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Every time he found Morty catching his stare, the boy seemed nervous.
Even from across the room, he could see the beads of sweat clinging to his forehead as he watched Rick linger at the open bar, the old man barely moving from his post aside from shuffling a few paces away every few minutes to stalk down a caterer with a tray of cocktail wienies.
When the bartender tried to pin him down with a weary look and threatened to cut him off, Rick pulled the grandpa of the groom card. When that didn’t seem to work, he lightly suggested maybe he should have the mom of the groom come over and set the misunderstanding straight — and he didn’t really mean for it to sound like a threat, but given the stricken look of fear that spread across the girl’s face, the way her mouth clicked shut, any further protest dying on her tongue after that as she kept feeding Rick drink after drink — he was sure that the poor thing had already had the displeasure of meeting a very demanding, very intimidating Drunk Beth. Maybe she had tried to cut her off just as she had Rick; boy, what a mistake that would have been.
The kid should have known better, did know better, than to supply easily accessible alcohol to the two biggest drunks he knew— but, Beth was his mom, after all. She had forced Morty to opt for the bar as part of the wedding budget, or she had threatened to pull out her and Jerry’s funds entirely that helped pay for the whole shabang. Rick couldn’t help but be amused at the memory, especially as he got to benefit. Chip off the ol’ block, both in their tendencies towards alcoholism and blackmail.
Morty had known better to even bother asking Rick for the support.
Earlier, in the middle of the ceremony, gurgled moans rang out clear as day and unashamed, and everyone’s eyes turned to track the source, being that of Rick’s lips wrapped around the neck of his flask as he tipped it back, chugging down its never ending contents as if it were water and he were on day four of stranded desert. From where he sat front row and center on his family’s side, the couple, the officiant, and the entire wedding party had an unobstructed view of his daytime drinking.
The bride stared at him with an expression of mortification. Rick enjoyed the way it contorted her features into something almost ugly.
Welcome to the Smith family.
Morty had the audacity to look embarrassed, too, as if he didn’t know Rick damn well. It would have ticked him off, had Morty not looked so striking as a deep blush bloomed across his face, cheeks ripening like a cherry. He looked at Rick then with more emotion than he had the supposed love of his life when she had walked down the aisle; even for as perfect as she looked, like a painted porcelain doll wrapped in silk—
Rick enjoyed finding that he was still the only one who could make Morty look at him like that.
He had smirked with satisfaction, followed by a burp and a hiccup, and only then did Beth finally nudge him, shooting him a sideways glance from her seat next to him. She stage whispered, loud enough for him to hear her over the officiant who had managed to trudge on through the disruption, a consummate professional. “Let’s maybe cool it and wait until after the ceremony for that, dad.” Space Beth, sitting to his other side, looking equal parts annoyed at him and at herself for being there with him, just rolled her eyes.
He could hear more than see Jerry, because he couldn’t bother to waste his time turning his head in the man’s direction, as he sniffled quietly, a shaky hand struggling to keep hold up an outdated-looking camcorder. He seemed wholly unphased by Rick’s disturbing noises, apparently so engrossed in the wedding proceedings, watching as his boy all grown up was given away. It was Rick’s turn to roll his eyes at the pathetic display of emotion.
Summer, who had been standing next to Morty as his best woman, placed a reassuring hand on her brother’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
It did sting him a bit when she barely spared a glance in Rick’s direction for the remainder of the ceremony.
Rick stuck to the bar like a barnacle, making his unpleasant presence known through the loud gesture of his passive-aggressive, self-destructive drinking. All while boring holes into Morty’s skull, his eyes never loosing sight of him.
And he noticed Morty noticing him, evident in the way he often turned his head in the opposite direction, usually pulling his (ugh) wife standing next to him in the same direction he turned to face. And wasn’t that just salt in the wound? Didn’t Rick even get to look at him anymore, or was that too much to ask, a new boundary now created and bound by law and country through this o’holy marriage? Rick’s glare settled on where Morty’s hand was: the small of the woman’s back, pinning down lace and tulle from her cascading veil.
Of course they went with the virginal white cliché, like a couple of fucking traditionalists. She’s not fooling anyone. They’ve already fucked like rabbits — Morty’s told him as much. Back when he used to still tell him things.
He’s seething, his eyes nearly shut with the weight of his glare, as he knocks back another full glass. He can sense the bartender squirm on his peripheral.
The kid had personally asked him to come, to witness flaying himself in front of his family and a room of strangers, a humiliation ritual for both himself and Rick, and he couldn’t even fucking swing by for a hello?
Was he really that ashamed of him?
Rick didn’t care about the fact that he hadn’t exactly made himself the most approachable— with his drinking, standoffish attitude, his disdain for the concept of marriage as a whole that he made known to anyone who’d had the misfortune of attempting niceties with him that day. His undeterred, one-sided stare off with the groom. Summer had come up to him once just to let him know he was being a creep. As if he didn’t know, as if he cared.
And, you know what? Fuck that.
Morty wanted him here? Well here he was, in all his Rick Sanchez glory. He could be nine inches deep in alien pussy, or be barrel rolling through an astroid field, or at least drunk on some finer booze this side of the galaxy, off his face on some actual good shit worth its hangover the next day.
Instead, he was here, wearing a fucking tie for fuck’s sake, torturing himself as he watched Morty make the biggest mistake of his (Morty’s? Rick’s?) life.
He thought he’d rather waste the rest of his life away in Federation prison than show up to watch this, but… fascination and car crashes, and all that.
It wasn’t just spite or addiction that kept Rick sloshed from ceremony to reception; he literally couldn’t stand to be here for a second without the numbing buffer alcohol was providing him. How else could he cope with seeing Morty bury himself 6 feet under? He was the only sane one in the room for being able to see it all for what it was: a wake.
The only reason he didn’t cry is because his tears ran dry a long time ago. When he first noticed the kid starting to slip from his grasp, when Morty moved and went on to college, when he found himself a nice girl who actually gave him the time of day. He was worried the alcohol would re-hydrate his tear ducts (and reopen his wounds) and he would leak like a river, but, turns out the mixture of wine and vodka he had struck was just the right balance for absolute, resolute bitterness to overtake all of his other senses. It held him emotionally steady, kept him from lability.
At least, it would have, if Rick didn’t keep drinking. It sat on his tongue like a canker sore and grew in pressure with each pull of booze. It grew each second he stayed stuck here watching Morty walk around in that stupid looking tux, looking too adult, pretending as if he could actually be normal.
It was a small comfort for Rick to imagine his addict genes were the very same ones teeming in Morty’s own blood. The boy was so entangled and wrapped up in Rick, he was in his DNA sequence. Morty could play pretend all he wanted to, but the same rot that festered in Rick festered in Morty.
It’s why he can’t fucking stand to watch this dog and pony show— he could practically see the phoniness oozing off of him, like the sweat beading down his face each time he thought he could sneak a glance in Rick’s direction.
Rick knew the truth.
He knew Morty and his bride were no virgins.
He knew how Morty’s face looked, flushed and contorted, when he was stuffed full of cock.
And he knew this whole thing was a massive crock of horseshit.
His eyes never leave the boy. When he finally sees him peel away from the tangle of white lace, he tracks his route towards the bathroom. Rick makes his move, pushing off the bar with only a slight wobble. He was a professional alcoholic, after all, and this stuff didn’t hold a candle to the things he’s been shitfaced on.
Morty had only ever brought his then-girlfriend around Rick once. It was the first Thanksgiving they spent as a couple, and it was a disaster. Rick and Beth had both gotten plastered, a family tradition, which Morty had been smart enough to warn her about beforehand. But, while Beth was surprisingly amicable, friendlier even than her usual sober self, and treated the girl as if she could be family, Rick was anything but. He couldn’t stave off the wickedness he felt rolling off of him just having the girl around, especially not after several Venusian bottles deep.
After his tenth, he had looked the girl up and down, and with no one to stop him, slurred, “Sssoo whaddya have tha’ I don’t? I’ve shown the kid the ff-fucking galaxy— and you— wha, you putting out some galaxy shatterin’ pussy? I fucking DO-OOOUU-OUBT IT!”
Morty had spent almost every subsequent holiday with the girl’s family, after that. Summer had managed to convince Rick to fuck off one Christmas so they could come around once more. They must not have been impressed by that visit, either, if the lack of any reruns were to go by.
Maybe the Smith home was just full of too many memories. Too many reminders. Rick never bothered to ask.
He slams the bathroom door behind him, not caring who it may alert in or outside. There’s no lock on it; he notes out of curiosity. He looks ahead to the row of stalls that are slightly ajar, and sees only one closed shut at the very end, the handicap stall. He hears water rushing from the sink inside. He sticks his hands in his pockets and makes a beeline for it.
He stops just before, standing off to the side so his shoes wouldn’t be visible to the occupant inside. Rick can hear him under the rush of the water speaking quietly to himself, unaware, or uncaring, that there is someone eavesdropping.
“It’s okay. Y-You’re okay. This is good. This is fine. D-Don’t even trip, dawg.” Rick can imagine Morty forcing himself to smile weakly at himself, trying and failing to convince his reflection of his sanity. The reminder of their old little catch phrase is the first thing of the night that cracks through Rick’s sour expression, the side of his mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a grin as nostalgia and fondness seep into his skin.
He only has to wait another minute before he hears the water turn off. Morty barely opens the stall before Rick suddenly slides in front of him, obscuring his vision of anything else. His small grin forms into a wide, unkind smirk, enjoying the look of surprise and fear that overtakes Morty’s features. It reminds Rick of when Morty was young, the faces he would pull during their adventures, finding it endlessly amusing how the boy seemed to never run out of novelty to find in the grand universe they traversed together, his grandson’s open expressiveness ever more captivating than any bounty or treasure they were supposedly hunting down. He took no greater pleasure than seeing the same old boring universe through his precious grandson’s eyes.
Those same eyes looking at him again, now, with that same beautiful, child-like expression. God, how he missed him looking at him like that. Looking at him at all. The immersion is slightly ruined by the tux, and the way his boyish features had a sharper edge to them, his face not as round and soft as he used to be. The reminders of Morty’s supposed maturity, his stamps of adulthood. Of being a husband.
Symbols of no longer belonging to Rick.
Rick’s voice is deceptively light, carefree. “Hey, buddy. Been avo-oouu-oiding me?”
Morty’s face is dripping, obvious he splashed water on his face, though it wasn’t out of place for him to look like he was sweating under Rick’s alcohol-darkened stare.
“R-Rick, h-hi. Um, I-I need to—”
He tries to step around his grandfather, but Rick blocks him. “Whoa there, pal. Not even gonna stay for a conversation? I think you at least owe me that, Mooooorty.” He finalizes his words by bumping into Morty’s chest, forcing the younger man to step backwards as to not stumble onto the ground. With Morty backed into the stall, Rick steps in and locks the door behind him, blocking the exit further. His tone turns cruel, mocking and sarcastic as he rounds on Morty. “I haven’t even gotten to congratulate my grandson on his big fucking day!”
Morty glares at him now, expression changing from fear to anger. “What the fuck is your problem, Rick?”
“ME!?” Rick scoffs, raising his arms up in dramatic exasperation. “Are you fucking kidding!? You think I’M the one here with a problem!? Morty, you have such a huge problem, it’s grown two arms, two legs, and a pussy. That’s what fucking happens when you let your problems get out of control, Morty — they materialize into organic matter, they multiply, and become other people’s problems. You’ve officially got yourself a fucking Gremlin, shit-lips.”
Morty blinks at Rick, until recognition sparks across his face. He sounds far away when he speaks. “Oh my God. Oh my God! Of course you would make this about you.” Morty scrubs his palms over his face with a force that looks like it hurt, pressing his palms into his eye sockets as if doing so would erase Rick from his mind, from his eyesight. He keeps his hands over his eyes as he shakes his head. “You are so not doing this to me, not today. Not here, Rick.”
Rick sneers, bearing his sharp teeth. “What aren’t I doing, Morty? I’m not saving you from this bullshit charade? Just admit it, Morty. Admit this whole fucking thing is you playing pretend, so we can all move on with our f-fuu-uuugh-cking lives.”
Rick flinches when Morty laughs, the sound bubbling up suddenly and uncontrollably, bouncing off the acoustics of the stall walls and piercing Rick’s ears.
His glare hardens. “What’s so fucking funny, Morty? Huh? You doing all this just to get a rise out of me? What do you want? For me to beg? Beg for me to—”
“THIS FUCKING ISN’T ABOUT YOU!” Morty rips his hands off his face to spread them wide at his sides, gesturing wildly in his astonishment. He’s no longer laughing. “My wedding isn’t about you, Rick! Holy shit! Y-You’re talking to me about moving on with my life? A-Are you actually serious? How do I get it through your old, thick, drunk skull? Have you ever considered even once for a second I may actually be happier witho—”
Rick shuts him up with a violent crash of their lips, pulling at Morty’s lapel with one hand and holding the back of his head with the other to prevent him from worming away. It doesn’t stop Morty from pushing at Rick’s chest, from squirming against his lips. He keeps his mouth shut, Rick feeling it quiver against him, reminding him of the petulant child still inside his grandson, stubborn, bratty, irresistible. Rick bites at his bottom lip, and Morty gasps into his mouth. Rick takes the opportunity to shove his tongue down Morty’s throat, gripping his hair more tightly to lean the boy’s head back for better access, further angling his wet muscle down Morty’s esophagus.
Morty’s hands stop moving and his shoulders slump, dropping whatever fight he had as quickly as he had gained it. Rick is staring into his eyes, watching as Morty’s bewildered, bug-eyed expression softens, lids dropping into heavy half circles, staring back at Rick under pretty, dark eyelashes. His furrowed eyebrows give away his internal conflict, probably battling with his own stubborn resolve with the part of him keening under Rick’s mouth.
He looks positively beautiful in his submission.
Rick feels his body reacting, muscle memory of the kind of arousal only Morty could stir up in him. Liquid heat pooling in his belly, dick twitching to hardness in his pants, nerve endings electrifying across his skin, all from getting to lap at the source of heaven that was Morty’s open, pliant mouth. It felt like a homecoming.
God, it’d been so long.
Morty is making small noises that sound like whines and the first syllables of moans, swallowed up in the kiss and vibrating inside Rick’s ravaging mouth, and it’s driving the elder man insane. He pulls off Morty to let them both catch their breath, both panting hot puffs of exhale on each other’s face. Though Rick doesn’t let his grip on Morty’s head go, to the boy’s credit, he makes no move off Rick’s grasp, either. Morty’s heady gaze drops down to where his palms are rested on Rick’s chest, and he grips around Rick’s shirt to pull him back in, taking initiative in reinstating their kiss. Morty darts his tongue across the slit of Rick’s mouth, and his grandfather responds by petting his own tongue against his. They stay like that, Rick’s hand never loosening in Morty’s hair, Morty keeping Rick latched onto him through white knuckles, groaning and licking into each other’s mouths, tempo in tandem in a hot, frenzied make-out.
Rick’s eyes shut as he loses himself, and he feels Morty shaking beneath him. Or, was he the one shaking? He could barely think straight, barely aware of where they were.
All he knew is he needed Morty more than oxygen.
Rick runs the hand not holding Morty’s skull down the front of his body, morphing his palm around the boy’s chest, feeling him up. He wasn’t the same small scrawny build he was at 14, years of adventures and a stint of running high school track & field giving him some lean definition. Instead of being soft like he used to feel, Rick could feel the hardened muscle beneath the material of starched suit. He squeezed his hand around Morty’s ribs, and felt relieved and exhilarated by the way he could still wrap his hand around the boy with ease. One of his palms still took up most of the surface area of Morty’s small-in-comparison chest. It wasn’t as drastic of a size difference from when he was a teenager, but it was still apparent.
He loved that he was still so much taller than him, too. Morty hit less of a growth spurt and more of a speed bump in this later teens, still dwarfed in size by Rick’s towering stature. The way Morty felt under him, shaking like a leaf, still small and desirable and his. It made Rick groan and lean further into Morty’s hot mouth. He groaned harder when he thought about what Morty would look like now, a little taller and a little more lean-faced, with both of Rick’s hands wrapped around his small waist as he was fucked on his grandfather’s cock.
Would still take him just as well as he did at 14?
He had to know. He deserved to know.
Before he could let the fantasy lead him further, Morty was pulling away, this time moving his head to the side and making no move to come back for more. A strand of saliva connected their mouths together, like a red string of fate.
Morty’s eyes are squeezed shut, his face is completely red, and he’s huffing out air by the lung full. Rick feels the shift in energy, in Morty trying to detach from their shared sin. He borrows some of the boy’s detachment as a way of not letting himself get disappointed, and finally releases his hold on Morty’s skull. Morty swallows hard at the loss, but otherwise stays there for a moment as he regains his breath.
Rick just watches him.
After another minute, Morty tentatively opens his eyes, squinting up at the bright florescence bar of light above them. It takes him another beat to register the saliva string still connecting their reddened, swollen lips, and he jerks his head to quickly break it.
Rick just watches him.
Morty looks up at Rick, swallowing again at whatever he sees in Rick’s eyes. Morty tenses his jaw as he slowly lifts his hands off him and places them at his sides, moving as if trying to not set off a wild animal — a predator that had its eyes locked onto him, not knowing if any sudden movement would make it chase him down until it latched onto him, for good.
But, Rick just watches him. His eyes run up and down Morty’s face, drinking in every minuscule detail of his features. He’s grateful that he doesn’t need a photographic memory because his cyber eye is a literal camera, taking the time to map out every inch and every feature, every dark mark and every burst blood vessel splashed across his cheeks. Every single bit of the boy’s beautiful face for him to be able to look back upon every time he would pull the feed back up from this moment.
The moment he would get to drink in the beautiful, debauched, kiss-drunk face of his grandson, very possibly, for the last time.
“I have to go.” Morty’s voice, quiet, wavering, breaks their silence. It’s rough on the edges, etched in the lust he’s back to repressing, again. “Y-Y-You should… y-you need to leave.”
He steps aside and past Rick, unlocking the stall and quickly making his way out of the bathroom. Rick only faintly registers the sound of the door shutting behind him as he continues to stare at the space where Morty once stood.
He can still feel the way his grandson’s plush lips felt against his own, the sound of his small wanton cries muffled by Rick’s tongue working itself into his mouth, how beautiful and perfect he still was for him. It’s just as miraculous and dizzying as it was that first time, ten years ago.
Ten years later, and some things haven’t changed. Call it nature or nurture, breeding or grooming, water of the womb or blood of the covenant— whatever you called it, it proved to Rick that whatever made Morty fall into his gravitational pull, time and time again, it was still there inside of him. Living, breathing. It still wanted him.
Some things have changed just enough, though, he supposed. Morty’s resolve to be normal, to move on, to stop clinging to his adolescent love and lust for his own grandfather had ultimately won out, hadn’t it?
Rick may have kissed the groom, but he wasn’t leaving with him.
Maybe he was really serious this time.
Maybe Rick had to stop clinging, too.
Rick’s hand twitches to reach for his flask, but finds himself unwilling to wash out the taste of Morty from his mouth. A dilemma.
He figures, since he didn’t bother with a wedding gift, that he could do at least one kind thing. For the kid and for himself.
He portals away.
Later that night, Morty is consummating the marriage to his new wife.
She’s a breathtaking sight to behold: delicate and bridal looking in her lacy lingerie, picked out specifically with this special night in mind, and long fine strands of her strawberry-and-honey blonde hair framed around her, haloed like an angel incarnate. Her hazel eyes are wide and bright in pleasure and adoration, and they search for her husband’s own. To lock eyes and stoke the flames of their lovemaking with the emotional bridging of their souls.
But Morty isn’t looking at her.
His eyes are wired shut as he’s remembering the feeling of brutal hands, the gnashing of colliding teeth, the taste of booze and rot, and the weight of a hazy, endless, blue-grey sky.