Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11593197.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Rick_Sanchez/Morty_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Mpreg
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-24 Words: 9400
****** The Universe's Lullaby ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     It’s the universe’s lullaby and he drowns in it.
Notes
     this is an old fic i was nervous about posting but writing it took me
     months and was heavy coping and therapy for me and it might help
     others cope so im posting it up again
...
At the age of fourteen Morty’s first heat strikes him like a match, quick and
scorching hot. As it seems, luck is never on his side, born an omega in a
dimension that viewed him as little more than a child bearing oven and blessed
with less than average intelligence, his first heat suffocates him as they fly
through the stars in the small confines of Rick’s ship.
 The universe and timing itself hates him.
And as stupid as Rick thinks he may be, Morty isn’t clueless he notices the
exact second Rick catches on, notices the flair of his nostril as he draws in
Morty’s sweet ripe scent—noticed the way Rick had looked at him the past few
months as they worked together in the garage.
“J-jesus fuUUGhcking Christ, Morty!? You couldn’t hold it in until we g-got
home,” Rick groans, knuckles clenched white around the steering wheel.
“I-It doesn’t work that way, Rick,” Morty flushes, humiliated. Why did this
have to happen now? Why couldn’t he be at home, where he could ease his growing
pleasure in solitude? He shoves his hands between his legs in an attempt to
hide his growing erection, squeezes his thighs shut in an attempt to staunch
the rush of liquid seeping through his worn jean shorts.  His head is quickly
growing heady, bones achy, and stomach muscles cramping. He groans, “I-is it
supposed to hurt? I feel like I’m going to die.”
“You t-think I fucking know what goUUGhing through heat is supposed to feel
like, Morty? Do I look like a w-whiny omega to you? Do you t-think I have a
fucking womb?!” Rick’s teeth grind, jaw tight and brow drawn down in not only
annoyance but an alpha’s struggle when faced with the saccharine hormones a
heated omega admits.
Morty frowns against Rick’s condescending tone, hating the way his body reacts
to it, his slick pooling in the seat beneath him. The ship thick with the scent
of it, sweat beads down the sharp tip of Rick’s nose, his knee twitching as he
fights against it
“Rick—“ Morty breathes, shaking with the fiery tendrils of his heat. Rick’s
freezes next to him, eyes focused into the space ahead. But Morty knows by the
growing bulge in Rick’s khaki trousers he’s fighting the urge to rut.
“The-the shit y-you put me through, Morty—“ Rick starts before slamming the
ship into auto-pilot and slamming their lips together, lost in it like a wild
animal. Rick was never one to deny himself his addictions. Deftly he unflicks
Morty’s seatbelt, tugging the small boy into the back of the ship, discarded
whisky bottles clacking as they fall together, a tangle of woven limbs.
…
It all becomes a blur of skin to Morty, Rick’s calloused palms sliding down his
ribs, Rick’s tongue against his own, Rick’s weight settling between his chubby
thighs as he presses into Morty’s waiting entrance. It all becomes one bright
watercolor painting, muddy colors and heavy breaths, their skin painted silver
by the vast expanse of stars. When it’s finished, they lay intertwined, Rick’s
knot connecting them together. Morty’s sighs, the numbing effect of his heat
wearing off, the stretch of his thighs and the aching fullness of Rick’s knot
becoming strikingly apparent.
He paws at his belly, swollen with Rick’s cum, Rick’s dick still twitching and
spurting inside of Morty. Morty wonders when it will stop, he doesn’t know if
his body can take much more.
Rick is heavy and silent against him and Morty runs his fingers through the old
man’s thinning hair, “W-was I good? D-did you like it?” He asks, seeking out
Rick’s approval as he often does, whether it be on an adventure or now in
sexual bliss.
Shifting his weight onto his elbows, Rick eye’s Morty, clumsily grasping at the
bottles around them. Finding one still with a little swill at the bottom, Rick
chugs it, burping loudly, “I spilled my load, didn’t I, M-morty?”
“You d-don’t need to be an ass, Rick,” Morty huffs, pride a little more than
damaged by Rick’s statement. He didn’t know what he was expecting, Rick to
shower him with praise and tell him how great he felt, it was pretty damn
unlikely. Morty regrets getting his hopes up.
 “Ah, h-how long does it stay like that?” Morty says, motioning towards Rick’s
dick still buried within him, growing more uncomfortable with the feel of it,
flustered by the sight of it—his heat no longer hiding his insecurities and
embarrassments.  He just mated with his eighty year old grandpa. And he’d
wanted to for a while. Rick was an alpha above all alpha’s, broad shouldered,
confident, cunning, smart—commanding and demanding attention—everything Morty’s
little omegan heart beat for.
“So e-eager to get rid of me, Morty?!” Morty frowns. “Give it a few more
minutes, MoUGHrty,” Rick grunts playing with Morty’s cum plumped belly, Morty
flinches at the feel of it and Rick chuckles. “Shit, dawg! T-there is no way y-
you’re not knocked up.”
Morty’s heart lurches in his throat, his body electrified with panic. He tries
to scoot away from Rick, screeching when Rick’s knot tugs painfully within him.
Rick tugs him back down by the hips, “Morty, calm th-the fuck down.”
“Oh jeez,” Morty hyperventilates, pulling at his hair as his body feels
suddenly all too cold despite the warmth of Rick’s skin against his own.“I-
I can’t have a kit!”
Rick rolled his eyes, readjusting Morty’s thighs around his thin hips, “Well,
you’re proOUGHbably gonna be saddled down with one, Morty.”
Morty wants to scream, ‘Well, you will too.’  but in all likely hood he knows
that isn’t true.  Rick didn’t stick around for his first child, what made this
one any different.  Morty’s stomach twists, nausea building in his throat, sour
and bitter, “I can’t go home unmarked,” He says instead. He rubs at the crook
of his throat, skin unblemished, free from the indentations of his alpha’s
teeth. He feels suddenly alone, wants nothing more than to push Rick off of him
and head home so he can bury his face and his tears in his bedroom pillow.
“G-good luck with that, M-morty. Commitment is a bunch OUGhf bullshit,” Rick
belches, searching the bottles around them for another sip of his vice. He
groans when he comes up empty handed, “You don’t see the Zipdorfsbranding their
mates a property. T-that shit only exists in our f-fucking dimension, Morty. I-
it’s just hormonal primitive shit, Morty.”
It may be primitive, but it mattered to Morty and the dimension he lived in. An
umarked mated omega was taboo, ostracized and outcast by society. He’d be the
talk of the town, heads would turn and people would spit. He cringes at the
thought of it, but forces it away. There’s no point, there’s no winning with
Rick, Rick has a wider and cynical view of the universe, a view well beyond the
world Morty lived in. Morty wonders if he ever truly felt love for anything
beyond science. Wearily Morty sighs, running his finger tips of the sharp
stubbled edge of Rick’s jaw, hoping to settle some peace between them, “W-will
you at least help me change some diapers?”
…
The family doesn’t take the news of Morty’s pregnancy well. Beth turns to her
wine glass. Jerry’s face burns red with anger and the accusation that Morty
brought shame to their family. Summer offers Morty pitying glances and sad
smiles, Morty thinks this is the worst. He finds comfort in Rick’s arms at
night, while the house is dark and silent, he breaths in Rick’s scent and
counts his ribs to rid his mind of his troubles and fears. Rick offers him
little words, but never complains when Morty slips under the blankets and into
the curve of his armpit.             
And although he hates lying to his parents, when they confront him about the
father, Morty fiddles his thumbs and cheeps it was a guy from school, a
pointless fling beneath the baseball bleachers. Maybe it’s even worse than the
truth, but Morty can’t bear the disappointment in his mother’s eyes if she
finds out what her own father did. It isn’t exactly illegal in the eyes of the
law, but incestuous mating had all but faded out of popular culture in the
early nineteen forties. In recent years even certain activists lobbied against
it. It’s just another piece of shame Morty carries with him.
He drops out of school when he starts to show—his scent changing to indicate is
impregnation—when other kids in the hallway whisper behind his back, raising
the fine hairs on his arms and neck, nothing they say overly threatening, but
it’s the point and the pain behind their cruel words and hidden sneers that
sends Morty fleeing. Rick is proud to have Morty home and out of school, always
believing he was the one who could teach Morty everything he needed to know
about the vast universes and worlds. Morty is indifferent, never really fond of
his struggling education but not wanting to miss out on a vital part of his
childhood experience.
…
“Rick—NGH!! St-stop trying to distract me!!” Morty pants, fingers wound in
Rick’s fine hair, making no attempt to push him away despite his protests. 
Rick’s mouth teases the curve of Morty’s newly developed breasts, sealing his
lips over Morty’s pink nipple. Arching his back, Morty nearly screams, the
painful pressure in his breast beginning to unravel as Rick sucks lightly, a
sudden rush of liquid filling the older man’s mouth.
Rick swallows Morty’s sweet milk quickly, adam’s apple bobbing as he does,
humming as he continues to drink, rough fingers kneading at Morty’s soft chest.
It’s wrong, Morty thinks, it has to be. Surely something meant for his child’s
sustenance can’t be giving both of them pleasure, but it is. Morty’s dick
already twitching in interest, slick already wetting his inner thighs.  But
everything is wrong about them, Morty will not only be giving Rick his next
child, but also his great grandchild, and although it brought shame to the core
of Morty’s being, Rick remained unphased by it, proclaiming, “T-the universe is
filled with a lot of fucked up things, M-moOUGhrty, this-this is hardly one of
them.”His words however did little to tamper Morty’s guilt.
Morty knees at Rick’s side when he feels the baby kick, a few hard strikes
against his bladder. Rick grunts, milk dribbling from his lips as he frowns,
“J-jesus Christ, M-morty, dramatic much!?”
Morty flushes, frustrated, “I didn’t tr-try to knock out your kidney on
purpose, the baby kicked and it surprised me,” Rick rolls his eyes and Morty
continues, grabbing Rick’s cheeks and forcing his open lips away from his
leaking breast, “I don’t think she likes you stealing all her food.”
“NOUGHht like she can drink it yet, M-morty,” Rick says, allowing himself to be
pushed away. With a burp he slides down Morty’s body pressing lips and kisses
to the rise of Morty’s large and swollen tummy, Morty squirms against the
ticklish feel of it.  “Hey, sweetie, y-you’re a feisty little thing, aren’t
you?” Rick purrs softly while still spattering kisses across the expanse of
Morty’s stomach, their child settling down, her movements still.
A thread of jealousy weaves its way through Morty’s ribs and he despises the
pull of it. Rick showed their child a tenderness he never provided Morty, his
wrinkled cheek pressed to the expanse of Morty’s tummy as he hummed as if the
rise of Morty’s stomach was disconnected from Morty’s body, a whole separate
being and in a way it truly was. But that didn’t stop Morty from wishing Rick
showed him that same gentleness. He is however glad that Rick quickly accepted
their daughter, no matter the envy he feels. He had feared when Rick took him
to his ultrasound—one at a hospital in another universe so Morty wouldn’t face
ridicule—that things would change between them, that Rick would put a distance
between—reject him—but when the cool gel passed over Morty’s stomach and a grey
blur appeared on the screen, Rick had grinned and gave Morty’s messy hair a pat
sending Morty’s heart into an erratic beat.
“Looks like I’ll be having another daughter,” Rick said and Morty fought back
his tears.
“Rick! Will y-you stop distracting me?” Morty huffs finding himself back in the
present, Rick sitting above him brow raised.
“Y-you’re not going, Morty,” Rick says sternly, unzipping his khakis and
working himself into full mast.
Crossing his arms, Morty tries his hardest to retain his anger while ignoring
the movement of Rick’s hand, his mouth going dry, toes curling as Rick lets out
a low guttural moan. “Y-you’re an ass, Rick, this isn’t going to work. I’m
going with you.”
“Don’t whine like a baby, M-morty,” Rick huffs, fingers curving into the waist
of Morty sweatpants pulling them down—Morty lets him, skin feeling hot—exposing
his thick thighs and small hard dick. “Th-this isn’t some adventure to Blips
and Chitz, Morty. This is s-some hardcore shit, Gultorf is a f-fucking
dangerous place.”
“I’ve dealt with d-dangerous before, Rick,” Morty sighs as Rick turns him onto
his hands and knees, giving his plump rump a loud slap. Morty lets out an
indignant yelp, angered when Rick refuses to listen to him. “Y-you need me
anyway, Rick. I’m your cloak,” Morty loathes saying it, never knowing how close
to the truth it is, how far Rick’s care for him spreads. It’s something he
thinks of often and wishes he didn’t, it leaves him feeling all too fragile and
alone as if he’s a broken part of something that will never be whole.
Fingers dig into Morty’s hips as Rick aligns his dick with Morty’s wet and
ready entrance, he slides in, inch by painful inch, leaving them both
breathless and keening. Morty buries his face in Rick’s scratchy blanket,
overwhelmed by the scent of him, alpha pheromones, stale sweat, and old whisky.
It leaves Morty shaking and weak, his resolve waning. He wants to curse Rick
out for how easily he melts, manipulated beneath Rick’s strong hands, instead
he moans as Rick begins to move—a steady rhythm.
“I—“ Rick grunts, hips slamming into Morty’s ass, a cacophony of slapping skin
and squeaking cot filling the room, “D-don’t need a cloak for this, Morty.
Nghh—Just meeting an old Gultorfian friend to exchange weapons.”
“T-that doesn’t sound so dangerous,” Morty starts.
Rick cuts him off, “The answer is no, k-kid. Not in y-your current state. W-
what the fuck am I supposed to say bringing you a-along? ‘Here’s my seven month
pregnant grandsOUGhn.’ N-not fucking happening.”
Morty whines as Rick hits his prostate, knowing he’s losing the argument—as he
often does with Rick, “I w-wonder who’s fault that is?”
“NiOUGhce try, Morty,” Rick huffs heavily with effort, canting his hips, pace
slowing. In his old age Rick tired out quickly, frequently asking Morty to ride
him to climax. Morty however is currently too irritated to give him the
pleasure, “B-but you can’t blame me for all your life’s problems.”
As if sensing this, Rick pulls out, flipping Morty over, taking both their
dicks in hand as he begins to stroke. Morty’s eye lids flutter, strikes of
black ink against his flushed dewy cheeks. He grips the bed sheets, throws his
head back, and gives in to Rick.
…
Morty wakes up alone in his own room—most likely carried there by Rick in the
middle of the night—morning light filtering through his window. He groans, back
aching as he stretches and makes his way downstairs. He finds Summer seated on
the couch, phone in hand while an episode of Say Yes to The Dress plays in the
background. She doesn’t notice him as he quietly passes her by, making his way
towards Rick’s garage.
Hesitantly he steps in, the scent of gasoline tickling Morty’s heightened
senses.  He scrunches his nose against it. The garage is empty, Rick’s ship
long gone, off to planet Gultorf or whatever. Morty sighs, as greatly as he
wishes he could have gone with Rick, he knows—as much as his stubbornness and
anger wishes he didn’t—that Rick is right. For their child’s safety he should
take a rest from adventures for the time being, even if he felt bored or lonely
without Rick, even if he worried for Rick’s safety while he was alone or what
Rick was doing while he was alone.  Biting his lip and pushing aside his
insecurities, Morty leaves the garage deciding breakfast would be easier on his
stomach than thinking of Rick.
…
By the third day Rick is gone Morty begins to worry. Summer assures him it’s
fine but Morty knows it’s unusual for Rick to not have returned after twenty
four hours.  He hides his fears as he nests curled up in the family’s coat
closet, nestled in a pile of Rick’s worn sweaters the strong virile scent of an
alpha calming his frayed nerves if only for a moment.  Rick seemed smitten by
their unborn daughter, he couldn’t abandon her, Morty tries to tell himself,
loathing the amount of doubt that comes with it.
By the third week Rick is gone all of Morty doubts are confirmed and anger
replaces his sorrow full force. He stiffens when Summer mentions Rick. Grinds
his teeth and clenches his fists when he hears his mother cry over Rick. He
can’t forgive Rick for this. Hates the fact that he’ll grow up hating him, the
father of his child. He hates himself for not being ready for the anguish Rick
caused even though every ounce of him expected it—even if he hadn’t hoped for
it. He hates that at night consumed with his loneliness his sorrow returns,
curls around his ribs and his bones sucking the breath from his lungs, tears
stinging his eyes and wetting his cheeks. He hides his sobs in his pillow,
curling in upon himself when he feels the baby kick. It was easier to be angry,
he feels weakened by this.
…
Five days short of his due date Morty goes into labor. The pain long and
excruciating, he digs his heels into the hospital bed with it, feeling as if
his very being is being torn apart. He fights against his thoughts of Rick as
the baby fights to force its way out of his body. He threads his fingers
through Summer’s and bites his lip until he tastes blood. He loses, thoughts of
Rick flooding him. He thinks of Rick’s fingers curled around his, Rick’s grip
firm and palm calloused. Rick calling him a pussy for crying through the pain,
all the while softly telling Morty to breath, ‘Y-you gotta breathe through it,
Morty. YOUghu gotta breathe, baby.’Because Rick was like that. He thinks of
Rick while the scowling nurses—most likely thinking him lowly for being
unmated—tell him to push.
He feels a release of pressure, a dull ache, and then a cry fills the room. He
doesn’t realize it’s partly his own. He closes his eyes, head swimming with the
scent of blood and sweat.
“Oh, Morty, she’s beautiful,” He hears Beth murmur.
Wearily he cracks open an eye, shifting when a nurse holds out a bundle to him.
Gently he reaches out to accept it, carefully drawing his baby towards his
chest, her face scrunched up in tears. He places a kiss to her brow, brushing
aside her tuft of brown hair. He imagines Rick doing the same, heart lurching
with the thought of it. Rick would have been a good father, Morty knows, if he
had stuck around long enough.
“I know, baby,” He says, wiping a little tear from her cheek, “I know.”
… 
He names her Rose.
…
It takes him weeks to get accustomed to breastfeeding, the tug of it, his
nipples sore. It feels nothing like when Rick had suckled him and for that
Morty is glad, he doesn’t want to be reminded of how good Rick could make him
feel, it only reminded him of what he lost. He traces the shell of Rose’s ear,
humming softly as she nurses. She’s his world now, no more escapades amongst
the stars, just small hands resting against him and her soft blue eyes.
…
Morty goes into heat four months after giving birth. It’s the first of many
heats he spends alone, clutching the bed sheets and whining Rick’s name as he
works a toy—one Jerry bought him during his pregnancy much too his
embarrassment—in and out of his slick opening. He’s vulnerable in those
moments, needing Rick, shaking with it. The toy doing little to dull his desire
for a real connection, imagining Rick’s smell enveloping him, the feel of
Rick’s lips against his own, the weight of Rick’s body driving him into the
mattress. He activates the toy’s artificial knot as he comes, cringing at the
feel of it. It’s filling and states his body’s natural inclinations—an omega’s
heat ended once stimulated by a knot whether it be artificial or natural, if
left unattended however an omegas heat could last month’s, dangerous to their
wellbeing, even deadly at times—but it left him cold and wanting, lonely in the
reality of it.
He pulls it out when the knot’s swelling lowers, shivering at his emptiness.
Frustrated, he throws the toy across the room, drawing his knees to his chest,
whimpering as he hides his face in them. He wishes it was only as simple as
missing Rick’s body, but missing Rick’s body only forces him to admit how much
he misses the man’s presence. He misses Rick’s laugh, his terrible jokes, and
the soft way he patted Morty on the back after Morty succeeded on an adventure.
He misses the things he’ll never get to experience, Rick holding their
daughter, Rick gentle as he helps bathe Rose, his voice low and soothing as he
reads her a bed time story.
He reaches out for his bed side table, blindly grasping at his phone. For the
first time in months he dials Rick’s number, fingers working on instinct. Like
the first few weeks after Rick’s initial departure the phone goes to voicemail,
Morty lies back, letting Rick’s voice drift over him, conflicted with the
emotions it brings him, waiting impatiently for the beep.
“You’re an asshole, y-you know that, Rick?” Morty hisses into the phone, “Y-you
could have at least waited to meet her. Or were you too afraid that you might
actually want to stick around after that?” Morty pauses, searching for all the
words he kept bottled up, finding himself at a loss. “…I miss you…” He allows
himself to say instead, letting a moment of silence pass before hanging up the
phone. He wonders if Rick will even listen to it. He falls asleep wishing he
said more.
…
The first time Rose gets sick she’s eleven months old. Fever high as she
squirms in Morty’s arms. Terror grips Morty, fearing he’ll lose her as he
searches various causes of fever in infants on Web MD. Beth consoles him,
placing a kiss on his brow as she helps fill the sink with luke warm water.
“She’ll be fine, Morty. We’ll get her fever down, alright?” Beth says, running
a comforting hand down Morty’s back, before gently taking Rose from him. With
great care she places her in the sink, fat tears rolling down Rose’s cheeks, a
screech leaving her lips as the warm water encases her fevered skin.
Instinctively Morty reaches out for her, yearning to take her in his arms and
soothe her cries but Beth  halts him placing a wet hand on Morty’ chest as he
steps forward. “She’s fine, sweetie. The water just feels cold to her.”
Morty bites back his worry and fears, settling against his mother’s side as she
passes as washcloth over Rose’s stomach. “If R-rick were here he’d be able to—“
He catches himself saying, feeling Beth stiffen against him. He regrets his
words immediately, struggling to explain himself—they hadn’t spoken of Rick
since his abandonment became apparent. “I-it just he could help her, Mom. H-he
could travel to some weird planet and find something to c-cure her fever s-so
she wouldn’t have to suffer.”
“We don’t need him to take care of your daughter,” Beth says lifting Rose from
the sink, but Morty hears the waver in her voice and knows no matter what she
might say she wishes Rick were there too.
…
“Do you wanna go to McDonalds or something?” Summer asks him.
Rose is three years old, curious and creative, scribbling in a coloring book
with Morty. She looks up from her paper with a giddy grin, chirping, “I wanna
go to McDonalds.”
Morty’s stomach drops as he fumbles with the crayon in his hand, “W-why?”
Summer rolls her eyes, “I offer to do something nice for you and you ask
‘why?’!  Because you never leave the house anymore that’s why! You’re becoming
a hermit and you’re gonna make Rose into some weird introvert, she doesn’t see
other people enough.”
Morty cringes, picking up Rose’s crayons and neatly placing them back in the
box. Summer is right, although he hates to admit it, since Rose was born he
only ever left the house for his or Rose’s mandatory checkups. It was easier
than facing society’s criticisms and his dread that someone might violently
project their beliefs on him or his daughter—it wasn’t uncommon to hear news of
an unmarked omega or the kit of an unmarked omega being attacked.  But he
couldn’t shield his daughter from it forever, she’d have to face their judgment
eventually whether she went to public school or not.
Rose glances up at him with hopeful eyes—having only ever seen commercials for
the food and having never been to a fast food restaurant.  Morty breaks,
wanting her to have the experiences every child should, a ball nerves in his
stomach as he relents. “J-jeez, Summer, just hold on and let us get ready.”
…
Morty’s palm sweats as he holds Rose’s hand, waiting in line for their food,
the bitter taste of anxiety flooding his mouth. He feels as if every eye in the
room is on them, feels as if the low whispers and hidden laughs are about them.
He grips Rose’s hand tighter, they haven’t even started to eat and he already
wants to leave.
Summer grabs their tray of food when it’s ready, leading them over to a booth
by the window. Morty helps Rose into a booster seat before sitting down across
from Summer and unwrapping Rose’s cheeseburger. Rose bites into her burger,
unaware of Morty’s worries—he tries his hardest to hide them from her.  He
smiles studying his daughter, at least she was enjoying herself, happily
playing with her matchbox car in between bites of her food, making idle chatter
with Summer.
“Morty fucking Smith I haven’t seen you since you let some alpha pop your
cherry and knock you up.”
“Shut up,” Summer says, defensive in a way she hadn’t been in Morty’s school
years.
Morty almost chokes on his chicken nugget and glances up at Frank Palicky,
Summer’s highschool crush and Morty’s bully. He’d spent a lot nights nursing
the bruises Frank gave him and a lot of days at school pressed up against a
locker, Frank’s fingers around his throat, “Hi, Frank,” He mumbles, taking a
sip of his coke, the sweetness acrid on his tongue. He doesn’t like the way
Frank is looking at him, didn’t like the way Frank looked at him in the days
after his first heat.
“So,” Frank whistles eyeing Rose. Morty hair stands on end. “So here’s the
fabled reason you dropped out, huh?”
“Don’t call her that,” Morty hisses softly, finding difficulty in standing his
ground against the alpha, his natural instinct to cower and flee. He never
wanted Rose to ever get the thought in her head that she limited Morty’s life
in anyway. She was the one thing that kept him going.
Time stills for Morty as Frank reaches forward, pale fingers tracing a line
down the column of Morty throat—where an alpha’s mark should be. Frank’s breath
ghosts over his cheek and Morty recoils, stomach twisting, a dull buzzing
stinging his ears. “You still giving it away for free, because my cars parked
out back if you want a good ride?”
Summer reacts before Morty even has a chance to push him away, her arm swinging
back, fist connected with Frank’s nose. Frank recoils, clutching his face,
blood pooling in his palms. “You bitch.”
“Really! You’re gonna call me a bitch when you just tried to sexual assault my
brother?”
“Yeah, well it’s not my fault your brother’s the town slut.”
Morty hears a pair of old omegas whisper about the sins of being mated and
unmarked. He shrinks in his seat, if the eyes of the restaurant hadn’t been on
him before, they’re certainly on him now.
Rose reaches for Morty, fearful in the commotion. Morty pulls her into his lap,
“S-summer, let’s just go.”
“We’re not gonna leave just because of this ass—“ She stops when catches sight
of them, Rose tearful in Morty’s arms. Morty struggling with the onslaught of
his own tears. She softens seeing them, sending Frank one last glare, “Try
something again and I’ll cut your fucking balls off,” She stands her ground as
Frank flips them off and storms away, “You sure you wanna go?” Summer says
sadly, turning her attention to him.
“Yeah,” Morty whispers, noticing the audience they’ve gathered as he packs up
their food. “I think it’s for the best.”
…
“—I mean this is why we need omegan rights! It’s 2016 already people!” Summer
rants on the drive home, still simmering from the incident.
Morty watches his reflection in the passenger window, resting his cheek against
the cool glass. Rose talks to her doll in the back seat.
He wants to yell, tell Summer this was why he didn’t leave the house, tell her
it was a bad idea for them to even go—to expose Rose so early to the violence
she’d no doubt later face—but he doesn’t have the energy. “He’s r-right you
know, I am the town slut”
Summer sighs, “No you’re not, Morty, you made one small mistake—“
Morty cringes at that, because while he would never consider Rose a mistake, he
considered loving Rick one.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Summer says catching herself.
“I know,” Morty runs a hand through his hair, breathing out and fogging the
glass, cutting a straight line through it with his finger, “It’s just I-I liked
what we did and unbonded omegas aren’t supposed to, you know? He made me feel
good.”
“Morty—“
“I l-loved him, Summer, and he-he fucking left me,” Morty cries, hating his
tears and hating himself, because saying it only made him want Rick more.
“Oh, Morty, I’m so sorry,” Summer murmurs, reaching out and gripping Morty’s
knee.
“Are you okay, daddy?” Rose asks from the back seat, small voice raised in
concern.
Morty wipes at his tears, “I’m fine, sweetie,” He says, because he has to be.
…
One month later, Morty sits in the living room, Rose by his feet as she plays
with her cars. He flips through the TV channels, a loud crash from the garage
startling the remote from his hand.
“What was that?” Rose asks, distracted from her play, a worried look on her
chubby face.
Morty has a sinking feeling he knows exactly who and what it was and he he’ll
slap the hell out of them as soon as he sees them—anger surging in his veins.
“Go off and find, grandma, okay?” Morty tells her, keeping a calm façade. She
hesitates, looking back over her shoulder before running into the kitchen.
Like a storm he rages off towards the garage, shoulders squared and fists
clenched, trying to look as imposing as an omega can look—ready to make Rick
pay for the hell he’d put him and his family through. Breathing in deeply and
summoning up all his courage he pulls the garage door open, faltering in his
step when he sees what’s waiting for him.
“Oh my god, R-rick?”
The spacecraft in the garage is dented and unfamiliar—not Rick’s homemade
one—but it’s not the ship that shocks him, it’s Rick leaning against it,
clutching his side, prison uniform bloodied, skin bruised and grimy, hair
mated. Rick fumbles on his footing, legs ready to give out and Morty can read
clear pain written across his face. Morty tells himself it’s not weakness as he
rushes to Rick’s side, supporting his weight, it’s just his natural omegan
instinct to care, he’ll save his anger for later. “Wh-what the hell happened to
you?”
“Not now, Morty. J-just help me inside, I need to take a fURghcking bath,” Rick
groans, leaning against Morty.
“You n-need medical attention,” Morty starts but Rick hushes him.
“It’s nothing y-your ole grandpa can’t take.”
Morty opens his mouth to retort, but quickly stops himself, there wasn’t a
point with Rick. Struggling to brace Rick’s weight he walks them into the
house, stopping when Beth meets them halfway into the living room, Rose
balanced on her hip.
“Dad?!”
“H-hey, sweetie,” Rick says softly, almost apologetically and Beth breaks with
it. Throwing an arm around her father—Rose sandwiched between them—pressing her
tears into his throat. Morty wants to do the same, to give up and give in, to
cling to Rick and to all that he meant but he can’t allow himself, can’t
forgive Rick for the nights he spent alone—for having to raise their child
alone. He keeps his distance.
“Where have you been? What happened to you? Are you okay?” She asks.
Rick places a kiss on Beth’s temple before pulling away, one arm looped around
Morty as his free hand reaches out to ruffle Rose’s soft brown hair, avoiding
Beth’s question as he had with Morty’s, much to Morty’s annoyance and
frustrations—he owed them. “W-who’s this cute little girl?”
“Believe it or not this is Morty’s daughter, Dad,” Beth wipes away her tears,
smiling down at Rose. Morty tightens his grip on Rick’s prison uniform,
terrified, he’s wanted this for too long—wanted Rick caring and connecting with
their daughter. Rick looks curious as he studies Rose, as if he’s taking apart
one of his scientific contraptions—one Morty couldn’t even begin to
understand—careful as he runs his knuckles down her chubby cheeks but there is
a hint of fondness in Rick’s eyes that remains unhidden. Morty heart swells
with it.
“Her name is R-rose,” Morty adds, “Rosie, t-this is your—“ Morty pauses,
stumbling over his tongue and teeth, the word father stuck between them. Rick
eyes him, brow raised as if daring Morty to speak the truth Morty sticks with
half truths, although it pains him—Rose deserved to know her father just as
Beth did, “this is y-your, grandpa Rick.”
“Hi,” Rose says shyly, avoiding Rick’s eyes as she clutches Beth’s arm.
“H-hi, baby,” Rick says, resting his cheek on Morty’s head and the earth
collapses beneath Morty’s feet.
…
Morty helps Rick upstairs, runs the bath water and helps remove Rick’s
clothing. He winces when he sees Rick’s fresh wounds and new scars, pink raised
lines against his pale skin. He runs a finger over a fat cut on Rick’s chest,
feeling Rick’s skin quiver beneath him. Rick pulls Morty hand away, presses a
kiss to Morty’s palm, mouthing over his flesh and Morty lets him, sensing
something desperate in Rick.
“Wash my hair for me, will y-ya? I think my rib’s f-fucking broken, hurts like
a bitch to move my arm.”
“Al-alright,” Morty relents, supporting Rick as he steps into the tub, “But we
really should get you to a hospital a-afterwards.”
“I-I already told you, MOUrghrty I don’t need medical a-attention, I’ll be
fine.”
Morty frowns but doesn’t further argue, urging Rick to dunk under and wet his
hair. Rick obliges with a groan, water tinged pink with blood. Morty grabs for
the shampoo, squirting some in his hand, the sweet scent of berries filling the
room as he works Rick’s hair into a lather—working out the knots and kinks.
It’s intimate, more intimate then sex Morty thinks, vulnerable as he leans over
Rick, water sloshing over the side of the tub and dampening his shirt as Rick
sighs.
“Y-you’ve got good fingers, Morty,” Rick says after rinsing his hair, soap
bubbles clinging to his knobby knees.
“Y-yeah, whatever, Rick,” Morty says, blushing and uncomfortable because Rick
never really told him he had good anything before.
“Did y-you miss me?” Rick asks, lips ghosting over Morty’s and for once he
tastes sober. His wet fingers curling around the nape of Morty’s neck, water
dripping down the collar of Morty’s shirt.
Morty shivers, his desire—his need—to melt into Rick’s kiss and skin crawls up
his spine, but he swallows it down, pushing frustrated at Rick’s slippery chest
until their lips separate. He feels used.“Y-you can’t just-just come back and
expect to pick up where you left off, Rick!” His voice echoes off the tile,
sharp and shrill.
Tears sting his eyes but he wills them away, not wanting to give Rick the
pleasure of seeing him cry—of how greatly he truly did miss him. It’d only give
Rick more power and he already held power over Morty.
“M-morty—“
“No, you don’t get to come back and p-play with me like I’m your toy again! B-
because I’m not, Rick! I’m not just some toy you get to use and throw away when
y-you’re bored!”
“J-jesus christ,Morty! Will you shut up and stop y-your pissy rant for one
second?!” Rick hisses as he stands, wavering on his feet as he steps out of the
tub. He grabs a towel from the rack, nearly smacking Morty in the face with it.
Morty seethes, nails digging crescent moons in his palms, years of pent up
anger blossoming, “Y-you think you can just s-silence me, Rick! W-well I won’t
stop, you can’t—“
“Morty, s-stop fucking talking like y-your leading some social justice
movement,” Rick grunts, rubbing the towel over his thinning hair and over his
face with a frustrated sigh, he speaks, muffled in the terry cloth, “You’re g-
gonna make me fucking say it aren’t you?”
“W-what?” Morty asks, standing on his tippy toes and trying his hardest to meet
Rick’s height, falling short by quite a few inches, body shaking and face
flushed with his fury.
“F-fuck it,” Rick groans, face still hidden in the towel and Morty pursues his
lips and crosses his arms while he waits for Rick to speak, Rick’s voice
strained as if Morty forced it out of him, “I wouldn’t h-have left you, Morty,
if-if I had a choice.”
“Wait, w-what?” Morty whispers, room spinning around him, he wrenches the towel
from Rick’s hand, wanting to see his face—not that he could read Rick anyway,
“What’s t-that supposed to mean?”
Rick scowls, staring at the floor as Morty moves into his space, “H-he fucking
sold me out, Morty. F-fucking sold me out the f-fucking feds, Morty.”
“Who?” Morty asks, warily reaching out for Rick’s hand, yearning to comfort the
distressed alpha as an omega often does. Rick threads their fingers together.
Morty heart beat quickens, suddenly uncertain in everything he knows.
“My fucking ‘friend’ from Gultorf, Morty. Bastard sold me out to the Galactic
Federation.”
“The Galactic Federation?”
Rick rolls his eyes, as if it’s something Morty should already know, as if he’s
simple for not knowing it, “The Galactic Federation, Morty, they-they think
they police the fucking galaxy, Morty. G-grandpa did a lot of illegal things
back in the day and the Federation has been after me ever since.”
“S-so you’ve been in jail this entire time? You-you didn’t wanna stay away?”
Morty asks, unsure of what to feel, his anger an uncertain thing he holds onto,
afraid of what he’ll be without it.
“No, Morty, I-I didn’t want to stay away,” Rick sighs, drawing Morty in close,
Morty allows it, settling his chin against Rick’s shoulder, the skin soft and
loose there. Tentatively, he warps his arms around Rick, mindful of his ribs.
Rick is frail in his embrace, thinner than he used to be, years of prison and
no doubt mistreatment taking their toll on his body. Rick trembles against him,
their body’s flush together, his calloused and worn hands framing Morty’s face.
Although he’s fully dressed Morty feels naked around him, so easily manipulated
beneath Rick’s clever words and fingertips and while Morty still holds onto so
small portion of his resentment, he’s putty against Rick.
“They did all this to you?”
“It’s not exactly easy escaping a Federation prison and g-grandpa had a lOUGht
of secrets the Federation wanted.”
Rick had a lot of secrets Morty wanted.
“I,” Rick says after a pause, “I can’t stay, Morty.”
“W-what?” Morty chokes, pulling away, nearly tripping over Rick’s discarded
towel.
“Th-the Galactic Federation is still after me, Morty, and you don’t w-wanna
know what they’d do if they found me here. I blocked the t-their tracking
device on the ship, but that shit is only a temporary solution, Morty, I’ve got
to get on the move, Morty.”
“Wh-why did you even bother coming back?” Morty shouts, livid with himself for
being utterly foolish, for indulging himself in some hopeful fantasy that Rick
might stick around long enough to see their daughter grow up. He tries not to
think of how heartbroken Beth will be to have her father leave again—of how
heartbroken he’ll feel. Horrified that a larger part of him wants to beg Rick
to stay.
“I h-had to see you,” Rick grunts, as if he hates admitting it and Morty is
surprised he even does. Rick never admitted anything meant something to him.
Morty never assumed he meant more to Rick then unintelligent brain waves and a
warm hole to fuck, Rick never gave him an impression otherwise.
“W-why?”
“Y-you’re really full of questions today, Morty, a-aren’t you?! R-really need
me to spell things out for you? Can’t read b-between the fucking lines,
Morty?!”
“Jeez, Rick, you know y-you’re being a real jerk about this! Maybe I j-just
wanted y-you to say you cared about me for once?” Morty says, voice small and
unsure as it tapers off. Rick remains unphased by it, face blank as he takes
Morty in. Morty shrinks, one inch tall beneath his stare.
“Y-you gotta come with me, Morty. You and RoUghse gotta come with me,” Rick
says, tone serious, tightening his grip on Morty, his eyes desperate and wild
as if he’s on K-Lax lost in the fleeting high of it.
Morty wants simultaneously to run from him and run with him. Furious that Rick
would ask him to leave everything he knew. Furious with himself that the idea
seemed so appealing.  It’d be easy to leave it all behind, the judgment and
ridicule he faced on a daily basis—the people like Frank—the universe didn’t
care if you were unmated and knocked up at fourteen. But the universe is a
dangerous place, Morty knows, he’d dealt with his fair share of it with Rick,
adventures that ended with them running for their life, bruised and bloodied as
they portaled home away from some four armed monsters or guards with guns. He’d
dealt with people like King Jellybean. They’d live from planet to planet, on
the run, Rick doing something no doubt illegal to earn them money for food.
Rose wouldn’t need school, could learn all she ever needed to know about the
universe from Rick’s careful tutoring, sure she wouldn’t have the opportunity
to make friends but she’d have them.  And Morty wouldn’t have to spend his
nights alone, Rick’s arm around him as they slept huddled in a space motel bed.
But he thinks of Beth, broken from not only her father leaving but her son and
granddaughter too. Rose would miss her too, would miss the way Jerry tickled
her stomach, and the way Summer made her belly laugh. Morty loathes to think
how selfish he’d be to take her away from them, to force her into a life of
constant fear and anxiety, not knowing what aliens might rip off their heads or
what planet might be hostile, to risk her life and well being just to be able
to kiss Rick good morning every day, never knowing when Rick might be captured
or when he might die of old age, leaving them stranded amongst the stars no
refuge or way home.
Morty wishes he could blindly follow Rick, but it’s not just about them
anymore. He’s guilt ridden as he speaks, “I’m sorry, Rick, I-I can’t.”
…
They eat dinner in relative silence, the room thick with tension. Beth on her
third wine glass, her unspoken ‘Why did you leave me?’hanging in the air.
Jerry’s and Summer’s rage unkept as they glare daggers at Rick, muttering
comments under their breath as Rick reached for the salt. Morty couldn’t blame
them, they all handled Rick’s abandonment in different ways.
Rick ignores them all, nursing his second beer as he cuts up Rose’s chicken for
her. She picks up a piece holding it out to Rick’s lips, Rick accepts it,
kisses Rose’s cheek as he chews. She giggles at the feel of it.
Morty doesn’t touch his food, can’t stomach it, as he watches Rick and Rose,
not wanting a minute of this to end.
He quietly counts down the seconds until Rick leaves him.
…
“D-do you wanna help put her to bed?” Morty asks timidly, clutching a tired
Rose to his chest.
Rick looks up from his conversation with Beth, both of them bordering on drunk,
Morty tries to not let it bother him.
“Y-yeah, Moughrty, give me a sec—a minute I’ll be up in a second.”
…
Rick tucks Rose in as he tickles her sides. She grins brightly, framing Rick’s
face with her hands as he bends over her, “I like you, Grandpa Rick.” Morty
wonders if it’s a mistake, letting Rick this close, Rose would be devastated to
lose him.
“I-I like you too, sweetie,” Rick says, softly.
Morty sits at the edge of the bed, shifting as Rick sits by his side holding
the book Rose picked out for him to read, a story about Little Bear going to
the moon, it had been one of Morty’s favorites as a kid. Rick’s voice is gravel
as he talks, slurred by his alcohol but Rose doesn’t mind, she curls up with
her doll, yawning wide.
Their shoulders brush as Rick leans closer to him and Morty inhales deeply,
cataloging Rick’s warmth and scent into memory. He doesn’t want a moment of
this to end, Rick’s heat seeping into his skin, Rick’s voice gliding over him
like a lullaby, their daughter drifting off in peaceful wonder. He’ll remember
it on his lonely days, while it rains in winter and he sits bundled up in the
living room watching an episode of sesame street with Rose, he’ll think of Rick
then, of the perfect picture him and Rose made, of how safe and secure a
younger Morty felt in his protective alphan presence, of how gentle Rick’s
smile felt against his pregnant tummy. He’d remember and dream.
…
They sit on the couch after the rest of the family has gone to sleep, Morty’s
head resting on Rick’s shoulder as Rick watches a video on Morty’s phone of
Rose taking her first steps. He watches her speak her first word—‘stars’ which
makes Rick smile—he watches her first bubble bath and first laughter. He
catches up on all the chances he’s missed and all the moments he didn’t
experience. Morty wonders if Rick mourns the moments he’d never get to
experience. Rick absorbs the videos, looking every bit as proud of his kit as
an alpha papa should be.
“Hold on a-a second,” Morty says, an idea striking him, darting off the couch
and into the dining room, half afraid Rick will be gone when he comes back.
He pulls down a picture from the wall, a summer snapshot of him and Rose on her
third birthday, carefully removing it from the frame. Rick is still seated in
the same spot when Morty returns, tapping his long fingers on his khaki covered
knee.
“I-I thought you might want something to remember us by,” Morty says, sitting
back at Rick’s side, holding the picture out for Rick. Rick lifts a curious
brow and Morty worries Rick might retort, but he doesn’t. Instead, he accepts
the photo, tucking it neatly into his lab coat pocket.
“MoUghrty,” Rick burps, gripping at the nape of Morty’s throat, scruffing him
in an alphan hold. Morty goes slack with it, arms twitching uselessly at his
side, a twinge of fear tickling his tongue. “Y-your a good kid, Morty,” Rick is
predatory—possessive—as he leans forward, teeth connecting with the side of
Morty’s throat. Morty stifles his scream at the pain that comes with being
bonded, fire and agony searing through his veins and licking up his spine as
his body readjusts itself to admit Rick’s scent. Tears pool from Morty’s
lashes, drool from between his clenched teeth. He’s limp beneath Rick’s bite
and hand.
As a marked omega he would no longer face judgment, he could walk the street
without threat. He wouldn’t have to face sexual harassment or unwanted advances
from sleazy alpha’s, his new scent claiming him as unattainable and undesirable
to an alpha that wasn’t his. His heat would now be dry—only scented by Rick’s
keen nose. He’s someone’s property now. He’s Rick’s now. Rationally perhaps he
should be furious, Rick didn’t ask his consent—not that omegas often had a
choice when bonding—and his suddenness was brutal. Morty only feels
relieved—maybe it’s the rush of hormones or maybe it’s the fact that he’s
waited/wanted this for years—as he stares up dazed at the ceiling, Rick
loosening his hold as he licks at the open wound on Morty’s neck. It’s
bittersweet, Morty thinks, the beginning of the end.
“W-what the hell, Rick?” Morty rasps. Rick’s objective baffling him, he didn’t
want Morty when he could have him.
“C-can’t haOughve another alpha moving in on my territory while I’m gone,” Rick
growls, burying his face in Morty chest. Morty runs tentative fingers over the
smooth skin of Rick’s bald spot.
“I don’t want a-another alpha, Rick,” Morty says, because he thinks Rick might
need to hear it. An omegan purr builds in his chest, an attempt to soothe them
both, because Morty knows it will all be over too soon.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a happy e-ending, Morty,” Rick whispers,
pressing a gentle kiss to Morty’s jaw, “But happy endings don’t exist.”
…
“I’ve got to get going, if-if I stay any longer the federation might track me
here,” Rick says, weight resting fully against Morty as he makes little attempt
to move. Moonlight filters in through the sliding glass door, cutting sharp
lines across Rick’s features. Morty traces the shadows they cast beneath Rick’s
eyes and kisses him deeply, with remorse.
They fuck hastily on the couch—keeping quiet as to not wake the family, careful
of their movement as to not jostle Rick’s injuries—Morty riding Rick to
completion, Rick all but wrecked and breathless beneath him.
“Y-your gonna give this old man a heart attack, Morty,” Rick says, looking
wrecked and pleased as he frames Morty’s face between his palms. Morty relishes
his praise, desperately craving Rick’s affection and attention in any way he
could get it and Morty supposes it’s as close to an ‘I love you’ as he’ll ever
get.
I love you too, he thinks, the swelling of Rick’s knot loosening with in him.
Rick was his greatest sickness.
…
Morty helps Rick pack his ship full of clothes, provisions, and alcohol,
resting his head against the cool metal when they’ve finished, chest tight with
dread.
“Y-you got everything you need?” Morty asks, lifting his head as Rick climbs
into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, I’ll-I’ll be good for at least a week,” Rick says, starting the engine,
the sound of it unraveling Morty’s already frayed nerves. Morty loathes the
finality of it.
“T-take care of yourself out there, Rick, don’t—try not to do anything too
dangerous,” Morty says, avoiding goodbyes and Rick’s eyes and the way he
worries for Rick’s eventual safety. It’s easier pretending Rick was leaving on
another adventure than accepting the reality of his permanent absence.
“Y-you gonna beat around the bush, MOUghrty or are you gonna give grandpa a
kiss goodbye?”
“Oh,” Morty says softly, barely audible above the hum of the ship, surprised by
Rick’s request. He approaches Rick slowly, fists thumped against his chest as
Rick leans forward pressing their lips together, thumb darting out to cup
Morty’s chin.  Morty sighs into, tasting the bitter tang of beer and whisky,
tasting lost chances, missed opportunities and the lives they could have led.
Rick kisses him, until his lungs scream for air and his heart threatens to beat
from his chest. Rick kisses him like it’s the last thing he’ll do in the
entirety of the Milky Way galaxy, because maybe it truly is.
“Take-take good care of Rose, Morty. Keep her safe.”
“I-I will,” Morty murmurs.
With a final kiss to each of Morty’s eyelids, Rick shuts the door to the ship.
Morty’s throat tightens with unshed tears, as Rick waves for him to push the
garage opener. He watches as Rick backs out of the garage, ship hovering in the
drive way, hesitating as if Rick is having second thoughts. Morty almost hopes
Rick will turn around, beg for him and Rose to come, and then maybe Morty
wouldn’t be able to refuse. But he doesn’t, the ship simply rises, leaves
fluttering and dancing below it as it ascends. Morty watches as it fades away,
smaller and smaller, until it’s little more than a dot amongst stars. And just
as quickly as he came, Morty watches Rick slip away.
…
He’ll have a lot to explain in the morning, hating to face Beth’s
disappointment again—Summer and Jerry’s anger would be easier—as she realizes
what her father had done—what the two of them had done—fearing her tears when
she realizes her father was gone for good. He’ll explain everything, Rick’s
abandonment, Rose’s true parentage, their bonding. He’ll explain everything to
Rose, he’ll tell her about Rick, their adventures, of the countless times Rick
saved his life and made him smile or made him cry, of the warmth that spread
through his stomach and chest whenever Rick met his eyes. He’ll tell her how
much Rick loved her and how much he loved Rick. He’d make sure she knew her
father as a smart and strong man. A great alpha. He’d tell her all the good
things and in time the bad things in hopes that she won’t grow up hating him
for it.
He makes his way upstairs, feet carrying him to Rose’s room. He climbs into her
small bed, drawing her tiny body up against him. She fidgets in her sleep,
letting out a small sigh before settling down against Morty’s chest. He can’t
bear to be alone, can’t stop thinking of Rick alone with the moon and the stars
and his alcohol, where he’ll most likely die alone, bitter, cynical, and drunk
in some dingy space motel. And Morty wonders if he forced Rick into it. He
listens to the soft sound of Rose’s breaths, to the wind brushing against the
side of the house. He traces the patterns on the floor her night light paints.
He counts the glow stars on the ceiling, the freckles on Rose’s nose, and the
number of times he kissed Rick in the last eight hours. He counts the beat of
his heart, his regrets and his losses. He counts the number of wrinkles around
Rick’s eyes as he laughed.
It’s the universe’s lullaby and he drowns in it.
…
 
 
 
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