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Rick stumbles into Morty’s room at four AM, knocks over enough things to instantly make an annoying clatter that jerks Morty awake, simultaneously alerting him of his state. He knows what this means by now.
“Rick,” Morty drawls out, does an exaggerated yawn-and-rub-eye gesture that he hopes even drink-addled Rick can pick up on. “Not again, man, I-I need sleep, c’mon,” he begs, but Rick is temporarily propped up against the wall, not at all paying attention, flask swinging in hand, shuffling forward half-inch by half-inch. Morty sighs, sits up in bed, nauseous from lack of sleep.
Rick mumbles incoherently, burps, trips forward and lands face-first onto the bed with knees smashing into the carpet, stays there a minute which makes Morty briefly raise a hand in concern (he’s too nice), until Rick urgently rises back up with a look of purpose and begins crawling up onto the bed as if the lower-half of his body has given out. Morty sighs but doesn’t scoot away. There’s something at least sort of interesting about Rick like this, completely out of control, not calculating, dumb as any other drunk. It’s annoying but a little comforting. A reminder he’s human. After a minute or two of struggling Rick has hoisted himself up enough to be laying his chest on Morty’s legs, long, gangly arms shaking in a valiant effort to actually lift his torso up, but they seem to give up quickly and Rick resigns himself to laying face-down against Morty’s knees. For a beat he seems to have fallen asleep.
“Rick… come on,” Morty shoves his shoulder—gently, because he knows Rick is easy to set off when drunk, that if he shoved him harshly it might evoke some defensive violence he’s trained into himself; when Rick only burps and coughs he considers it a relief.
Rick’s mouth keeps moving against his legs, presumably because he’s trying to speak and doesn’t understand how much fabric is inhibiting that. All in all Morty’s pretty amused, up until he feels the moisture of drool seeping onto his leg.
“Man, c-c’mon!! Gross, hey,” Morty nudges him a few times, to which Rick groans and absolutely does not stop, but moves up a little to drool on his thigh instead. “RICK,” a louder, firmer voice, like reprimanding a dog. He hears faint snickering, a second later Rick raises up just a few inches, with much apparent effort, and an arm comes up and shoves one of Morty’s legs to the side, which he promptly flops between; Morty jumps; Rick settles warmly between his legs like a cat finding the perfect resting place and Morty just—just—
“W-What the hell!!! No, you can’t sleep there! Bad—b-bad Rick! Sh—geez, sheesh, come ON,” Morty tries again to shove him but now Rick’s quite settled where he’s at. Morty sighs and thinks—he can at least shimmy out from under him and sleep on the couch, or something.
“F-f-fine, you can have the st-stupid bed,” Morty starts, but as he begins to shimmy Rick suddenly has perfect dexterity and strength enough to grab his hips through the blanket and yank him back into place. Morty shivers, Rick burps and murmurs, rubs his cheek against Morty’s thigh, and Morty makes the most horrible, unstoppable high-pitched squeaking noise, which is a bad idea apparently because Rick responds immediately by doing it again, mouth back on his thigh and he—he’s not trying to talk through the—fabric he’s just— just putting down his mouth and moving it and Morty stares in still rapt confused fascination up until Rick rubs his face right against his dick.
Morty screeches some animal sound this time, puts hands in Rick’s hair to move his head (which obliges not at all) and watches Rick open his mouth over his blanket-covered crotch and ff—feels it, electricity runs through his veins and sickness tightens in his stomach and Rick—muffles out a chuckle, hiccups (he feels every vibration), pulls a hand on one side of the sheets to tighten the fabric over and pushes his face against with more sure pressure—
“RR-R-R RICK, Rick, Rick it’s me!” he tries to shift back but can’t, turns out the headboard is there, goes to shift to the side but Rick is v—very persistent with his task and Morty’s hips twitch up into it because he’s never ever felt anything close to this and impulse wants nothing but to belly up in the face of it.
“You li-“ a burp “ke this?” spoken low and gravely against his crotch, a laugh follows like none he’s ever heard from Rick before, Rick’s fingers move to where his mouth was and suddenly he’s shifting up on the bed and Morty freezes. Morty– is– hard. Rick’s saliva marks his bedsheet. For a moment he thinks maybe the last thing he wants to do is remind Rick who is under him, feels like an accomplice. For a drunk, Rick’s hands move with so much practiced control over his dick in teasing rhythm, what must be reflexive motor memory, something Morty tries not to think about too hard for at least three reasons.
Rick’s head comes to rest against Morty’s shoulder, and Morty would definitely back away if he weren’t already against the headboard; surely there are other paths to escape through but his mind is shot. Probably because of the hand hard at work. Rick’s fingers stroke, muffled as hell through bedsheets and boxers but still more than Morty’s ever had done to him. He bites his lip as Rick opens his mouth again, against the crook of his shoulder and neck, breath coming out ragged there.
(is Rick hard? Holy shit not a thing to wonder. Can you get hard when you’re drunk? Stop thinking)
Morty’s hips twitch and he feels Rick smile against his neck and when did he stop breathing? Morty gasps and tries to re-gain what breath he apparently lost when Rick breathes out against his neck in turn as if he waited for that signal. Rick’s fingers grip the bedsheets and begin to yank them down which re-ignites active panic.
“R-RICK,” he tries again, this time grabs Rick’s shoulders with force and steadies him right in front of his face. “It—it’s Morty!! It’s y-y-your—“ he was going to say grandson but that word combined with his presently-hard dick and swirl of thoughts makes everything feel sick, sick sick.
“Morty,” Rick parrots, Morty sighs heavily in relief at recognition, finally finally. Rick wobbles to and fro and Morty tries to move in kind with him to dissuade him falling over. “Y-You’re, you’re the best Morty y-y-y-you’rerealgood,” Rick fumbles out, drool dripping from his mouth and onto the blanket. He reaches into his coat with surprising dexterity (definitely programmed in there) to pull out the flask—Morty catches it and places his hand over Rick’s before he can pop off the lid; to his surprise Rick easily gives in and lets Morty guide his hand back onto the bed, where it’s dropped without fuss. Morty keeps his hand over Rick’s, an anchor.
“Y-you’re m-my,” Rick burps and seems to swallow back vomit, pauses, drops his head down against Morty’s shoulder again, a reflexive jump under him. “B-b-best budd, friend, buddy, best g-guy, you are, Morty, n-n-nn-nobody e” burps, hiccups, shakes a little, “else, nobody like you, Morty,” Rick begins a rhythmic swaying, broken by periodic shivering, Morty’s free hand still on his shoulder, moving idly with him, watching.
“You’re s-s-so good,” Rick slurs, bobs down a bit, pushes his head forward, nuzzles into Morty’s chest, under his chin, “yoouuuu” burps “aaare the b-b-beeest,” he starts repeating ‘best’ over and over under his breath. He’s really really far gone. With every little shake and sway and half-aborted sentence, Morty feels a heavy sinking, which could be anything, the lack of sleep, the emotional sincerity, the world’s most unwanted boner. The context of it all at once. It collides into something terrible that crystallizes as an impulse to touch Rick’s hair, which he can’t remember doing before, so he uses the excuse that he is contact-drunk (that’s a thing, right?) to do it. Rick hums on contact. Morty moves fingers through strands, it’s as coarse as it appears. Not a trace of softness.
Rick begins to sink down and Morty’s heart-rate threatens to rise again, raises his arms up quickly, afraid he’s triggered something new to happen, but all Rick does is settle his face against his stomach and close his eyes. He mumbles “good b—kid” with a nasty gurgle, and immediately begins snoring.