Chapter Text
Morty isn't a total idiot; he knows how to keep secrets, and he knows how to keep them well.
Well, not entirely well. The thing about Morty is that he cracks very easily under pressure. Or not under pressure. Just in general, he's typically a weak-willed person, which usually suits Rick just fine. Morty has defended secrets to Rick in the past; Summer's blatantly obvious self-esteem issues, Beth's 'secret' needy texts to Jerry, the list goes on. Rick normally doesn't care enough to ask him about the family, because he already knows everything.
But he should apparently be asking more questions, because Morty has become a sneaky little brat without him noticing.
"S-so, Morty," Rick says, portal-gun in hand as he fiddles with it on the couch. "Had any cool, bilingual conversations today? With your—with your little French friends?"
Morty just rolls his eyes, and Rick is almost a little offended. His questioning over the last few days has been getting progressively more and more obvious, and Morty's obviously a little amused with Rick's struggles. "Not really, Rick," he says, running his fingers through his hair. What a liar. "Why—why do you ask, Rick?"
Shit! Though Rick has been less-than-subtle, he doesn't want Morty catching on so quickly. Even though it's unlikely, given how stupid he can be, Rick doesn't want to take any chances. "O-oh, I just—I was going to visit Ricardo, the one that runs the bar? And I was going to ask you to bring one of your dumb friends, so I'm not the only one speaking another language."
Morty looks like he's going to laugh, and Rick frowns suspiciously. "S-sure," Morty says, his smile so wide that Rick's genuinely worried it might split his cheeks in half. "Sure—let's go with 'Tisha."
Rick snorts. "Which one of your dumbass friends is called 'Tisha'? Way to feel special, choosing a girl name to call yourself." Morty opens his mouth, and he quickly says: "Never mind, I literally don't care. At all."
Morty looks like he desperately wants to say something, and barely manages to restrain himself. He has the same look on his face as he did when he started speaking French everywhere, and Rick wants to crack this new code in the equation. He regrets not letting Morty talk—which really, is a first for him—because now he can't change his mind. What will Morty think of him, if he takes it back? Not very highly, Rick thinks.
He'd probably even mention it to his stupid, little Morty friends, and they would all titter and laugh over it.
So, definitely not an option.
He had run into a Miami Morty, and had fallen over; the bruise on his knee had healed much quicker than the verbal lashing the Morty had given him. Rick's almost embarrassed to admit how commanding that one Morty was—how his presence was boss, while Rick was delegated to new intern. The only reason he was so thoroughly thrashed is because he had never expected anything along the lines of 'cock-sucking motherfucker with a daddy kink, what the fuck did you do that for, you old bastard?' to come out of a Morty' mouth.
He's glad that his Morty isn't so... Strong-willed, he thinks, looking to where Morty is scrolling through his phone, the barest hint of a smirk on his face. Rick shudders, and looks down again. He's plotting something; and, come to think of it, the Miami Morty had been rather feminine, hadn't he?
Is it possible that Morty had somehow found one Morty in a billion, that hates Rick, and is inviting him, and he also just happens to use the name Tisha?
Honestly, the answer is no, but Morty has a special way of defying expectations and logic, so Rick will have to keep an ear out for anything telling.
In the meantime...
RiggetyRick: what to do if morty is planning something secret?
He doesn't get an answer right away, but he waits. There is some use to sharing his life with his doppelgangers, he supposes, because that means they can share their experiences with him. Rick understands that mistakes are a part of life, blah blah blah, but if he doesn't copy his own mistakes, then he doesn't have to make any personally. It's kind of convoluted, but it all makes sense. Kind of.
pickleerick: bitch?? run??? my morty blew up my garage, the little fucker
pickleerick: long story short, hide the explosives, hide the knives, and hide your garage if you have one
Drunkkkkkkk: lmfo yous shuld probabbly talc to hunm.
Drunkkkkkkk: im. imw s3oo drunkc haha3 ha
DaBestRicardo: honestly, you should spy on him for a while. mortys b wildin
ricky: ¿Qué quiere él?
RiggetyRick: i dont know, i havent done anything differently recently, but he's typing away to all your mortys, and planning something, i know it
rickdiculous: Are you a paranoid Rick? You know, I know a Rick that sells chill-pills cheap, if you know what I mean?
RiggetyRick: if i were paranoid WHICH IM NOT, why would i touch your random bitch drugs?
rickdiculous: We're addicts you whore
ricky: @rickdiculous send me your dealer thru pm
WubbaLubbaDubDub: are you sure it's your morty? i had this whole stint with a robot replacement. if he bleeds red, he's probably okay
God, Rick's never had much love for himself, but he has even less love for alternate versions of himself; they're all completely and utterly useless. And, to make matters worse, he has to go and spend time with Ricardo. Rick likes Ricardo more than he likes most other Ricks, but the man is an arrogant dick. He swipes his thumb up, sending a quick message to his private number.
RickG124: need to come to your bar, morty's been catching on
Thankfully, Ricardo needs no further explanation. He doesn't start work until later, so Rick will catch him when he relieves one of his other staff-members.
RicardoW345: ¿tú sabes cómo llegar ahí?
RickG124: yeah, ill show just before closing
Ricardo345: ok
"Hey, Morty, make sure your friend is ready to go in, like, an hour." He says, to which Morty just hums.
*
It turns out, Rick had forgotten where the bar is.
It's not unexpected; he normally gets drunk by himself, and then feels sociable enough to go interact with his brothers in a more public setting. Luckily, Morty knows the way; a strange little nugget of information about Morty, that promptly gets tucked away in the folds of Rick's brain. Morty is good at remembering where Rick likes to drink--good on him.
Morty's friend is going to meet them there: Morty had said something about "needing a little more time to get ready", a quick little snippet that feels like it's a part of a much larger practical joke.
When they finally burst in, there are already quite a few Ricks there; never one for the shame associated with the times they drank, Ricks were always in and out of bars. It's good for business, Rick won't lie--it's genius to put liquor stores, and bars, and clubs on the Citadel, because they never run out of loyal customers. But, to be honest, any company that supplies drinks will need to use half their budget to pay for the damages caused by drunken fights.
Morty brightens when he sees someone sitting at the bar, and their yellow shirt immediately alerts Rick to the fact that they are not a Miami Morty.
What makes Rick's jaw drop, is that they're not a Morty at all.
A bright-eyed Morticia is sitting with Morty, her eyes emphasised by long eyelashes made longer by mascara, and her hair pulled up in two little buns, each on one side of her head. Her top isn't a normal Morty-shirt; no, the colour is where all similarities end. Her top is tight and lacey, tailored to fit her slender figure. She’s not wearing jeans either—she has high-waisted shorts that are the same colour as Morty’s jeans.
She turns to wave at him, sparkly lipgloss gleaming, even with the dim lighting. “You’re Morty’s Rick, no?” She asks, her tone very lightly accented.
He nods, not trusting himself to speak; Morticias are rare. They’re more than rare, they’re a statistical anomaly, a flaw in the system that no-one’s been able to explain before. Rick’s never seen one in his life, and now he’s finding out that his Morty knew one all along? Morty smiles innocently at him, and Rick is tempted to strangle him. Morty is tugging his leash on the Citadel, that much is for sure, and it’s just another reason to go home (no matter how enlightening this stay has become).
”Voulez-vous un café?” Morty asks, turning to his companion.
“They sell those here?” She laughs, and sends Rick a barely-there look before replying. “Well... Combien ça coute?”
The little girl-Morty figured out he doesn’t know French; Rick really, really regrets not adjusting the translator chip in his ear. It’s been broken for ages, and he had never been bothered to fix it, because he’d taken too much pride in the languages he frequents.
Fuck, his pride will be the death of him. Ricardo raises his brow at him, slinging a grubby towel over his shoulder. “Me duele la cabeza,” Rick moans to the man, gesturing violently at the two teenagers. There’s fucking glitter dusting the girl’s arms, and Rick’s bombarded by a train of scientific curiosity, and about a million questions. It’s been ages since he’s interacted with a teenage girl that’s not Summer, and he doesn’t really want to scare her off just yet.
Ricardo huffs out a laugh, his throat hoarse and echoing a gravelly smokers’ cough. “Oh? Me duele la garganta.”
Rick shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Your throat hurts because you chain smoke, idiot.”
Ricardo shrugs, and goes back to cleaning glasses. Rick orders a drink, while Morty and Tisha order coffee—and, ew, Rick can’t see the appeal. He drinks his coffee with at least three shots of whiskey, or he doesn’t have it at all. The same could be said for literally any other drink; hell, he can’t remember the last time he drank proper water. Morty, as though reading his thoughts, whips his head around.
“You should drink—you should order some water, Rick,” he says, concern creasing his forehead. “Y’know, and get hydrated.”
The Morticia nods her head from beside him, and Rick feels a pang of vague amusement that she thinks she knows him. Her eyelids are a glittery gold, and he’s almost blinded. By that, and all her dainty jewellery, that sits at the base of her throat and around her wrists. God, Morty sure knows how to pick ‘em. Rich and self-important. His inner GPS is recalculating, reminding him not to be rude lest Morty bitch at him (and refuse to tell Rick any of his other secrets). Keeping his tongue firmly in his mouth, he rolls his eyes at Ricardo, as if to say; ‘Can you believe them?’
Ricardo, to his credit, huffs out a few grumbled words of acknowledgment.
“Excuse me, sir?” The Morticia asks Ricardo, her voice high-pitched. “Do you have a bathroom?”
Ricardo pulls his oldest joke; “Yo no hablo ingles.”
Tisha slumps back in her seat, looking pleadingly at Morty. She seems embarrassed, and Rick’s about to take pity on her when Morty asks:
“¿Dónde está el baño?”
Rick’s hands are on his phone before his mind can process what exactly just happened.
Every compliment he’s ever given Morty in Spanish, every drunken word that’s fallen off his tongue in his first language rises to the top of his mind, eager to haunt him.
”Oh, shit.”