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Morris was no prince when he was sober, but when he was drunk… well, he denied it, but after two or three drinks he invariably became very pink and effusive, effectively humping the leg of anyone unfortunate enough to get trapped in a conversation with him. It was often annoying, occasionally endearing. So the same old Morris, basically, just turned up to eleven.
That amplification applied to his already prodigious ability to get himself in trouble too, so when the fine folks of the ER went out for a night of fun, they usually had to have someone looking out for Morris to make sure he got home in as close as one piece as they could manage. Morris duty wasn’t Greg’s favorite thing in the world, not by a long shot, but it seemed to fall on him more and more. So he couldn’t even be surprised really, when Sam tapped him on the shoulder to say, “Tag, you’re it,” before heading out with her merry band of nurses. Annoyed maybe, but not surprised.
He located Morris standing at the bar, chatting up a couple of girls who were regarding him with a mixture of pity and amusement usually reserved for, say, Jo Jo the Dog Faced Boy. Not too bad, as far as drunk Morris went. Certainly better than the night he’d gotten wasted and queued “Thunderstruck” on the jukebox an astonishing 13 times before getting physically thrown out of Ike’s, or when he’d loudly mouthed off to a group of bikers about the inversely proportional relationship between the size of their hogs and the size of their, well, hogs. No one appeared to be in danger of any physical injury at least, which meant Greg could finish his beer with only a mild twinge of guilt on the ladies’ behalf.
Ten minutes later, when he’d drained his bottle dry and ran out of excuses, Greg stood, wiping his hands on his pants. It was second nature at this point, to throw down enough cash to cover both their tabs, grab Morris by the collar, and, despite his emphatic protests, herd him away from the girls and into the passenger seat of his car - in what he was now realizing was a self fulfilling prophecy, Greg had an inkling that he was going to be tapped for this yet again and therefore had nursed a respectable two drinks over the course of the night. He had done this so many times he could make the drive on autopilot and he did so, tuning out Morris’ running monologue about the “babes” and how “totally into him” they were in favor of the Tracy Chapman song playing on the radio.
It was late enough that the streets weren’t crowded and Greg could just cruise on down. He’d always liked nights like that. They were peaceful. Greg loved his job, but peace was something he got very little of.
It was a nice ending to a nice night. It might’ve even stayed that way, if they hadn’t hit a red light at the same time the song ended and completely by chance, Greg tuned back in just enough to hear Morris saying:
“-and you know, if I had to be gay with anyone I really think it’d be you. And I really mean that.”
It was a good thing they’d already come to a stop. As completely and utterly thrown for a loop as Greg was, he could’ve plowed right through the car in front of him and not been aware of it until he found the scratches on the hood the next day. He spluttered out, “Excuse me?”
“I said if I had to be-“
“No, I heard you. I wish I didn’t, but I did. I just don’t know where the hell it came from.”
Morris actually had the nerve to look offended. “Well, I was saying the chicks from the bar were probably lesbians or something. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I mean. Max’s moms are lesbians. And Weaver! Awesome.” Morris gave a very earnest thumbs up. “Anyway, that got me thinking about being gay, as like, a concept, and how I don’t think I could handle it because of the whole penis thing.” He mimed performing a handjob.
Greg did not often think fondly of the car accident that almost killed him and Jing-Mei, but if a gun wielding, road raging maniac decided to pull a repeat performance right then and there, he thought he’d prefer ending up back in the Chicago River a hell of a lot more than this conversation.
Completely oblivious to Greg’s internal turmoil, Morris continued, “But then it was like, if I had to be gay, like if someone put a gun to my head and said ‘Be gay!”, who would I pick to be gay with? And I don’t just mean the“ -another hand job motion - “stuff either. I mean all of it. The marches and the, uh, brunches. Little purse dogs. Who could I do that stuff with?”
“And you decided… that it would be me,” Greg answered for him, mostly because he didn’t want to hear Morris say it again.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. And that’s from the heart.” He raised his fist in the universal symbol for solidarity. It was unclear what he meant by this.
Greg stared at him blankly until the sound of a car horn from behind reminded him that, no, he was not actually trapped in some bizarre nightmare and, yes, he was still driving and the light had turned green. He waved off the person behind him and renewed the drive with increased enthusiasm. It usually took about fifteen minutes. Greg was thinking he could do it in five.
There was a blissful silence, and for a second Greg thought that in his drunken haze the horns might’ve distracted Morris enough to forget what they were talking about entirely. Then he said, “What about you?”
Greg’s grip on the wheel tightened. “What about me?”
“Who would you pick? If you had to, I mean.”
“No one. Because I’m not gay.”
“Well neither am I!” Morris protested, which Greg was seriously starting to doubt. Not that there was anything wrong with that. “Come on, it’s a game. Don’t be a homophobe.”
Which, okay- Greg gritted his teeth, briefly revisited the idea of crashing the car, then decided that the best way out of this conversation was on the path of least resistance. “I don’t know. Denzel Washington.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t count? How does that not count?”
“It has to be someone you could realistically get. I mean, come on. If I could be gay with anyone it would be Matthew McConaughey. Or Will Smith,” he amended very seriously, like his willingness to hypothetically date a black guy was the height of allyship. They were engraving the Nobel Peace Prize with his name as they spoke. “It has to be someone you know. Like someone at County, maybe?”
It was a pathetically obvious fishing attempt. But Morris was like a dog with a bone when he wanted something and for whatever reason that would only make sense in the drunken machinations of his brain he clearly wanted Greg to play along. Which Greg could do. He was a modern, 21st century man, completely secure in his sexuality, thank you very much Chaz.
So fuck it. If Greg had to go gay with a guy at County…
Well it wouldn’t be Kovac, Greg knew that right off the bat. He figured that once someone blackmails you into going to Africa a relationship was off the table. Besides, he was Abby’s man now and Greg had to imagine that even if he were gay he would respect the bro code. Gates was an obvious and immediate no, as were Frank and Moretti. Dubenko was too into yoga, Grady had half a brain. Zelensky was too young and way too… Zelensky. As Pratt mentally reviewed and ruled out his options, he realized that the pickings were much slimmer than he originally thought.
Anspaugh? Too old. Jerry? In addition to being in Alaska, way too tall. Kayson? Now he was really grasping at straws.
Morris? Well-
The thing was-
The thing was, as fun as it was to rag on him because really, the guy was made by God to be the perfect punching bag, Greg liked Morris. He couldn’t really explain why or exactly when that had happened, but he did. A lot, actually. Against all odds, Morris had wriggled himself into Greg’s heart like a ginger tapeworm.
There were dudes that were more objectively attractive (if you were into that kind of thing), dudes that were less annoying, dudes with an appropriate number of nipples, but God help him, Archie Morris was his boy.
It was a pretty startling revelation to say the least.
“I guess,” Greg pronounced with great reluctance, “if and only if, I don’t know, a time traveler from the 31st century came to me and said ‘Dr. Pratt, the future is doomed unless you go gay with specifically one of your coworkers’- with proof. I’m talking iron clad, incontrovertible proof. Then I’d choose you too. Happy?”
“Aww, really?” Morris exclaimed. The seatbelt squeaked in protest of his uncoordinated attempt to fully face Greg. He looked almost unbearably self satisfied but also deeply touched, eyes sparkling wetly, like an old, shaking chihuahua getting fed scraps from the kitchen table. He was without a doubt the weirdest guy Greg had ever worked with. Morris punched him on the shoulder. “I love you too, man.”
“Not what I said.”
“It was there. It was subtext.”
Greg had the very distinct feeling that whatever the hell this game was, he just lost. Eventually, he said, “Morris, do me a favor. Forget we had this conversation. Wipe it from your brain. And if by some chance you wake up tomorrow and you do remember it, just pretend you don’t. Okay?”
“Sure thing, Greg,” Morris agreed, but his smile didn’t fade, not even by the time they got to his place and he stumbled out of the car. Greg watched him try to unlock his front door, drop the keys, bang his head on the doorknob when he went down to retrieve them, then fumble at the lock for way too long. When he finally got it open he turned and gave Greg two enthusiastic thumbs up before promptly turning and running into the door again.
As Greg drove away he shook his head and murmured, “What a freak,” to himself, but against all odds, he said it fondly.