Let The Ricks Fall Where They May
Written by Kat_Aclysm
Beta Read by Unlvcrjchick
Rated: - T for language
Disclaimers + Copyrights: This is a work of fanfiction. Rick and Morty is an [Adult Swim] cartoon by Justin Roiland and Dan Harmon. Don't sue me because I'm a broke Aussie and you're more likely to get payment in crocodiles, boomerangs, and dollarydoos. Crikey and stuff.
NOTE: Keep leaving reviews and commentary and stuff if you like the content. I really miss the R&M Fandom being active. :(
Chapter 33 - When The Ricks Are Down
December 15th, 11:38pm, Citadel Time, 2001
Cross-Temporal Rift Nebula, Location Classified
Citadel Of Ricks, Dimension Number Classified
Morty,
Someday, I'll explain it all to you. One day you'll understand why they came, what they wanted, why everything is my fault, and why I made the decisions I did in the weeks that followed.
You may not agree with them, hell... I don't agree with some of them myself. You may also choose to hate me for what I've done and that's fine because I deserve it. I shouldn't be your hero, either. I'm more like a super-fucked-up, egotistical-
Rick became discouraged and crumpled up the piece of paper on which he had been writing. He buried his head in his hands and clutched at his hair, deeply frustrated; he'd mentally gone over what he wanted to say more than a dozen times, but no matter how he worded it, it still didn't feel right to him.
"Yo, what are you doin' up?" He heard Surgeon Rick come up from behind, and then his shadow fell on the surface of his workstation as the man peered over his shoulder. "Dude, you're not seriously still working on writing shit down, are ya? This is the exact kind of thing you were told not to do. You need rest, man."
Before Rick could say or do anything else, the surgeon had reached over and turned off his desk lamp.
"Hey, what the fuck?! I needed that! I wasn't doing that at all, damn it!" Rick protested as the room was plunged into darkness. "I-I was, uh..." He became quiet and the rest was an indecipherable mutter under his breath. "N-never mind. I think I'm just gonna go to bed like you said."
"Oh, no way, bro. You don't get to do that now. You can't just start something and expect me to walk away when you don't finish it." Surgeon Rick pestered him by repeatedly jabbing him in the shoulder with a pointed finger. "Now you gotta tell me, 'cause I'm not leaving you alone until you do."
"Great..." The scientist turned in his chair and grabbed the surgeon's hand to make him stop. "Can you not?"
"Yeah, but I also can." Surgeon Rick retorted with a wide grin. "Tell me."
"Ugh, fine!" Rick gave in quickly; although he didn't want to talk, he knew that it would make him go away faster. "I decided to start trying to write a letter to my grandson, because I know he's going to ask me about everything someday. But every time I start, I find that it just doesn't work... how do you tell someone you ruined everything for them and not have them hate you for it? Because I hate myself and I deserve to die."
"Wow... sounds like more content for your therapist." Surgeon Rick said it in the same teasing tone, but he was being serious this time. "Why don't you just go with that? People are more likely to be accepting of your experiences if you honestly tell them how it is and what you're going through. It worked for my kid. It'll probably work for yours."
As quickly as it started to sting, Rick could feel himself shut down; his protective mechanisms had kept him from falling apart for years and he wasn't about to stop them, especially now that he couldn't bandage his hurt with alcohol. "Or, I could just not bother..." He picked up the crumpled ball and threw it into the trashcan like all the others before it.
"Yeah, see how long that works out for you." Surgeon Rick half-grumped in reply as he pried his hand out of the other's grip. "Secrets are toxic. Sitting on them can do you harm, just like trying to hold in a bad fart. Just air out the truth and let it stink for a while. It'll dissipate in time."
"...are we still talking about my grandson or a hypothetical fart?"
"Both," the other was grinning all over again. "Don't torture yourself and save it for when he's ready. It may shock him initially, but he's likely to get it and I don't think he'll hate you for it. If he's smart like us, he'll understand." He gave the scientist a singular, reassuring pat on the back and turned to walk away. "Go to sleep, bro... don't think about it until the time comes."
Rick just silently sat in the chair as he heard the other move around in the dark and return to bed, though the talk hadn't made him feel better.
He wasn't going to tell Morty the truth.
He was NEVER going to tell him.
37 hours earlier...
Even though the morning had gotten off to a rough start, the occupants of Rick's apartment were quiet as they each engaged in their own separate activities. And even though Ricktus had not consented to the injection in his butt, he was already feeling better because of it.
That was, until he started reading through the medical records that had been included in the second document box; he spent at least twenty more minutes going over everything to get his facts straight before he spoke up about his discovery.
"Uh, B-526?" He began; he'd already considered approaching the subject delicately, but decided it would be better if he just got straight to the point. "I'm sure this was meant to be private information, but I've found a referral from the Citadel's medical team for you to visit Therapist Rick for a minimum of two, half-hour sessions. Did you know about that? Or were you just not going to say anything and avoid it?"
Rick shrugged; although the correct answer had already been guessed, he still acted like he didn't care. "The leader of the trash pile demanded that I go, but I don't wanna."
"It concerns your mental health and well-being, so you have to." The doctor told him as he sat up properly, his tone turning clinical and firm. "You're going to make a poor leader if you can't even look after yourself first. Therapy will give you a non-judgmental outlet to air your thoughts, grief, and concerns. You need to talk to someone instead of blocking out your feelings or pretending that they don't exist."
"Says you!" Rick angrily hissed back. "Why don't you practice what you preach first? You're as bad as me, i-if not worse. And if I'm batshit crazy, then you must be a fucking nutcase!"
Ricktus didn't take the bait and flattened his brow. "Classic deflection behavior. You can't keep pretending that nothing affects you. Take it from me when I say that I know how hard it is to talk about your experiences. But it's for your own good... it could literally save your life."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm not getting back into that subject again." He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "I-I don't need therapy, I'm fine... I don't wanna go, and you can't fucking make me!" He petulantly declared and stamped his foot on the floor.
Morty stared up at the strange behavior with wide eyes; his favorite person was having another temper tantrum and he couldn't work out why.
Surgeon Rick glanced up from his book as well; he was getting used to listening to the arguments between his old boss and his new one, but that didn't mean it was a good thing. "Hey, we know it sucks... no Rick in his right mind would ever wanna go to therapy. But none of us are exactly in our right minds, are we?"
Rick only shot back a nasty glare and said nothing.
Meanwhile, Ricktus took insult to the next couple of pages as he flipped through them. "And it looks like the Infirmary Ricks got lazy. They've basically copycatted my own notes from when I was in charge." He started reading them aloud. "Your official orders straight from the top are: 'You must not exert yourself. Rest often, stay hydrated, eat light meals, no heavy lifting, keep taking your prescription medication, and you're on light duties for the next six weeks'. Now, they're simple enough to follow, but if we factor in how stubborn you can be, then you might find yourself in trouble again before long. I know we can't tell you what to do, but we can still enforce those instructions. Don't be an idiot and start taking better care of yourself. Can we agree on that?"
"Bite me!" It was an automatic response. "I don't want you watching over me like I'm a child!"
"I'll take that as a 'yes', then."
"Well, now that we're on the subject of reading into each other's bullshit, can I request a copy of all your notes on me?" Rick made a show of grumpily folding his arms. "I want all your original-serum-project crap while I'm at it."
"Why?" Ricktus dipped a brow in suspicion, then cleared his throat and corrected himself. "I mean, of course you could. You're only one rank below the Council themselves, so you have the authorization to request practically anything you want. I mean no disrespect by asking this, but why would you want to read into my notes and research? You've never been interested in developing medicines."
"Because maybe I can do something to speed up this 'six week' thing." Rick made air-quotes with his fingers. "Do you really think I'm gonna enjoy sitting around the apartment all day, every day? I've only been here for just a little over 24 hours and I'm already bored!"
"Ah, about that," rather than rising to meet the scientist's bad attitude with his own, the doctor reached back into the first document box and pulled out a stack of forms. "You don't have to stay in the apartment. Once you're well enough, you'll be so busy that you'll barely have any time to spend here. The Council also wanted you to be comfortable and to make yourself at home, so use these to apply for special requests. You might want to give your new living space your own personal touches, I don't know. It's your choice."
"I want a motorbike," Rick demanded straight away. "If I have to travel around the Citadel, then I wanna do it in style."
"I strongly advise against that," Ricktus formally returned. "Need I remind you that you're still recovering from surgery? You wouldn't want to risk exacerbating your injuries or crashing."
"A moped? How about an electric scooter? Their top speed is so slow that you'd have to be a fucking moron to crash one." The scientist was definitely testing him now. "Plus it'd be fun to get around on something with wheels."
"I'll... see what I can do." The other answered reluctantly, then started to write it down. "Anything else?"
"Yeah, I want a new guitar. If I'm gonna be here a while, then I might as well keep myself entertained. And a workstation so I can tinker and keep on inventing stuff." Rick began to list off more items as quickly as they came to mind. "While we're at it, I also want some antigravity generators... three of them. Make sure they're pocket-sized. And a holo-projector for Morty's room with the coordinates preset to Earth. Oh, and an espresso machine... a-a good one, none of that drip percolator crap. And you know that device you used to track Rick brainwaves? I want one of those, too."
"Why do you want all of that?"
"...reasons."
"Is that everything?" Ricktus exhaled a deep sigh as he added it all to the list; none of the requested items sounded like they could cause harm, so he had no authorization to question his motives for wanting them. "I can't see any of this being denied, but some of it just seems so... random. But if that's what you want, boss, then I'll make it so."
"You're lucky you have a hangover," Rick's tone turned into a sharp warning. "Because I'm going to fucking bitch-slap you if you dare call me that one more time."
"You gotta stop calling him 'boss', boss... for reals." As Surgeon Rick spoke, he sounded like he was only vaguely paying attention; he didn't want to admit it, but he'd become thoroughly engrossed in his book. "Is it really so hard to respect such a simple request?"
"Respecting an order that specifically requests to disrespect him... I feel like I've been over the issues I have with this problem more than enough times." Ricktus grumbled aloud to himself.
With an uncomfortable grunt and a lot of effort, Rick set his laptop aside and sat on the floor next to Morty. "H-hey, little buddy. I can see you're struggling there... your building technique is all wrong. Y-you gotta widen the base if you want your structure to stand the test of time. Have you seen pictures of the pyramids in Egypt yet? They were built by slavery, but whatever... so was half the crap in the universe. Point is, some of those pyramids are over 3,000 years old. Did you ever stop to think about stuff like that?"
Morty blankly stared at him as he raised the block in his hand high over his head; he was far too young to have any understanding of his grandfather's words. His attention was quickly drawn back to his building project, and he smashed his tower down, giggling at the loud, clattering sounds it made.
Picking up one of the fallen blocks to inspect more closely, Rick openly expressed his disapproval. "Yeah, good idea, buddy. Of course these things are gonna keep falling over - their volume-to-surface area ratio is fucking dismal, a-and there's not even anything on them to hold them in place. There's gotta be better stacking toys out there on the market than these. This product is inferior, and it makes me angry!" He launched the block out the open door to the balcony and started arranging the fallen pile into something more sturdy.
As Ricktus looked on, he was intrigued; the Rick before him was a deadly force and a wanted terrorist. He'd fought in multiple wars, was capable of destroying and liberating entire worlds, and had saved countless lives including his own. And yet, there was something oddly bizarre about watching him engage in such a simple-and-innocent activity like playing with his own grandson.
Every time he looked at them, it was also an unwelcome reminder of his own losses.
"Would you... like me to add a box of interlocking-brick toys to your shopping list?" He quietly suggested and began writing it down before he had gotten an answer. "They can encourage early fine-motor skills and hand-eye coordination."
"Yeah? So would a soldering iron and a screwdriver, and you can do way more productive things with them." Rick muttered back. "So I can go anywhere I want, right? Would either of you object if I visit Birdperson and let him know that I'm still alive? Those wooden toys I made for Morty are still in his tree house... I-I gotta go back and get 'em."
"You're free to go anywhere you want," the doctor reiterated the statement, "but make sure you take your gold pin with you. You'll have a much easier time of getting back into the Citadel if you can prove that you're important and a Rick of interest."
"Yeah? I'm gonna take your suggestion, but only because I like the convenience and the time-saving aspect." Rick reached across the coffee table and gently picked it up. "Don't ever forget that we're the same person - we're identical and we all have the same IQ. I don't think that any kind of preferential treatment is cool, and it's only going to breed dissension and classism... i-it's dangerous, and if you need another reason to stop calling me your boss, well, there you go." He braced his arms on either side of himself and made a slow attempt at standing up again, but gave up when the movement caused him too much pain and discomfort.
Surgeon Rick's attention had since been drawn towards his new boss as well, and after witnessing him struggle, he was quick to abandon his book and move over to assist him. "Hey, are you sure you wanna go back there so soon? Don't push yourself too hard, man. You still need rest."
Rick bared his teeth and immediately went on the defensive. "Don't tell me what to do! I know what I'm capable of!"
"Do you now?" The surgeon still offered his hand out despite the other's complaints. "Lemme help you, brother. It's OK to ask for it every now and then, you know. It's what we're here for."
Reluctantly, Rick grabbed it and averted his glare away as he was practically hauled back to his feet. "W-what do you want from me? My gratitude?"
"Fuck no, 'cause we both know that ain't happening with your pride, don't we?" Surgeon Rick laughed back at him and shook his head. "You don't need anyone to take care of you but you."
"I... I can't tell if you're pandering to my ego or making some sort of joke about us being the same person."
"Why not both?" Surgeon Rick flashed him another wide grin and gently patted him on the back. "Go on, bro. Get out there and do what you gotta. Do you need us to come with?"
"Phh, noooo!" Rick childishly snapped back. "I'll be there and back within ten minutes. I don't need you babysitting me all the time." After finding his portal gun on the bedside table, he fired it at the apartment door and called out to his grandson. "Come on, Morty, let's get outta here. We need a change of scenery and I bet that Birdperson probably wants to know you're OK as well." He seemed far happier as he walked towards the neon-green, swirling vortex.
Morty gave a yelp and ran in straight after him; the thought of being left behind was far more scary than any portal could have ever been.
After the interdimensional gateway had swallowed up its travelers and collapsed in on itself, Surgeon Rick sat down beside the doctor and picked up his new boss's laptop, curious to see what he'd just been looking at. "Do you think he'll come back this time?"
"It doesn't matter what I think." Ricktus did not look up and kept himself busy with forms, the paperwork obscuring his eyes.
"But did you see what just happened? Unlike you, he told us where he was going." Surgeon Rick mused, then lightly punched him in the arm. "Lead by example."
December 14th 4:45am, Local Time, 2001
Birdperson's Tree House
Bird World, Dimension B-526
Rain fell from the sky in a cascading torrent and Rick was soaked to the skin as soon as he'd stepped onto the landing of Birdperson's tree house. He released a fed-up sigh, peered in the nearest window, then made his way inside. Morty hastily followed his lead and loudly whimpered in discomfort as he tracked sloppy, wet footprints across the wooden floor.
From the moment he was standing in the living room, Rick could tell that something was off about the place: it was far too quiet, even with all the heavy rain hammering on the roof overhead. Although his surroundings were tidy and looked the same as they always did whenever he visited, further inspection of the other rooms revealed more of the same; it was far too cold and dark for his liking, even though the sun was still well below the horizon. When he peered in through the doorway to the main nest room, he realized that he was alone in the house with Morty – Birdperson's nest was empty.
He wasn't there, and neither was Squanchy.
Rick's guess back in Surgeon Rick's garage had been right on the money – they'd already left to join the resistance movement's second uprising.
His shoulders sank in disappointment; he knew he should have been expecting it to happen any day now, but it still wasn't what he wanted to find. As he continued to stand there, he felt a pang of guilt; over the years, he'd dropped into Birdperson's house many times without an invitation, and would leave again without saying anything. Now the tables were turned and he knew what it felt like - he hadn't even gotten a chance to say goodbye.
"I-I'm a bad friend..." With a resigning sigh, Rick used his portal gun to open a portal to the neighboring tree house and waited for Morty to catch up so he could step in.
He instinctively braced himself when he came out the other side this time, not wanting to be grabbed or hugged by the fat bird woman. However, Gresharak's house was just like Birdperson's – cold and dark, and it looked like it had been deserted as well.
"What the hell is going on around here...?" Rick opened more portals to check the other tree houses nearby, but nobody was home in those either.
It wasn't long before he discovered that the entire treetop community had been abandoned.
Confusion grew into alarm as Rick quickly inspected his surroundings for signs of a scuffle or a firefight, but when he found nothing, it eased his mind again and he began to put all of the pieces together. He already knew that if a large portion of the population was off fighting another intergalactic war, then it would leave their home vulnerable and wide open; he'd given Birdperson a backup portal gun for that exact same reason. Now he concluded that they must have taken his advice to heart and moved their loved ones elsewhere; it was a preemptive, strategic move to protect them from being attacked by the Galactic Federation on their own doorstep.
Rick could only wish he'd been given the same forewarning and enough time to have made the same decision.
"Come, Morty..." His voice was deflated as he looked down at his dripping-wet grandson. "All we can do now is grab our stuff and go."
Morty miserably hugged his grandfather's left leg with both arms, shivering as he held on tighter; being so little meant that he was far more susceptible to the cold.
"Yeah, yeah... if I'd known that we were gonna get saturated like this, I would've brought an umbrella. This is my fault and I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you." He ignored the discomfort as he picked the youngster up and carried him away with him.
Once they were back in Birdperson's tree house, Rick made his way into the spare nest room and gathered up Morty's wooden toys, as well as the other meager possessions he still had a use for. He also wished that he had given Birdperson a tracking device along with the backup portal gun and distress beacon so he could easily find him again someday.
"It's a big, bad universe out there, Birdperson... don't get yourself killed, OK?" He glanced at the few stars he could see between the clouds outside his window and began talking to them as if Birdperson was there and listening; it was the only send-off he could offer him now. "Good luck, friend... you were always good to me, a-and I hope our paths cross again someday. May the wind always be at your back."
With that, he opened a portal to return to the Citadel, not looking back; there was nothing left for him on Bird World anymore.
December 14th, 10:55am, Citadel Time, 2001
Cross-Temporal Rift Nebula, Location Classified
Citadel Of Ricks, Dimension Number Classified
By the time Rick had made it all the way back to the front door of his apartment, he was exhausted; walking was made more difficult than usual due to the uncomfortably wet-and-heavy clothes clinging to his body, while his hair stuck to his face in dripping-wet clumps.
When he patted himself down and realized he didn't have a key, he knocked instead.
It only took a moment for the door to swing open, and Surgeon Rick stared back at him before grabbing him by the arm and yanking him inside.
"Hey, hey, HEY! Be careful, I-I'm still carrying Morty!" Rick loudly objected. "What are you doing to me!?"
"Don't hey-hey me. Didn't anyone give you the memo that you weren't supposed to get wet?" The surgeon was none too gentle about dragging the scientist across the room and pushed him down onto the bed. "Oh man, this ain't gonna sound right no matter how I say it, but I need you to strip." He turned towards his colleague without missing a beat. "Yo, we got a bit of a problem here. Drop your shit and come look."
Ricktus was still fighting the residual effects of his hangover and was initially annoyed by the disturbance, but his demeanor changed when he saw the situation and he got up to retrieve the first-aid kit from its place in the cupboards above the kitchenette. "How bad is it? Without knowing that, it would be better to move him to-"
"NO!" Rick's reaction was immediate and fiery. "Why are you so adamantly crazy about putting me back in the infirmary? I hate it there! I don't have any freedom and it's uncomfortable... plus I don't want any more strange Ricks poking and prodding me ever again. They have NO personal boundaries." He placed Morty on the bed beside him and aggressively threw his sopping-wet lab coat onto the floor, causing the items in the inner pockets to scatter. "Come up with a better idea!"
Ricktus and Surgeon Rick exchanged the same apprehensive glance and began a clinical back and forth between each other.
"Well, uh... he doesn't look like he's in too much distress, does he?" The surgeon scratched the back of his head in thought. "If he just went away to talk to people, then how much damage could he do to himself?"
"Don't underestimate him. He can hide things exceptionally well." Ricktus reminded him as he carried the first-aid kit to the bed. "If he ripped his stitches, then opening him up here would be a very bad idea indeed. Can you see blood?"
Surgeon Rick lifted the bottom of Rick's shirt and retracted his hand before he could be swatted away. "Nope. Which means it's probably not that bad, but... we'd be dumb if we didn't check it out further. Better one of us than some weirdo from the medical team, right?"
"You ARE some weirdo from the medical team."
"Hey, fuck you, I'm awesome." There was a pause. "Do you remember how to do sutures?"
"I should hope so - it goes with the territory in our line of work." Ricktus handed him a pair of blue-nitrile gloves. "But I suggest you take these. You have better eyesight, so you should do it."
"Great, you're volunteering me for the job? What are you gonna do in the meantime? Stand there and look pretty?" Surgeon Rick grumbled as he pulled them on with a snap and faced Rick with his gloved hands in the air. "This is where it gets worse, man. Lie down."
Rick did as he was instructed, but seemed determined to show as much contempt as possible.
"It's called 'supervising', C-711. I suggest you get started." The doctor smugly answered, then placed a pair of scissors within easy reach of the other's hands. "Be careful where you cut. You won't know how bad it is until you're inside."
"Oh wow, that's... wow, bro. I'm blown away by your knowledge and expertise. What textbook did you have to read to figure that out?" With another grumble under his breath, the surgeon gently pried off Rick's shirt and carefully snipped through the layers of soaking-wet bandage.
When he peeled them away, he was completely underwhelmed by what he found underneath – there was nothing but a slightly damp row of stitches that were still perfectly intact, and some old, yellowing bruises across his patient's belly and ribcage; everything was healing up nicely.
"It... it IS nothing." He announced in the most unenthusiastic tone possible.
"Nothing is good in this situation. Sometimes it's the best you can hope for." Ricktus relaxed again and shrugged it off like it hadn't concerned him in the first place. "Phh, you were worried about nothing. Typical." He shook his head and moved away to retrieve some towels from the bathroom. "You've forgotten how to treat your patients clinically, C-711. One day it will come back to bite you."
"Screw you, pal! It's called giving a shit... maybe you never heard of it before? If you want me to stop giving a shit, then maybe I should forget about hauling your ass outta the next bar you try drinking yourself to death in." Surgeon Rick warned before deciding that Rick was more important. "Yo, just to ease my mind here, do you feel any numbness or pain?" He gave the wound site a cautious prod with two gloved fingers.
"Physical or existential?" Rick was both smug and defiant.
"Smartass." Surgeon Rick let out a long sigh and a flat expression came over his face; he didn't have the patience to deal with two bad attitudes today. "Any chance of me gettin' a real answer here?"
"I'm just fine. Now shut up and finish what you started so I can dry myself off!" The scientist's tone had become short and irritated, as if he expected his instructions to be obeyed.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, boss... get back to work and stuff." The reply was disgruntled as the surgeon set out the rest of the supplies he needed to get on with the job.
"Ugh, cut it out. I didn't mean it like that." Rick made an uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat. "Look at it this way... would you wanna be me, right here, right now? I'm in a compromised position, and I'm sick to death of being watched and doted over so much. I don't wanna be here anymore, I-I need to keep my mind occupied and do stuff!"
"Well no, I wouldn't wanna be you," Surgeon Rick agreed, "but it's not gonna be forever, so cut out the shit and chill, OK? You're really bumming me out."
The room went quiet again, at least until Ricktus had returned with towels. Nothing was said for a short time, but Surgeon Rick twitched with curiosity while he worked until he couldn't contain himself any longer.
"So how in the fresh hell did you end up so wet, and how did it go with your bird dude friend?"
"I got rained on. Duh." Rick stared at him like it should have been obvious. "And it didn't go at all. Birdperson already left, and I have no idea where he went, o-or how to find him again."
"Oh... bummer. That really sucks." He knew it was a stupid thing to say, but it was all he could offer.
"Yeah, kinda..." Rick kept his expression subdued and turned his gaze towards the ceiling; his heart still fiercely ached for revenge against the Galactic Federation, even though his sense of logic told him how impractical it was in his current predicament.
He tried to forcefully push it out of his mind again; Morty's welfare was far more important.
"Hey, can one of you dry off my grandson? I would, but," he raised both hands a little to demonstrate how useless he was. "Well, see for yourself."
Suddenly, without warning or even a knock, the front door of the apartment flew open again and a group of Ricks in various uniforms came inside with boxed deliveries, while another two of them dragged a heavy-looking table towards the corner nearest the balcony.
"Wow, is that all my new stuff? That was fast." Rick appreciated the distraction and suddenly seemed more interested in watching the next set of Ricks that came in to clean and vacuum the apartment.
"Nothing happens slowly in the Citadel, B-526." Ricktus stated it like it was fact as he held onto a cranky, squirming Morty and removed his wet clothes. "And on that note, you got mail while you were out. I didn't open it because of the official Council of Ricks wax seal on the back, but I can if you want me to." The tiniest spark of amusement cracked through his otherwise serious expression as he tossed a towel over the young boy and rubbed him dry; it had somehow turned into a game and the grumpy noises turned into small giggles.
Rick smacked his forehead in frustration; he was thoroughly sick of repeating himself. "Oh, come on! I told you that you're in charge of my paperwork now, so I don't care what you choose to read. How important can it be?"
"Well, a mark like that usually indicates strict confidentiality, but..." Ricktus spent a short amount of time deliberating between moving and staying put, but curiosity won over and he retreated to retrieve the mail from where he left it. However, his face fell as soon as he had opened it, and he became more and more discontent the further he read on.
"What is it?" Surgeon Rick gently prompted; he was closely watching the other in his peripheral vision and wasn't going to let it pass. "Talk to me."
"It's... i-it's..." Ricktus struggled to read it out loud, but composed himself with a forced exhale and got on with it anyway. "Rick B-526 has a date for his gold-badge-induction ceremony – it's going to be at the end of next week on December 23rd. They want him to give a formal acceptance speech, and he can have the floor for as long as he wants." He paused momentarily before continuing. "There's... also going to be a live Morty auction at the same assembly." He took a photo out of the envelope and went quiet as his eyes fixated on it; the writer of the letter had even thought to include a picture of the Morty up for auction.
"I see." Surgeon Rick awkwardly clenched his jaw, not knowing what to say. "Soooo... is now a bad time to ask about my cut of the 2.1 mil we got from the live retrieval?"
"No, because it doesn't matter. If the mass influx of new arrivals is going to bring in more competition, then it means I have even less of a chance at making a serious bid on a Morty auction than I ever did before." Ricktus stepped around the other Ricks as he made his way back across the room and threw the mail down onto the bed. "It's as if the whole universe is working against me in everything I do... I don't know why I bother trying anymore." He carelessly flicked the photo over his shoulder as he sat down again. "Whatever."
"Oh boy, you know how many times we've been over this?" Surgeon Rick finished patching up his patient and patted his shoulder to indicate that he was done. "Well, not many because you never wanna talk about it, but it's not smart to bid on a depreciating asset, bro. Do you know how many Ricks die out there every day? Don't think about it and keep on doin' whatever you wanna do. You'll get yours eventually."
"Eventually," the doctor bitterly repeated the word. "Yes, and eventually, the sun will burn out. Eventually, the entire universe will cool beyond the point where it can no longer sustain the processes that increase entropy. Eventually, all of this will end - you, me, everything. I say good riddance."
"Uh... cool story, bro." The surgeon returned, unamused. "I dunno about you, but I'm pretty sure I won't be around when that happens."
"If it's really that important to you, then why don't you take out a loan or ask for a pay advance? It can't be that hard." Rick muttered as he sat up again and slid off the bed. "Or you could, you know, do that bragging thing you like to do and wave your dick around about getting the 'Rickest Rick' to the Citadel alive. Demand a bigger payout. Play the game by their own rules and beat them at it."
"Holy shit... you're right!" Ricktus exclaimed, suddenly perking up at the brilliance of the idea. "I have MORE than enough grounds to raise an objection with the Council and renegotiate your value. I need to arrange a meeting with them as soon as possible!" He was so excited and in such a hurry that he fumbled with getting his datapad out of his pocket.
"Whoa, slow down, buddy." Rick frowned at him. "Of course I'm right, but the assembly isn't until next week. While it's a smart move to put in a bet and risk it all, don't go in until you've formulated a proper plan of attack."
Ricktus wasn't listening; he was already talking to himself as he began going over the things he wanted to say to the Council.
Shaking his head, Rick turned his attention back towards his own issues; he was still standing there in rain-soaked, uncomfortable pants. "If this is my apartment, then where are all my clothes?"
"Way ahead of you, dude." Surgeon Rick slid open a hidden door beside the bed, revealing a closet that was built into the wall. "Ricks are all roughly the same size and shape, so everything in here should fit you. Just ignore the sets of scrubs. I hung them up in there to keep them out of the way. Oh and... sorry about the missing pairs of underwear. I had to borrow some. I'll replace 'em as soon as I can."
"Why would you do that!?" Rick felt disgusted as he sifted through the assortment and settled on another long-sleeved, blue shirt and brown pants.
"Hey man, you weren't here." Surgeon Rick half-joked as he offered his defense. "I came back to the Citadel with nothing but the clothes on my back, because in case you've forgotten, you burned everything I owned. I couldn't even salvage my dignity or pride because I got covered in bug guts. Oh, and your blood, but I was one of the guys who helped save your life. The least you could do is lend me a few pairs of undies, you ungrateful bastard."
"Hmm, I'm still not sure where I stand on that, but thanks to you, now I have SO many unwanted thoughts about the concept of communal undergarments." Rick scowled further. "Hey, can you look away for a sec? Thanks." He turned his back to the others for some semblance of privacy, then unbuckled his belt and let his pants and underwear slip to the floor.
Surgeon Rick rolled his eyes. He still thought the scientist's self-conscious behavior was ridiculous and entirely unnecessary even more than before considering that he'd seen him naked during surgery and in the days of aftercare that followed, but he still respected him enough to comply.
"How much do you think this Morty is going to go for?" Ricktus suddenly wondered aloud, and it was clear that his imagination was running away with him. "Shit, what am I supposed to tell Beth? I haven't seen her since..." He stopped himself. "Should I arrange a crib? Is it a good idea to let the Morty settle in here before integrating him into a normal home life? I've never gotten this far before... what am I supposed to do?"
"How about actually winning the auction first?" The suggestion was muffled; Rick had thrown a towel over his head and was rubbing his hair dry. "Can't do anything until you tick that box."
"The dude is right." Surgeon Rick nodded in agreement. "It's great to see a complete turnaround from last night, but sit back and take a breather, bro. Do the thing one step at a time, yeah?"
Glancing at one Rick and then the other, Ricktus conceded to their logic. "O-of course." He entered a number into the datapad and stood up, becoming nervous. "I just hope I can request an audience with Riq IV before the day is out, and that he doesn't shut me down..."
"Do you want me to rattle his cage if he gives you a hard time?" Rick put considerably more care into drying his midsection; he didn't want to disturb his fresh dressings so soon. "He has such a hard-on for wanting me to stay that I'm sure he'd be willing to do anything I asked, like... say, showing up to an appointment to see him if I made one."
Ricktus was openly staring at his back now. "Why would you do that for me?"
"Because being me comes with certain privileges, apparently. I wanna push that Rick's buttons and inconvenience him as much as possible." The scientist casually admitted. "Also, I wanna see what happens."
The doctor vaguely nodded as he became immersed in his thoughts again, and he quietly paced out the front door with his datapad held up to his ear.
Rick let him go and went through the slow task of dressing himself again once he was dry enough. In hindsight, he wished he'd had the sense to wash his hair; getting it wet made it smell greasy.
"That was really cool of you, bro." Surgeon Rick sounded impressed and sincere at the same time.
"Was it? It just seemed logical to me." Rick was quick to shrug it off. "But if you liked that one, then keep paying attention... I'm just getting warmed up."
The rest of the afternoon passed by without incident. Rick dressed Morty in a warm, yellow onesie with planets and cartoon aliens printed all over it, and although he thought the design was horrendously inaccurate, the youngster didn't care so he didn't raise an objection.
He carefully unpacked some of his boxes and put the interlocking stacking bricks out for Morty to play with, though soon enough, he'd abandoned his own things in favor of playing on the floor with him again.
As Surgeon Rick returned to reading his books, he paused every now and then to watch them; he also secretly wondered if the toy request had been entirely for Morty's benefit, because he genuinely couldn't tell which one of them was having more fun.
After some time, Morty became bad tempered and tired, so Rick took the opportunity to nap with him on the couch, holding him securely in his arms while he lay on his good side. It wasn't until the evening ticked around that he stirred from his slumber again - the wonderful smell of something roasting hung heavily in the air.
"That better be in my apartment," the scientist mumbled as he groggily sat up, being careful not to hurt himself or disturb his grandson too much. "Because if it's not, then my neighbors are gonna be pretty damn pissed about the break-in that's about to happen."
An amused chuckle came from the kitchenette area. "Nah, it's ours. But if that's how you feel about my cooking, then you might wanna lock the door before some other asshole gets the same idea."
"Wait, you know how to cook? And you can actually use the stove without setting yourself on fire?" Rick blinked a couple of times, then finally focused his eyes on Surgeon Rick's back; he immediately took note that the other had swapped out his clothes for pajamas, and that he had donned a hideously garish apron. "You look fucking ridiculous."
"I look just fine. Kiss my ass, fucker." The other shot back good-humoredly. "Why do you sound so surprised? Any ol' dumb Rick should be able to learn how to cook – it's an inexact science. I was a homemaker and kept Lizabeth and me fed for like, 16 or 17 years straight. Do you think we survived on takeout and microwave garbage all the time?"
"Well, no, but-" Rick gave a loud yawn and didn't bother to cover his mouth. "Surgery, bass player, space, and cooking? None of those sound like they go together in any universe. What a weird combination, a-and that's coming from me."
"They don't go together. At all." The surgeon grinned back at him, though he couldn't tell if it had been a subtle jab or a genuine compliment.
Ricktus came back into the apartment by the time the food was ready, and he silently took his place on the couch with a plate, blankly staring at the piping-hot steam wafting off his roasted potatoes.
"So, how'd it go?" Surgeon Rick casually asked as he handed over a set of eating utensils and sat next to him.
"I patiently waited outside Riq IV's private chambers for over four hours." Ricktus seemed determined to look OK even though he clearly wasn't. "I actually got through to him and told him that I had something important to discuss... but he never arrived."
"The fuck?" Surgeon Rick was insulted on his behalf. "He didn't show? What a crock of shit!"
"That's not all," the other continued. "He went away for the weekend on some official Council business, and he won't be available again until Monday morning."
"So he thinks. It just means I get to put some heat under him until he talks." Rick said through a mouthful of roast beef, then stabbed his fork in another small piece and offered it to Morty. "I'm curious to see how quickly he's gonna bend over to accommodate me."
"Are you sure that's wise, boss, uh... B-526?" Ricktus awkwardly scratched the side of his head; he still felt it necessary to question him even though he knew it was being done for his benefit. "If you anger the big boss enough, he'll make an example out of you and make you suffer-"
A high-pitched squeal drowned him out; Morty was determined to let everyone know that he wasn't being fed fast enough. With another loud, defiant noise, he snatched the fork out of his grandfather's hand as it came within reach and jammed it in his mouth, wanting to do the task for himself.
"Hey!" Rick only half-protested; he saw Morty demanding his own independence as an encouraging sign and moved his plate closer to give him better access.
Ricktus also cast his gaze in Morty's direction, closely watching. "I can't tell if he's just being a child, or if he's expressing excessive dominance and insecurity behaviors commonly associated with a traumatic experience. It might even be a bit of both." His eyes glazed over and he began to think hard. "Do all dimensional variations of Morty behave this way...? I haven't observed enough of them to form an educated opinion."
"Yeah, I guess? Mine does this stuff, too." Surgeon Rick added to the conversation. "He's a great kid, but he doesn't know me too well, so he cowers like a piece of shit around me." He paused in thought. "Wait, I'm not really sure if my experiences count as a great point of reference..."
With both hands free again, Rick grabbed his laptop and spent a few minutes silently working on it. "Aaaand done." He almost dramatically hit the enter key and looked up, victorious. "I have a 9 o'clock appointment with the idiot on Monday morning, or at least, you do now. The line between 'me' and 'you' gets kinda blurry in a place like this, doesn't it?" A huge, cunning smirk grew across his face.
Ricktus couldn't manage much more than a small nod of gratitude.
"Hey guys, let's watch TV for a while. That's something we like to do, right?" Surgeon Rick offered in an attempt to steer the conversation in a less-awkward direction, then pointed the remote at the wall before anyone could comment or object.
A bright picture suddenly illuminated the screen as the appliance came on, accompanied by a desperate female's voice crying out of the speakers. "What the... what are you doing, Glenn?! Stop it, you're hurting me! That doesn't fit in there!"
"Oh god, they're doin' ANOTHER rerun of this season?! Pay the creative staff whatever they're asking and get new content, ya losers!" The surgeon loudly moaned and flicked through several more channels before finally settling on the Citadel news.
An Anchor Rick faced the camera and read aloud from a teleprompter off-screen, his expression both bored and serious. "Tonight, the scandal with Maximums Rickimus deepens, and one silver-rank Rick's jaw-dropping claims will shock you. Mounting pressure continues on the Citadel's resources as another 2,500 Ricks register in the last 24 hours, with no end in sight. And lastly, are you being chased by an evil, intergalactic alien overlord? We'll tell you how to find out. All these stories and more, coming up on Citadel Evening News."
"Ooh," Surgeon Rick perked up. "You guys want me to leave this shit on?"
Rick didn't look up; he was still hard at work on his laptop. "I don't care."
Morty's contribution to the conversation was raising both food-covered hands high in the air and squealing with happiness.
"Suit yourselves." The surgeon shrugged it off and continued watching.
"Good evening. I'm Rick E-419 and you're watching Citadel Evening News. You know, in case you forgot that I just said it in the last two seconds, and because you should have read it in the logo, you lazy bastards. Whatever." He tapped his papers on the desk and went on. "This just in: a rogue, criminal Rick is on the loose tonight, charged with grievously wounding our great-and-honorable leader, spreading falsehoods, and inciting mutiny and rebellion against the Council of Ricks. The wanted felon is reported to be 'rude and kind of a dick'." A drunk mugshot of the Rick in question came up on the screen beside him. "All citizens are advised not to listen to, look at, or approach him under any circumstances. Lock your doors and windows tonight, and avoid dressing like every other dumb, lab-coat-wearing Rick in the Citadel, because that's how you get shot."
Ricktus dipped a brow in suspicion, then glanced at the door. "Well, B-526... you got your wish. It sounds like there's more Ricks who feel the same way as you do. That is, if it's not sensationalist journalism or scaremongering again. How true do you think it is?"
"Please, you heard the guy," Surgeon Rick replied with a grin. "It was on TV, so there's no possible way it could be a lie."
After dinner was finished and the dishes were cleared away, Surgeon Rick went channel surfing until he found a good movie to watch. All four of them sat quietly, but only one of them was interested; now that he had a full belly, Morty was content and snuggled up against his grandfather's side, comforted by his towering presence and warmth. Ricktus wasn't paying attention either; he had since zoned out and his mind was preoccupied with hypothetical scenarios and thoughts. Partway through the movie, he got up and went outside to be alone on the balcony.
Meanwhile, Rick kept himself occupied on his laptop and read through the curative-serum-development research that Ricktus had left behind on the Citadel's information network. It didn't take him long to discover that just like his Morty-cloning project, the doctor had become discouraged with how slowly progress was being made. Instead of being given more time to develop his serum further, the Council of Ricks had brushed its potential aside in favor of having his team clean up the dead-and-dying Ricks of the multiverse.
The final notes he found on the curative serum stated that although it was successful in its current state, it would likely be more effective if concentrated and removed of all the impurities. Although it had already been attempted a number of times, the serum had a nasty tendency of catching on fire in the middle of the process.
It didn't seem like much to go on, but Rick was already formulating ideas about how to fix it.
Curiosity overtook him as he got into the Project Rickdemption files and his own clinical notes next, though most of it contained detailed descriptions of what he already knew and had discussed with the doctor previously; Ricktus obviously had no clue what was wrong with him and kept calling him 'a scientific anomaly' right up to the point where he started to actually get sick.
Page after page of notes, one recurring theme kept popping up – Ricktus was lamenting over his failed attempts to win any kind of alliance with him.
'Giant asshole. Repeat: giant, stubborn asshole. I doubt that this Rick will ever calm down and stop hating me for what I've done to him, but the Council's will must be done.'
'Far too proud for his own good. I don't know why the Council wants us to keep such an aggressive Rick alive so badly, but they can have him.'
'Even after saving him from himself, I still find myself at a complete loss. No matter how hard I bend over to accommodate Rick B-526, he only shows contempt for the fact that I'm trying to help him.'
'Our personalities are far too similar and C-711 was right - I've finally met a Rick who is as stubborn as I am, and worse, he is objectively better than I am in every way. This Rick has nothing to gain out of allying with me. I'd be much better to write him off now than to keep wasting my time trying.'
He found the last entries most intriguing, and the doctor was right - if they both weren't so stubborn and close together in personality, then maybe they would have gotten along much sooner. Being preoccupied with clashing agendas and their competitive, aggressive natures hadn't done much to help the situation either.
Casting a glance in the direction of the balcony, Rick cleared his throat to get Surgeon Rick's attention. "Hey... I don't wanna make a habit out of this, but can you put Morty to bed for me?"
Surgeon Rick raised his head and cracked his eyes open; he'd been close to falling asleep himself. "Yeah, can do... and then I should put me to bed afterwards." He got up with a lazy yawn and moved over to stand beside them. "Gee, he's really gone, isn't he?" He let out a soft chuckle as he gently picked up one of Morty's little arms and let it go again; it harmlessly flopped back onto the couch cushion like it belonged to a limp rag doll.
Rick didn't see the humor and rewarded him with a glare. "You're playing a dangerous game with a ticking time bomb. If you wake him up, then you're responsible for the screaming and the aftermath, understand?"
"Yeah, yeah..." Surgeon Rick softly grumbled as he scooped the sleeping lump up in his arms. "Anyway, what you've already done is 90% of the independent-sleeping strategy you wanna adopt with this kid. Wait until he's down and transfer him to his crib. You'll be sleeping on your own and getting your freedom back in no time."
Rick nodded, but he wasn't sure if it was something he wanted to subject Morty to so soon; they already had a lot of issues to work through and they'd barely started. As he watched the surgeon turn around and leave, he took the opportunity to escape out onto the balcony.
There, he found Ricktus, who was sitting cross-legged on the tiles beside the door, and staring off into the distance, though he wasn't looking at anything in particular.
"Uh, hey," Rick offered hopelessly in an attempt to start conversation. "Are you sure you wanna be out here knowing there's a rogue Rick on the loose?"
"Please, we're on the 22nd floor. I think we're safe all the way up here." Ricktus stated matter-of-factly. "But if I see a generic-looking Rick scaling the building, I'll be sure to let you know."
"It's late and it's getting cold out here. Why don't you come inside?" Even as the question left his mouth, Rick knew how soft he sounded and covered for it with an irritated huff. "Because if you come back in after everyone has gone to bed and you wake Morty up, then I'm gonna have to kick your ass. I'm pretty sure that counts as exerting myself, so... that would be on you."
Ricktus knew he should have responded with acknowledgment because he was still meant to be the subordinate one, but he let slip the bitter thought on his mind instead. "Six days... did you know that some insects live longer than that?"
Rick said nothing, but folded his arms and leaned against the doorway beside him.
"I can't sleep, and I wouldn't be able to if I tried." Ricktus hastily answered the first question to correct his mistake. "I can leave the apartment until morning if you're that concerned about me waking everyone up. There are plenty of places to go around the Citadel, and they're open all night. They don't kick you out unless you become violent."
"But you're not going to do that. Are you." It was more of an instruction than a request.
Ricktus thought about it before looking up at him and slowly shaking his head. "No."
Rick wanted to talk about why he was really out there, but subtlety had never been his strong suit. "Well, go on with what you meant. You started it, now finish it."
The doctor was hesitant initially; all he wanted to do was continue working his way through his minefield of thoughts and avoid the question, but his boss was looming over him with such impatience that he knew there was no getting out of it. "Very well, you're the one who asked for it. See, none of this was supposed to happen... not you, not what happened to the ship, nor having my project shut down by the Council, o-or..." He finally gave in with a short sigh. "Mortimer was meant to grow up. He deserved the chance to become an adult, and with the correct care, he would have lived a long life. He should have dated girls, or boys, or anyone really. Or nobody... I-I don't care. But he was supposed to survive, and things would be so much different if he was still alive."
"Mortimer, huh?" Rick made a soft sound of disapproval. "I never did like the full name. I-it's stupid."
"I wasn't fond of it either, but it wasn't my choice to make." Ricktus gave a small shrug; of all the things troubling him, that was the least of his concerns. "Mortimer had everything going for him right from the start. He had a good mother who followed every precaution knowing she had a high-risk pregnancy, and he had the best damn pediatric doctor in the entire universe working on his case. But even after lining up the perfect candidate for transplant, I still couldn't save him... and it feels like the odds have always been stacked against me." He sank down and placed his head in his hands. "After everything that's happened and knowing what I know now... I'm not even sure I want that Morty going up for auction next week."
"Why not?"
"Because everything is my fault and it's going to end badly no matter what." The answer was immediate and spoken with firm conviction. "I can never go home - I would be arrested for kidnapping a newborn baby. I'd also be charged with forging medical records and first-degree murder if they connect me to the paper trail I left behind."
Rick rolled his eyes. "You have a freakin' portal gun. They can't catch you if you're in another dimension, stupid!"
"It doesn't matter," Ricktus quickly returned. "Even if I did manage to win the Morty auction, I can't take him back to Beth... she's not stupid. She'd be able to tell he was a fraud right away."
"No, that would make her an idiot." Rick retorted. "There's no real or fake Morty in any universe. There's no real anyone for that matter - we're all just one of an infinite number of versions of ourselves."
"That's not what I meant," Ricktus hastily tried to explain himself. "I highly doubt that any Morty I obtain would bear the same kind of scars that one would expect to see after a heart transplant." He sat up to poke his sternum. "Everyone knows about the zipper scar... everyone. Some survivors even flaunt it like a badge of honor."
Rick gave a short grunt of dissatisfaction; it was a valid point.
"No Morty will ever replace the one we lost," the other lowered his head again. "If everything I do is only going to end in failure, then... there's no point in trying to do anything else. It's time to stop."
As Rick continued to watch him, he started noticing parallels to Rick C-139; he looked tired and just as worn down by his experiences, and he didn't even need to wonder if he was giving up because it was blatantly obvious. He knew he could have walked away and left the other to his own devices, but he didn't; by playing the Citadel's silly hierarchy game and claiming Rick C-711 and Rick Q-316 under his gold badge, he'd made them his problem.
With a soft, frustrated sigh, he made his next move carefully; making a big deal out of the issue would only feed the other's negative thoughts further.
"Nothing you're describing sounds like an issue to me," he spoke like it hardly mattered to him. "Why would you get so close to your end goal and stop now? So you've been set back a few times... who cares? Your shit is fixable, but you're not going to get any further if you don't place in a bid in that auction. Just work out the details after you win."
"Of course you would say that... you've always played to win."
"You won't win anything unless you try, and the alternative is much worse." Rick almost wanted to laugh. "If everything that exists is only born to die, then it makes sense to fight. If death is how we lose in the end, then I wanna put up as much resistance as possible until it finally comes for me. You might as well enjoy the time you have left and get what you want in the meantime, right? Carpe diem."
"You're right," the doctor's quiet voice became a mix of admiration and jealousy. "You make it sound so straightforward... I wish I could be more like you."
"Hey, I've given you more than enough pushes in that direction. The rest is up to you." Rick impatiently tapped his foot. "So why didn't you wanna talk about your Morty back when I first asked you about him on the ship? How come you're only telling me this now?"
"Because I thought you might have used it against me somehow," the other reluctantly admitted. "I thought you were going to criticize me for my choices. I see differently now, but once again, I was wrong."
"Just so you know, being wrong isn't a bad thing - it's an opportunity to learn from your mistakes. And the more times you fail, the more you increase your odds of winning. It's basic statistics... think about it. Only through total failure lies the true path to success." He turned to watch Surgeon Rick switching off the lights around the apartment; it was his cue to go to bed. "And if you still can't sleep and don't wanna think about any of that, then shut up and just look up for a while."
Ricktus was staring up at him again; the last part didn't make any sense and seemed random. "What...?"
"You heard me. You're not deaf." Rick declared with a grumpy huff, then glanced up at the slow-moving image on the glass display high above them. "And that's not a metaphor for something else. Physically look up and check out the view. Do you recognize it?"
Although the doctor was confused, he didn't hide his curiosity and followed his gaze upwards. "What am I supposed to be looking at?" He asked after a moment of silence.
"Wow... you're kidding, right? You never stopped to admire the view on your stupid, space-junk ship? Not even once?" Rick almost sounded disappointed as he began his explanation. "Every evening just before sunset, the Rick in charge of the Citadel's day-night cycle takes suggestions on what to put on show for the night. They wanted me to feel at home, so they asked me what I wanted. Because the night sky on Bird World and Earth were both super lame and boring, I gave them the coordinates to your dumb portal hub in Dimension Q-316. The ship might not be there anymore, but your nebula certainly is. I would've told you to come look earlier, but you're already out here, so... you saved me the effort."
Ricktus took it in, but did not speak; Rick was right - he'd been on his ship for well over a year, but because he'd been so consumed by work and his outstanding goals, he'd never actually stopped to look outside his own window before. Now he found himself staring at the high-domed ceiling and the imagery that lazily drifted across it. Even though he knew that the unnamed-nebula's light was nothing more than oxygen and hydrogen-gas emissions, he was still mesmerized by the hundreds of brilliant colors glowing against the backdrop of a million stars.
"It's a live... l-live-feed," Rick had to pause as a large yawn came over him. "If you like what you see, then maybe it'll hold your interest over goin' back down to that cesspool of a bar you were found in last night."
Ricktus was deeply conflicted as he watched the other turn around and walk away in his peripheral vision; while the words hadn't exactly sounded like a pep talk, he knew their intention was to give him hope. After everything that had happened, he hated the concept; it was foolish and would only lead to more failure.
Hope was dangerous. The idea did not have any medical or scientific basis. It would not improve his odds. To believe in hope meant believing in karma, and his mind had never entertained such nonsense.
And yet in spite of everything, even though he knew it was completely illogical, his mind still wanted to cling to the idea because it was the only thing he had left.
The next day began with a rude awakening; the door of the apartment sounded like it was about to splinter or break with how hard it was being pounded on.
Surgeon Rick was jolted out of his sleep, and a quick glance at the clock beside the bed told him it was 6:02 am, which meant that he didn't need to be up for hours. Or at all, for that matter.
It was quite clear that the noise wasn't going to stop, so he sprang out of bed and bounded across the room in a wild rage. He didn't care that he was still in his pajamas, or that his hair was more of a mess than usual, or even who was on the other side; all he wanted to do was make them shut up.
He almost ripped the door off its hinges as he yanked it open. "Oh my god, it's too early for your shit! What the fuck do you want, bitch!?" He found himself practically nose-to-nose with three, stern-looking Guard Ricks. "Bitches?" He corrected himself through a forced, toothy grin.
"We've been informed that this residence contains Ricks with medical qualifications," the middle Guard Rick stuffily announced. "You are to come with us at once."
"No way, man. Not this time." With his thumb and middle finger at the ready, Surgeon Rick flicked the silver badge pinned to the guard's uniform; it was a blatant sign of disrespect. "Go be annoying somewhere else. We got a goldie in here and he picked us to be his staff, so you can't push us around."
"Direct orders from the Council of Ricks outrank the authority of any gold-ranked member of the Citadel," the guard on the left reminded him. "Failure to comply will be seen as an act of rebellion, which is punishable by public trial before the whole Citadel."
"Oh, for... stand down, C-711. What trouble are you getting yourself into now?" Ricktus put his glasses on and sat up; he was barely awake, but the conversation sounded serious enough to pique his curiosity. "I don't believe I ordered a 6 am wake-up call."
The third Guard Rick peered past the surgeon and addressed the doctor directly. "Nobody did, but there's an emergency, mass-casualty event in the infirmary, and a shortage of qualified personnel available to manage it. You are required to abandon your position and assist the medical team in-"
"I get the idea." Ricktus interrupted; he was no longer interested in listening to him. "C-711 and I will be attending the crisis. Give us," he paused to think of a reasonable time estimate, "ten minutes to get ready and scrub up."
Satisfied with the response, the guards turned away and headed off down the corridor to continue with their door knocking.
Surgeon Rick was only too happy to shut the door on them again. "Well, that was lame, but cool for you, I guess? 'Cause now you got something to feel useful with." He stopped to look around him. "Hey, where's our dude at? The last time I saw him was when you guys were doing your thing out on the balcony last night, but I didn't see him come to bed."
Ricktus connected his prosthetic limbs into their respective biomechanical junctures and got up to join the search. "I wouldn't worry. He's physically incapable of getting too far." Just as he had finished the last word, he found their new boss fast asleep on the couch and snoring, undisturbed by all the noise. "Ah, see? I told you so."
Surgeon Rick came over to take a look. "Yeah, you did, you fuckin' smartass." He casually teased before gently nudging Rick in the shoulder. "Hey, wake up... it can't be comfortable sleeping there. We gotta take off for the day because the Council's orders trump yours." He gave him another shake until he was certain that he was awake. "Why don't you get up and take the bed while it's still warm?"
Rick let him know that the gesture wasn't appreciated by trying to swat him away. His first few words were mumbled and indecipherable, but he soon found his voice. "D-don't wanna. Go away... being awake this early should be illegal!"
"Yeah, you're tellin' me!" Surgeon Rick agreed with an amused chuckle. "For reals though, we gotta run off and patch up a bunch of losers. If you need anything, just give either one of us a call. I can't guarantee that my brother here will respond, because he never answers his phone," he took the opportunity to cuff Ricktus in the arm again, "but I promise to always pick up when it's you."
Ricktus's left eyebrow twitched, but he somehow managed to restrain his irritation. "I... believe I am required to answer to my boss no matter what. Last time I checked, that does not include you."
"Wow, that's SO rude. Why you gotta be such an asshole?" Even though it was clearly serious, Surgeon Rick took it in good humor. "Just for that, I got first dibs on the shower."
Ricktus opened his mouth to protest, but the other had already turned his back and headed into the bathroom. "Well, then," he sighed as the door shut; the day had barely begun and he was already over it. "I suppose I can go on with other things."
Rick pretended to be asleep while the other Ricks went about their business and prepared for their busy day ahead. In the second they were gone, he got up and lay face down on the bed, splaying his limbs out in all directions as he made use of the extra space; it really was far more comfortable than his couch could have ever been. With a lazy yawn, he snuggled into a warm spot that one of the others had left behind and began to drift off again in no time at all.
His mind entertained thoughts as it often did when it was between the state of awake and sleep, and his cynical side reminded him once again that he had to keep moving and not fall into complacency. Although it was obvious that the apartment and all the perks that came with it were part of the package deal to win him over on the Citadel, he couldn't help but think that there was nothing wrong with taking advantage of it and enjoying the time out to relax while he got to the root problem of what to do with himself.
He must have fallen into a deeper sleep after that, because the next thing he heard was Morty's alarm calls and terrified crying. With a loud groan, he forced himself to get up and answer to it; he knew it wouldn't stop until he did.
Picking the little boy up rewarded him with a violent hug as Morty held onto him for dear life, and Rick had to forcefully pry him off in order to change his diaper and the clothes he had been sleeping in; he'd drooled all over his sleeves during the night, and leaving him like that was unacceptable.
After nearly ten minutes of trying to console the little boy by carrying him and pacing in slow circles around the main room of the apartment, his sobs finally began to subside.
"Come on, Morty... this bullshit has gone on long enough. Grandpa's here, OK?" Rick sounded firm but worn down; the noise was exhausting to listen to. Despite his feelings, he put up with it anyway because he knew it was his fault; leaving Morty to sleep alone in his own crib with all his issues had been a terrible idea in hindsight, and now he felt like the worst person in the multiverse for subjecting him to it. "Nobody's gonna hurt you while I'm around, you understand me?"
Morty just stared up at him with tear-stained eyes and loudly sniffled.
"Well, buddy... we have the whole apartment to ourselves for the day," Rick changed the subject to take his mind off it. "If I made you the boss, would that cheer you up? What would you wanna do?"
With a timid, communicative sound, Morty pointed in the direction of the TV; it was something he recognized from home, and he often found the moving pictures entertaining even if he didn't understand any of the spoken words.
Rick was only too happy to oblige him by turning it on, and he left the boy on the floor in front of an animated cartoon while he set his new coffee machine to brew and mixed up a bottle of formula at the kitchenette. "Are you sure you wanna waste your time watching that nonsense?" He asked, even though he knew he wouldn't get an answer. "Don't you wanna go outside and play? Or don't kids do that anymore?"
He heard a loud, scattering crash just as he had turned his back; Morty had upended his entire box of stacking bricks straight onto the carpet in front of him.
"Fucking hell, Morty... do you really have to do that?" Rick only half-grumped; he was annoyed about the mess, but if Morty's mind was already distracted, then he'd take whatever he could get. "Grandpa's still not feeling so great, y'know. I-it's gonna be harder than usual to pick up after all your shit."
Once his coffee was ready, he grabbed his mug, sat down on the couch, and kicked his feet up on the table. After handing the bottle to his grandson, he took a sip of his own hot beverage and tried to relax; while the puerile nature of the TV show could never hold his interest, he was still content with the peace and quiet.
He soon found entertainment in his own grandson. There was nothing left in life or the universe that fascinated him anymore, but just watching Morty be himself always seemed to be an exception to the rule; the little boy's growing mind was like a sponge that soaked up and used any readily available information, and this morning would be no different. Morty's memory had archived his grandfather's crazy rambling about building sturdy structures from yesterday, and he slowly clicked brick after brick together, persisting through his own babyish clumsiness to form his newest creation into a multi-layered, wide-based, stepped pyramid.
It didn't matter that he was uncoordinated, or that the brightly colored bricks had been picked at random, or even that they had gaps in them. Rick was not only proud of the fact that he had remembered the lesson, but that he was actually applying it correctly.
It only confirmed what he'd already suspected; Morty wasn't dumb at all. He had no verbal skills yet, but he wasn't the slightest bit stupid in any way. He was his own brand of intelligent, and now he was witnessing it unfold right in front of his eyes.
As much as he wanted to get off the couch and join Morty on the floor, he didn't; his postoperative injuries still hindered him and there would be nobody to pick him up this time. "Holy shit, Morty... you're one smart cookie, aren't ya?" He verbally praised him instead. "Are you gonna help Grandpa build things when you get older? Are ya?"
With a delighted squeak, Morty abandoned his toy and climbed up onto the cushion beside his grandfather; now that he had his attention, he fully intended to get in his face.
"Hey, I didn't tell you to stop. But thanks for making it easier for me to do this," a rare, yet genuine smile came over his face as he ruffled up the little boy's hair. "You're a good kid, Morty. If you stick with me, we're gonna accomplish great things."
Both of them were highly amused as Morty ducked his head out of the way, but because he was still so top-heavy, he lost his balance and tipped forward. Rick was quick to catch him, and as the tiny pair of arms wrapped around his and tightly held on, nothing else mattered; keeping Morty safe was the only thing that made sense, and he suddenly felt overwhelmingly protective.
"I'm not always gonna be there to save you," he told him as he placed him back on the couch at his side again, "but I can sure as hell try."
When breakfast arrived, Rick was only too happy to share it between them; his appetite hadn't fully returned yet, and he didn't find the oatmeal or pancakes particularly appealing. Morty let out a surprised yelp as he stuck his fingers in the small serving of ice cream that had come with the pancakes, and he stared at the white melting lump, confused; he hadn't encountered food that was so cold before.
"Wow, buddy... your mom and dad never let you eat ice cream? You've been missing out." With a soft chuckle, Rick pushed it closer to him. "It's just regular old vanilla, but it's yours. Normally you'd have to fight me for it, but I'm still over it for the time being."
Although Morty struggled with the cold factor, he ended up thoroughly enjoying it anyway, and even licked the remnants off the inside of the bowl. Afterwards, his eyes drifted back towards the TV still playing on the wall, and he suddenly pointed at it as a commercial starring Beth and her version of Rick started playing on the screen. "M-m... mommy!" He waved at the moving picture, but was disappointed when it didn't react.
"Oh shit..." Rick felt his body go tense and all traces of amusement were gone from his face. "Y-you... you really do miss your mom, don't you...?" He breathed a heavy sigh and lowered his head in deep regret; he would be holding himself accountable for what he'd done to the little boy and his family for the rest of his life.
"I-I'm sorry, kid..." His voice was shaky and he knew the apology was pathetic; it also fell miles short of what the little boy actually deserved. "I miss her, too. There's a lot of them still out there that look like her, but ours was truly one of a kind."
He pushed the breakfast tray aside and let his grandson have the rest; he'd lost what little interest he had left in the food. Oblivious to his grandfather's rapidly declining mood, Morty happily ate his fill and resumed playing with the scattered toys on the floor, being sure to stay close enough where he could still see his favorite person.
In the next few moments, he had forgotten all about the incident, but Rick had not; it was just another indication of Morty's capacity to remember, and a harsh reminder of the colossal mess he'd made of the youngster's life. He was terrified of the long-term effects that the boy's memories would have on his mental health, and he could only speculate on what those might be.
When the cartoon show ended, the scientist wasn't paying attention; he'd already caved inward, his mind consumed by his own self loathing. He would've liked nothing more than to physically tear himself apart in that moment, but he couldn't - the sight of his grandfather harming himself would only become another black mark on Morty's growing mind.
It would also give him another reason to hate himself for doing that to him as well.
He tried to find a distraction in opening another document box that Ricktus hadn't gotten to yet, but what he found inside made his heart drop into the pit of his stomach - a dusty, old bottle of whiskey sat among wads of multi-page documents. His hand trembled as he pulled it out and set it down on the coffee table, and he could feel his heart rate begin to quicken.
It was exactly what he needed to numb his pain, but he was supposed to be sober.
The other Ricks had gone to the effort of washing him out, and he was under strict medical orders to never drink again. He also knew that now would be a great time to turn over a new leaf and quit for Morty's sake, but his mind was already howling at him to give into temptation.
Trying to forcefully eject the idea out of his brain again, Rick plucked the sticky-note off the side of the bottle and began to read.
"An important question will be asked of you at your induction ceremony.
If you answer favorably, then there is a lot more where this came from.
Try to pace yourself until then,
- #2"
Turning the note over revealed nothing, and Rick tossed it back onto the table, sickened by his discovery; it looked like a member of the Council was trying to buy him off by bribing him with alcohol. To make matters worse, it was actually working; he was shaking and could feel his power of will coming apart at the seams as his mind began entertaining hypotheticals about how best to bargain with the author of the note.
The old familiar cravings burned up in his chest, and he could feel bile rising in his throat, nauseated and repulsed that something simple like a bottle of whiskey could have that much of an effect on him.
He mentally berated himself for being so weak-willed and pathetic.
It took him a whole five minutes to struggle through the mood. Two sides of himself fought against each other, and he needed to take forced, deep breaths, as well as constantly remind himself that now would be the worst possible time to drink - Morty didn't have anyone else to watch him.
He was supposed to be the responsible one.
With a heavy sigh, Rick kept repeating the words over and over in his head until the more rational thoughts began to win over again. Morty deserved a lot more than a constantly drunk, alcoholic grandfather for a caretaker.
He tried to convince himself that he could be strong, and that things would be different this time.
Morty needed him, and that wasn't going change for a long time.
Once he was calm, his mind was torn all over again. He still wanted the alcohol, but he also didn't; he knew the best idea was to hand it over to his new roommates, but he still wanted to keep it around, even though he knew that it was the addiction talking. After making sure that Morty was occupied, he quickly slipped into the bathroom to hide the whiskey bottle in the cistern tank of the toilet.
Closing the lid again, he breathed another heavy sigh; he knew it was a terrible idea, and that his mind would constantly try to encourage him to get into it, but he left it there as a backup anyway.
Just in case.
"Come on, Morty," he spoke in a quiet voice after coming back out. "It's time we went down for a nap, huh?"
Many hours later and well into the evening, both Ricktus and Surgeon Rick had returned to the apartment, smelling heavily of antiseptic from their exhausting day at work. In an act of revenge, Ricktus shoved his dimensional counterpart aside and rushed into the bathroom to take a shower before him.
Although it amused him, Surgeon Rick's attention was quickly drawn to Rick – he found the scientist hunched over at his workstation and busy drawing up the blueprints for another invention. As the other looked up at him, the surgeon could immediately tell that he'd been through a rough time of his own. Morty sat in the space between his feet, refusing to leave him alone, and was chewing on the handle of his wooden portal-gun toy, happy to have it back as well.
Surgeon Rick offered him a wide grin in greeting as he came over and tried to push for details. "Hey man, you don't look so great. Are you OK?"
"I-I'm fine," Rick lied, then picked up the pencil he'd been drawing with and anxiously tapped it against the tabletop. "How was your day?"
"It sucked, but it was worthwhile." Surgeon Rick casually dispensed. "We did our civic duty for the Citadel, we saved some lives, and we both earned a few hundred credits for our time." He momentarily pondered asking his new boss about more work and getting paid, but quickly decided otherwise. "You sure you're OK, dude?"
Rick's reply was a soft, warning grunt. "I don't wanna talk about it."
"No, that's cool." Surgeon Rick understood his reluctance, but tried another way around it. "I had a chance to look at Therapist Rick's schedule today. He's penciled your first appointment in for 11am on Monday morning. If you can't talk about it yet, then why don't you try writing it down? That's supposed to help."
As Rick watched him walk away to start preparing dinner, he narrowed his eyes at the suggestion; he was sure he could write an entire textbook about his problems if he only tried. He took out a piece of paper to humor the idea, but soon found himself staring at it, his mind going blank.
He was trapped in the role of a surrogate father, which he didn't deserve.
He had somehow earned the commendations of somebody else.
And the Galactic Federation was dead in a universe that wasn't even his.
Everything was truly twisted up and broken; it was like a cruel joke that nobody was laughing at. There was no possible way he could describe it all, and he had no idea how to begin.
