Chapter 4

One year earlier...

Rick stood outside the bar on Laurok with his eyes glued to his watch. He intended to be somewhat on time to this meeting he'd arranged, but hoped to be the last to show up. "Give them a chance to get acquainted without me killing the mood," Rick had decided. His plan backfired spectacularly when he heard a laser blast from inside. "Oh, come on, seriously?!"

With a growl of frustration, he rushed into the bar and pushed his way through the crowd ("Damn, why is it always so crowded in here?") into the employees-only zone, where the secret door was located. He began tapping out the coded rhythm (the bass line of "Another One Bites the Dust"), but the slab of wall swung open before he could finish the phrase.

"Aw, come on, b-uh-uddy, you're killing my groove!" Rick complained.

"Your Laurokian bitch shot me!" came the angry reply from the orange-skinned alien standing before him. The Parckellite was wearing a dark blue uniform that had holes cut out at the shoulders to accommodate a small pair of vestigial wings. Aside from the wings and his feathered ears, he very much resembled a human (albeit an orange one).

"What, did you try to steal her eye-holes?" Rick joked, stepping into the room. The Parckellite slammed the wall-door shut and held out his right hand in front of Rick's face, showing him the bloody hole in his palm.

"Daaaamn, bitch!" Rick said, smiling at the blue alien wearing a white dress on the opposite side of the room. The Laurokian woman had her lower pair of arms crossed, but her upper pair held a laser gun with both hands.

"He insulted my ears, so I decided to teach him a lesson about respect," the woman said, coolly.

"I was trying to make conversation!" the Parckellite insisted. "How was I supposed to know she'd take offense to me calling her 'fish-eared?'"

"Jeez, man, you're lucky she didn't rub your nose in it," Rick said, shaking his head.

"Can we get on with this?" the Laurokian said, pressing the laser gun into its holster at her side.

"All right, all right. First things-uhrp-first: introductions. We're gonna be using code names for the remainder of this shindig, however long it lasts—Less than a year if everything works out like it should and you guys don't get your asses killed. My lady," he said, nodding at the Laurokian, "Allow me to introduce you to Tristan of the One Hand."

"Fuck off," Tristan said, tearing a piece of cloth from the nearest window curtain and wrapping his injured hand with it.

"And Tristan, this gorgeous piece of ass is Isolde."

"Much obliged," Isolde said, with a knowing smirk aimed at Rick.

"'I-sol-de?' Where the hell did you come up with these shitty names?" Tristan asked.

"Doesn't matter, Stan. Trust me, the way things are going so far, they fit pretty damn well. Okay, on to business. I brought you guys here because I have a plan, and it can't work without full commitment from both of you…"


Now...

"All right, Morty, this is going to sting a little bit," Beth said, applying disinfectant to a cotton ball. Morty bit his lip and nodded, but couldn't hold back a sharp yelp when Beth began cleaning his wound. Summer sat nearby, holding the first aid kit and trying her best to feign boredom.

"Well, let's call the couch ruined," Rick said. "Good riddance, it's about time we get it replaced. Damn thing has no support."

"Who cares about the couch," Beth said, unpackaging a curved suture needle. "What are we going to do about my husband, who, in case you forgot, is currently in labor with an alien baby?!"

"Try to stay calm, sweetie. The bl-ah-ast shields will hold at least for a little while, and Jerry's contractions haven't even started yet. We have some time to figure this out." Rick picked up Jerry's iPad and started tapping the screen.

"Uh, define 'contractions,'" Jerry called from his place on the ruined couch.

"Are you kidding me?!" Beth yelled, looking up from her patient. "Two kids, Jerry! You were there both times!"

"It's gonna feel like, uh, like really bad gas. Or like an awful backache, except that it comes and goes," Rick said, eyes glued to the iPad. "You been feeling any pain?"

Jerry nodded, nervously. "It feels like a leg cramp, except in my stomach."

"How many times has it happened?" Beth asked, incredulous.

"I don't know, three—four times," Jerry answered, suddenly wincing. "…Oh, god, this one's way worse than the others were."

"Summer, you're on clock duty. Start the timer when his contraction ends," Rick instructed.

"Whatever," Summer said, getting her phone out and tapping the clock app.

"H-how long is this supposed to last?" Jerry said through his teeth.

"Only for about a minute," Beth said. "Breathe with the pain, don't try to fight it. You too, Morty," she added. Morty nodded, but still gasped sharply when Beth pressed the suture needle to his wound. "There we go, honey, you're being very brave."

"Thanks, Beth," Jerry said, oblivious. He visibly relaxed seconds later, and Summer took that as her cue to start the timer. Beth took another several minutes to finish stitching up Morty's arm and begin wrapping it with gauze, at which point Jerry started grimacing again.

"Time?" Rick asked, turning to Summer.

"Four and a half minutes."

"Shit," Rick said, depositing the iPad on the coffee table. "Okay, Jerry, pants off." He rolled his eyes at the sudden, incoherent objections from literally every person in the room. "What the hell is everyone's problem? His contractions are less than five minutes apart. I need to figure out the situation down there so we can decide if Beth needs to operate or not."

"Me? Operate?!" Beth protested, "Are you out of your mind?"

"How hard can it be, sweetie, you're a surgeon, aren't you?"

"A horse surgeon," Jerry emphasized as he remained curled in on himself with pain.

"Oh, sure, Dad, let me just scrub up, get my instruments out, and call the anesthetist. Oh, wait, I can't do that because NONE OF THOSE THINGS ARE HERE!" Beth screeched at her father.

"All the more reason to scope out the situation. Summer, go get some sheets," Rick ordered.

"What am I, the family errand runner?" Summer grumbled.

"No, you're just the only one not shot, in labor, or administering first aid. Would you just get some damn sheets, now?!"

"Jeez, chill out, Grandpa," Summer said, heading for the linen closet.

"All right, Jerry, we're gonna need to move you to the dining room table."

"What's wrong with the couch?" Jerry said, still recovering from his most recent contraction.

"I need you e-eh-levated so I can see better. M-my back isn't what it used to be, and I can't be kneeling in front of you with my leg all jacked up like this. Besides, you-you're on the kitchen table in the opening credits, and damned if I'm going to break from canon at this point."


Eleven months earlier...

Rick sighed and took a long sip from his flask. Tristan and Isolde stood on opposite sides of the small, hidden room that had become their permanent meeting place, refusing to look at each other.

"So," Rick began, "Um…did you guys…?"

"What? 'Did we fuck?'" Tristan said, never one to skirt around sensitive issues.

"Yes...that. Well?"

"Yes, we did," Isolde answered.

"…And?"

"And I'm currently bleeding. What did you expect, Ricardo? An invitation to the baby shower?"

"I wasn't-uhrp-expecting anything. I was hoping for something. Truth be told, I would have been pretty impressed if you'd managed on your first try," Rick admitted.

"Isolde thinks it didn't work because she didn't have an orgasm," Tristan complained, gesturing toward the alien woman, but still refusing to look at her. "That's how primitive and backward the Laurokians are. They think some kind of infant savior is gonna come rescue them from the big bad Parckellites and the female orgasm is what makes babies. I can't make this shit up."

Isolde rolled her eyes and offered Tristan the middle of three fingers.

"Well how many times did you guys actually do it?" Rick pressed.

"Once a day for…what, a week?" Tristan said, this time looking at Isolde for confirmation. She nodded. "Six days."

"And Izzy didn't have a single orgasm?"

Isolde shook her head, both pairs of arms crossed over her chest.

"Jesus, Stan, d-did you even try to please her?"

"What are you, our relationship counselor?" Tristan growled. "Does it fucking look like either of us are in it for the pleasure? It's not working, plain and simple. Our races aren't compatible."

Rick's hands tightened into fists at his sides, but he remained outwardly calm. "…All right," he said, "glad we got that cleared up for science. You guys enjoy the rest of your short, war-torn lives." He headed for the door.

"Wait!" the two aliens cried in unison.

Rick smirked ("Thought so."). He put on a straight face before turning around. "Yeah?"

"Maybe we…" Tristan began, stepping a bit closer to Isolde. "…Maybe we can keep trying for a little while. Wh-what do you think, Isolde?" His eyes met hers, and he suddenly realized that this was the first time he had ever actually gotten a good look at her face. ("Six fucking times and I never noticed how green her eyes are…")

Isolde issued a dramatic sigh. "I guess I can handle another week or two of terrible sex if it's for the fate of the galaxy. It's clear that Tristan needs the practice anyway."

"Well, fuck you, bitch," Tristan said, defensively.

Isolde replied without missing a beat, "That's right, Tristan, 'fuck me.' Now you're getting the idea."


Now...

"O-oh-kay," Rick said, spreading the folded sheet over Jerry's lower half. "Time for you to take those pants off." Jerry was lying prostrate on the kitchen table, an old comforter beneath him and a small pillow under his head for support.

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with-"

"Now," Rick demanded. Jerry frowned and started fumbling with his pants, finally sliding them off with his underwear beneath the sheet and tossing them to the side.

"Now, uh…bend and spread." ("God, that sounds disgusting.") Rick lifted the sheet and leaned forward a bit. "Let's see what we've got here—Fuck!" he suddenly yelled.

"What?! What is it?!" Jerry yelped back, closing his knees and tucking his legs in.

"Not you, you idiot," Rick said, wincing, "I knocked my -ungh- I knocked my goddamned leg against the table edge. Shit that hurt…"

"You really should let me look at that," Beth said, entering the room with another pile of old sheets and cloths.

"In a minute, sweetie. I need to see what we're dealing with first…Goddammit, Jerry, open your legs," Rick ordered, one hand still clamped on his injured thigh. Jerry swallowed and complied, finding a place on the ceiling to stare at while Rick lifted the sheet again. "Well, I'll be damned," Rick said, apparently impressed.

"What is it?" Beth asked, not exactly sure if she wanted to know.

"Isolde's craftsmanship, that's what. The woman was an artist. Looks like we won't be needing your surgical expertise after all, Beth," Rick said from halfway under the sheet.

"Are—Are you telling me my husband has a vagina?" Beth asked, trying her best not to shriek at her father, but not entirely succeeding.

"The medical term used in most alien hospitals is 'mangina,' but yeah, that's the idea. Did you catch all that, Jerry?" Rick withdrew from under the sheet to find Jerry unconscious again, his heading lolling to the side and a string of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Shit. You had to make this difficult, didn't you?" Rick muttered. He looked back at his daughter. "Get whatever medical supplies you have lying around, anything and everything you can find. He's gonna need a blood transfusion."


A/N: Sorry for the shorter/delayed chapter! I hope ya'll are enjoying! Your comments are much appreciated! :)

-PangurBan