Chapter Text
With a small sigh, Morty P-181 wipes the last bit of flour from his hands onto his apron, glancing out the windows as he flips the sign on the door— Smith’s Sweets is officially open for the day.
As Morty unlocks the door, the bolt clicks softly, a sound that has become comforting to his ears. He props open the door, hinges creaking, and the cool morning air rushes in, carrying with it the distant chattering of Ricks and Mortys and the subtle hum of interdimensional portals opening and closing.
Morty’s eyes sweep over the bakery, taking in every detail with a sense of pride and contentment. The countertops gleam under the gentle light, showcasing an array of meticulously crafted pastries, each one a testament to Morty’s skill and dedication.
He adjusts the display of freshly baked bread, straightening each loaf with a careful hand. The golden crusts glisten invitingly, promising a warm, fluffy interior that melts in the mouth.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar, filling the air with an irresistible allure. Morty inhales deeply, allowing the familiar smells to envelop him like a warm embrace.
Outside, the Citadel of Ricks bustles with activity, the distant echoes of conversations and the occasional burst of energy weapons serving as a constant backdrop to Morty’s serene sanctuary. But within the confines of his bakery, time seems to slow down, allowing him to savor each moment and find peace amidst the chaos.
Just as Morty finishes setting up the bakery for the day, a group of rowdy Ricks burst through the door, their laughter echoing through the small space. Morty's smile falters for a moment, but he quickly recovers, greeting them with a cheerful "Good morning, gentlemen! What can I get for you today?"
The Ricks eye the pastries greedily, their mouths watering at the sight of the freshly baked goods. One of them, a particularly burly and disheveled Rick, grabs a croissant off the counter and takes a huge bite, crumbs spraying everywhere.
Morty winces internally at the mess, but he doesn't let it show on his face. Instead, he calmly reaches for a cloth and begins cleaning up the crumbs, all the while chatting with the Ricks and taking their orders.
Despite the chaos and mess, Morty remains unfazed. He's used to dealing with the unpredictable and often crude behavior of Ricks. In fact, he's come to enjoy the challenge of keeping the bakery running smoothly amidst the madness.
But as the morning wears on and the stream of customers continues, Morty begins to feel the strain. His feet ache from standing for hours on the unforgiving tile floor, and his arms burn from the constant lifting and maneuvering of heavy trays filled with freshly baked bread. Every muscle in his body protests, but Morty doesn’t let it show. Instead, he grits his teeth, focusing on providing the best possible service to his customers with unwavering determination.
Over time, Morty has come to know many of the regulars by heart. Their preferences are etched into his memory: Rick E-112 enjoys his coffee black and his croissants warm, while Morty K-234 prefers a blueberry muffin with a dash of extra sugar. These familiar customers and their unique quirks offer Morty a sense of connection and comfort in a place where individuality often gets lost in the sea of identical faces. Despite this, running the bakery single-handedly is an immense challenge.
As the midday rush approaches, a sense of panic begins to creep in. The bakery is busier than ever, and Morty feels the pressure mounting as he starts to fall behind. His heart races as he frantically tries to keep up with the escalating demand. His hands tremble slightly as he pulls tray after tray of pastries from the oven, the intense heat making the small kitchen feel like a furnace. Sweat pours down his face, soaking through his apron, but Morty doesn’t dare stop. He knows he can’t afford to.
The line of Ricks and Mortys at the counter grows longer, the air thick with the sound of impatient shuffling and low grumbling. Morty’s smile is strained as he takes order after order, his mind a whirlwind as he tries to keep track of each one. The stress is palpable, each second feeling like an eternity.
Suddenly, a loud crash reverberates through the bakery, drawing everyone’s attention. A particularly clumsy Rick has knocked over a display of muffins, sending the little cakes scattering across the floor. Their fluffy insides spill out like entrails, and for a moment, Morty’s eyes widen in shock. But he quickly recovers, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to stay calm. He grabs a broom and begins to sweep up the mess, his movements precise and controlled despite the chaos.
As Morty cleans up, the customers at the counter grow more disgruntled, their impatience bubbling over into audible complaints. He rushes through the cleaning job, aware that he can’t afford to lose any more time. The mess is barely dealt with before he has to dive back into taking orders and preparing pastries.
The chaos mounts as the lunch rush reaches its peak. Ricks and Mortys jostle each other in the line, arguments breaking out over who gets the last bear claw or the freshest baguette. Morty tries to keep the peace, his voice calm and steady as he addresses the growing frustrations, but it’s like trying to herd cats.
Darting back to the kitchen, Morty’s hands shake as he tries to ice a batch of donuts, the thick, sugary glaze slopping over the edges and pooling on the tray. He curses under his breath, but there's no time to fix them now. The line of customers is stretching out the door, and he's already running behind.
His back aches from bending over the counter, his muscles screaming in protest as he takes order after order. He can feel the sweat trickling down his spine, soaking his shirt and making it stick to his skin. But he doesn't dare take a break, not when there are this many hungry Ricks and Mortys to feed. This is the busiest day he’s had in months, and he absently wonders what’s caused it, but he doesn’t have too much time to speculate.
The chaos is now reaching a fever pitch, the air filled with the sounds of shouting and bickering, the clatter of dishes and the hiss of the espresso machine. Morty's head is spinning, his thoughts jumbled and confused as he tries to keep track of everything.
Suddenly, a particularly obnoxious Rick slams his fist on the counter, glaring at Morty with bloodshot eyes. "What the fuck is taking so long?" he snarls, boozy spittle flying from his lips. "I-I-I’ve been waiting here for ten goddamn m-minutes!" The Rick pulls out a flask, taking a long swig from it.
Morty feels a surge of anger, his patience finally snapping. He glares back at the Rick, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Screw off," he growls, his voice low and strained. "I-I’m doing the best I can here. You'll get y-your goddamn muffin when I'm ready to give it to you."
The Rick's face turns red, his eyes bulging with rage. For a moment, Morty thinks he's going to lunge over the counter and attack him, and he flinches backwards. But then, with a snarl, the Rick turns and storms out of the bakery, the door slamming behind him.
Morty lets out a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He can't believe he just talked to a customer like that, but he's too exhausted and stressed to care. He just wants this day to be over.
He works harder, pushing himself to the limit. Taking orders, throwing pastries in the oven, dishing out cakes and cookies to impatient customers. The crowd starts to dissipate, and Morty head is aching so bad he can barely think.
As the mid-day rush finally begins to die down, Morty's energy starts to wane significantly. His legs feel like jelly, his arms like lead. He can barely stand up straight, let alone lift another tray of pastries.
Yet, Morty knows he can’t give up now. A few stragglers still wait in line, and he’s determined to serve them all, no matter his exhaustion.
With a superhuman effort, Morty forces himself to continue. His movements are slow and deliberate as he fills orders and takes payments. His mind is a blur, thoughts drifting in and out of focus.
And then suddenly he finds himself slumped over the counter, head in his hands, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“-rty, Morty, are you okay?”
The voice swims through his foggy consciousness, and it takes Morty all his effort to lift his head. He glances up through hazy vision to see a concerned, unfamiliar Rick leaning on the counter in front of him. The man repeats the question, and Morty tries to reply, but he finds his mouth is much too dry to get anything out.
He attempts to wave the Rick off and tell him he’s fine, but it’s too late. Without any hesitation, the Rick makes his way behind the counter, helping Morty into a chair and fetching him a glass of water. Morty’s too weak to argue.
Who is this Rick? Morty absently wonders as he rubs his face, taking small sips of the cool, refreshing liquid. His mind is still fuzzy, his thoughts a jumbled mess of exhaustion and relief.
The stranger smiles warmly at Morty, his eyes kind and understanding. "Hey there, buddy," he says, his voice gentle. "You look like you could use a break. Why don't you sit down for a bit and let me take care of things?"
Morty nods weakly, too tired to protest. He's not used to asking for help, but something about this Rick feels different. He feels safe, protected. And for the first time in what feels like hours, Morty allows himself to relax, to let his guard down.
As the stranger takes over at the counter, Morty watches him with a sense of awe. He's never seen anyone handle the chaos of the bakery so effortlessly, so gracefully. It's like watching a master at work, and Morty can't help but feel a sense of admiration and gratitude.
The strange Rick is starkly different from most Ricks he’s seen around the Citadel. His silvery blue hair is grown out long and pulled back into a low, messy bun, revealing sharp angular features and piercing dark eyes. A layer of stubble lines his jaw, and instead of a familiar crisp white lab coat, this Rick dons a vintage aviator jacket, weathered from years of use and adorned with patches from various dimensions. Beneath the jacket is a simple black tee-shirt that emphasizes his lean build.
His cargo pants are practical and utilitarian, lined with numerous pockets that are likely storing an assortment of gadgets and tools. A pair of rugged boots completes the ensemble, their soles scuffed from countless adventures, laces worn but secure.
Despite his unconventional attire, there’s an undeniable air of confidence and swagger about this Rick as he bustles around the bakery, a grin playing on his lips.
Morty watches the Rick and rehydrates himself, wiping sweat from his brow. Only now does he realize the bakery is much hotter than usual. Was the AC broken again? The overwhelming stress of the day had kept him from noticing until now. A groan escapes his lips before he can stop it, and he rubs his pounding temples.
His muscles are on fire, his bones aching from the constant strain of standing and moving for hours on end. He's never been this exhausted before, not even during the most grueling of baking sessions.
Morty can't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards the stranger. He doesn't know who this Rick is, but he's saved Morty's ass today. He's taken over the counter, handling the remaining customers with ease and efficiency, leaving Morty free to rest and recover.
Morty watches as the stranger moves with grace and confidence, his movements fluid and precise as he wipes down the counters, cleaning up stray messes of flour and frosting. He's clearly done this before, and Morty can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. He's always prided himself on his ability to handle the chaos of the bakery, but today, he's been pushed to his limits and beyond.
As the last of the customers leave, the stranger turns to Morty, a small smile on his face. "How are you feeling, bud?”
Morty gets to his feet with some effort, joining the Rick in tidying up. “Better. T-thank you so much,” he says hoarsely, grabbing a broom and dustpan from a hook on the wall. “I don’t know what I would’ve done i-if you hadn’t helped.”
The stranger waves off Morty's thanks, his smile never wavering. "It was nothing," he says. "Just doing what any decent Rick would do."
Morty feels a surge of gratitude, his eyes welling up with tears. He's not used to people being so kind to him, especially in the Citadel. As a Morty, he’s always been seen as lower-class, someone to be looked down upon and dismissed. But this stranger, this mysterious Rick, has treated him with respect and kindness, and it's left Morty feeling overwhelmed. He’s briefly reminded of his own Rick, old memories resurfacing for a few moments and making his heart ache.
As the stranger helps Morty clean up the bakery, the two of them fall into easy conversation, talking about everything from their favorite pastries to their most memorable adventures in the multiverse. Morty finds himself opening up to the stranger despite his usual guarded nature, sharing stories and thoughts he wouldn't normally divulge to a stranger.
“Once, I brought my Morty to a dimension where everything was made of candy,” Rick says with a laugh, a warm sound that fills the bakery with a sense of camaraderie. “We spent the whole day just wandering around, eating our way through the landscape. It was one of the best days of my life.”
Morty smiles, feeling a rare sense of comfort and belonging. “That sounds amazing,” he says, his voice soft. “I… I haven’t had an adventure like that in a long time.”
The stranger nods, his gaze softening with understanding. “Hey, it’s never too late to have another adventure,” he says, his tone encouraging. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Morty. Don’t let the chaos of this place hold you back.”
Morty considers the words, feeling a flicker of hope ignite within him. It’s easy to get lost in the routine of the Citadel, to forget about the endless possibilities that lie beyond its walls. But talking to this stranger, this Rick who seems to embody everything Morty admires, reminds him that there’s so much more out there waiting to be explored.
As they work, Morty's energy begins to return, his movements becoming more fluid and precise. He's still tired, still sore, but the worst of the exhaustion has passed, and he feels a renewed sense of purpose and determination.
Together, Morty and the stranger finish cleaning up the bakery, setting everything back in its proper place and preparing for the next day as they close up shop. When they're done, the stranger turns to Morty, a warm smile on his face.
“I noticed it was real hot in here earlier.” Rick comments, and Morty grimaces slightly at the words.
“I’m pretty sure the bakery’s AC unit broke down again.” He replies with a resigned sigh.
“Oh, really? I know someone who can fix your AC free of charge. I can send him over in a few days, so don’t even worry about it.” Rick says casually, as if offering such a service for free was the most natural thing in the world.
“What? I can’t— I can’t accept that!” Morty protests immediately. He’s used to having to scrape together every penny just to keep the bakery running, so the offer of free repairs feels like a godsend, but it’s something he just doesn’t think he can accept without it weighing on his conscience later. He’s learned by now that nothing truly comes for free. “I’ll pay full price for any repairs.”
Rick rests a hand on Morty’s shoulder, and he flinches slightly at the touch. “It’s okay to need help sometimes,” Rick says softly, and Morty glances down at his shoes.
“If you insist,” Morty mumbles, still feeling uncomfortable with the idea of accepting charity. But deep down, he's grateful for the stranger's kindness and generosity. He's not used to people going out of their way to help him, and it's a strange but welcome feeling. “Thank you.”
Rick gives Morty a gentle pat on the shoulder before pulling back. “No problem, kid. You’ve got a good thing going here, and it’s the least I can do to help you keep it running smoothly.”
Morty can’t help it when his lips curl up at the corners, an idea hitting him. “At least let me give you something as a thank you for all your help today. It’s the least I can do.”
Rick starts to protest, but Morty’s already rushing back into the kitchen, calling out to him. “What’s your favorite? Muffins, cookies, cake?”
“Do you have any cinnamon rolls back there?” Rick calls back after a few seconds, a hint of longing in his voice.
Morty grins, glad to finally have something to give back, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He knows he has the best cinnamon rolls in the Citadel, each one a perfect balance of sweet and spicy, with a gooey, buttery center that melts in your mouth.
“I’ve got a fresh batch right here!” He retrieves a tray of cinnamon rolls, their golden-brown edges glistening with a sugary glaze, still warm from the oven. He carefully places the four largest rolls in a box, adding an extra swirl of cream cheese frosting on each one for good measure.
“Here you go,” Morty says, presenting the box to the Rick. “This one’s on the house.”
Rick’s eyes light up with genuine pleasure as he accepts the box. “You sure know how to make a Rick happy, Morty,” he says, his grin wide. “Thank you. This is more than enough.”
The two stand in a comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the day’s exhaustion giving way to a shared sense of satisfaction. Morty feels a warm glow in his chest, a rare sense of connection in a place often marked by its cold indifference.
“So, what’s your story?” Morty asks, curiosity getting the better of him. “You’re not like most Ricks around here.”
Rick chuckles, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “No, I suppose I’m not. I’ve been around the multiverse a few times, seen a lot, done a lot. Got tired of the same old thing, you know? Decided to settle down somewhere quieter, do something different.”
Morty nods, understanding more than he’d like to admit. “Yeah, I get that. This bakery… it’s my way of finding some peace in all the chaos.”
Rick nods thoughtfully, glancing around the cozy, now-empty bakery. “You’ve done a great job, Morty. This place is special. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
A blush creeps up Morty’s cheeks, and he ducks his head, embarrassed but pleased by the praise. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
Taking a seat on the countertop’s edge, Rick delicately balances the box of cinnamon rolls on his thigh, methodically prying it open.
“These looks really good, Morty.” He hums thoughtfully, gingerly selecting one from the box. He’s careful to not make too much of a mess on his face as he takes a bite.
Morty watches with satisfaction as Rick's eyes light up with pleasure, a contented sigh escaping his lips. "These are fucking amazing," Rick mumbles around a mouthful of cinnamon roll, crumbs spilling down his chin.
Morty can't help but feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. He's worked hard to perfect his baking skills, and it's moments like this that make it all worthwhile. To see someone enjoy his creations, to experience the joy and satisfaction that comes from creating something delicious and satisfying, is the ultimate reward for Morty.
“Is this your first time trying my baking? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” Morty comments, and Rick nods while chewing. He swallows his bite before replying, licking a stray drop of cream cheese icing off his upper lip.
“I only recently caught wind of your quaint little place, and today I had the time to come check it out. Seems I came at just the right time, huh?” Rick grins, and Morty can’t help but chuckle.
Morty nods, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. "Yeah, I guess you did," he says, smiling back.
Rick checks his watch, a sigh escaping him. “It’s getting late. I’d better head home.”
Morty nods, his smile now tinged with a touch of regret. “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks again for everything, Rick.”
Rick stands, brushing crumbs from his jacket and tucking the cinnamon roll box under his arm. As Rick prepares to leave, Morty feels a sense of sadness. He's enjoyed the stranger's company, and he's grateful for the help he's given. But he knows he may never see him again, that the Citadel is a vast and unpredictable place where people come and go like ships in the night.
"Take care, stranger," Morty says, offering up a hand to shake. Rick takes it, gripping it firmly and offering a warm smile.
"You too, Morty," he says. "I have a feeling we'll meet again someday. Until then, keep baking those amazing pastries."
With a final wave, Rick heads for the door, his boots echoing softly against the tiled floor. Morty watches him go, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and longing. For a moment, he considers asking Rick to stay a little longer, to share more stories and laughter.
But he knows better than to cling to moments that are meant to be fleeting.
As Rick steps out into the bustling Citadel and disappears into the thinning crowd of Ricks and Mortys passing by the bakery, the door swings shut behind him, the chime ringing out in the now-quiet bakery.
Morty stands in the silence, the day’s events washing over him. He takes a deep breath, the scent of cinnamon and sugar still lingering in the air, filling his lungs and grounding him in the moment. The quiet now feels less lonely, more like a moment of well-deserved respite.
He finishes the last few tasks of closing the bakery, his mind replaying the stranger Rick’s words. You’ve done a great job, Morty. This place is special. The praise feels like a balm to his weary soul, a reminder that his hard work is noticed and appreciated.
As Morty turns off the lights, the bakery is bathed in the soft glow of the evening outside. He locks the door, the familiar click of the bolt giving him a sense of finality. Today was hard, but he made it through, and tomorrow is a new day.