#@ricksanchezdwc

A mistake was made.

You don’t know what you were thinking! You’d seen it in a fashion magazine? It was too hot, and it was driving you crazy? Maybe it was just temporary insanity?

Whatever the reason, you’d gone to the salon and told the stylist to cut your hair short.

He complied, and now you think you know what freshly shorn sheep must feel like.

Your head was lighter, the air on the back of your neck was startling, and you looked different. You hated it.

Hated it.

You tried to avoid looking into any reflective surface after the stylist showed you what he’d done. You couldn’t blame him; he’d only been following orders. You couldn’t prevent your fingers from reaching up to touch your hair. It was an unconscious habit, though, and each time it was a shock to you that it was gone.

You drove home in a daze.

Walking through your front door, Rick belched a greeting from your sofa. When you didn’t answer, he managed to look up from whatever crazy show he was watching, and did a double take.

It would have been comical if it was directed at you.

“What the actual hell?” he blurted incredulously.

You couldn’t answer him. You could only shake your head a little bit.

You felt his eyes take your appearance in. Then he burst into peals of laughter so hard he snorted.

“Holy shit!” he cackled. “What did you do, join the army?”

You’re silent.

“Are you going through some kind of, of existential crisis? Is this a feminist thing?” he continued, between bouts of laughter, waving his hand at you as he doubled over. “Or, or, or, wait–are you into girls now? Not that there’s anything wrong with that–I could totally get into sharing the bed with an extra woman, baby–”

You bit you lower lip in both an effort to not scream angrily at him and not to cry. You feel an inch tall. It was a mistake, you are well aware of that, and there isn’t much you can do about it now. Even the consolation you’d told yourself that it’s hair and it’ll grow out wasn’t much use now in the face of snorting laughter and insults.

But you need to get away from him, because you can feel the breakdown that’s coming rushing close.

You hurried passed Rick, who tried to grab your wrist. You attempted to shake out of his grip.

“There’s a few nice wig stores downtown, fuzzy duck–” he said, and that was the last straw.

You burst into tears.  

Not cinematic, beautiful tears either. Opened-mouthed, wailing sobs with a flood of tears and snot immediately pouring down your face. You sob so hard you can’t breathe for a moment.

Just like his earlier double take would have been funnier if you’d been in a better state of mind, Rick’s startle to your response was something you wish you could have recorded too. He’s stunned and momentarily wordless in the face of your visceral reaction to his teasing.  

“Hey, hey–” he said, now unsure of what to do. “Why are you crying? You know I’m only fucking with you, right?”

You shake your head, unable to form words through the physical pain your sobbing is causing you.

Rick’s still unsure, but put a hand awkwardly on your shoulder.

“Baby, baby–it’s okay, calm down–”

You found your voice. “Don’t tell me to calm down!” you shriek hoarsely at him. Your voice cracked. “I know this hair cut is awful, don’t you think I know?! And you, and you just … you just are you–”

Your voice failed then. You covered your face with your hands and continued weeping.

Rick doesn’t say anything to that. He does, however, pull you closer. You wanted to fight against him, wanted to force yourself to storm off, but he’s too insistant and you’re too consumed with being upset to fend him off. His shirt smelled like old sweat.

He let you cry yourself out.

Although it seemed like forever and you’ll never stop, eventually you brought yourself back under control. You’ve left a huge wet mark on the front of his shirt, but since apparently he hadn’t washed it in a while, you don’t care.

Rick ducked his head to look at you.

“Baby,” he said, in a much softer voice than before, “it’s not that bad.”

Tears started welling in your eyes again. “Y-y-yes it is!” you blubbered.

“No it’s not,” he contradicted. He brought one hand up and brushed some of the strands of hair that were now tear-dampened off your cheek and behind your ear. “It’s still long enough to push back, right? And let me, let me see …”

His fingers moved to the back of your head in a way that’s familiar. Gently they tighten, getting enough grip that you can feel it. With a little more effort, you know he’d be able to direct your head anyway he wanted to.

“There. See? Your hair’s still long enough for me to grab hold of it.” He didn’t loosen his grip, and his voice dropped silkily. “I know you like it when I give you a little hair pull when you’re going down on me.”

You managed to chuckle a little. Of course Rick would try to cheer you up with dirty reminders of your sex life. “And you like it when I return the favor.”

Rick gave you a lop-sided grin. “Fuck yeah, baby. I love it when you can’t control yourself and yank my hair when I’m between your legs, eating your pussy.”

He let you go. You watched as he actually takes a good look at your new haircut. He opened his mouth, considered something, and closed it again without a word.

“What is it, Rick?” you asked, resigned to whatever he thought about saying.

“I was going to say this really isn’t–it really isn’t the worst,” he told you sincerely. “The way I see it, you have two choices. I can whip up something that’ll make your hair grow out overnight, or–”

“That one! That’s my choice!” you interrupted, and earned a stern look.

“It’ll make all your hair grow, baby. So you’ll get your long hair back, yeah, but it’ll, it’ll also make the hair on your arms and legs longer, and your armpit hair grow, anything you have on your upper lip or toes, your pubes … you’re gonna look like a lot like how people think Bigfoot looks tomorrow morning until you shave it off, buttercup.”

You hadn’t considered that, and the thought of it paralyzed you for a moment. In your silence, Rick continued.

“Or you could get used to me calling you Pixie until it grows out on its own.”

You survived Rick Sanchez teasing you to tears. If the only two choices available where the ones Rick laid out for you, “Pixie” didn’t seem like such a bad option.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“What about that looks fun to you?” Rick grumped.

“I don’t know!” you replied, giddy from a combination of alien sugar, fried foods, and being surrounded by so many different species your head was spinning.

Rick had agreed to take you to the equivalent of a county fair on a different world. You’d wheedled him into it, whining about how often you just go along with him, about how often he puts you in mortal danger, about how you just wanted to have some fun and not worry about getting shot at or lost or possibly dropped into a volcano or anything else that kind of came standard on a “Rick adventure”.

So he’d brought you here. There were weird alien animals in barns, lots of different foods to try, demonstrations, and of course, rides.

The rides looked as hastily and trecherously cobbled together as any Earth county fair you’d ever been to. Rick had scoffed and refused to buy tickets for anything, promising that whatever minute of entertainment they may provide he could reproduce for you a thousand times over somewhere safer. But the Maze of Mirrors caught your eye, and just like you begged for an adventure like this, you shamelessly pleaded to go inside.

Rick was not happy. He repeatedly told you he’d wait for you at the exit; that he just wanted to drink his weight in alcohol–easily done here, since gravity was lower and the alcohol was cheaper; that it was too expensive; that you were going to be disappointed by it because it was a rip-off and probably four mirrors, max.

But, with a scowl and defeated, dead expression on his face, he finally caved.

He paid the admission price for the two of you, handing triangular coins over to the tentacled carnie at the entrance.

He announced to you, “You’re gonna owe me so many blow jobs!” with no regard as to whether or not the carnie knew what a blow job was or not.

You shrugged happily. If that’s what he wanted in return, that was fine. You gave him blow jobs all the time anyway.

The tentacled alien stood aside, and you plowed through the door first.

Whatever low opinion Rick had of the place, he was dead wrong. You’d only taken two steps inside, and when you spun around, you couldn’t locate the entry spot any longer. You were reflected and reflected and reflected, all around, everywhere. From the front, the sides, and the back, all angles of yourself were on display. Even the ceiling and floor were mirrored. If you opened your legs too far, anyone else who may be in here would be able to tell you neglected to wear panties under your dress today.

That made you giggle and feel scandalous, and you thought maybe you could tease and use that to your advantage with Rick.

You moved further into the … room? Hall? And, not paying attention, walked promptly face first into one of the mirrors. You laughed at your own reflection, rubbed at the smudge you’d made on the glass, and continued in further. If you concentrated, you could see the corners where the next hallway were and know you can figure out how to make it through the maze.

Behind you, you heard Rick’s footsteps. You heard him pause, then there was a tapping, like a fingernail on the glass surface.

“Baby?” he called to you.

“Right here, Rick, straight ahead. Don’t go too fast or you’ll hit a wall. There’s a turn to your left.”

Rick’s footsteps sounded overly loud in the enclosed space.

When he made it to you, you thought he looked pale.

“You okay?” you asked.

“I’m fine.”

You didn’t believe him, but let the lie slide.

Now that he’d caught up to you, Rick took the lead. Cautiously he moved forward; you kept a hand on the tail of his labcoat and cracked a joke about it being like the Mirror Dimension you’d seen in the Doctor Strange movie. Doctor Strange had tried to use it against Thanos too. It hadn’t worked, you chuckled.

Rick didn’t laugh.

Deeper in, the mirrors didn’t just reflect. They became carnival mirrors, pulling the two of you thin as taffy or making you squat as toads. As you traipsed through the maze your reflections shifted, tagging along once you’d passed, tapping on the other side of the glass, calling to you silently. Rick ignored them.

You didn’t. You pressed a hand to your own reflection, smiling and trying to read your own lips. For some reason, Rick didn’t like that one bit and gave your free hand a sharp tug to get you moving again.

The closer you got to the exit, the more agitated your dopplegangers became. They were more obscene and grotesque; some pleaded, some demanded behind their glass prisons. All of them took to pounding on the mirrors instead of tapping for attention.

Rick stopped. His reflections stopped too, while yours kept moving until you were up against him. There was an air of expectation, of anticipation. He stood completely still for a moment. You could see his torso move slightly with each breath.

At this point, the reflections were less funny and more annoying. It was disconcerting to see yourself a thousand times, each version slightly off. You wanted to make a comment that now you know what it must be like for Rick to visit the Citadel!

It suddenly occurred to you that you could also see Rick trembling. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Your voice died in your throat as you realized you can hear him breathing in tiny little gasps, which is like nothing you’ve ever heard from him before.

“… Rick?” you said quietly, and released his coat to take his shoulder.

He spun unexpectedly. His reflections did the same, moving like swirls of infinite color all around you. You tried to focus on the man in front of you.

“I have to get out!” he bellowed at you. His face was twisted into pure panic.

You tried to grab him but he fought you off, making noises more akin to a frightened, trapped animal than a human. He was lost in his own hysteria, and it was hard to keep a grasp on him. He obviously can’t tell you’re real, thinking you’re one of your reflections; he couldn’t seem to understand that the reflections couldn’t physically touch him–

“Rick! Rick!” you said loudly, trying to make him focus on you.

The echoing throughout the maze made it worse, and he bolted away, slamming directly into one of the mirrors instead of an opening. His reflection opened its arms, like it was welcoming him in.

He was dazed, and you’re able to actually grab him. Rick struggled for a moment, his breath wheezing, his eyes darting in every direction but not staying still long enough to take anything in. He looked haunted, and terrified. You said his name again, in a softer voice.

“Rick, it’s me. It’s just me. It’s okay, nothing’s going to hurt you, we’re just going to get out of here–”

He still had the air of someone who was going to cut and run. Carefully, you turned and guided him towards the exit. Rick continued panting and whining, and you wondered if he had his eyes closed as you escort him. You’ve never seen him in such a state, so close to breaking down.

His reflected duplicates were agitated now as well, but they were mocking him. It was troubling.

He was almost to the exit–you can see a plain room ahead, with wooden surfaces and none of your doubles–when one of his reflections pounded on the glass so hard it cracked.

So many of both your images had piled into the mirrors now it was difficult to count them. With the pressure of all of them pounding, more fissures radiated out from the initial break.

You continued marching Rick forward. He was at the threshold of the exit when the pane of glass gave way.

“Rick, go!” you ordered in a shout, shoving him by both shoulders to emphasize the command.

Your likenesses echoed your word silently.

One of Rick’s reflections strained for him. With a final desperate push, you knocked Rick harshly into the next room. His caricature missed touching the back of his neck by scant millimeters as he stumbled and went to his knees in the non-mirrored exit room.

You made it out too, and stood with your hands on your knees, panting. Warily you watched the now free reflections from the mirrors exploring their new space. Some of them were at the doorway, but apparently they were contained within the room and could not exit. You were extremely grateful for that.

Rick was still on his knees. His breath rasped unevenly. Carefully, you squatted down beside him.

“Rick, honey, are you okay?” you asked, although you know he is most definitely not.

You gently put a hand back on his shoulder; he winced away from you, whispering, pleading, “No, no, n-no–”His eyes were tightly closed.

“Rick, it’s over. It’s safe–”

At your reassurance, his eyes snapped open and once again his gaze darted everywhere quickly. You scooted around to his front. This time, instead of letting him continue to get more and more alarmed, you took his chin in hand and forced him to look directly at you, before he could turn and see the multitude of his reflections still in the doorway.

“Rick, it’s me. It’s me, baby. Look at me.”

“N-no no I-I-I c-can’t–” he stuttered, and you shushed him.

“You can. It’s all good, it’s all okay. I promise.”

You pulled him into a tight hug and didn’t let him go, even though he trembled and continued to wheeze for air. It slowly dawned on you that he was quietly crying.

You don’t say anything more. You gently helped him to his feet and, still holding him tightly, led him through the egress, out into the neon lights and raucous noise of the carnival midway. You didn’t let him look back, and you refused to glance at whatever your dopplegangers may be doing. You hoped they disappeared from existance once the door was shut behind you; you can’t dare imagine what it may mean if they don’t.

Rick’s still not himself. His fear and panic hadn’t decreased much, even away from the mirrors. You eased his portal gun out of his pocket, punched in the only coordinates you know–your dimension, your house–and opened the familiar glowing green doorway. Carefully, you helped him step through.

Home, you poured him a healthy-for-Rick, unhealthy-for-anyone-with-a-normal-liver glass full of vodka, helped him hold it steady so it didn’t spill all down his front, stripped him, and put him into bed. You climbed in beside him and continued to console him with foolish words of “it’s all okay” and “you’re safe”.

Maybe later he could tell you what stressed him to the point of a panic attack. It didn’t matter at this exact moment. You just needed to be there for him.

Snap!

Involuntarily, you sucked your breath in. It wasn’t a gasp! you told yourself. It wasn’t loud enough to be a gasp, it was just surprise and a feeling of relief.

He grunted his disapproval that you’d tensed up in fear of him cutting your session short again because you made too loud a sound, but apparently Rick agreed that your noise wasn’t going to draw attention, because his palms continued to push on either side of your spine, moving gently downward. No other vertebrae made the same noise as he manipulated your back.

Once he’d reworked the tension in your shoulders out again, he didn’t redrape you–another good sign he wasn’t exasperated about the gasp you’d made; he was as tempermental as a damn cat–and started on your legs.

Crackle!

The tiny sounds your ankles made when he rotated them didn’t make you gasp. When he cradled your foot and dragged both thumbs up the sole of your foot, however, you had to choke back a laugh.

Rick paused.

You mumbled an apology into the table.

He dropped your foot and continued to pause, and you thought he was going to quit. You held your breath until his fingers wrapped themselves around your calf, and he began massaging the muscle there. He made his way up passed your knees to your thighs. You felt like melting into the heated table.

When he removed the rolled support from under your ankles and told you to lift your hips, you complied immediately.

He worked your gluts. He gently spread your legs and stroked your inner thighs.

You willed yourself to stay loose and receptive, even as your held your breath.

Pop!

You bit your lips closed but couldn’t contain the deep moan in your throat as Rick’s fingers slipped into your cunt. The noise was low enough to satisfy him that you appreciated it but not big enough that other people outside his room may hear.

That was good, because those moans continued as his talented fingers alternated teasing your clit and fucking you until you came. As always, you made his hand and the sheet below you wet. As always, he never commented on it.

He left the room before you’d come down from your blissful high. You had to take a second to catch your breath before collecting your clothing and pulling it back on. Holding the doorframe to steady yourself, you carefully walked out of the room and found him leaning against the wall across the hall, holding the obligatory paper cup full of water.

The scent of your own pussy wafted to you as he handed it over.

“Next available appointment’s in three weeks,” he told you dispassionately.

You nodded; you knew exactly when you’d see him again.

Rick gave you a slight nod and pushed himself off the wall to leave.

“Wait! Here!” you said in an urgent but hushed tone.

He paused, and you pressed his tip into his palm. With your hand in his, you grew bold and, before you could really think about what you were doing, you stepped up into his personal space and planted a kiss on his cheek.

He startled, and although he opened his mouth to say something, you were off, walking briskly down to the door to the reception area of the massage parlor, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

***

When Rick asked if you’d like to go off world again, you balked. You made a weak excuse about being tired. Then the next time, you had a head ache. Then you just wanted to stay in. Each evasion hurt a little, because you were lying.

The thought of leaving Earth again after that last incident, terrified you. What if you got lost again? What if something else bewitched you, because you were too stupid to avoid it? After you’d recovered from the enchantment you’d been under by the beast that disguised itself as a stag, you felt dumb and helpless. Rick had told you not to wander off, and you did exactly that. If he hadn’t found you, you’d have died.

What if you managed to screw it up again, and he didn’t find you? Or worse, what if he stopped looking because you weren’t worth it?

So you told him no in passive, lying ways, again and again. It ate at you.

Until, one night, when once again Rick came to call after his shift on the force and told you he knew of this perfect place, it was so beautiful, he couldn’t wait to show you, you were going to love it–

You burst into tears.

It startled Rick, but then he stepped up and wrapped his arms around you, soothing you with sibilants and questions as his lips crossed over your cheeks.

“Shh–shh, baby, it’s okay, what’s wrong? Shh–”

He let you cry until you run out of tears. When you’re finally able to snivel to a stop, you felt awful.

“I’m sorry …” you apologized, and he shushed you again.

“What’s wrong, baby? What did I say?”

You’d only met a few Ricks, but from your experience he wasn’t like many of the others. Your ex-Rick wouldn’t even entertain the thought of taking on the responsibility for you crying.

“It isn’t you,” you sniffed, wiping your face.

Rick stared you down, with the same intensity, the same calculating consideration you’d been scrutinized with before. Like before, you’re compelled to continue.

“It isn’t you,” you insisted on repeat.

“Then tell me,” he said.

Hesitantly, you did. You’d been scared to tell him how scared you were. You didn’t want to admit how vulnerable you felt. You didn’t want to show him that you were a helpless woman who was dependent on a man–him–to rescue you. It was everything you hated about being ‘the weaker sex’: a damsel in distress, someone who was ignorant to the danger that was out there so you needed someone stronger and smarter to keep you safe.

Rick listened to your confessions. He didn’t patronize you or dismiss your concern. When you were finished, he disagreed with your personal assessment. He told you’d put up with and broken a relationship off with a Rick Sanchez, and that qualified you for some sort of medal!

You laughed a little at that, even if it was something nice to say that didn’t really mean much.

Rick watched you for a little bit longer, then squeezed your hand and told you to come on.

Despite spilling your secret cowardice, the portal he conjured still made your throat close up in fear. You shook your head.

“Baby, I promise it’ll be okay. I promise you,” he pledged. “I won’t let go of your hand. Just come with me, look around, and any time you want to go, we’ll go.”

You want to cry again. Finally though, because he’s insistant, you followed him.

It’s a deeping twilight here, on this alien planet. The trees are enormous; their trunks are much too big for even the two of you, hands linked, to put your arms around. Far away you can hear deep tolling, like a bell.

Tapping Rick on the shoulder, you mean to ask him where you are. He intuited your question, however, and put a finger to his lips before pointing upward.

With trepidation of what you may see, you followed his directive .

Your jaw dropped. Above you aren’t trees, they’re flowers. As the twin suns dip below the horizon here, some close up. Others bend, as if the sunlight was a string that held them upright and as it goes away, their support is lost. Occasionally a petal dropped.

Rick led you carefully through this forest of flowers. At first you were worried that the petals would be so heavy they would trap you underneath, but you soon find that although they are thick, they are soft and weigh almost nothing, like a silk blanket.

You walk among enormous flowers. Their blossoms droop heavily from above, face turned down towards your tiny form. Their perfume is thick and sweet and they emit a soft glow. Petals drift down like leaves falling in autumn. Each time one touches the ground, a soft sound can be heard; like a chord being struck on a harp. A great symphony is all around you, with no beginning or end. Feelings of deep peace and satisfaction are within you.

It’s full night, now. You shivered, and Rick found a petal to wrap you in.

“I like to bring you flowers,” he told you, “but these were too big to-to do that. So the next best thing was to bring you to the flowers. Are you still scared?”

“Not here,” you admitted. “Not with you.”

He hummed a wordless answer to that, and satisfied you’re telling the truth about not being afraid, he takes you back home.

You keep the petal as a bedspread, and a reminder that there is beauty in the universe.

“Goddamn it!” 

There’s a shuffling behind me. I don’t turn around. I’m so frustrated and angry, and rubbing my eyes roughly with my palms doesn’t help, but the slight sting kind of feels good, like a physical presentation of my inner turmoil.

Rick comes up beside me. He doesn’t put a hand on my shoulder; he bumps me with his hip. His demonstration of sympathy.

“What’s-what’s going on?”

I must have yelled louder than I thought to catch his attention.

“Nothing!” I lie through the tears that are starting to form. I try to keep them in by pressing my eyes harder. I expound, “Nothing is right, I can’t get it right. Nobody cares. What’s the point?”

I can only imagine him looking over the project I’d been working on, still open on my laptop. Him examining it, dissecting it, already completing it in his genius head . . . those thoughts certainly don’t help, since I already feel worthless and a fraud.

“Hey,” Rick says. His voice has dropped to a slightly less irritated tone. When I don’t look up at him, he repeats the word more insistantly. “Hey.”

I give in and look up.

“I don’t know what you’re upset about,” he rumbles. “It’s shit and you’re lame.”

The fact that I entertained for one goddamn second that Rick Sanchez would comfort me makes me even angrier and feeling more like a fucking loser. The tears well up again, and I don’t try to stop them this time. I turn away from him again and put my hand over my mouth to at least try to contain an open-mouthed sob.

Now his large hand finds my shoulder. I try to shake him off, but he’s tenacious.

“Hey. Hey!” he says roughly, his voice ratching louder.

Fine, you asshole, I think, as I give in and am forced to look up at him again. He’s blurry through the tears.

Rick doesn’t gently wipe the wet on my face away, or hold me, or shush me, or anything else remotely consoling. Instead, he tells me, “Whatever, baby. It might be shit and you’re lame, but you know what? I’m still here. I’ve got you, and you’ve got this.”

Both of you were glutted. Sated. Lazily watching the clouds overhead. The sun on this distant planet was bright, but Rick had clipped a bracelet around your wrist that he said would prevent the UV rays from affecting your skin.

That was good, because you were buck naked on the soft grasses. A trail of clothing lead from his ship where you were now.

There were no insects here to bother you either. A nice bonus.

Beside you, Rick inhaled. You elbowed him gently, and he passed the joint to you.

Filling your own lungs, you keep it instead of handing it back.

Releasing smoke, it twisted in shapes that you’d never seen them take before.

“Self-aware wind currents,” Rick said, like that should be obvious. “They are trying to impress you.”

That was interesting, but not as much as the man beside you.

“You’re my favorite indulgence,” you confess dreamily, feeling a surge of adoration towards him.

Tonight. Tonight. You’re taking him down.

It helped that he was already a little drunk. Well, his normal state of being drunk, which would put a normal person draped over a toilet. But him being drunk helped your cause, because he couldn’t stand being told he wasn’t the best at something.

When you first suggested a drinking contest--a drinking game, to make it seem more innocuous--he scoffed and told you did it look like he was in college? You offered to take three shots immediately, to ‘level the playing field’ and without waiting for his answer, set them up and knocked them down.

Rick looked mildly impressed at your determination, and agreed.

You set a line of shot glasses on the table in front of him, then an equal line for yourself. You shook the bottle of vodka and poured it into his, then fumbled it and dropped it on the ground before filling yours.

You ducked gracelessly and scooped the bottle up--it was plastic, because you bought bottom shelf shit vodka for this--held it up triumpantly and sloppily filled your glasses too.

Rick found this little show hilarious. He commented about how you were already three sheets to the wind from just three teensy drinks, how there was no way in hell you were winning this bet, that if you thought you could beat him at his own game, he’d like to see you fucking try.

You grab the table edge for support and laugh with him.

Then the game begins in earnest. You drink. He drinks. You clink a glass to his, and you drink together. It’s all going well. It’s repeated, and repeated, quicker, quicker. You try to grab another glass; some of the liquid spills over. This is even more hilarious to Rick, who is slurring his words at his point. You try to bring it to your mouth, but most of it dribbles into your lap.

We were even, Rick announces, with a voice that sounds like his mouth is full of marbles. If I drink one more, I fucking win.

He picks up his glass. His hand isn’t steady either, at this point, but he carefully manages to lift it to his lips. He tips his head back and throws the contents into his mouth; he misjudged his momentum and rocks backward on the two rear legs of his chair. He flails his arms a little, and somehow rights himself without falling backward.

The motion, however, unsettles everything in his gut and although his expression is triumphant--he downed one more than you!--he leans over and vomits right on the dining room rug.

While he empties his stomach, you get to your feet and crow that you won after all!

Rick sits back up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The purging of the majority of fresh alcohol in his system makes him slightly more sober, and he eyes you suspiciously.

How? he asks. He demands to know how he vomited, and you didn’t.

I was drinking water, you tell him sweetly, I switched the bottles when I ‘accidently’ dropped the vodka.