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"Can someone pass the potatoes, please?"
Beth takes the dish and hands it down to Morty. He'd had a mental breakdown around two hours ago in his car, so he should be good for the rest of the night. Yet somehow it feels like he's already back at twenty percent and rising. Whoever came up with this holiday must have enjoyed suffering. And not even the good kind like a nice chokehold or something. No, this was just endless torment with no release.
This year they'd been blessed with the presence of his other set of grandparents: Leonard and Joyce Smith. It'd been years since they last visited. The longer the evening continued on, the more Morty was reminded of why that was.
"Thanks, Mom."
"You're welcome honey."
Morty often forgot what old people generally smelt like. Rick had a very permanent smell of liquor and motor oil. But Joyce and Leonard? It permeated the room with a terrible musty scent of decay and cheap perfume. The second they'd walked in through the door Morty had nearly gagged. Summer had elbowed him hard in the ribs, throwing him a look that said to Get it Together. It wasn't that he disliked his father's parents. He just didn't really feel that strongly for them. They felt distant even when they were actually here. He had nothing in common with them save for a last name. They were the complete and utter opposite of Rick.
Rick.
Morty plops some more homemade mashed potatoes onto his plate. It's a little too hard as some of it flicks up and lands on his cheek. That was the whole problem with Rick. They were too close. Weirdly so. In a way that had Morty desperately trying to undo it for some time now. But how was he supposed to do that?? How was one just supposed to take back all the stupid shit they'd done and said to one another for years?
"Morty you, uh, you got something on your face bro." Summer gestures to her own face beside him.
He rubs a hand over his cheek.
"Nope, still there."
"Here, dear." Joyce takes out a handkerchief. An honest to God handkerchief that she probably embroidered herself.
His grandmother leans up out of her seat across from him and wipes his face like a baby. She then pats his cheek and pinches it for good measure.
"Oooh, you're getting so big!" She smiles.
If it were Rick he'd simply swat the offending hand away. Perhaps throw some potatoes in her face. But this was Joyce and he couldn't do that. So he just sits there feeling humiliated and angry. He does not look to his right at the end of the table where he knows Rick is smirking at him. Beside him Summer snickers under her breath.
So instead he imagines kicking Rick under the table. (He knew better than to start that kind of shit today. His legs would be sore for days.) He imagines punching his stupid, wrinkled face. He imagines Rick reaching out, much like Joyce, but instead of a handkerchief he just uses his thumb. Skin on skin. Swift and brief. How Rick would bring it to his mouth and lick it off, staring right into Morty's fucking soul…
He breathes heavily. His entire family was at the table. He could control himself. Internally he checks his meter–twenty three percent and rising. Morty reminds himself for the third time, and certainly not the last, that his grandparents meant well and it was normal for them to dote upon their grandchildren. Nothing to get annoyed over.
It was just that they were weird. Normal weird. And that made it all the more awkward. The Smith family hadn't been normal the day Rick crashed into the garage. They had long since forgotten how to deal with the mundanity of earth life. Joyce had knitted them all sweaters for god's sake! They were ugly and baggy and of course the family had to immediately change into their respective sweaters for dinner because it was the polite thing to do.
Morty scratches at his collar. He didn't like long sleeves. It felt confining and hot. His arms were too sweaty.
Joyce sees him picking at the collar. "If you get any sauce on it, don't worry! It'll come right off with some good scrubbing!"
"What kind of detergent do you use, mother?" Jerry asks, always one to jump onto the most boring topics.
"Well I like to make my own nowadays! So much more efficient! And cheaper too!"
"Now you've got her started," Leonard sighs, but in a way that implied he was teasing.
As Grandma Joyce rambles on about cleaning products, Morty's eyes slide over to Rick. He was also dressed in a sweater for dinner. Although it was just his regular signature blue one as Grandma Joyce had not knitted him anything. Good call on her part, Rick never would have worn it.
Under his sweater, Rick was wearing a collared shirt beneath. It was faded but Morty can make out a plaid pattern. The man had paired it with some black jeans that Morty had never seen before in his life. Inexplicably, the whole ensemble put Morty on edge. Rick was putting in actual effort this time. Why? For what reason? Had Beth asked him to for dinner? Or was this some new sort of game?
As his internal panic meter rises, his mind tunes out the conversation around him. He is transported back to two hours ago. Morty had been pacing upstairs in what used to be Summer's room–now the guest room. Rick was out buying last minute cranberry sauce at Beth's request. Morty was breaking down, already broken in most places.
He had never really believed that the need for a sinner's confession was a real thing until that moment. It was a ridiculous thing to think a killer would suddenly need to tell someone what they'd done! But the longer Morty stayed trapped inside his childhood home, the more he needed to get it off his chest. Like saying something would somehow lessen the mysterious growing pressure in his ribs. Which didn't make any sense because, if anything, confessing would only make it worse. But for some reason the words were still itching at the back of his throat, begging to climb out. He didn't even think talking about it would help! If he told his sister, he didn't actually think Summer could somehow offer some amazing advice that would somehow change his life or anything. This wasn't therapy or an intervention. He didn't know what the hell it was.
"I'm gonna–I'm gonna tell you something. And I need you to not freak out."
Summer immediately straightened her back, looking grim. "Where's the body?"
"What?? N-no! I didn't kill anyone, Jesus!"
She relaxed. "Stole money?"
"No!"
She opened her mouth.
"Nothing illegal!"
She shut it again.
Morty rubbed at his forehead. Was he really doing this? Was he about to do this? God why was he doing this? Okay fine he knew why–weird fucking compulsion or whatever–but that didn't help!
Summer watched him rub his hands over and over, pacing the floor.
"Morty you're starting to–"
"I kissed Rick."
The words themselves were not damning. He could have meant on the cheek; platonic in nature. But Morty's posture implied otherwise.
Summer took a second to process. Okay. Okay…
"Why?"
Morty threw his hands up. "I don't know!"
Okay.
"How did he react?"
"I don't know! I–I slammed the door in his face right after!"
She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.
"He was being a dick!" Morty offers in lieu of an explanation.
"Well if he was being a dick then why did you k–"
"I told you I don't know!"
Morty collapsed onto the bed, surprised he'd been able to stand at all for so long. He pressed his face into the mattress, content to suffocate for the next minute or two. Summer is utterly patient, waiting for Morty to continue.
"I never told anyone," he says softly, turning his head so she could hear. "But I've... I've always suspected that…"
He trailed off. Summer finished it for him. "...that he liked you more than he let on?"
That was a polite way of putting it.
"Yeah. I kinda picked up on that too, bro."
Morty swallowed hard.
"Why did I do that?" He whispered. "Fuck! I just…"
"Were you?..." Summer hesitated, not wanting to offend him in such a fragile state. "Did you switch your medication?"
"No!" Morty sat up abruptly. "No,” he says more firmly. He hadn't been anywhere near his heat when he'd kissed Rick. There wasn't even any alcohol to blame it on. He'd been entirely sober.
It had been plaguing him for a while now. Rick had backed the fuck off after that and somehow that only made it worse. Because now Morty didn't know how to act around him anymore. Was Rick angry? Was he worried? Did he think Morty hated him? Was he disgusted?
The clink of his fork hitting the plate jolts him back into the present. For the most part Rick had been acting normal, but Morty wasn't stupid. He could see the strain it was taking on the old man. Rick hated sitting quietly. That's all he'd been doing all evening, simply watching everyone at a distance and saying the bare minimum. Even when they'd sat down for dinner Morty had seen Rick take a second to decide where to sit. His father had taken the seat at the head on one end. On the left were Beth, Summer, and Morty. Joyce and Leonard took up the space on the right side of the table. Which left only one real option. The other end of the table, close to Morty.
Rick's legs were ridiculously long. Growing up, they tended to sit beside each other a lot. But whenever they sat across from each other he'd find themselves playing an angry game of footsie, unwilling to give up any ground. Summer usually put a stop to it, tired of having her mealtime interrupted by idiots. But today Rick's legs haven't pressed against him. Not even once.
All of it has Morty gritting his teeth. Joyce and Leonard were nice if not overbearing people. And yet he's sitting here missing the nauseating chemical smell of Rick's clothes and the way he casually invaded Morty's personal space like he had any right.
"...and it was just lovely! Wasn't it Leonard?"
"Lovely,” Leonard agrees.
"Oh! I almost forgot to ask, how's that dog of yours? I haven't even seen him yet."
"Mom, don't you remember?" Jerry says gently. "Snuffles is gone."
"Oh he passed? I'm terribly sorry."
Morty almost smacks his forehead. Rick chuckles into his plate.
"We were thinking of getting a dog ourselves, you know. Retirement is nice and all but it can be terribly dull at times. I'm sure this one understands!"
Joyce laughs in Rick's direction. Rick narrows his eyes, lip curling in distaste. It's all so bewildering that Morty couldn't keep the laugh back if he tried. Rick retired? That would be the day. He doesn't think Rick has had a dull day in his entire life.
Beth snorts into her wine glass. Boosted by the rest of the family, Jerry laughs too. Normally laughing openly at his father-in-law produced deadly consequences. But Jerry felt protected behind the wall of his parents.
The laughter pitters out and Joyce clears her throat, ready to jump onto a new topic. Morty is beginning to wonder if she was going through a mental list in her head. She'd been taking up most of the conversation all evening. Not that he had anything he particularly wanted to share, it's just that she seemed to be going nonstop. Had she always been like this? No wonder Jerry was always fighting to be heard. His mother probably barely let him speak as a child.
"So when did you cut your hair, Summer?" Joyce asks.
Summer touches her pixie cut. "Recently. I'm trying something new."
Leonard purses his lips. "Hmm."
"You had such long, lovely hair," Joyce comments in a forlorn voice. "Round shaped faces can pull it off well but yours is rather oval like isn't it?"
Summer grows quiet, unsure how to even respond to that. She looks down at her plate and picks at her food.
Jerry sits at the head, looking from his mother to his daughter. He looks conflicted, unsure who to back up.
Rick snorts loudly. "It looks great, Summer."
Summer smiles softly, looking up from her food. She pats her short hair, tucking a strand behind her ear.
"I think it looks great too, Summer," Beth says.
Morty gives her a sibling shove of affection. Summer shoves back.
Jerry clears his throat. "So...uh, Dad, I hear you and mom were planning to buy an RV. That still happening?"
"Huh?"
"An RV?" Jerry asks slightly louder. "Are you still planning on buying one?"
"Arnie? Who the hell is that?"
"For heaven's sake Leonard!" Joyce exclaims. "This is why I told you not to cheap out on those hearing aids!"
Morty fidgets in his seat. At his right, Rick looks increasingly annoyed. For the first time Morty wonders what it's like for Rick to be surrounded by people his own age. To know he would eventually deteriorate in much the same way. He'd slowed the process down significantly, giving himself cybernetics and enhancers and all manner of things that make him as strong and sharp-witted as he'd been when he was 40. But it wasn't forever. One day his wiring would short circuit. His brain would crumble inwards. He'd be as useless and dumb as any other geriatric.
It was hard to picture him like that. Rick was always an impossible image in Morty's head. Larger than life. He couldn't reconcile the image of Rick with death. He'd seen many Rick's die many different ways, but not his Rick. He couldn't imagine it. It didn't feel right.
He's wanted to make a name for himself away from Rick for years. But now, facing the prospect that Rick may actually one day die and leave him for good, Morty is suddenly at a loss. He's not that trembling little boy, confused and naive. He's grown now. He's experienced the world and the galaxy outside of it. But no matter how far he strays, he always comes back to Rick. He'd hated it–hated it so much at first–the way he could never stray far enough. How Rick would always find him. How Morty would always let him. How he was secretly relieved every time they went out. He'd wanted so badly to be normal.
Morty looks up at his grandparents bickering at each other. Beth was chugging her wine. Jerry was trying to calm them down. Summer had gotten out her cell phone and was ignoring the situation, apparently done pretending to listen. Why had he ever wanted to be like them? When has being normal ever done anything good for him?
"Did you hear about that new law they passed?" Joyce asks. She sounds on edge. "All omegas are now required to be on suppressants until the age of 18! It's not even a choice anymore!"
"It's for their own protection, Mom,” Jerry offers weakly, like he knows exactly where this conversation was going.
"Back in my day we didn't bother with all of this pill nonsense," Leonard mumbles. "You just call up the Agency and they send over a vetted alpha to take care of the heat. It's far more natural."
"Father please…" Jerry says.
"I still cannot believe you put your own son on medication!" Joyce says. "After everything we taught you!"
Morty sinks into his seat. Not wanting to be pulled into this conversation. It was extremely controversial–the whole anti-suppressant movement. Some people believed that suppressants fucked you up and caused omegas to experience defects and be less fertile. Which was untrue of course. Suppressants were completely safe. The whole 'making you less fertile' scare had been started by a quack alpha doctor that had since been disgraced.
Morty cannot even begin to imagine the horror of going through a heat twice a year and having some stranger come to the house to have sex with him for three days while his parents were downstairs. Or even worse, being shipped off to some facility and having his heat while surrounded by unfamiliar walls. Barring that, he couldn't imagine it happening with Rick around. What the hell would he have done with an alpha like Rick in the house?
He chances a glance and stops dead. Rick's lips are curled back in an open snarl, fangs gnashing outward. His hand is gripping the table with such strength Morty can hear the wood cracking underneath. Morty glances back to the rest of the family. Were they seeing this? Everyone's eyes were on Leonard and Joyce.
Morty turns back again, but the look is gone. Rick appeared completely normal, not a single hair out of place. The fires of hell had been dosed–gone in the blink of an eye. As if he'd imagined the entire thing.
"Oh my god," Summer groans in her seat.
"...and furthermore there has been extensive research on why it's better for omegas to be on medication!" Beth concludes hotly. "So I'll ask you to refrain from telling me how to raise my own children! They're both grown and doing just fine!"
"Yes but we won't actually know until Morty tries to get pregnant will we? What if he has a miscarriage?"
"What if he doesn't want kids?" Beth almost snaps.
"Morty?" Jerry asks. "Do you want kids?"
What Morty wants is to scream.
"Of course he wants children!" Leonard interjects. "They're an absolute joy! What omega wouldn't want them?"
Morty's head strays to his right again, searching for comfort in the familiar. But he's surprised to find Rick has already left. He'd finally had enough of the present company and conversation. He can only imagine Rick was probably about to literally strangle someone if he stayed. Morty pushes himself up from his seat and quietly leaves as well. No one notices, too deep in their argument.
He goes upstairs to the bathroom. He pees quickly and tucks himself back in. The water is cold in the sink and Morty stands there a moment waiting for it to warm up. How many nights had he spent in here? Curled up under the showerhead or over the toilet bowl? Afraid and feeling powerless?
Morty washes his hands and dries them on the towel on the wall. Morty wasn't afraid of Rick anymore. Now he was just afraid; for reasons he didn't entirely understand yet.
He hadn't told anyone, not even his sister, but over the past summer after his first year of college, he'd volunteered at a local center for omegas in need. One of his omegan roommates, Chrissy, had told him about it. It dealt almost exclusively with abused victims. He couldn't say what had prompted it; a desire to give back, a way to bide time, perhaps a snag of curiosity. Ill-intentioned or not, he'd gone for several weeks, helping those less fortunate than him.
He saw omegas that could barely string two words together before breaking down into tears. He saw others littered with scarring and ugly marking bites all over their bodies. He saw people, physically and emotionally scarred to the point where they were barely people anymore. Just omegas. Just Things now.
He mostly helped out in the kitchens handing out food. Almost the entire staff was made up of omegas. There were a few betas here and there. Alphas were banned from the premises entirely. He'd be lying if he said that that part of the job wasn't appealing for him.
He'd made a couple friends on staff. Chrissy still came by sometimes. She'd been a patient a few years back so the staff all knew her. Morty refrains from asking about her story. If she wanted to share it, she would tell him.
The day he stopped going stands stark in his mind. It's been a little over a month now. They'd been taking a lunch break outside talking about nothing in particular. Morty mentioned in passing how he was glad that his heats were finally normal. Even on suppressants, he would still experience small symptoms such as general itchiness and excessive sweating. As he talked the others had grown quiet, staring at him with wide expressions. Morty had jokingly asked if there was something stuck in his teeth.
"Morty that's...not normal." Someone said in a horribly gentle voice.
"Yeah, man. I've literally never experienced any symptoms on suppressants at all."
"Have you talked to a doctor about this?"
Morty shook his head at the growing questions. He'd presented around 13. His parents had immediately put him on medication. And then after that Rick had appeared.
Rick had...
He felt unsteady–shaken. Now that he was living away from home, away from Rick, his symptoms had all but mysteriously disappeared. He knew distantly what that meant. He didn't want to know what that meant.
Back in the olden days, families used to mate from within. Cousin weddings were common practice as well as sibling marriages. But that had been a century ago. Nowadays it was nothing more than a dirty taboo. A parent-child union had been rare even back then. And Grandparents? Completely unheard of.
Morty remembers how twice a year he would inexplicably stick to Rick's side closer than usual; moody and itchy and rubbing his tongue over his oddly aching teeth. He was unable to explain why he didn't want to go to his room or to school or anywhere away from his grandfather. Why he sat closer than usual next to Rick on the couch watching TV.
Bile gathered in his mouth unbidden. He stumbled away from his worried friends. He felt like a Jenga tower, one piece away from falling apart. Growing up, Rick kept taking blocks here and there, chipping away at his structure.
True Mates aren't a thing. They were a myth made up by the media to sell the idea of Love. But there was a science behind compatibility. The stronger the connection between two people the more it affected your biology. There'd been an extremely rare case about ten years ago where an omega in Ireland went into heat despite being on her medication. She’d been passing by a stranger in a sandwich shop. The stranger–now her alpha–had been unable to ignore her despite being married.
With a sharpening clarity, Morty felt his world tilt and sway. The foundation crumbled underneath him. He was scattered in pieces on the ground. Because there was no goddamn way Rick didn't know that they weren't just compatible, they were a fucking 99.9% match. It was star-crossed Romeo and Juliet fucking bullshit.
Once again he is grateful his parents had put him on suppressants. There was no way, no goddman way, that he and Rick wouldn't have fucked ten ways to Sunday had Morty gone into heat. It would have ruined him, traumatized him for life. He'd have ended up living in the very center he volunteered at, unable to live a normal life.
On his way out of the bathroom, Morty shakes his hands dry of water. Just as he passes his old room he catches the tail end of the smell of smoke. Turning back, Morty opens the door. Inside, Rick is leaning against the open window smoking a cigarette.
Morty walks inside. He doesn't know what possesses him to close the door behind him. Old habits maybe. Even though it wasn't his room anymore, it felt like the phantom of it. He joins Rick by the window, breathing in the evening air and smoke.
"Remind me not to come for Christmas if Jerry invites them over again," Rick says.
Morty gives a small chuckle. No one ever said it, but they were all glad Leonard and Joyce hardly ever visited. Even Jerry.
Neither say anything for several minutes. Inside, the voices of Joyce and Leonard fade away, the argument finally over. Muffled sounds of their family talking continue, breaching some new unimportant topic to fill the uncomfortable void.
"You used to be my hero, you know."
It had been very brief in the beginning of meeting him. A short lived moment when Morty had taken a look at his space-traveling, battle-worn grandfather and it was like Han Solo had stepped out from his TV screen. It had been squashed thoroughly and brutally since then, but the fact remained that Morty had looked up to him once a lifetime ago.
Rick coughs, holding the cigarette out and tapping it twice, letting the ashes fall.
"A hero is just a psychopath on a mission,” he grumbles in that thick, ashy voice.
Morty hums. That was another thing about Rick. He had a way of taking your view of the world and twisting it until it was as warped as his. And you couldn't even be angry because he was right. Rick was always right.
Rick breathes out, smoke wafting into the air. He didn't smoke often. It had never been one of his favored vices. Rick preferred the numbness of alcohol or the high of drugs. But smoking was about annihilation. Burning you slowly from the inside out until your organs were as black and tar-ridden as your soul.
Rick stubs the cigarette out on the wood. The light goes out swiftly, but the scent remains lingering in the air. If Rick was in any way aroused, Morty couldn't tell. It was masked by the smoke. Rick was always carrying some sort of chemically induced smell on him. Morty caught whifts of his true scent sometimes, but only just barely and never for long.
Suddenly Morty wants to taste it. To know what fire would feel like on his tongue. To feel the ghost of smoke choke his throat. He wants to burn as brightly as Rick does.
Rick doesn't flinch. He doesn't gasp or freeze. It was almost like he'd been expecting it. It always pissed Morty off, how Rick always seemed to know what he was thinking. Morty's hands twist in Rick's sweater. He leans up and covers their mouths together. Rick kisses back fiercely, like he expects to be shoved away again at any moment. Like Morty will end this just like last time and walk away, leaving him alone and questioning whether that had really happened or not.
He tastes like smoke and sweet potato pie–sweet and deadly. Rick's tongue wraps around his own. It's strong and pulsating like a living tentacle. Morty moans softly.
There's a knock on the door. It's quiet but it might as well have been as loud as a gunshot. They break apart quickly. The door creaks open revealing Beth. His mother. Rick's daughter.
Morty's veins ice over. Did she see his reddened lips? His disheveled hair? His rumpled clothes?
"Dad, are you smoking in here?" She frowns.
Rick shrugs. "What? I got the–the window is open."
Beth sighs. "Just come back down when you're done." She turns to Morty. "Joyce and Leonard want to take some family photos so whenever you're ready.'
"Y-yeah."
She turns to go back out and leaves the door open. Her footsteps fall away. Morty waits a beat. She doesn't come back. Slowly, his shoulders relax. His bones settle back into his skin. His heart resumes beating.
Without looking up at Rick, Morty turns to rest his forehead on his shoulder. He is afraid to look up. Rick doesn't move. His hands are shoved into his pockets. It occurs to Morty that he hadn't touched him during their kiss. During either of their kisses actually. Not once. He had followed Morty's lead each time. It makes him want to laugh hysterically. It was perfectly fine for Rick to push him down a twenty foot hole or accidentally burn his arm off, but this is where he drew the line?
Fucking asshole. Nothing was sacred to him. So pretending like this was, like Morty was, was an insult.
He bites at Rick's earlobe hard, his teeth piercing through. Rick doesn't push him off. There's a thin, low whine of pain. It goes straight to his dick. Morty releases his ear and presses his face back into Rick's shoulder. He licks the blood off his lips, swallowing it down and shivering at the taste.
Something was wrong with them. He blamed Rick's genes. But maybe that was okay. As long as he was weird that meant he wasn't normal. And Morty was done with pretending to be normal.
Rick moves. His arm reaches up. Morty doesn't mean to flinch back. He really doesn't. His body reacts involuntarily. His eyes close automatically.
Behind the black veil of his eyelids, Morty feels a pinch on his cheek. His eyes fly open. Rick smirks down at him.
"You're getting soooo big!" He says in a sickly sweet falsetto.
Growling, Morty slaps his hand away. But the damage has been done. The tension gives way and crumbles to nothing. Morty can't help but laugh. Rick chuckles deeply. Morty has always liked the sound of it. The real one, not the one he made when he was fucking someone over. But soft and light, almost happy.
"Let's go take some photos, yeah?"
"Yeah."
Morty leaves first. Rick is right behind him.
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The first time Rick experienced the sweet taste of Morty's medicated heat he'd nearly doubled over. There hadn't been a lot left in the universe that could surprise him anymore. But this overwhelming rumble going up and down his spine, this insatiable terrible urge, knocked the air right out of him. Because never in a million years would he have thought Morty was compatible with him in any way let alone this much. It was only by the saving grace of his old age that his withered body didn't snap into an answering rut. But that still didn't stop his mind from imagining all the filthy disgusting things he suddenly wanted to do.
Rick had slammed down any and all thoughts or urges, stomping them back into the mud and dirt of his own filthy mind. Not today. Not fucking ever.
Morty, the oblivious little idiot, crowded his space for days. Rick found it harder to push him away during those times. The times when he smelled nicer than usual, his skin somehow shinier and inviting.
Rick drank, and he smoked, and he didn't think about how his teeth ached.