Work Text:
Rick Sanchez doesn't have a routine per se, but he does have things that occur in a particular order. Most of the time that is. For example, whenever Rick cracks his eyes open to the dawn of a new day, he checks his side first. Morty will be there sleeping peacefully. He will then climb out of bed and have breakfast (cereal with a shot of whiskey). Then he'll head to the bathroom to take a long shit. After which he will slink back to the bedroom and watch Morty for a few more minutes as he's curled up and drooling on the pillow.
Was Rick allowed to have this? Was this okay?
After his existential crisis Rick will then head to the Gadget Room (as Morty so lovingly deemed it). It wasn't a gadget room it was just a room for his inventions i.e. Rick's room. Morty would frown and say his room was where he slept therefore his actual room was Morty's room. Their room. God forbid he get someone else to weigh in on it. The only person he could feasibly ask was Summer and she had made it very clear that she Did Not want to know any details regarding their intimacy. So now he's stuck in an eternal debate about what counts as your actual fucking room and Rick doesn't give a shit he just wants to sit alone in peace. And he can't even do that! Because normally, after work, Morty will come home and wander in for no reason and sit in the corner to listen to Rick work for up to an hour. Sometimes two. He'd get this look on his face and just quietly watch Rick tinker. Eventually he'd doze off and it's fucking weird and Rick hated the way it made him feel. But when he tells Morty to go be creepy somewhere else Morty would just frown and say he's not being creepy and he still won't fucking move so Rick has to just sit there and ignore the fact that–apparently–watching Rick doing nothing is so goddamn calming to Morty that it's become his safe haven or some shit after a stressful day. Rick doesn't know what to make of it. Morty's breathing will eventually even out and his body will relax and droop. And without fail Morty will then close his eyes with a smile on his face. Just because Rick is mixing chemicals. Whatever.
Anyway, later, after Morty wakes, he'll hear the bed creak. It will be followed by a yawn and the distinct sound of a back popping. Rick will elect to ignore the telltale sound of bare feet padding into his room.
And then like fucking clockwork…
"Good morning," Morty says, his throat scratchy. His morning breath does nothing to still the twitch in Rick's dick.
"How long have you been up?"
Rick shrugs. Technically he never went to bed. He would sporadically fall unconscious for a time and then spring up until he fell over again. He's always been like that. Even from a young age Rick had never been able to just lie down and go to sleep. He had to be so physically exhausted that he literally couldn't stand up anymore. Then, and only then, would he be able to fall unconscious.
Morty asks him if he's eaten and Rick says yes. Morty goes to the kitchen and makes him something anyway because he's getting terrifyingly accurate in rooting out Rick's lies. After pretending to work a bit longer on his latest gadget, Rick zones out. How could Morty trust him with this? With his life? With his heart? After everything? After all the shit he's put him through? How can Morty want anything to do with him? This will only end badly. He'll fuck it up. He'll fuck Morty up. More so than usual at least.
The light on the gizmo in his hands blinks in morse code at him.
Kill yourself
After making sure Rick has eaten, Morty leaves for work. His stupid workplace with its dumb fucking rules. Everybody threw such a goddamn fit if Rick so much as breathed on the building. Everytime he tries to visit the Omegan Care Center they treat him like he's come to see an inmate and stick him inside a palsy white waiting room. The decor was shit by the way, with idiotic pictures of nature and trees. It was supposed to be calming but what if the person in question hated nature? What if they had agoraphobia? Not so calming now dipshits.
He sits. And he works. He spends hours on his ass until he can't feel his fucking legs anymore and then get up to stretch. As he looks at the clock, he notices it's nearing lunchtime. Perhaps he should eat something.
On a whim he decides to pay Morty a visit. He's not fucking lonely alright?? He's just bored. He can only stress over his inventions so much before he needs a break. Back in the old house, on days when Morty and Summer had been away at school, he could always talk to Beth. Or at the least pester Jerry. Now there's no one. It's whatever. It's fine.
It takes longer than he would like to get dressed. He stopped caring about his looks decades ago. It shouldn't matter anymore. He shouldn't still care.
When they moved into the new place, Rick had found out that Morty (with the help of Summer) had taken the liberty of updating his closet. It now featured nice collared shirts, cashmere sweaters, and turtlenecks. He'd almost thrown them out. Almost.
("I can't really offer you much, Rick. I just wanted to–to do be able something for you…I guess.")
Here's the thing. He very much believes that the kinds of people who spout poetry about the freeing feeling of love and adoration are all goddamn liars. None of those idiots have ever been close to being in love. In lust maybe. A crush even. But real love is not liberation. It is a chain, cold and hard and unshakable. Love is a slave. It will break you.
He hasn't worn his own clothes in months, just numbly pulling on whatever things Morty had put in his side of the closet. They don't feel constricting. They don't feel like a chain.
He portals to outside the Center (never inside, Morty had made that crystal fucking clear) and walks into the lobby to the sign in desk. The person there greets him by name. Not cheerfully, it's rather resigned. No one sans his family and very few friends was ever happy to see him. And even then not all the time.
"I'll tell him you're here," she sighs.
The lone security guard in the back corner watches him wearily through the glass window. Probably wondering if today he will break protocol (again) and go find Morty himself. If they wanted him to sit in their stupid ass waiting room they could at least provide him with some decent fucking TV. The channels here sucked.
His teeth grind together. He can hear the employees whispering to each other through his upgraded ear canal.
Rick's here…
Someone get Morty!
Hide the candy dish! He ate it all last time!
He sits down in one of the crappy chairs and turns his attention to the only other person in the room. The alpha sits across from him. Their arms are folded, patiently waiting to be called.
"Hey, hey don't you think this is f-fucking bullshit?"
The guy doesn't indicate that he's heard him.
"Yo dipshit, I'm talking to you!"
The man continues to try and ignore him. Fat fuckin chance of that! Rick Sanchez will not be ignored! He stands up from his seat and plops down next to him. The man frowns, looking very hard at the wall.
"This is bullshit right? Like why the fuuUUk do we have to stay out here, huh? Am I right, my guy?"
The man's mouth twitches, contemplating the merits of staying silent. Something within him gives.
"I mean…it's to make the recovering omegas here more comfortable," the man offers quietly. "It makes sense they'd need a safe space to heal."
Rick scoffs. Safe space? "There are no safe spaces! Anyone, at any time, can hurt you! Doesn't have to be an alpha! Any one of these staff members could snap and go on a spree! Like BAM just grab a random pen a-a-and start stabbing necks!"
The man's mouth thins, clearly fighting off the urge to argue.
The staff glare at Rick through the window. Rick flips them off. He stands up to go sit back down in his other seat. He snatches the remote up and flips through the channels.
The door opens. One of the staff members Rick vaguely recognizes as Morty's friend walks through. He doesn't remember this one's name. He tended to tune Morty out when he talked about work related stuff.
Rick grunts, looking back at the TV. The person walks right up to him, just standing there staring. He narrows his eyes, lips curled into a snarl. He is careful not to growl. It was one of the many frowned upon bullshit rules in this place. He had to be "sensitive" and "understanding." People here were self righteous pansies.
"What?" He barks out.
The omegan woman does not flinch to her credit. Then again, the staff was built of bigger stuff. Still self righteous though.
"We've got a lasting office bet here,” she begins. "Morty doesn't know. I was hoping you could help us finally solve it."
He can hear a couple of soft gasps from the glass window.
"Megan!" Someone inside hisses. "No!"
Finally, something interesting. Intrigued, Rick gives her his full attention. "What kind of bet?"
Megan smiles. It's a plastic-y customer service smile.
"Morty's been here for two years. Yet none of us have ever been to his place. He never talks about you past complaining, and we're still unsure whether or not you actually live together."
Was this going somewhere?
"You're, like, the mystery alpha. You show up at odd times, and you smell like booze and motor oil. And even though no one will say it, pretty much everyone agrees you've got weird vibes."
"Megan, oh my god!" The other receptionist whispers from behind the safety of the glass.
Megan continues onward.
"My point is, no one actually knows who you are because Morty won't clarify. Half the staff is convinced you're related, like his grandfather or great uncle or something. The other half thinks you're his grumpy alpha mate, even though you're clearly too old for him." She tilts her head at him. "So which is it?"
A nasty grin stretches across his lips. Rick throws his head back and laughs. Most of the staff here was insufferable, but this one he liked.
He opens his mouth.
"Rick!"
Morty appears. He frowns at the two of them, but mostly at Rick.
Megan smiles and takes her leave, not waiting for an answer. Rick winks at her. He turns to face Morty who already looked done with his shit today.
"What's happened?" Morty asks.
Rick has to pause. Because Morty hadn't asked 'what did you do?' it was just 'what happened?'
"Do you need something?"
Oh, like Rick only ever comes when he wants something?
Apparently he's said this last part out loud for Morty crosses his arms and juts his hip out. "Um? Yes? You literally do that all the time."
Okay fine. He got him there.
"It's your lunchtime right? Let's go get lunch."
Morty blinks as if in a stupor. "Oh, uh. Y-yeah. Okay R-rick."
He stutters adorably, suddenly blushing and tripping over his feet like a goddamn maiden. Rick will never tire of how easily he could get that look on Morty's face. That happy little surprised look whenever Rick said something nice, or stole a kiss, or washed the dishes without having to be asked. (Granted that only happened the one time.)
As Morty signs out for lunch he starts humming to himself. Like, legitimately humming. What, was this a hallmark movie or something? Damn. Have some self respect.
There's this little diner near Morty's work. Rick's never been but he knows Morty eats there sometimes because he would mention it. He takes Morty to that one.
Morty hangs off his arm as they walk inside. The nice feeling it produces is dashed to pieces when the waitress comes up to them. She coos at Rick like he's a fucking toddler.
"Hello and welcome! Table for two?"
"Yes please!" Morty says.
"This way please!" She leads them through the restaurant and looks back. "It's really nice of you to take your grandpa out for a good meal!"
Morty laughs under his breath. Rick snatches his arm back. This bitch thought Morty was helping him walk like he was a fucking invalid.
They seat themselves. The waitress smiles warmly at him.
"Anything I can start you off with, sir? I can recommend some really good chicken noodle soup! I also love the potato soup here too!"
Foods for people with dentures. Rick curls back his lips.
"I'll have the steak," he grunts.
"Are you sure?" Her voice borders on baby talk. "That's awfully tough meat!"
"Yes."
"Okie dokie! And you sweetie?"
Morty is holding back his hysterics. Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes. Rick resolves to withhold sucking his dick for a week. The little asshole.
"Th-the breakfast sampler, p-please." He chokes out.
"Right!"
"And an extra bib f-for this one!" He jokes, pointing a thumb over at Rick. "He can get kinda messy!"
The waitress looks sympathetic. "Sure thing, hun."
He'll be joking at the bottom of the fucking ocean. Rick simmers in his seat, the pleather melting under his rage.
The second the waitress leaves Rick rounds upon Morty.
"I'm glad you think people assuming I'm a senile old man i-is fucking hilarious!"
"It is fucking hilarious!" Morty chortles. "I mean, you are an old man, no offense."
Rick rolls his eyes, grumbling softly before looking away.
It was easy to snap and growl at strangers. Second nature practically. It was easy to hide away, retreating back in the recesses of his mind. But with Morty his walls are a formality. Battered and broken by this boy. He has nothing to defend himself against him. Not from his laugh. Not his smile. And especially not his touch.
Rick feels far too raw. Too open. Too small.
Life doesn't have some grander meaning. Sometimes people suffer and it amounts to nothing. Your pain doesn't go anywhere. You don't get better. Sometimes pain is just pain. And it doesn't fucking mean anything.
(He wants it to matter with Morty. He wants it all to matter.)
"Why?" Morty asks aloud.
Rick looks back up. "Why what? Why am I an old man?? Seriously Morty?"
"I mean, don't get me wrong. I don't c-care how you look. But you could get a, y-you could get younger body if you wanted right? Why don't you?"
"Maybe I like being old!" Rick snaps.
Morty holds up his palms. "Okay fine don't tell me."
The truth is that if he were a younger man, Rick is afraid of how little he would get done while being in the same vicinity as Morty. Morty who was insufferably and inconceivably as handsome as he was adorable. Rick wanted to spend every day licking his face. Just really going to town on it! He wants to burrow in his hair and live off a steady diet of his slick or whatever.
He could possibly swing for 50. He'd stopped having ruts around that time. So long as he didn't go lower than that. It'd be too dangerous to go into a sudden rut after decades of not having one. He'd bite Morty without a doubt–a claiming bite. And then there'd be no more hiding anymore.
Rick silently chews on the idea. Yeah. He could do 50.
After lunch he drops Morty back off at work. Morty looks around all sneaky like and pecks his cheek. Rick turns his head for a full kiss. Morty pulls back but he's smiling.
"See you at home."
Rick barely manages to get a reply out. He's so fucking whipped.
He returns home and starts working on blueprints for a new body. He'll need to start growing it as soon as possible. He goes to his room–not the gadget room–and scents all of Morty's clothes again. Morty had to wash them constantly for work. He couldn't have foreign alpha scents upsetting the patients and triggering a fucking episode or whatever they call it. Rick sniffs at them, rubbing his face all over them.
Then he turns to leave and shuts the door behind him. Time to get to work.