Chapter Text
Being Rick Sanchez was no easy task. A regular shitty life was beneath a man like Rick. Go big or go home, as they say. Most things in his life leaned on the extraordinary side, be it good or bad. He'd be hard-pressed to admit it, but most of his problems were actually his own damn fault. Though sometimes it was an alternate version of himself, so that doesn't quite count, right?
Rick wasn't under the delusion that he was a good man. Even when he wasn't being a drunk asshole, even when a rare crack in his shell revealed something kinder, even when he actually did a good deed, he never quite fit the definition of 'good'. It was a fact that rattled around his conscience more than he tended to let on. A fact that weigh heavy on his shoulders when his eyes lingered a bit too long on his chosen companion.
It wasn't unheard of for Ricks to be attracted to their Mortys, but Rick had always figured himself better than that. He wasn't like those mortlesters, the lowest of the low in the Citadel of Ricks. It was a frowned-upon practice for a multitude of reasons. Some Ricks saw it as a weakness, an unnecessary distraction, an extra irrational attachment. Even more saw it for what it was: fucking gross. Mortyphilia was one of the few things most Rick's seemed to agree on.
This Rick was no mortyphile. And fuck, he wasn't a pedophile either! The list of things that he would, or had, fuck was almost never-ending, but never, ever had a kid been among those things. Especially not one that shared his DNA. He was better than that.
Well, his Morty didn't exactly share his DNA, but close enough.
Morty was the first to scramble into the ship with all the grace of a fish on land. Rick was right behind him, wasting no time getting the cruiser into the air and jetting off before the consequences of their actions could catch up to them—as per usual. The older of the pair ran a hand through the mussed blue spikes that were his hair. His hand came back damp with sweat. An uneven laugh bubbled up in his throat as the planet they had just wreaked havoc on grew smaller and smaller behind them.
"Ho-ly shit, I– I– I almost can't believe we actually pulled that off," Rick was the first to break the post-adventure silence, "—and wow, Morty, you- you— Jesus, Morty, breathe, you're going to knock yourself out again."
When Rick turned his head, he saw Morty breathing in and out so quickly that he was sure the little guy was making himself light-headed. Today's little adventure had gotten a teeny bit sidetracked. Maybe the pair had gotten a little caught up in having some classic Rick and Morty fun that may or may not have resulted in a few casualties. Morty was certainly paying the price, face flushed with overexercition and still dripping wet from his little accidental dip in the pool. His selectively diligent grandpa had been quick to yank him out, dragging Morty by the wrist the rest of their retreat.
Rick was almost worried Morty was gonna high-road him on this one, like it wasn't Morty's fault today hadn't shaped up to be the chill day Rick had promised. The kid had gotten a little crazy, to be honest. To his delight, a smile split his grandson's exhausted expression instead.
"Rick, that– that was insane! Did you see when they– with the lasers– a-and when I…"
On a worst day, Morty launching into a rambling recap of the day's events would have been aggravating. Today, it made something inside Rick crack a little. He was cute like this. Cheeks slightly reddened, brown curls tousled and sticking haphazardly to his face, yellow shirt clinging to his boyish frame. Rick could even make out the whisper of pebbled nipples through the wet fabric.
Ew, fuck, no, what the fuck, God, no. There is no God. God is dead.
He tore his eyes away too quickly, staring dead ahead as his grip on the wheel turned vice-like. Morty didn't take any notice, yapping away, oblivious to his granpa's plight. It wasn't cute anymore. Fuck, it never was. Not like that. Rick was better than that.
Shame and disgust flooded his system. The self-appointed smartest man in the universe's mood was irreparably soured for the day. Rick Sanchez was not a pedophile. So what if a few versions of him were? There was also a shocking amount of fascist versions of him and his grandson. That didn't mean anything. Rick's ever-growing attachment to Morty was purely familial. He could never—
It was so out of the realm of possibility that it wasn't even worth sparing another thought. Maybe he outta go into his own brain and do a little snipping.
The rest of the ride dragged on too long for comfort. The Sun had long since set on Earth by the time the cruiser touched down in the familiar driveway. Beth would scold Rick for that later. Everyone was probably already asleep. Morty should have been asleep. An unopened bottle of vodka was calling Rick's name.
"Um… Rick?"
Morty sounded uncertain but a little hopeful, like he was about to say something stupid. Turning with one side of his brow quirked, Rick was ready to brush off whatever Morty had to say for later and usher him off to bed. The possibility of two small hands planting themselves on either side of Rick's face had not been accounted for. Soft lips pressed clumsily against the corner of Rick's mouth.
It had been a long day. Rick was just tired. He'd been taken by surprise. He would never, ever part his lips against his own grandson's. It definitely wouldn't take him 10 full seconds to shove the kid away and put as much distance between them as the ship would allow.
"WHAT THE FUCK, MORTY?" he bit out harsher than he should have. The boy in question looked petrified, staring up at Rick in horror. Rick was the one who should be horrified. He was horrified!
Morty opened his mouth, presumably to babble out an excuse or an apology or probably both, but nothing came out. He fumbled with his door, and then he was gone, leaving Rick to gawk at the now-empty passenger seat as Morty fled inside as fast as his legs could carry him.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed momentarily frozen. At some point, his flask was against his lips, though he didn't remember pulling it out. The contents burned down his throat in one clean gulp. It didn't serve as the distraction Rick very much needed, too used to the sting.
Huh.
Rick couldn't help but rack his mind for signs he had missed. Little indicators that his Morty was on a path that would end with him kissing Rick. Nothing stood out. Well, there was that one time Morty had been 'desperate to get back together' after the two-crows thing, but that wasn't anything unusual.
It couldn't have been him, could it?
Surely not.
Did Morty just take him as the kind of man to be open to kissing his own grandson on the lips—
Give grandpa a kiss. Lips if you want.
Pft. No.
The memory gun could sort out this little malfunction. Just one zap and Morty would be as good as new. He could do it now. March upstairs and wipe this whole ordeal away. From Morty and him both. That's what a regular Rick that didn't have any abnormal feelings about his Morty would probably do. He should want to forget.
At some point, Rick wound up in the garage with a bottle in hand. Family-therapy mode was activated just in case. His tongue darted out to catch a drop of the booze that had lingered on his lip. It tasted like teenage desperation. Glass shattered against the wall and Rick slumped against his workbench.
"God fucking damnit, Morty."
The next bottle he grabbed was something stronger.