Let’s Get Wasted

Yeah you, at the computer. You like Bender? Shut up, of course ya do.

 STOP ASKIN’ QUESTIONS.

give a like/reblog if you’re interested in writing with Bender of Futurama. We all know you wanna, everybody loves Bender!

“Oh, y– you missed me? You know there’s like. Infinite Ricks right? Unless you broke that portal gun I gave you. Did you – d– Ford, did you fucking break the portal gun I gave you? Oh my god.”

Brushing his lab coat down and smoothing the wrinkles, Rick shot Ford a stink eye. Always making shit about their relationship. Could never just pick up where they left off, could they? Always had to get touchy feely.

“Maybe fucking ask before you grab, huh? Maybe I-I – I broke a rib, maybe I’ll explode if someone, y’know, restricts airflow suddenly. You don’t know SHIT about what I’ve been doing.”

“You think I want another Rick? You’re an arrogant bastard, Sanchez.” There was something up with the jerk as well– Rick was being abrasive on purpose. He often leaned on such mannerisms when he was feeling particularly vulnerable– choosing instead to push people away opposed to actually asking for a bit of compassion.

Then, uncrossed them, fished his flask out of a pocket, and took a drink.

Only after he wiped his face did the scientist point an accusatory finger, scowl only getting bigger by the second. If Sanchez was arrogant, then Ford was -- well he was HONEST. A goddamn fool.

“You think I’d just fucking -- walk around like that when I could fix it myself?”

“Ford. I’ve fixed Morty’s leg in three seconds. A broken rib ain’t shit.”

For such a big guy, Ford moved quick. Rick was half surprised he BLINKED and the man was halfway across the room, almost breaking several ribs from how tight the grip was. A growl sounded his throat and through mental link, a subdermal defense system repelled anything that was in a 1 inch radius and deemed otherwise ‘foreign’ 10 feet back.

Including clingy, elder men with more than normal fingers.

“Fucking – Pines y– did you hear a goddamn thing I said?”

“Get off me.”

@journalsauthored  con’t

He hadn’t expected to be shoved away by that stupid defense system– and yet he was. Stanford bristled at the response– that hypocratic bastard. Whenever he had the opportunity he was invading Ford’s personal space– and now that he wanted to be around the jerk–

He immediately frowned, grumbling as he took a few more steps back.

“All I heard was ‘punch me in the face’– but that’s what I usually here when you’re around, Sanchez.” At the perceived rejection he was already starting to turtle back up.

Brushing his lab coat down and smoothing the wrinkles, Rick shot Ford a stink eye. Always making shit about their relationship. Could never just pick up where they left off, could they? Always had to get touchy feely.

Though he said otherwise, Rick could see just fine. He could especially feel– it was obvious Ford was one of the few people that cared. From that tight grip to the enticing offer of staying the night for good behavior, even to the scolding for being on drugs. Painfully obvious.

Grinning loopily, Rick leaned back, doing his best to make it difficult to carry him without actually fighting Ford, and threw an arm around his shoulders. The cosmos shuddered at the sight, yet Rick laughed anyway. Why should he care? He was Rick Goddamn Sanchez, and Ford was a gullible fool in love. What’s not to love about that?

“Wi– with that kinda offer, who could refuse?”

“Though y’know, I’d behave better with company…”

He practically rolled his eyes– sighing as he attempted to wrangle Rick as best he could. Stanford wanted to make sure he sobered up in a controlled environment, and no room was better than his own. He’d spruced it up since his return, going out of his way to make it a bit more advanced than it once was.

When Rick got wasted he had a tendency to make a mess. Ford had learned lessons the hard way– and had steadily been perfecting a system to handle his paramour.

“You’ll behave better once I get you something to drink.” He scolded, strolling through the house as he nudged the door to his room open. He set the male down on his bed– which was really a glorified futon, and moved to the bathroom.

It also.... looked a lot different in here. Rick found himself staring at small insignificant details, tuning the other out. When had he covered up all his lovely murals? Bummer.

“Three? Y-- you expect me -- you know what kinda shit I get int-- what kinda shit I do on the daily without water?”

A laugh later, Rick pulls out his flask and unscrews it with unsteady hands, as if to say HELLO, I HAVE LIQUID RIGHT HERE.

Wow. A week? They hung out that much? Seems he should have studied up before jumping right in. Add another thing to his to do list…

Rick maneuvered his companion, suddenly grabbing the wristwatch. Would he show up on scan? He’d never been scanned before – and hell, Ford had almost killed him once. Lucky break, that, Four Eyes had missed. Lucky lucky lucky indeed.

 Laughing at the sunglasses comment, Rick adjusted them, putting his other hand smack dab in the center of Ford’s face. Smudge up those glasses too – just the little things.

He couldn’t afford to take them off, though– SHIT THINK QUICK –

“I’m – you really wanna – you really want an answer on that, Fordsy?”

“Have you ever done spliced K-Lax? My pupils are f– they’re huge, Ford. I can’t see shit.”

“Rick!” He scolded as the male squirmed, smudging his glasses. Ford let out a frustrated huff, wriggling off Rick’s lap before crouching down and scooping the male up in one fluid motion. If Rick couldn’t see then he shouldn’t be walking.

“I’m taking you upstairs– you can rest in my room while I work. Honestly Rick– why do you do this to yourself still? You’ve got– you have people who care about you.” He tutted as he held the male close to his chest, one arm looped under his legs, the other around his back. Lifting Rick was hardly a challenge for someone in Ford’s physical condition.

Even with the occasional shudder that ran through him– a remnant of Weirdmageddon.

Grinning loopily, Rick leaned back, doing his best to make it difficult to carry him without actually fighting Ford, and threw an arm around his shoulders. The cosmos shuddered at the sight, yet Rick laughed anyway. Why should he care? He was Rick Goddamn Sanchez, and Ford was a gullible fool in love. What’s not to love about that?

“Wi-- with that kinda offer, who could refuse?”

Flopping into the chair with another (probably space drug induced) laugh, Rick pulled Ford down with him.

He had no idea did he? This was going to be painfully easy. Rick was always drunk or high, most often both, and EVERYONE wore sunglasses here and there. Earth police weren’t dumb, they could tell red eyes meant illegal substances. Though it wasn’t red scleras he was trying to hide.

“Y– You shoulda been there Fordsy– i–it was fuckin’ nuts.”

“When was the last time we went s– I took you somewhere?”

Easy… subtle…. maybe if he got handsy with Poindexter it’d really sell the effect. Wow these human drugs — or whatever Rick was on — were really something. If he was too eager, it’d give it away, but eye on the prize. Eye on that prize.

@journalsauthored

He hadn’t expected to be tugged down and held by the obviously amorous male. How fucked up had Rick gotten? Ford sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know– a _week_ or so? That doesn’t matter– right now you need some water, maybe something to eat.” He shifted on Rick’s lap, leaning over him as he attempted to examine him.

Rick maneuvered his companion, suddenly grabbing the wristwatch. Would he show up on scan? He’d never been scanned before -- and hell, Ford had almost killed him once. Lucky break, that, Four Eyes had missed. Lucky lucky lucky indeed.

 Laughing at the sunglasses comment, Rick adjusted them, putting his other hand smack dab in the center of Ford’s face. Smudge up those glasses too -- just the little things.

He couldn’t afford to take them off, though-- SHIT THINK QUICK --

“I’m -- you really wanna -- you really want an answer on that, Fordsy?”

“Y– Y’know, for someone who – who traveled the cosmos or whatever you were doing, I’m surprised you don’t – you’re not usually wasted. Seen some shit, done some shit.”

Laying on the roof of the shack, Rick turned, flask in hand. Drained, surprisingly quickly. He should have grabbed a tequila bottle while he was downstairs.

“You ever gonna let your guard down, Fordsy? Or are you gonna keep – you gonna continue bein’ a stick in the mud? You – didn’t you kill him? Dealt with the angry dorito?. Why’re you’re STILL TENSE?”

❝ Me? ❞ Stanford asked with a meek chuckle, shaking his head. He stared at the trees in the distance, frowning deeply. That was something he couldn’t take credit for - especially not after everything his brother had sacrificed. ❝ No, no, that wasn’t me… that was Stanley. ❞

His head turned to glance at the flask, and he furrowed his brow with slight disapproval before turning away. Even after all the responsibility had been over and done with, intoxication was… rare if not non-existent.

“Don’tcha think if he was gonna try and kill you guys again that he’d -- he already would’ve tried?”

It was hard going, getting the poindexter to relax. Hell knows he’d been trying ever since he met the guy. Maybe anxiety ran in the family? If the little kid -- Dipper -- was anything to go by.

“y-y-you’ve got this guilt complex going, Fordsy, it’s gonna tear you apart. Half the people that try to kill me end up being pretty good smoking company. The other half -- well, you know how when you push someone in the hallway then get hit by a car? Karma? Yeah.”

Chuckling at his joke, Rick leaned back in his chair.

Ricks and Mortys.

Considered a COLLECTOR’S piece. Mortimer knew that. These assholes here wanted the best and smartest to BUILD their tech and keep adding onto their SHITTY MECHANICAL PLANET. Well, it was more of a ugly, GLORIFIED space station.  But there was one thing these assholes didn’t count on, and it was the fact that…well, Mortimer had SYLVIE.

Even with the giant alien hyena not currently here, all he had to do was WHISTLE and she’d come tearing through a portal like a hurricane. Would absolutely DESTROY all of these assholes. 

His hands were shoved through the bars, feeling around for the control panel that he KNEW was just outside. When he finds it, Mortimer reaches a hand back to his face, popping the prosthetic eye OUT of his head and attaching wires to the grid. The people in the cells nearby silently begged him to let THEM out too when he FINALLY stepped outside the small prison.

Weird rules, some alien cultures. One to kill the king inherits the land. He’d enjoyed it -- all of twenty minutes, anyway, before he realized they didn’t have any booze on the planet, nor know how to make it. Most of reality was just bullshit enough to be unbearable sober, and he’d not gone back to that planet since.

A life without alcohol. Hah. Sure.

Alcohol, in the present, he was trying to grab through a set of bars from a sleeping guard when a far wall exploded. From his vantage point, the man couldn’t tell what had happened, but he could clearly recognize the back of a Morty head when he saw one.

“Psst! Hey! Morty!”

It might not be his Morty, but it didn’t really matter, they were all the same. A team, some Ricks called it. And sure, he’d say thanks when the door was opened, since alien prison was never fun.

Except... The little shit didn’t seem to be paying attention. Either that, or he didn’t hear Rick. Ignoring him? Also likely. Calling louder didn’t do much, and in a swift arc, the bottle he’d finally snatched sailed through the air towards the familiar yellow shirt.

Still half full, and heavy glass too. Ignore that.