Work Text:
It was a nice day on the Citadel. Ricks from all cultures and backgrounds chatted merrily on the streets and Mortys ran about, laughing and causing general havoc.
Morty Smith of Earth C-137 was panicking. His muscles burned, his skin sticky with sweat – the brick wall dug into his back and elbows where he pressed firm against it. Where the hell was he? Fuck! Rick had told him to not run off, and now here he was, lost on the fucking Citadel of all places! All the stories Rick told him about the Citadel and its hidden horrors rung in Morty’s ears, and he squeezed his eyes shut with a low groan.
With danger lurking around every corner, Morty quickly ran further into the alleyway, hoping the cacophony of sounds from the road would drown his footsteps echoing against the bricks and smell of piss.
If he got out of this alive, he was never stepping foot in the Citadel again.
Should he just stay here and hope his Rick found him again? That would be sensible enough… but damn it, no, he had to at least try and find his way out of this! He couldn’t rely on Rick for absolutely everything.
A flickering neon sign was the lighthouse in the storm, a cracked staircase leading to a shaggy door under the label, ‘Marine Drinks Pub.’ Morty glanced back to the bustling street, then down to the sign, and cursed. Loudly.
Then he scampered down the stairs and tentatively poked his head inside.
Anywhere was better than an alley where no one would hear him scream. And who knew, maybe he’d be lucky!
The room was dimly lit and smelled of alcohol, dark barstools with red leather seats lining an equally dark bar. When Morty pushed the door open, a bell rang overhead.
“Hey!” called a female voice angrily. “It’s closed, ye dimwit, we ain’t servin’ – oh.” A young woman had stepped behind the bar, emerging from a nearly hidden door squeezed in-between bottles and glasses of various shapes and sizes. She put her hands on her hips with a frown. “You’re a wee bit young to be here, laddie, what’s on yer mind?”
“Uh – uhm,” said Morty, tittering closer. The woman seemed to be some kind of Morty, oddly enough – she had the same facial structure, even if her long hair sported electric blue stripes and her green eyes were framed by dark glasses. “I – I was just, uhm. I got lost,” he admitted. This was a Morty, after all… they could be trusted. Right? “My Rick, he… the crowd was so large, they all look the same, I… I don’t know where he’s gone off to.”
The woman gave him a long hard look, then sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Have ye tried callin’ the guy?”
…fucking God.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to jump headfirst out into oncoming traffic?
“…no,” Morty admitted, unable to look her in the eye. As he fumbled with his cellphone, he mumbled to himself, “stupid, stupid, should’ve…”
“Nah, ain’t stupid,” said the woman. “Stressful stuff, gettin’ lost like that. Yer lucky I’m one’uf the good ones.” Saying so, she chuckled loudly and sat on a chair behind the bar. “Listen, kid, ye can stay here until yer Rick comes ta pick ye up. I know the type, if he’s here on business he ain’t gonna check his phone for a while.”
Sighing, Morty opted for a text message rather than a phone. Long experience from dangerous adventures told him all he needed to know: Rick wouldn’t answer a call for the life of him. “I know,” he said. “He’s – he’s a bastard.”
Grinning, the woman nodded. “That we can agree on. Name’s Siren Sanchez, by the way. Or I guess Marena, but everyone calls me Siren.”
Eyeing the magnetic aura of confidence she gave of, and coupled with the way her hips swayed in that skin-tight white dress, Morty saw why. “Sanchez?” he repeated, tentatively taking a seat on one of the barstools.
“Aye. I married the fucker two years ago,” said Siren. “Don’t give me that look, he ain’t mine, not that it matters. I’m twenty-seven besides, way older than you and whatever you’ve wet yer willy in.”
“No, no, no,” said Morty, quickly raising his hands. “I – I don’t – it’s not on you, I just – don’t understand how anyone could – could love someone like him.”
Siren raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down. “How old are ye, lad?”
“Sixteen.”
She nodded. “Aight, kid, listen. Yer at the age where Mortys begin to rebel, realize who they are, all that crap. So, here’s the thing. Ricks love to boast all Mortys are the same, whatever, every Rick’s a Rick and every Morty’s a Morty. But, just as every Morty’s different, so’s every damn Rick, right?”
“I guess,” said Morty.
“Right,” said Siren. “So, even if yer Rick is the devil walkin’ the Earth, there’re tons of Rickies out there willin’ ta give ye the time of the day, in whatever way yer lookin’ for.”
When Rick had dropped Morty off at that littlespace place all those months ago, Morty had experienced the very thing she was talking about: caring Ricks and gentle Mortys living side-by-side, a cuddle pile with a Rick in the centre and Ricks willing to do almost anything for their Mortys. He told Siren as much, then added, shily, “I – I thought it was a, a one-off thing, though…”
What he didn’t tell Siren was that he still had that pacifier, tucked in-between two pairs of socks at the bottom of his darkest drawer.
Siren nodded slowly, a long-nailed finger resting on her cheek. “Aye, that oughta be the Morty Miracles Daycare – highly controversial, it is, most Ricks find it ridiculous, most Mortys long fer it.” She gave him another long look, then grinned. “I can take ye there, if ye want.”
Morty narrowed his eyes. “And – and how do I know I can trust you?”
“Ye can’t,” said Siren, and shrugged. “Yer on the Citadel, kid. A wee one like ye are worth good coin. Yer free to stay here if ye want, though, or leave if that suits yer fancy. Keep a runnin’ gig to yer Rick, I ain’t gonna stop ye.”
This could all be one well-thought-out plan. Rick could be captured somewhere, or worse, killed – maybe Siren was leading him to his doom, trying to trick him with pleasantries and kindness. Sure, he could keep Rick updated, but if Rick wasn’t captured or dead, then there was no guarantee he’d read Morty’s messages, or even that Morty’s messages would go through…
His thoughts came to a screeching halt.
Was there even any guarantee that Rick would come?
Overcome by dizzy coldness, Morty gripped the counter tighter and closed his eyes. How could he be sure Rick would ever come? He had come before, sometimes, most of the time, even, but had always ridiculed, often laughed, rarely comforted…
Yet he always took him home, and always got him back in bed, and they had good times, in-between all the bad.
No, Morty had to trust that Rick would come for him. He had to; he must. Rick had promised him, had sworn he was the first Morty, that he was the only Morty, and Morty had believed that – still believed that.
Rick was the most dangerous, intelligent man alive. It was pure fact. He didn’t have an honest bone in his body, Morty knew – even amongst Ricks he was known as the Rogue, was placed neatly on the ‘cruel’ side of the scale.
But damn it, he was Morty’s grandfather, and even when Morty got caught in things he oughtn’t have, when he stumbled into alien lairs and fucked everything up, Rick always healed him and patched him up and saved his ass.
Rick would come for him, like he always had.
Even if he was blackout drunk in the process.
“Kid, yer takin’ an awful long time, here,” said Siren. “If it makes it easier fer ye, I can always just give ye the address…”
“Promises – promises mean nothing,” said Morty slowly, “but can you promise me anyway? That you – that you’re being honest and – and really are going to take me there?”
“Course,” said Siren instantly. “I ain’t got any fancy truth serum or nothin’, I ain’t a Rickie, but I’ll promise all ye want, son. I’m ready to go whenever, if ye want.”
Morty pulled out his phone, texted Rick, Siren is taking me to the daycare. As an afterthought, he added, please track my phone, rick, jesus christ this is not fun man. I am NEVER coming here again!
*
His nails were bitten all the way down to the skin by the time Siren reached the doors to Morty Miracles.
The welcoming air eased Morty’s nerves, and he could at last breathe easy – the Daycare was safety; if nothing else, his screams for help would be heard, and someone would hopefully come.
He’d never been in the reception part of the building, and so the Rick behind the desk was completely news to him. Siren, clearly, was not: the Rick’s jaw threatened to fall off when he saw her. “Miss – Mrs. Sanchez! What a, what a surprise, and – a pleasant one at that, of course – what… what can I do for you?”
“Tsk,” said Siren, hands on her hips. “I ain’t here for ye. This little sweetheart,” – she put a hand on Morty’s shoulder – “got lost from his Rick and stumbled into the establishment. We talked, he told me he’d been here before. Figured I might’s’well take him to ye, get back to business, have him in safe hands.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Rick, fumbling for some papers. “Of course, of course, Mrs. Sanchez, I’ll – I’ll still have to register him, but – yes, uh – what’s, what’s his dimension?”
Siren tilted her head, then shrugged. “I never asked. What is it, love?”
“Uh – uhm,” said Morty, fumbling a bit with the hem of his shirt. “C… C-137.”
They both stopped to stare at him. The Rick’s glasses slowly slid down the bridge of his nose.
“Why, yer really lucky I’m one’uf the good ones,” Siren muttered, shaking her head. “Listen, Glasses, I ain’t gonna stay here for that, I can’t have that on my record. He’s safer here, and thank fuck fer that.” She ruffled Morty’s hair, saying, “good luck out there, lad,” before leaving the room.
The Rick – Glasses? – quickly tapped away at one of the computers behind the desk. “C-137,” he muttered, glancing between the computer and Morty. “You’ve – you’ve been here before, right? Says so – says so in our systems.” He leaned closer to the screen. “Hm. Portaled right – right in, huh? Typical Rick.” He shook his head. “Not my problem. Here, fill out this form, you’ll get a bracelet letting the others know – know who you are.”
“Okay,” said Morty meekly, accepting the clipboard and pen. He wrote out his name and dimensional number, then hesitated over the different check-off boxes. The only he could assuredly cross off was, just visiting.
But he hovered over the switch box.
In the end, he crossed off, questioning.
He didn’t cross off any of the personality traits, having regressed only once before and been too ready to piss himself in fear to really pay attention to how he behaved.
He got a nice little bracelet in purple and black. Glasses Rick calmly explained the rules, then guided him to the entrance door and bid him on his way.
Morty drew a deep breath and stepped into the room.
Instantly, all eyes were on him. After only a moment, the gentle chatter of the place started up again; except for scrutinizing gaze of one particular Morty, head raised high above the stuffed polar bear he was cuddling.
He suckled a familiar pacifier, and when Morty stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him, he spat it out and exclaimed, “One-thirty-seven, is that you?”
It took him a moment, then Morty’s eyes widened in recognition. “Osyx?” He scurried across the floor and threw himself onto the ground before him. “Oh, thank – thank God, I – I was so – ”
“It’s been a while!” Osyx smiled, putting the plushie a bit aside. “How – how did it take you so long?”
Morty grimaced, scratching the back of his head. “I – I… well, I’m – I’m not really supposed to be here, even…”
When Osyx raised his eyebrows, Morty delved into how he’d gotten here: the confusion, the pub, Siren and his frantic worry, then finally arriving. Throughout the story he managed to lace in how desperately he’d wanted to go back, but how uncertain he’d been on whether he belonged or not. In answer, Osyx rolled his eyes and pulled a boxed pacifier out from seemingly nowhere.
“Here’s – here’s your second binky,” he said drily. “Keep it, I – I’ve got plenty.” Morty gratefully took it. “That – that Siren sounds like – like someone worth knowing. Maybe my Rick knows more?”
Morty, despite himself, chuckled a bit. “I’m sure he d – does.”
“C’mon!” said Osyx, climbing to his feet. “Let’s go ask.”
Morty hesitantly followed as Osyx crossed the floor and came to a stop before an ordinary Rick seated alone, reading some kind of book. He looked up when Osyx approached, grinned, and said, “finding more strays, love?”
Osyx rolled his eyes. “You know there’s – there’s almost only strays here, Rick.”
Osyx Rick raised an eyebrow, then said in a mockingly hurt tone, “what, no papa for poor old me?”
“Stooop!” Osyx squeaked, pushing at Osyx Rick’s side. “No, I – I can’t be little right now, Rick! I – I have big boy questions! And – and so does one-thirty-seven!”
Osyx Rick dropped the uncharacteristic pout in favour for a sterner expression, immediately turning to Morty instead. “Would that be C-137?” Morty nodded, shuffling his feet. “Rogue, back again, hmm?”
“They – they called me ‘Seven’, last time,” Morty quietly said.
Chuckling, Osyx Rick shook his head. “Honey, there’s already – there’s gotta be at least three Seven’s already. Rogue fits you better, I’d think. Seven’s boring anyway.” He turned back to Osyx. “So, what’re these big boy questions?”
Osyx quickly detailed Morty’s adventure.
Osyx Rick had paled dramatically when he mentioned the name of the pub, then further when he talked about Siren. At last, when Osyx finished, he exhaled slowly, rubbing at his forehead. “Gee, she really wasn’t kidding, huh,” he muttered. Focusing on Morty, he said, “The Marine Drinks Pub is – it’s notorious for being – being base for one of the Citadel’s biggest mobs. They – there’s drug dealing and – and shit. Ah, sorry,” he said, when one of the nearest Morty’s gasped. “Drug dealing and… and stuff.”
“Aw jeez,” said Morty shakily. He really had been lucky – probably gotten out of there by the skin of his neck! “Who’s – who’s Siren, then?”
“Only the mob leader’s right-hand man,” said Osyx Rick drily. “She killed her own Rick in a fit of rage and – and seduced herself to the top. Or – or so the rumours say, I’m not, you know, super – super updated.”
“And you’re even the Rogue,” said Osyx, frowning as he shook his head. “Sounds like – like you barely escaped something – something terrible. Everyone is out for – for the Rogues on the Citadel.”
Drawing closer to perceived safety, Morty threw a nervous glance over his shoulder. “I – I’m not gonna bother asking why, but – but how do I know I’m safe here?”
Osyx Rick grinned, reaching out to absently thread his fingers into Osyx’ curls. “That’s the beauty of Miracles,” he said. “They’re considered neutral – neutral ground. Not to mention most of the visitors are from outside the Citadel, with barely any – any squabbles with you guys.” Somewhat quieter, he said, “Mrs. Sanchez really was im – immeasurably nice, Rogue. There’s – there’s a pretty price on your head.”
“Aw jeez,” said Morty again. His voice cracked this time. A quick look at his phone said Rick still hadn’t seen his messages. Was this all a ploy? Was Siren planning a raid on Miracles as they spoke, just to serve his head on a silver platter to the mob boss?
“Don’t worry,” said Osyx Rick kindly. “If – if Rogue Rick doesn’t show up, I’ll – I’ll take you home myself.”
And for some strange reason, Morty found it easy to trust this Rick.
Almost as easy as trusting his own.
*
Thirty minutes later, Morty was half-way asleep and half-way little, dozing off against Osyx Rick’s leg with Osyx leaning against the other side when Rick kicked down the door and yelled, “MORTY!”
*
Ten minutes later, dragging Morty outside by the hand, Rick said, “gee, Morty, if – if you wanted to go back you – you could’ve just said so, I’d have taken you, no – no need to be so dramatic.”
But he’d been truly frantic when he checked Morty over for injuries, had been shaking when he told him to never run off again, and he tucked Morty’s seatbelt into place when they flew back home.
“Okay, Rick,” said Morty, and smiled.
His Rick might not be a caregiver, and he might tilt towards the cruel side of the scale, but at least he cared – and Morty loved him for it.