Work Text:
"Cut!"
Morty never gets tired of watching it: the fraction of a second where everyone freezes, suspended on the razor thin edge of fiction and reality, before they relax into their natural selves. Cameras stop rolling, and low-level chatter starts up in the background.
The Rick and Morty pair standing on the set are clearly each other's originals. They breathe their own experiences into every film, which is why they're the most sought-after actors on the Citadel. Morty watches them chat, the Rick's arm sliding easy around his Morty's shoulders. Morty θ-590, standing at the edge of it all, fights off a pang of jealousy that he knows is irrational. After all, he's happy with the Rick he's got. Mostly.
"Theta, get over here!"
Morty startles, scrambling over to the director's chair. "W-What do you need, sir?"
"Another latte," Rick says to him quietly. "Extra hot, double espresso, whipped cream and a caramel drizzle. If it's longer than ten minutes, it's your ass on the line."
Morty writes the order down, then dashes off for the on-lot Café Sanchez, mind whirring. It'll take him two minutes just to make it there, which already cuts his time by forty percent with the return trip. The espresso machine in this location is notoriously finicky-- takes about thirty seconds to brew a shot at its best. God, he hopes the line is short.
It isn't. Morty wrings his hands together looking at the queue in front of him. Luckily, one of the Morty baristas catches his eye. One who knows who he works for, and how hard it is to keep a job with the prickliest Diricktor of them all.
"What'll it be, Theta?" he yells. Morty raises his voice to rattle off the order, moving toward the pickup counter as the latte is expedited for him. He finds a cluster of bills in his pocket and stuffs them all into the tip jar. The drink is almost too hot to hold, even through the cup sleeve. He powers through it, as usual.
Six minutes have passed when he reaches the set entrance, but he's still not done. Morty stops by his locker, removing the little silver tray that Rick insists his food and drink be delivered on. Rick barely spares him a glance when he takes it. Morty checks his phone: eight minutes and fifty-two seconds. Not too shabby. His hands shake slightly as he replaces the tray, but he figures that's probably because he hasn't eaten yet.
-
"I don't get it, man," F-64 says over his drink, "why, y'know, why stay at that job if it's so stressful? Making you do all that for a latte? Who cares when you get it? Caffeine is caffeine."
Morty sips his ginger ale, tracing the ring of condensation it left behind on the bar. The Rick bartender comes along and gives him a dirty look. Morty gets the hint. He plucks a napkin from the dispenser and sets it down to catch the water.
He and F-64 arrived on the Citadel at the same time, two of the dozens of Mortys rescued from that cloaking device a while back. They're good enough friends after what they went through, but there are some things Morty just can't bring himself to share with him. For example, the reason why butterflies start up in his stomach when his phone goes off. He slides off his barstool.
"Sorry, m-my ride's here."
It's raining when he steps out. Morty is careful to keep his head down, his collar high as he approaches the sleek black car idling on the corner, a Rick chauffeur emerging to open the door for him.
He gets in, thankful for the tinted privacy panel as Rick kisses him hello.
-
If anyone had asked Morty a month ago whether he'd ever consider sleeping with his boss, he would've laughed in their face. Rick C-499, director of the Citadel's box office hits, had made his life a living hell from the day he was hired. Deliveries across the Citadel, picking up his dry cleaning, having his cars washed even though Rick rarely drove himself anywhere-- it all went a little beyond the scope of the short job description that he'd been given when he applied. Nevertheless, the pay was extremely good. And on the Citadel, most anything was worth it to stay out of Mortytown. For the first time in his life, Morty had his own money to spend as he liked, with enough left over to save. He shared an apartment with one roommate who worked nights at the tourist district's visitor center, which meant he barely had a roommate at all. It was a decent life, and he was content to live it. Until.
Every year, the Citadel held a film festival to showcase upcoming talent. Rick was expected to attend, of course, and one day, he'd told Morty to clear his schedule for the following weekend.
"What for, sir?" Morty had asked.
"I'll need you for the festival, as well as events surrounding it. Two days, free food, and you'll get time and a half."
Morty would've been a fool not to accept a deal like that. So he rented a tux and waited nervously outside his building, rode with Rick in silence to the cocktail hour before the screenings began.
"It's gonna be a lot of cameras," Rick warned him. "Just look straight ahead."
When Rick had said "a lot," Morty hadn't fully understood him. Rick's door opened, and the flash of cameras going off blinded Morty immediately. He stumbled out onto the sidewalk after him, almost tripping in his haste to keep up. Worse still, he jumped a mile when Rick's arm wrapped around his shoulders, his laugh reaching Morty's ears over the din. The photographers had enough awkward photos of him now to fill several albums, he was sure. Thankfully, Morty was only someone's assistant.
He squinted at Rick, who was smiling broadly for the cameras. He'd cleaned up nicely–- a close shave made him hard to recognize. After what seemed like a million-mile walk to the theater's entrance, they made it into the lounge where the cocktail hour was being held. Morty ordered an apple juice and watched Rick get drunker than he'd ever seen him before. The lights flashed to signal five minutes till showtime, and Morty went to collect Rick from the bar.
"Uh, it's time, sir," he said, tugging on Rick's sleeve.
"One more old fashioned for the road," Rick said to the barkeep. He threw some credits down on the bar. The Morty behind the bar was quick to grab the simple syrup and bitters, setting a glass down in front of Rick in good time. He grunted and got up.
"Actually, can you throw in a bottle of bourbon? You've been making these kinda weak–-"
"Sir, w-we don't have time," Morty said.
"Morty, I don't - no one's gonna die if I miss the, if I miss some of the five trillion producers' logos. It's a lot of funding they gotta get to make a movie that's worth something here." Rick took his glass. "But whatever, okay, if your panties are in that much of a twist."
Morty shot his alternate a tight, apologetic smile before leading Rick away. They found their reserved seats without much trouble, and Rick knocked back his drink within the first few minutes.
The opening credits for the first film were extensive, indeed. Rick laid his chin on his palm, taking up most of the armrest between them. Morty was having trouble understanding why he was here. Was he just Rick's babysitter for the night? He thought of his warm bed at home as a Morty-centric coming-of-age piece played onscreen. Halfway through, Rick left, indicating that he should stay there. He returned with a bottle that Morty couldn't read the label of.
At the break between movies, the food was served; Morty dumped Rick at a table by himself and piled both of their plates high with fancy appetizers. "Aw, yeah, that's the stuff, Morty," Rick said, stuffing a crostino into his mouth. "Really, really makes up for all the boring shit we just sat through."
"I didn't think it was that bad," Morty said, examining his bacon-wrapped... something. He didn't know whether Rick realized he'd been calling him Morty, instead of Theta, as he usually did. It made him frown into his water glass. The last Rick to call him by his name regularly had been his original.
Fuck it, the other protein didn't matter. Bacon was bacon. Morty ate.
"Yeah, you're right. It - it'll make it to theaters, I bet." Rick burped, looking around them. "Okay, go get some of those purple jelly things, then we hit the bricks."
"What? Don't you have to talk to people and stuff?"
"I dunno, Morty, do you see a line forming?" Rick was staring at him, amusement written across his face. "These people know better than to bother me with their networking bullshit. I just show up for the free food. Dunno why they keep inviting me, to be real with you."
Morty fidgeted, unused to being looked at for that long.
"Y'know, some of these Ricks might care about filmmaking, but, they're mostly focused on their wallets. I direct, Morty, because I - I wanna actually make something good. And about ten percent of the time, I get to do that, which is more than most can ask for on the Citadel." Rick looked out over the crowd, the candor of his words too much for eye contact. "If there's one thing this place is good for, it's crushing dreams. M-Maybe I've sold the majority of my soul, Morty, but they'll never hundred-percent me."
Morty nodded, uncertain of what to say.
"God, that's enough of that. I'm a - I'm such a goddamn lightweight now," Rick said, swaying as he stood. "Let's roll."
Rick swiped the entire plate of purple jellies on their way out. No one said a word to them about it. The neon lights of the entertainment district faded into the distance; Morty was only mildly surprised to learn they were headed uptown to Rick's place first. The man needed to be awake again in less than twelve hours, and it seemed like he was trying to prevent that himself. He was surprisingly heavy as he leaned on Morty, bottle in one hand, nodding to the door-Rick in the swanky lobby of his building.
The penthouse was more lushly decorated than he’d expected. Rick wandered into the kitchen, but Morty couldn't resist looking out the windows. Seeing the Citadel-- really seeing it-- wasn't an opportunity he often received, and from this high up, it was beautiful. The twinkling lights, the Ricks and Mortys on the pavement below, ever moving, glass and steel stretching far and away in a sea of blue and gold. Morty stood looking for longer than he should have, until it had been awhile since he heard any noise besides the hum of appliances.
Rick was sitting on a stool, slumped over his kitchen island, head resting on the granite countertop. A hand on his arm only earned Morty a sigh. "Sir, you should rest. Like, in an actual bed?"
"Fuck's sake, Morty," Rick slurred. "Jus', just call me Rick, it's just us. I'm tired of being, of having a fucking title. You know me better than the rest of these shitheads, anyway."
Morty tightened his grip in shock. "But I barely know you at all," he said.
"Yeah, I - that's what I'm fucking saying." Rick lifted his head, met Morty's gaze, and the profound loneliness in his eyes made Morty flinch. Something twisted in his chest, dredging up emotions he hadn't felt in ages. Morty was afraid of what that meant. He was doing fine without a Rick using him as a receptacle for his personal issues. That was the last thing he needed.
"C'mon, Rick," he murmured, "you need sleep."
Rick didn't resist him, shuffled quiet and compliant down the hall to his bedroom. Morty helped him with his jacket and shoes, eyes averted as Rick undid his tie. As he was about to leave, Rick stopped him with a, "Hey, Morty." Morty paused with his hand on the doorframe.
"I'm only gonna say this once, 'cause I'm pretty sure I'll forget I said it."
"Don't," whispered Morty. "Please."
Rick, of course, didn't hear him. "You - you're a good kid, a real good helper out there, putting up with my bullshit."
"Thanks," Morty said, blinking back tears.
"And--" There was more? "And it's nothing - nothing personal, Morty. I get too close to anyone and the press turns their life upside down."
"I get it, Rick." Morty had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Was Rick reassuring himself?
Rick sighed, closing his eyes. "Good. You can sleep here if you want, guest room's across the hall."
Unfortunately, Morty thought he probably should. He closed the guest room door, undressing mechanically, draping his clothes over a chair to avoid wrinkling. He got into bed, huddled under the blankets, and cried until sleep took him.
The next morning, Morty awoke to the smell of pancakes. Seeing an unfamiliar room, he sat up in a panic– then he remembered, and exhaustion settled into his bones.
He shrugged on his dress shirt, washed his tear-stained face in the attached bathroom. Was Rick really awake? Yes, Morty saw as he entered the kitchen, he was.
Rick flipped a pancake, looking almost content as he spotted Morty. "Morning."
Morty took a seat, eyeing the stack in front of him. He was famished after eating nothing but bite-sized food the previous night. "A-aren't you hungover?" Maybe that was rude, but Morty wanted to know.
"Yeah, feels like someone's doing a goddamn drum solo on my skull. But these should help. This too." Rick picked up a glass with orange juice in it. A mimosa, Morty thought. Classic brunch drink. Wait–-
"What time is it?"
"It's about two p.m. Little late for brunch, but I won't tell if you don't."
"Rick! Didn't you have a director's brunch to go to?"
Rick rolled his eyes. "Technically, yeah, but I bet half of them didn't show up either. It's fine, Morty."
If he said so. The smell was too inviting to ignore anymore. Morty dealt himself a few pancakes and reached for the syrup.
"In fact," Rick said, "I don't think I'll be attending the rest of the festival. The studio can fuckin' bite me."
"Okay," Morty replied. He took a soft, fluffy bite of pancake and could've cried all over again, but instead reached for the glass of water sitting near him.
"You'll - you'll still get your pay, though. Won't screw you over like that."
Morty nodded. "Thanks." He ate as quickly as he could manage, carefully avoiding Rick's eyes. He then collected his things from the guest room and bid Rick a good day.
"See you Monday, kid," Rick said, waving his spatula in farewell.
Morty waved back and left. When he got home, Morty was surprised to see his roommate sitting on the couch. Right, it was Saturday.
"Those came for you," he said, jerking his thumb at the little kitchen table by the window. "You got a Rick admirer now or something?"
Oh, jeez. Morty couldn't believe it. Of all things, Rick had sent him flowers? Blue and yellow, of course. He picked up the accompanying card. The message read simply:
Thanks again.
- R
According to the card, the flowers were agrimony blossoms and blue periwinkle.
"Uh, no, i-it's a work thing," Morty said, embarrassed. God. He brought the vase to his room and set it on the windowsill to catch the light. It felt good to lie in his own bed, even if it wasn't as comfortable as the one he'd slept in the night before.
Just what did Rick want from him? How was he supposed to respond? He buried his face in his pillow and decided that for now, it was best not to think about it.
-
If he'd doubted Rick's intentions before, they became clear over the next week or so: while his behavior at work was exactly the same, down to the stupid, asinine demands, Morty continued to receive little gifts in his locker and at his home. Sweets, an interdimensional cable set (more costly than one might think without a Rick to steal the crystallized xanthanite), even a new coffeemaker when his broke. Morty supposed he was collecting intel from their coworkers, which was a tactic no different than the next Rick's. Still, he felt conflicted. Part of him wanted Rick to stop sending things. He almost told him so, but then he recalled the hollowness in Rick's eyes and the bittersweet feeling that came with his praise.
Morty had been happy to hear that praise, and that's what was killing him. His original Rick had died sitting next to him at the breakfast table, and after he was rescued, Morty had buried all his hopes along with him. Now, though, he couldn't deny it.
He still wanted to hear: well done, Morty, proud of you, Morty, I love you, I want you around. Rick θ-590, for all his 'virtues,' had never been good at that. He had also never wanted (or admitted to wanting) Morty the same as Morty wanted him.
The way, it seemed, that this Rick wanted him now.
That Friday, he got a text that said: Come to dinner with me. Morty replied: What about the media?
Answer: Let me deal with them. Tomorrow, 8 o'clock?
Morty accepted, his heart beating fast. There was a Council gala that most reporters were covering that next night, and Rick paid for private dinner service at his favorite restaurant. Rick came directly to his door, and before Morty could say anything, he knelt, taking Morty's hand in his and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Morty blushed hotter than he ever had in his life-- this was how it felt, then, to be thoroughly romanced.
"What happened to your Morty?" he got the courage to ask one day, nestled in Rick's lap on the couch. His apartment wasn't as well-equipped for a movie marathon as Rick's, but it was cozier.
Rick took a deep breath beneath him, fingers twitching where they'd crept up Morty’s shirt. "I never had one," he admitted. "The Diane in my dimension died before I ever got to meet her."
"Oh..." Morty regretted asking. "How'd you get to the Citadel, then?"
"Well, as different realities were being documented, a couple of Ricks got together and made a game of it." Rick traced circles around Morty's navel as he thought. It wasn't helping Morty pay attention, but like hell was he going to say stop.
"They'd drop in on Ricks who hadn't started to explore the multiverse yet and give them portal tech out of the blue."
"A-and they did that to you?"
"Yeah. I was still in film school at the time, and the Rick who chose my dimension opened a portal while I was making my final project. He also, y'know, shat on me for pursuing higher education. Big surprise there."
"Wow..." Morty pictured a younger Rick standing face-to-face with himself, at the beginning of a journey that would eventually lead him to where they were right now.
"Anyway, he pitched the idea of the Citadel to me, and I joined, since I had fuckall to do after graduation. It was kind of lawless to begin with," Rick continued, "since we were all a bunch of loose cannons at heart. But then the Council was established, and those of us - the ones who were here first got to choose what they were gonna do. Figured I might as well do something I liked."
He sighed, and the smell of peppermint schnapps mingled with that of his cologne. "I like to think it's marginally less soul-sucking than Hollywood would've been."
No wonder he'd been so lonely, Morty thought. He watched over the edge of the couch while Rick popped popcorn, looking at home in the tiny kitchen so unlike his own. Fondness settled over him like a blanket, and when Rick sat back down, Morty straddled his thighs and kissed him, hands wrinkling the material of his shirt. The look Rick gave him when they parted was as enamored as it was hungry. They lost track of the movie's plot, of the passage of time, caught up in one another.
Later, picking pieces of spilled popcorn out of the couch cushions, Morty confessed that that kiss had been his first. Rick didn't say anything, but his quiet delight was hard for Morty to miss. Morty floated through the next few weeks. It was like he'd tripped and fallen into a movie himself. Rick now had an outlet for the decades of pent-up emotion he'd previously poured into his work, and bearing the brunt of his affection was overwhelming at times. He convinced Rick to take him out more often.
Morty suspected that his claim about the paparazzi was a little overblown, considering how easy it was to disguise themselves in a sea of their alternates. They only had to be cautious at work and around Rick's apartment. And frankly, Morty was tiring of that as well. He wasn't ashamed of being with Rick, he didn't think Rick was ashamed of being with him, and no amount of trashy Daily Rickquirer headlines was going to convince him otherwise.
Which brought him to where he is now.
-
Morty breaks the kiss.
"I don't think we should hide anymore," he says, willing himself not to stutter. Rick, still cupping his cheek with one hand, raises his brow.
"Oh yeah? Where's this coming from, huh? You - you wanna lower the glass and give V-38 there a show?"
"N-no! I mean... I was watching the F-8 pair today, on set, and if they don't care about cameras, why should we, y'know? And maybe it's weird because you're my boss, but statistically, I can't be the first Morty that's happened to, and I bet you were way nicer about it..."
"I'm just warning you, Morty, it'll be a real pain in the ass, and they might not leave you alone even if we break up-–"
"Yeah, well, I don't plan on doing that!" Rick blinks at him, stunned by the intensity of his tone. "... so, bring it on, or whatever," Morty finishes lamely.
"Goddamn, Morty, alright," Rick says with a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You really put some thought into this. Okay."
"Okay?" Morty asks.
"Why the hell not? Fuck it, we'll just be Rick and Morty, avoiding the paparazzi for a hundred years!"
Morty throws his arms around Rick's neck, grinning. "Flipping off the cameras Rick and Morty, Rick and Morty o-on the red carpet, stealing the fancy appetizers at the afterparties!"
"That's assuming we make it to the afterparties--"
"Yeah, yeah, Rick, I know."
-
On Wednesday, Morty gets a text from F-64: this you????
Attached is a screenshot of a tabloid. He and Rick are walking hand in hand outside of the studio, with the headline: RICKLUSIVE DIRICKTOR FINDS NEW LOVE???
It has to have been taken that very morning. Jeez. He responds: yup!!! it's kind of a long story
F-64: you're telling me everything
F-64: over drinks tonight
Morty: not tonight, there's a premiere. maybe tmr?
Pocketing his phone, he enters the nearest Morty Mart to buy a copy-- it’s going on his fridge for sure.
Actually, he thinks, he might even have it framed.