Chapter Text
“It’s . . . ‘s fucking stupid,” Rick mumbled into the crook of his arm. Empty glasses of various sizes littered the surrounding area of the bar he sat at, small puddles of liquors dripping from the sides of some. The wood warped beneath them. He sat, barely awake, listening to the bumble of the crowd.
“Well, what is sugar? You’ve been sayin’ that for a while,” a woman asked from his side. She was an alien—he wasn’t sober enough to know from which planet—with a country accent. Odd combination, or, at least he thought so. She had gorgeous blonde hair and soft eyes . . . he liked that, which was strange. He had a thing for redheads, sure, but he hadn’t seen that shade of blonde in decades.
“H-He just—[burp]—just kept goin’ toward it . . . h-he lacks . . . s’got no regard for himself,” he slurred, lifting his head and peering down at the empty shot glass in his hand. He propped himself up and waved it around in the air before tossing it beside the others. The bartender nodded and went to find the liquor Rick had been drinking for . . . god knows how long.
He had downed shot after shot with the hope the events of the day would be lost in his head.
He shouldn't care so deeply. It’s a Morty, for fuck’s sake—the most replaceable living thing in every universe. He still had the free voucher from the Council of Ricks in the top drawer of his desk next to a small bag of alien drugs. He could get a new Morty for free if his had really died today.
Morty could’ve died in sacrifice—Rick thought he did die. Rick thought that he was blown into nothing but flesh and blood. It’s the thought that Morty died in vain to “help him out”—him being the selfish, greedy asshole that Rick knew he was—that irked him. If they had gotten the orb, it’s not like the world would've changed—it was for a shitty invention he thought of just the other night.
And the way Morty would have died—by bomb of all ways. Out of the infinite realities, infinite possibilities, his Morty almost died the same way as . . .
What a coincidence.
It stuck in the folds of his brain. No amount of liquor could scrub it from the creases, but Rick still kept trying.
The bartender sat the shot glass down next to him. Despite the spiral in his mind, he whipped around and grabbed it off of the bar, emptying the glass of every drop.
“I don’t know who ‘he’ is, honey. You’re startin’ to sound real half-witted,” the alien noted, a hint of concern hidden in her voice. “Take it easy, wont’cha?” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Rick lowered his head, looking through the bottom of his shot. “I-I-I just. . .” he paused for a moment before uneasily shifting his gaze toward the alien. “What was your name [burp] a-again, baby?”
“Eucleaphus.”
He thought for a moment, staring the woman in the eyes.
“A-are you serious?”
“No? Why, is-is somethin’ wrong with my name?”
“No.”
You could hear a pin drop.
“I jus’ can’t think that a pretty girl like you would have sucha’ long name like that,” Rick teased, leaning in to her. Though, it wasn’t as smooth as he anticipated—he swayed, and Eucleaphus caught him before he fell.
“You flatterin’ me?” she cooed, stabilizing him a little.
“There’s a bathroom stall still open n’ clean,” Rick coaxed, throwing his thumb toward a door in the back of the bar. “Whatcha’ say we make those janitors work overtime?”
The alien giggled, wrapping her arm around his waist.
“C-137! Is that you, dog?”
Rick stopped in his tracks and snapped his neck toward the voice that closely resembled his own.
About ten feet from the entrance to the bar stood Rick 291-Alpha. 291-Alpha was a retired militant specialist for the Council of Ricks—an asshole in C-137’s mind. He was the one who detained C-137 after he was caught killing other Ricks amidst the search for Rick Prime. The one who cut his mission early.
“Man, I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s it hanging?” 291-Alpha chimed, taking the seat beside C-137. Eucleaphus slightly loosened her grip on him, throwing him off balance. He gripped onto the bartop, face lidded with confusion. It took a moment for him to realize which Rick was talking to him—and if he should be making a getaway or not.
“M’ alright,” C-137 said, rolling his eyes and waving the shot glass—the one he never let go—in the air. He's retired. Not a real threat anymore.
“I’m doing pretty good myself. I tell ya’, retiring is the way to go,” 291-Alpha flaunted, flagging down the bartender to get a drink of his own.
No more than a few seconds later, two tumblers filled with vodka were placed in front of them. 291-Alpha let his rest for a moment, only pulling it slightly toward himself. Meanwhile, C-137 hastily picked it up and began gulping it down, mouthful after mouthful.
“Long . . . night?” the other Rick questioned, studying the growing pile of empty drinks around him.
“Yeah, my-my Morty—[burp]—h-he almost died,” C-137 sighed as his cup ran empty.
He expected a little bit of sympathy—hell, maybe a bit of empathy—from 291-Alpha, but instead was met with heinous cackling. He wasn’t surprised, though. He knew the situation about Mortys. Nobody cares if one dies, because there’s always another being genetically crafted to perfection—as perfect as a Morty could come, at least.
“You’re this fucked over a Morty? I would’ve thought that someone had resurrected Prime with the way you’re sucking the jizz out of the bottles here,” 291-Alpha cackled, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he laughed.
“And who are you, mister?” Eucleaphus said, hands on her hips.
“Rick 291-Alpha, sweetheart.”
The two continued to bicker, slowly shifting insults into remarks into flirts.
C-137 couldn't keep his mind straight enough to listen, let alone care about 291-Alpha stealing the woman he was with. He let his head fall into his crossed arms, not bothering to signal another drink—he probably knew he’d had enough, which was rare of him to admit.
291-Alpha’s mockery and laughter danced around him as he bordered the unconscious. He was stupid for letting a Morty get to him this way—for god’s sake, the other Rick was right. He’s acting like he did after he lost her, numbing his senses until they were blended into a slurry.
He wanted to quit pouting in public—wasn’t a good look on his end. Imagine being the Rick known for the murder of Prime, now becoming the Rick who cried over a Morty. Not a good reputation for the Rickest Rick to have.
Why did he give a shit anyway? Realistically, Morty dying would be a positive for him. After the love of his life died, he invented portal travel, for god’s sake! He was one of two Rick that actually invented portal travel, and the other one was now dead by his hands. After losing everything, he gained it back double—losing his Morty could make his advantages quadruple.
He didn’t need anyone. He had everything he could ever want sitting in a glass in front of him.
“R-rick . . ? Rick, please get up, we needa’ . . . w-we need to go!” an obnoxious voice whispered in his ear, bringing him from . . . quite possibly the worst sleep of his life. It felt like he’d been violently ripped out of a coma he’d been in for fifteen years.
“Wha—What? Who’s . . .” Rick mumbled, lifting his head. He really thought he was going to vomit.
“Rick, come on!” the voice said, tugging on his sleeve.
“M-Mo-Morty?”
“Oh my god, a-are you braindead, old man?” Morty hissed, reaching into his grandfather’s coat pocket and feeling around for the portal gun.
“What’cha doin’ in here?” Rick asked, still regaining his senses. “I-I thought I told ya’ to not . . . t-to stay in the ship?”
As Morty wrapped his hand around the base of the portal gun, a piece of glass cut his finger. “Ow! What the fuck?” he yelped, retrieving the device.
Morty’s face dropped when he saw the shattered, empty vat on top of the gun. He quickly shifted from frustrated to on the verge of tears in mere seconds. As he began to worry, he grabbed his grandpa by the shoulders, whipping the man toward him so they were face to face.
“What the fuck happened to the portal gun?” Morty yelled, shaking him.
“Oh, that? Minor—Minor inconvenience. Can getta’ new one at [burp] home,” Rick hiccuped, swatting at Morty to stop shaking him.
“We are nowhere near home! You can’t—you can’t fucking drive, Rick!”
“Well whose fault issat’?” Rick yelled back, shoving Morty off of him.
“Yours! You told me to stay in the ship—which I did—until . . .” Morty suddenly dropped his speech, looking partially ashamed, still seething.
“I-I can drive better than you ever will be able to! Little bitch . . . don-don’t even have a permit . . .” Rick slurred, standing from his stool and gripping the bartop
Morty silently reached his hand out toward Rick, before he slapped it away.
“G-Grandpa’s—[burp]—fine . . . Grandpa don’t need you Mo-Morty,” he said, pushing off of the bar and stumbling through the now tapering off crowd of the bar. Morty followed closely behind, seemingly a bit uneasy himself.
The door slammed behind them, lock clicking into place as they both got in the ship, Rick moreso falling into his seat. Morty calmly sat down, eyes glued to the glovebox. He was thinking about something.
Rick fumbled with his keys, carefully eyeing each one on the clip and mumbling before jamming one into the slot. The ship came to life, but didn’t rise off of the ground initially. As Morty noticed the lack of increase in height, he looked over at Rick. His grandpa was fiddling with his coat, patting the inside.
“Mo-Morty I think grandpa left [burp] his flask inside . . . we-we gotta go get it.”
Morty sighed. “You don’t need it. J-just please, can we leave?”
“D-do you even care about grandpa, Morty? Y’know, I need that flask!” he said, raising his voice a smidgen.
“No you fucking don’t!” Morty snapped, eyes flickering between Rick and the glovebox. “W-why do you drink anyways? What does the ‘smartest man in the universe’ do that m-makes it okay for you to force your family to deal with this shit almost every day?"
Morty laughed to himself a bit, “I-I mean, do you think I like being with you when you’re like this? You’re hurting everybody, Rick, not just yourself!”
“Y-You’re stupid Morty . . . you know that?” He growled, lifting the ship into the air.
“That’s seriously all you have to say?”
“You died, Morty. I-I saved your life today, Morty. Who-who would’ve had to bear the burden of knowing you were dead, hmm?”
Morty sat frozen as they shot into space.
Rick noticed the look on Morty’s face and laughed. “Oh, yeah, did I forget to mention how you tried to kill yourself with a bomb, Morty? Did-did I forget to tell you that?”
Morty remained silent, heartbeat audibly rising.
“A bomb! A-and no-nobody would even notice if you were gone, Morty. I’d have you replaced!” Rick laughed, steering unsteadily. He thought about what 291-Alpha said. “There’s infinite versions of you. You aren’t special,” he spat like acid.
“You’d rather carry my corpse around than accept that I was dead?”
Rick froze, sobering up in less than a second.
“W-What?”
“Y-you said I died. I died, but you brought my body on the ship with you to go drink?” Tears pricked at Morty’s eyes, threatening to fall. “Do you just say all of this ‘replacement’ shit to hurt me? You constantly tell me I’m replaceable, but when I actually could be replaced, you can’t leave my body?”
Rick grabbed the ship’s gear and pushed it into hyper-speed without saying a word.
Morty reached up and unlocked the glovebox, pulling a flask out. He threw it at Rick, the metal landing in his lap.
“Here’s your fucking flask.”