

"Some kind of heart thingummy.  Not a big deal, but he passed out.  And
when the doctors went to treat him, his blood pressure crashed because
they used something that reacted to some medication he'd been on." 

Ian nodded, a bit sadly.  "The Viagra, right?  I think that's all he was
taking." 

"Musta been."  The response percolated for a few seconds, then Ray
yelped.  "Viagra?  Mort's on VIAGRA?  What the hell for?" 

Ian blushed.  Ray moaned.  "Oh, no.  Oh, ick.  Yuck.  You're kidding,
right?  You and Mort?  Ewwwww.  That's gross." 

"Hey, that's my life grossing you out.  Anyway, it's not like that.  Well,
it is like that, only it didn't start out like that.  He was such a sweet
guy, and he let me stay in the spare room, and we talked about all kinds
of stuff.  So, the first time it happened . . ." 

"I do not want to hear this . . ." 

"We'd been talking, it was kinda late, and he was telling me about this
guy, Gregor, that he had this big crush on a hundred years ago or whatever
and how much I look like this guy.  And how he'd never done anything about
it, never even seen the guy naked.  So, it was late, like I said, and I
figured I could give the old guy that much, you know, just get naked and
let him look and he could pretend I was his friend and he wouldn't be so
sad." 

Ray had stopped groaning and taken his hands off his ears.  Ian studied
the dried rings of spilled Pepsi on the table intently.  "That's all it
was, at first.  I took my clothes off and just kinda stood there feeling
stupid.  The look on his face was . . . it was amazing.  Scared and
grateful.  Just about the time I was getting really embarrassed and ready
to run, he asked me to touch myself.  Just a whisper, I could barely hear
him.  I had to close my eyes to do it, but when we talked about it later
he said he understood.  It was weird, doing that with somebody watching,
but exciting, too." 

Ian met Ray's eyes.  "Anyway, it started like that and now it's kinda more
than that.  He doesn't really need the Viagra, but I think he feels a
little inadequate because of the age difference." 

"Doesn't it bother you?" 

"Yeah, a little.  Sometimes.  But I guess I don't really see him the way
he is now.  When we're together, and he's talking to me with that
beautiful voice, I just kinda float on the words and everything's okay. 
When we're together, he isn't old Mort.  He's Matt.  And I'm Gregor. 

"Look, I know it's not forever.  He's old and I'm not.  But he was nice to
me when he didn't have to be, so I'm nice to him even though I don't have
to be.  He listens to me, even if he doesn't always believe the stuff I
tell him." 

"Well, believe this," Ray looked at his watch.  "I'm headed to the
hospital in another ten minutes, and you're coming with me." 

 * * * * * 6 * * * * * 

A few hours earlier, in a hospital not so far away, Fraser and Mort sat in
silence.  They'd discussed commonplaces and the polite, stilted
conversation had run out.  Fraser tried unsuccessfully to think of a topic
that didn't sound like interrogation.  Thwarted, he sat at silent
attention.  And speculated on Mort's private life in a way that was
unbecoming a member of the RCMP. 

Mort licked his lips and sat a bit straighter in the utilitarian bed. 
Amused, he said, "Constable, curiosity is positively radiating from you. 
Ask your questions." 

"It's none of my business."  Fraser couldn't meet Mort's eyes, to his
considerable shame. 

"You're right, it's not.  But you may as well listen to something that
interests you, and I feel like talking.  Ask." 

"You call him Gregor, after your friend.  Why does he refer to you as
'Matt'?" 

The old man smiled.  "Because that's my name.  Mattathia.  'Mort' is an
occupational nickname, Benton.  Or did you never think to question a
medical examiner called Death before?" 

Fraser flushed.  "Since I first came to Chicago on the trail of my
father's killer, I've met any number of  people with historically
significant or strangely apropos names.  I suppose I considered a medical
examiner named Mort no more unusual than one named Esther Pearson." 

"Good point,"  Mort conceded with a chuckle.  "But it doesn't alter the
fact that my young friend uses my real name, at my request." 

"How did you meet?"  The bluntness of the question seemed to take both men
by surprise. 

"He was a stray I picked up."  Mort met Fraser's shocked glance and
chuckled again.  "No, I am not in the habit of picking up young men in the
streets.  It was raining, he was in the corner market, clutching about two
dollars and casting furtive looks at the proprietor.  It was obvious he
could afford nothing of substance.  His resemblance to my old friend, and
the memory of being in that very situation a time or two myself in my
youth, prompted me to interrupt his plans before he did something
foolish.  That, and I was lonely." 

"You took a chance, letting a stranger into your home.  A man of your
age..." 

"We're all strangers, Benton, and all God's creatures.  A man of my age
has learned quite a bit about risks.  I certainly have.  Besides, he took
as much of a risk by accepting my offer.  I could have been a mad
scientist, or some undiscovered predator who targeted young men."  Mort
laughed again, and this time Fraser noticed a slight wheeze.  "You should
have seen us, two rabbits, each thinking the other might be a wolf." 

"He's been known to misrepresent himself. . ." 

"He tells tales.  Most of them are too outrageous to be dignified with the
appellation 'lie', don't you think?  He amuses me, Benton.  I find his
inventiveness refreshing, don't you?" 

"It can be an inconvenience during an investigation." 

"True.  But he's got a good heart, and most of the time his stories don't
cause a problem.  That's right," Mort said with some surprise, "you've met
him before." 

"Twice.  The first time, he was a witness I escorted north.  The second
time, he came to me for help when his fiancée was abducted by aliens." 
Mort raised his bushy grey eyebrows.  "It was all very confusing." 

"I'm sure my boy made it even more so.  He's probably told me about you,
but you understand that his descriptions tend to be somewhat creative. 
Yes, I'm sure he said something about saving policemen with various heroic
efforts, but why don't you tell me your version of what happened." 

Fraser wanted to be offended by this casual slander, but the twinkle in
Mort's expression reassured him.  He took a breath, and began, "Through a
roundabout series of events, I'd been charged with transporting a witness
to Canada but not provided with a vehicle to do so.  But that's not
important.  What is important is that the real adventure started when I
tried to borrow Ray's car. . ." 

 * * * * * 7 * * * * * 

". . . and we got into the taxi, leaving Ian and his group of sightseers
in Roswell, IL,"  Fraser concluded, some hour or so later.  "I didn't see
him again until the other evening." 

"Quite a story, Benton," remarked Mort.  "One remarkably similar to the
one that my friend told me, with a few notable alterations.  Quite
startling, really, the boy was nearly truthful.  I suppose there's little
incentive to 'spice up' an already preposterous tale.  Canadian Mafia?  A
secret military installation inside a restricted military base?  A pity
about Ray's car, though." 

"Ray was considerably distraught," Fraser said, shuddering just slightly
at the memory. 

"Considerably distraught about what?" asked a familiar voice from the
doorway.  Ray slouched there, looking more like an overgrown street urchin
than the competent, responsible detective he was.  Pushing around him was
a slightly smaller figure, dark-haired but equally disheveled. 
Unnecessarily, Ray  announced, "Found him.  Or he came home.  Whatever." 

"Gregor?"  Mort asked.  Fraser realized he was blocking Mort's view of the
doorway where both Ray and Ian hovered, uncertain. 

"Here I am.  Uh, how are you?  I was here as soon as I heard, but they
wouldn't let me see you.  You look pretty good, for being in bed and
nearly dying and all.  Does it hurt?"  Ian drifted closer to the bed as he
spoke, and Fraser drew slowly towards the doorway. 

Mort smiled and his eyes closed.  "No, child, it doesn't hurt.  A
momentary glitch in the system, compounded by ignorance and an old man's
foolishness.  Now that you're here, everything's fine.  Come here, my boy,
and tell me everything you've done since I saw you last."  He moved to the
far side of the bed and opened his arms in invitation. 

Fraser could barely keep his jaw from dropping in shock as Ian gasped once
and practically hurled himself onto the bed beside Mort.  Hospital rules
forbade such displays.  It could be injurious to the patients.  He should
say something.  He shrugged off Ray's hand on his arm, tugging him away,
and opened his mouth to speak. 

The barely-formed admonition died unuttered.  Faced with two so very
disparate and desperate souls clinging together hungrily, recklessly, even
the most rulebound Mountie must give way. 

"C'mon, Fraser, leave 'em be.  I'll explain it in the car." 

END 
  

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