Chapter Text
“Come on, he'll have some fun and gain some unique experience, I'm gonna- I- " he burps, "I'm not gonna let him come to harm. He's old enough, you worn-out softie. Besides, what are you even gonna do with so many of them? What is one more or less to you at this point? Little reminder here that I- that if I wanted to I could just take one and leave.”
“Pah! I want to see you try, Sanchez!” Stanford spits at the lanky old geezer next to him who just continues to smirk in a way Stan 039 could only call condescending.
Stan 039 returns his attention to the stove where it belongs, tries not to think about the tense faces behind him that are like mirror images of his own. Let the old men argue, it's got nothing to do with him. His biggest concern right now should be not to let anything burn.
It's nothing unusual for a Rick to show up in their home outside of Stanford's working hours, even for one to invade their kitchen rather than wait at the office isn't too out of the ordinary, Ricks are dicks like that. Still, he just doesn't have a good feeling about this one and by the look of it the surrounding Stans don't like the guy's gall either.
“Oh, you will. I'm just informing you beforehand so you know to blame yourself when one of your little lambs goes missing indefinitely.” he all but purrs and turns to have a good look at the little Stans sitting at the table who are trying to not catch his attention as they wait for food. Just ten minutes ago they were all so loud and rowdy and lively. Excitedly demanding breakfast.
“But if I can't have the little one then maybe... Hm. I think I like that one, what do you think, Fordsy?” The rude Rick points at Stan 058 and Stan 039 shudders when he see's the kid's expression morph into one of uncontained horror and the boy nearly drops his fork, barely catches it before it clatters over the edge of the table.
“Out of the question. He's only just turned eleven.” Stanford replies dryly and pulls a big carafe of juice from the fridge before placing it on the table but for once nobody reaches for it. They are obviously scared, too focused on the old men debating next to them.
Stanford rounds the table, walks past Stan 039 at the stove and starts to look for something in a cabinet next to him. He could have just asked Stan 039 to give him what he's looking for since he's taking care of stocking the kitchen a lot lately but Stanford's obviously just trying to look busy.
“Eleven is old enough for what I got in mind.” snorts the sleazebag and Stan 039 balls his fists at his sides has to concentrate on his pans with all his mind to not just lash out at the guy and break his face.
“If you don't leave now I will report you,” Stanford growls out but still refuses to look the Rick in the face, as if acknowledging his presence visually was equal to agreeing with him.
“What for? This place is a big fat joke and you know it. It's a glorified citadel funded whorehourse. You're running a Rent-a-Stan. You can play family all you want but don't act so high and mighty, you're no better than me.” he laughs cruelly and finally, Stanford turns his head to glare at him. Something in Stan 039 tells him he lost to that Rick. “Everyone knows this is your personal playground. It's all thanks to you that Stans are becoming more and more of an accepted Morty alternative. Can you really blame the consumer for desiring the product you advertise?”
There is a long pause and he doesn't even need to turn around and look at the table to know that every single one of the boys is stiff as a board.
Stanford sighs, scowl still in place and turns back around to the cabinet, pulls out a can of peaches and slams it on the counter, frustrated. “Fourteen and up are available, my prices are non-negotiable. I only accept portal fluid as payment. I will need you to sign me a contract and read, not just look over but actually read and agree to the terms of service. Failure to comply will lead to strikes in your record. 3 strikes and you will be blacklisted, the citadel will redirect you to the blender dimension if you try to return here and-”
“Yeah yeah, I read all that crap on your homepage just point me to the ones here that are up for sale.”
“They are not for sale.” Stanford hisses, wide hands gripping the counter way too hard before he turns around and scans over the Stans at the table. He points out Stan 051, Stan 050, Stan 048, Stan 047, Stan 044, and finally Stan 039 in that order. The Rick gravitates immediately to Stan 051.
“That one it is then.” he lets a hand come down on the boy's shoulder who jumps and tries to lean out of the touch, eyes big and shiny as he turns his head to look at Stanford pleadingly. Mouth opening in protest but silenced with just one cold uncaring look from the man who just a minute ago wouldn't give up even one of them to the skinny old jackass.
“I'll get the contract ready after they finished breakfast.” it grits out of Stanford like sand in a pepper mill, he makes it obvious that he loathes this guy. He seems to loathe most if not all Ricks but the guys that invade his privacy like this always seem to be treated with not even a minimum of basic politeness. He likes that about Stanford, makes him more human.
“Do it now. I don't feel like sticking around here longer than I have to. This sickeningly sweet play pretend happy family shtick is making me nauseous.”
Stanford stops dead in his tracks to glare, not at Rick but into thin air with a distant look on his face. He looks... hurt.
“It's not just play pretend!” it's out of Stan 039's mouth before he knows it and while he doesn't feel bad about defending Stanford he regrets speaking up like that. Everyone is staring at him, some of the younger kids look relieved and a little awestruck, the older Stans at the table look plain shocked, some outright alarmed yet the Rick barely looks up, makes it obvious he doesn't even care enough about his opinion to answer. Slowly Stan 039 turns his head to face Stanford.
There is a fierce disappointment barely held back behind clenched teeth and the glasses don't mitigate the effect of his furrowed brows in the least. Stan 039 was tense before but now his back feels rigid like it was hewn from a block of concrete. Pines men are generally of unimpressive height but the barely contained anger makes Stanford seem taller.
“Sorry.” Stan 039 mumbles, feels shame that he lost control like that despite his rigorous training and wonders how much trouble he's in as Stanford walks back to the Rick, pulls a small tablet out of his coat pocket and starts scrolling through the contract and explains a few basic things that the Rick already seems to know or simply doesn't want to hear.
He knows he should concentrate on his cooking, not on what is going on behind him. He's been given this job because Stanford trusts him with it. He worked hard to earn back that trust. He is thankful for the chance he was given, thankful to be here, he truly is. It was stupid to interrupt them, to get involved in Stanford's business when nobody asks him to. He is acting more like a child than a man who is close to 20. Fucking hell, how often did Stanford tell him to get a hold of his temper and still-
A quick glance over his shoulder reveals the look on Stan 051's terrified face. He turned 14 a few months ago. Stan 039 remembers the kid saying he and his Ford were born at the end of February rather than the middle of June and was surprised that not all alternate Pines twins were born on the same day. Now the kid is clearly trying to hold back tears, bites his lip in an effort to hide his fear even though nobody is looking at him. Nobody but Stan 039. The other Stans around the table ignore him on purpose now. Nobody wants to be involved in the situation, everybody acts like this is normal while knowing precisely that it is pretty fucked up. They are probably relieved that it's not them.
It's not like he spends much time with the individual younger Stans. He feels kind of responsible for the little ones, especially those that come here confused and scared and begging to be brought back home. Every Stan that is picked up before he got thrown out wants to go home. He isn't sure but he thinks Stan 051 here never even left this place since he arrived. A little troublemaker who isn't trusted to make good decisions for himself. Was he rented out before? Has he an idea of what could happen once he leaves or does he have to rely on his wild imagination right now?
Stan 039 remembers the feeling clearly. The first time he was rented out. He thought for sure he'd be fucked. Literally. He remembers that Rick clearly but can't recall his dimension. Hair a little shorter than that of your everyday Rick and despite his clearly inebriated state he looked a little more well-kempt, he had nice fingernails. In the end, he was just looking for some company. They did some stuff the Rick had called 'adventuring' and got really drunk afterward. They laughed a lot. It was... nice. It made him lower his guard.
He smiled when the next Rick portaled him out of here. Smiled until he was unceremoniously thrown to the ground and punched in the face before the Rick choked him out. His memories of everything after that feel vague. He can't be certain but he thinks the Rick kept strangling him every time he regained any semblance of consciousness.
For a brief moment, he wonders what the Rick present in their kitchen wants with the boy. He'll have some fun and gain some unique experience... Eleven is old enough for what I got in mind.
Concentrate on your pans. It's none of your business.
Behind him, Stan 051 snivels, rubs his eyes that are no doubt burning with unshed tears in a way that makes him think of some of the Mortys he's met. Not the shy and anxious ones, the ones with the dead eyes that are resigned to their fate, who don't argue and just... let everything happen, innocence lost.
“Can I go instead?” He says and both Stanford and Rick look up from the tablet.
“What did you say?” Stanford asks, brows knit and Stan 039 swallows the heavy lump forming in his throat.
“It's been a while since I got out and I kinda did nothing but cook and play with the kids lately. Not very satisfying.”
Stanford opens his mouth but doesn't get to say anything before the Rick cuts in. “You wanna come with me? Why?”
Stan 039 shrugs and lets out a short laugh that he hopes screams cocky teenager. “Anything to get out of here.”
The look Stanford gives him is downright toxic but that seems to strike right into the Rick's zone. By now he knows what draws this type of Rick in.
“Changed my mind. Gimme that one.” he beams at Stanford, pointing at Stan 039 and with a huff Stanford starts to change numbers on the tablet, hand movements slightly exaggerated as he complains quietly, more to himself than anyone around him.
Something in his stomach twists itself into knots when he realizes what he just did but a look at the faces of the little Stans makes him feel like a bloody martyr. He slips his apron off hangs it over the back of the chair of Stan 047 and asks him to take over for him. There isn't much left to do anyway. “Just try not to burn the hashbrowns and make sure the pancakes don't have raw batter in 'em. Better they're a little dry than someone getting salmonella or some shit. The others can help you clean up when you're all done.” he grins and ruffles the kid's hair. Stan 047 nods vigorously, not hiding his obvious admiration for the older one.
10 Minutes later the other Stans yell their goodbyes at him and tell him they hope he has fun and wish him a safe trip as he steps through the shiny green portal. It's almost funny how willing they are to look him in the eye when they say that. If he looked even half as miserable about leaving as Stan 051 did they would have felt bad for him, would have acted like they didn't see him leave. It's all about appearances. If he doesn't act scared the kids won't be worried. It's simple like that.
The Rick comes through the portal behind him and gives him a push, points toward a little space-ship that radiates a trashy suburban garage flair and tells him to start walking. A few moments later Stan sits in a slightly uncomfortable old car seat as they zip through space, very aware that this rickety looking vehicle is all that separates him from the cold endless void outside.
Sometimes he wonders how nothingness can be cold. He remembers clearly that he once tried to tear his way out of one of these things, determined he'd rather kill both of them than let anything more happen and that Rick had explained to him that he wouldn't just freeze or suffocate. The vacuum would boil him alive in his own skin. In the end, he landed on his hands and knees in the backseat, unable to decide whether or not he wanted to be boiled to death just to protect his pride. But sometimes he still considers it, wants to reach out and
“It's gonna hold,” Rick comments mockingly and Stan can't help but roll his eyes.
“That wasn't what I was thinking about.”
He sneers patronizingly. “Please. It's written all over you.”
“Whatever.” Stan shrugs and leans back into the seat, draws a leg up against his chest, heel digging into the cushion beneath him.
“I know you think you reeled me in with your little confidence act.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I know your kind. You think you're so manipulative. If you wanna play this game with a Rick you'll have to do better than that.”
“Then why pick me?” Stan grunts out, slightly sore. He knows that Ricks always do that, call you out on everything and make you feel small because it makes them feel like they got big dicks, but that doesn't make it easier for him to listen to it.
“I originally thought of showing up with a kid Stan, old enough to realize what's happening but young enough to display fear honestly.”
Stan clicks his tongue, impatient. “I don't like repeating myself.”
The Rick takes a deep breath and shrugs before reaching into his coat and taking the first swig of his flask since he showed up. “Breaking something that thinks is sooooo though can be fun, too. And so is breaking something that already thinks it's too broken to break any further," he smirks ever so slightly. "There is just something deeply satisfying about proving people wrong, don't you think?.”
That makes Stan perk up in his seat. How it still surprises him what condescending assholes Ricks generally are is beyond him.
“Also, your savior complex is really annoying. Makes a guy wanna knock you down a peg or two.”
“I don't have any complexes!” he briefly considers landing a right hook right between the old geezer's jaw and cheekbone, or maybe in the ribs.
“Kid, you got enough complexes to choke a rhino but that's not the point. The way you glance around the room, think you're so stealthy with the way you pity those kids. Do you really think you helped anyone by sacrificing yourself? I'm not as bad a guy as you think, but the next guy might be. Who's gonna save the kid when the next pedo portals in and looks for some fresh fuck meat when you're here with me?”
Stan bristles. Before he can think about what he does he swings at the motherfucker. Two seconds later his face and chest are pressed into the headboard, one arm twisted behind his back and a knee digging into his ribs, pushing him down.
“Brute force, that's all you're capable of, huh? That's not just typical its gettings so old it's boring. Listen carefully, one more of these stunts and I won't bring you back.” he hisses and Stan nods, expression gruff and flush with barely contained rage. He wants to punch this guy's lights out so bad. Not all Ricks are bad but this obviously is one part of the vast majority that decidedly is. Nobody would miss this guy if Stan killed him, in fact, the multiverse would be a better place if Stan could get rid of even just one random Rick! But he doesn't struggle. No matter what he does, he is no match for a Rick, not yet. That doesn't change the fact that he wants them all dead.
“Next time you lash out maybe try to consider your surroundings, too." he lifts a hand and knocks at the glass above them, "Not that I think you can break this baby but if you wanna kill yourself do that in your off time, I paid for this little excursion and I intend to get my portal fluids worth. You're not going to go back before - Urph- I'm satisfied.”
Fucking hell, he hates it when they belch in his neck like that. “Okay! Let the fuck go already or we're gonna crash into something!” Stan puffs and Rick laughs, light and easy.
“There is nothing out here to crash into. I could take you to the backseat and teach you some respect and we wouldn't hit anything for years.”
“Then where are we going??”
Rick lets go of him and shoves Stan back into his seat with a little push before putting his hands back on the steering wheel. “I recently became a prem-”
“I don't wanna hear your life's story,” Stan interrupts him and see's the Rick frown out of the corner of his eye. “I just wanna know where we're going. Flying. Whatever.” he throws his hands up for emphasis. He's so fed up with this! That's not what he had planned for today, the last place he wants to be is next to a Rick!
“What's it to you? You have no say in the matter anyway.” he muses over that for a second and takes another gulp from his flask before he sneers. “Or any matter, really. What's it like, living in that freak's little dreamland?”
“Shut up.” It's okay. It could be worse. If he had to choose the worst thing about it it would probably be that there are so many Stans. Not that he dislikes them. Most of them are nice enough. They are Stans. But... Right now he is Stan, the one and only, he is himself. Back in that house on that asteroid, he is just one of many. In that place, he even refers to himself as Stan O 39. One can't help but feel smaller, less significant when he's not just reduced to a number but is basically just a carbon copy of everyone else around. he can't even pretend to be an individual because their differences are minimal, they have more in common than not. Makes you lose yourself... Different stages of life of the same person stuck in one place, sometimes it feels like he's in some fucked up timetravel funhouse. Mirrors everywhere. Other than Ma some of these older guys really can tell him his future. Or what his future would have been if Stanford didn't collect him off the street. The harsh reality is that he would have never made it on his own, never could have won his family's love and respect back.
All he has is this one exceptional Stanford, grizzled and arrogant and more than just a little rough around the edges but... It's so easy to see the Sixer in him, his Sixer, it's painful. And if he wouldn't have taken Stan with him he'd probably sleep in his car now, hungry and cold and alone and... probably earn his living in a similar way. He wants to say that might be the only thing he's good at but he's not so sure about that. But maybe it's the only thing he is good for.
Rick clears his throat as if on cue. “Suit yourself, princess. If you don't wanna talk I guess I gotta rape around a little to pass the time. Do you want it up your ass or down your throat, baby, cause I'm game for both.”
Stan chokes on his own spit, tries not to backpedal too obviously. “It's not what you think.”
“Oh? Enlighten me. What do I think?”
“He's not like that.”
“Like what?”
“... Like Ricks.”
“Are you sayin' he doesn't fuck you?”
Stan tenses. He could say no but that would be a lie and Rick would know it. It's like they can smell fear like some kind of predatorial animal.
“Thought so.”
“It's not what you think.” Stan says again, quieter but insistent.
“Sure. He's such a good guy. That's why his foreplay consists of telling you what a meanspirited failure you are. What's it again... the thing he loves to use against older Stanley's... 'You ruined my life!' right? 'You deserve to be punished like this.' Fuck, I bet he tells you he doesn't do it because he likes it or because he hates you, but to teach you a lesson, to make you a better person.” Rick lets out a rather callous laugh." Let me guess, does he say fucked up stuff like 'You made me do this, Stan?' Does he-”
“Shut the fuck up!” Stan rasps as a slight dizziness washes over him, a heavy weight pressing against his back, pushing him forward as the phantom of broad bruising hands ghosts over his neck and they fall into silence but Stan can hear someone breathe against his ear.
It's for your own good, Stanley. You'll thank me one day. You don't have to like it, just hold still. Yes, like that, relax. This is really easy for you, isn't it? Deep down you seem to know you deserve this. You want to be punished, don't you? I can make you a better person, Stanley if you just let me. You have to let me... oh god, so tight-
“If you think he doesn't fuck the kids you're dumber than a Morty."
Stan jerks out of his stupor to glare at him, almost personally offended for reasons he doesn't understand.
"Obviously, he doesn't do all of them, where would he find the time? He's got like how many of you by now? 60? 70?”
62 Stan thinks bleakly and watches the Rick idly suckle on his flask for a moment before he continues to talk over the rim of its mouth, gives Stan a curious side-eye.
“If you pay a little attention you can easily make out that he's playing favorites but I guess you'd rather pretend you don't see that, huh? Why is that? Did you give up on life or do you want to believe you're the only one he wants to fuck like that? Wanna be his special little sex toy? Or do you really think all Stans deserve this? Do you think if you let him rape you often enough he'll eventually forgive you guys?”
Stan wrenches his eyes shut. He doesn't want to hear that. Not again. Why can't Ricks just leave him be? Why? Why, why, why do they always have to poke him like that? You'd think he'd get used to it but the more often he hears it the worse it feels. They have to know he'll jump to the bait and try to punch them out, break their long thin necks in his big hands like twigs. He doesn't want to get slammed against the headboard again, get his arm twisted, get some important lesson about manners rammed up his ass.
"Wanna know a little secret? Why he does it all? It's not complicated. he-"
"Shut up already! I don't wanna hear it! Just once can you NOT rub it in and just leave me be you dirty old freak?? I know everything I need to know, I don't need you to tell me that it's all about sex! Everything is always about sex! Fuck and be fucked! Asses and tits, and dicks and pussies and that's all there is to it! Because life is meaningless and short and everyone spends it chasing after what feels best, yadda yadda, I don't wanna hear it anymore! I get it already I drew a short straw so I don't get a choice! And spare me the justice talk about how the concept of deserving things and fairness and equality are human constructs and how nothing and nobody truly has any worth in the face of the endless fucking multiverse!" he shouts and he knows he should stop it but he can't help it. He's so angry and frustrated and tired of it all and just wants it to end.
He wants to wake up, wants to go home. See his brother and apologize until he loses his voice, hug Ma and tell her how much he loves her, hell he'd even settle for reuniting with dad at this point. If he got the chance he'd try. He'd work so hard but he has long stopped being naive enough to try and trick Ricks into portaling him home and no amount of begging will convince a Rick who actively rents a Stan. God, he needs to stop thinking so he can stop yelling.
"Or did you want to tell me about how useless it is to fight my situation?! Tell me to lean back and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts because nothing matters and life is what you make of it and by resisting the shit I can't change I am only making myself miserable because guess what that's not the first time I've heard that either! I get it already, you're an all-powerful god in this bitch and I'm stupid and weak and irrelevant and should come to terms with that! Now stop trying to teach me something and let's get this over with!"
There is a long moment of silence where all Stan can do is try to catch his breath and stare into the darkness above him, count stars as he blinks tears back before they can fall and embarrass him further. He doesn't dare look at the Rick, he can't imagine what the old fuck must think right now and he doesn't want to know it. But he can hear some rustling of the white lab coat, can hear his throat work as he swallows his booze down.
"It's not your fault, you know? You were just unlucky to catch this specific Stanford's attention and just as unlucky to catch mine. The universe is cruel like that, but none of it is your fault, kid, don't let anyone tell you that. Just..." he burps again and drinks some more. Stan wishes he'd offer him some because he could really use a good buzz and a feeling of numbness right now. "Don't act like you don't care because you obviously do. It's pathetic to watch.”
“Where are we going?” Stan asks again, sick and tired of talking about Stanford and himself and everything that' has remotely to do with it and lucky for him Rick complies and accepts the change of subject.
“A while ago I became a premium member of a nice little fetish club. Pretty exclusive but I can't get in alone, gotta show up with an offering and like hell am I gonna drag my Morty there.” He snorts before he takes a few more gulps from his flask and lets out a deeply dissatisfied grunt when he shakes it and hears no more sloshing sounds. “The little shit doesn't need to know what a sicko his grandpa really is.”
A fetish club. "What kind of fetish?"
"You're better off not knowing yet. I want everyone to see the expression on your face when you realize what is going to happen to you."
Yeah. Okay. He really should numb himself. Stan sits up and turns around in his seat, tries to spy an unopened bottle in the backseat but is promptly pushed back into his seat by his meaty shoulder.
"You can drink as much as you like after it's all over, but I need you to be sober and aware of what is happening when it happens. That's the whole appeal in it."
“Ah,” he says, monotone and a little defeated, resigned to his situation for now. He knows that the moment someone puts a hand on him his fight will return. It's always like that but right now he can't help but feel a little bit of life drain out of him and into the void outside, imagines what it would look like drifting off into space. It's funny but when he allows himself to relax space has something weirdly serene about it, makes him realize that being boiled alive still sounds worse than being a living breathing sex toy.
He doesn't want his life to end on such a bad note, doesn't want to die without making up with his Ford, without making his mistake up to his twin, without ever seeing his other half again, without telling him how much he loves and treasures and needs him. He can't see it right now but there has to be a way to meet again. If he can just hold out long enough... if he just keeps himself alive long enough sooner or later there might be an opportunity. As long as he can believe that...
"We're here." Rick sets the junk-ship down without any grace, there are few other ships here but not far from them a Rick and his Morty portal in. The Morty looks scared and his Rick has to drag him which isn't hard because like most other Mortys he's met so far this one is small and skinny and probably a little timid, too. "Get out, don't wanna be late on event night."
Stan nods, tries not to tense back up again when the Rick gives his knee a little squeeze and something lecherous grows in his face that makes Stan glad he didn't eat before he left. He braces himself for a long and probably rough day and jumps out onto the parking lot. Despite everything, despite knowing he didn't truly help and that nothing he does or doesn't do matters, in the end, he's still glad he spared little Stan 051 this bullshit.