Chapter Text
Morty’s estranged grandfather has only been in their house for ten minutes when their abrupt family reunion is cut short. Their garage is still smoking, pieces of metal from Rick’s car (?) strewn about in their neighbor’s yard, and everyone is so excited to speak to the Rick Sanchez that they don’t even notice Morty’s strange behavior.
Oddly enough, it’s not his parents or sister that notice, but Rick himself. He’s got a flask halfway to his mouth when their eyes meet and he pauses. “Hey.”
“…H-Hey,” Morty hesitantly returns. It’s the first time anyone has acknowledged his existence all day, possibly all week, except maybe to berate him. Morty desperately wants to make a good impression, but finds it hard with how feverish he feels. The rest of the family looks at him, eyes widening.
“Morty!” His dad cries, coming up and feeling his forehead with the back of his hand. Morty’s dad is a beta, unable to smell the sickness that must be prevalent in Morty’s scent - but even if he wasn’t, Morty is unpresented, so it’s not like it’s obvious. “You’re burning up, buddy! See, Beth, I told you it was a bad idea to let him go sledding for his birthday, you know how easily he gets sick!”
Beth is quick to defend herself. “And I told you that he’s old enough to make his own decisions now, including deciding to wear the wrong coat. How is that my fault?”
“Dad, I-I don’t feel good,” Morty says, voice cracking. His hands twist in his shirt, pulling it away from his clammy skin. “My tummy hurts.”
“Jesus, Morty, your tummy hurts?” Summer laughs. “Aren’t you, like, thirteen now?”
Morty whines pitifully, too weak to put up with his sister’s teasing or correct her on his age. His mom ignores them both to turn back to her father. “Sorry, Dad. Morty gets sick all the time. Jerry, just go put him to bed. I’ll make him some soup later.”
Jerry begins to obey, but something in Morty has his feet rooted to the ground. A tugging sensation in his chest makes him feel that going upstairs is a really, really bad idea. “N-no, Mom, I don’t wanna!”
“Morty, listen to your Mother.” Jerry is trying to pull off the ‘stern father’ face and is failing miserably. “You’ll feel better after you lay down for a bit.”
“No, I won’t,” Morty denies, and knows it to be true. “I need - I have to stay here. I can’t - I-I don’t want to go upstairs.”
Beth sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “Morty, I can’t deal with whatever temper tantrum you’re throwing right now, just - go to your room!”
There’s something about his mother’s voice, then - something powerful, something all consuming that has Morty’s entire body trembling with the need to obey. The command rips brutally past that pull in his chest, and the next thing he knows he’s locked in his bedroom.
The tears come before he can even register them, falling icy cold against his heated cheeks. Morty can barely breathe past his own sobbing. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying, it doesn’t make any sense, there’s just this voice in the back of his head chanting, Alpha’s angry, disobeyed Alpha, bad Omega.
Wait.
Fuck.
—
The thing is, Morty is four years too young to be presenting.
It’s not that it’s a surprise. It’s not like he had the parts of a beta or alpha, and even if he weren’t born Omega, his family knew he was going to be anyways. Something about him being too docile, too obedient, not to mention the fact he was still barely five feet tall and weighed in at a whopping one-hundred and three pounds despite being mid-puberty. Nobody outside of the family knew yet, but they would now.
There was no mistaking it now that he’d realized. Morty had read all the books he could find on presenting before he was ten years old, so he knew the signs like the back of his hand. Muscle weakness. Cramping. Fever. The newfound voice in the back of his head that was still deciding if it wanted him to stay here or go downstairs.
But - and he cannot stress this enough - Morty is too fucking young to be presenting. The average Omega presents around the age of eighteen. Born betas who end up Omegas through fucked nurture over nature means have been known to present a little earlier, but that doesn’t apply here at all.
The only cases where it does are - well, they’re fantasy. Morty has never heard of a real Omega presenting early. In romance novels, yes. It’s a common trope. Omega meets their true mate in high school, or even earlier, and presents. But that’s not real. True mates aren’t real, at least not for an Omega like Morty.
He’s heard stories, and read some studies. It’s theorized that the idea of ‘true mates’ just stems from their biology realizing a high compatibility mate is nearby and deciding to entice them with an underdeveloped scent gland. Morty has thought about it before, fantasized about an Alpha appearing that physically can’t bring themselves to resist or dislike Morty. Someone the universe has decided has to love him, because there’s no way someone would choose to.
One time, he timidly mentioned the idea to his family and was promptly laughed out of the room. Morty threw away the trashy romance novels and deleted his Wattpad the next day, because they were right. It’s a ridiculous concept. Someone loving Morty Smith? On purpose?
So yes, there are reasons for an Omega to present early, but none that fit this particular situation. Morty hasn’t met any new Alphas recently, besides, well-
Morty’s world suddenly tilts on its axis.
Besides Rick. His deadbeat grandpa that abandoned their family thirteen years ago (something Morty had always privately blamed himself for, as if an annoying toddler was enough reason to disappear without a trace) was the only new Alpha on the block, possibly in the damn county. Morty quickly does the math in his head, wonders if maybe he met the Alpha yesterday and didn’t notice but - no. It’s not possible. The pheromones would kick in a lot faster. Like, within the first ten minutes of meeting, faster.
Morty collapses to the floor. He brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, taking five slow and deep breaths. He’s helped himself through so many anxiety attacks that at this point it’s easy, even if the fever isn’t helping. Neither is that voice in the back of his head, either, the one that has seemingly caught on to what Morty just realized.
Need Alpha, it whimpers, Alpha’s downstairs, Alpha can help, need Alpha.
Morty bangs his head against the door like that will stop the voice. It doesn’t. Neither does using logic, like ‘Alpha is your grandfather’, or, ‘Alpha doesn’t want us’.
He has no fucking clue what to do. He doesn’t think the family will catch on to why he’s presenting early - none of them have been interested in his biology before - but there’s a strange part of him that’s absolutely certain Rick will. There was something in his eyes, when they met. This intelligence Morty has never encountered before. Like there wasn’t a secret in the world you could hide from them. All seeing, all knowing, omnipotent.
But, if that’s the case - fuck it. Rick already should’ve caught on, if he’s as smart as he seems. And if he’s smarter than that, even, he’ll know not to bring it up at risk of losing his newfound family. The only easy way to explain that you sent your fourteen year old grandson into his first heat is not explaining it at all.
Morty pulls out his phone, calls his dad because his mom won’t pick up. Jerry answers after the first ring. “Hey, buddy, you need something?”
“Water,” Morty croaks. “A-and, um, protein bars. And some - some towels. Extra b-blankets. Clothes. Summer’s. Your’s and mom’s. G-Grandpa Rick’s, too, if, um, he d-doesn’t mind.”
Jerry pauses. “…Uh. Sure, buddy. If that’ll… help? But, uh, can I ask why?”
“Heat.” Morty closes his eyes to hide from the shame. “Presenting.”
This makes his dad chuckle awkwardly. “Uh, buddy, not to demean your feelings or anything, but aren’t you a little young to - hey!”
His father’s voice is suddenly gone, replaced with one that is somehow both familiar and unfamiliar. “Hey, li-little buddy. You presenting?”
It’s Rick, he realizes, misplaced excitement curling in his belly. The Omega in the back of his head is practically howling. “U-um, yeah, y-yes, I, um, th-think so?”
“You think so, or you know so? B-Big difference there, bud.” It feels like an odd question. Morty still answers it.
“I… I know so?” Morty clears his throat and tries to steady his voice. “It’s, um, like what I’ve r-read? But it’s. Early.”
“Yeah, buddy. It is.” Rick pauses. The silence between them is deafening, as if they’re both waiting for the other to confirm what they already know. “I’ll have your dad b-bring the stuff up.”
He promptly hangs up. Morty leaves the phone up to his ear like he’ll be able to hear Rick breathing still. He realizes, shamefully, that his pants are soaked through and there’s a growing stain on his carpet. Morty got so wet during a thirty second phone call that he soaked through his jeans. He’s so fucking pathetic.
Morty moves away from the door just in time for his dad to open it without even knocking. He’s got a laundry basket in his arms filled to the brim with extra sheets, blankets, pillows, clothes and even a few of the stuffed animals his mom made him put in the attic after he turned twelve. There are grocery bags on his arms, too, presumably to carry the food and water Morty requested. It looks like it’s enough to hold him over for the next three days, thankfully.
“Th-thanks, dad,” Morty says, quietly. He comes over to sort through the pile of stuff. Clean linens go on his desk while the rest of the basket is dumped on his bed. There’s a few items from his dad, but only one from each of the alphas in his family. Morty whimpers. “Is - is this all?”
Jerry sets the grocery bags on the ground. He looks defeated when he replies, “Yeah, bud, that’s all. Your mom doesn’t want too many, um, alpha scents in here.”
“But I need it,” Morty replies. He realizes how desperate he sounds, how dangerous that is in this family. “Please. Dad, p-please, I need it. Tell Mom I need it.”
“I already tried, Morty.” Jerry shrugs, as if to say he’s done all he can do, but he hasn’t.
Morty wants to scream at him, wants to show him what an actual temper tantrum looks like, wants to say so try again, for once in your miserable fucking life try again, for me, dad, but he doesn’t, because at that point all he’s doing is embarrassing himself. So he just says, “Okay, dad. Thanks anyways.”
His dad is gone as quickly as he arrived, and Morty is left to build his first nest by himself. From what he’s read, it’s supposed to be a sort of celebration. The first nest is built with others, either family or your Alpha, a way to build on the newly formed bond between them. Morty never expected any of that, though. He always knew this was gonna be a one man show.
His pillows and blankets form a wall. The stuffed animals (Morty takes a second to rub his scent into them, to get rid of the dusty attic smell) fill in the cracks. His parent’s clothes go in the middle, where he can easily reach them, and Summer’s at the foot. Rick’s is a sweater, similar to the one he was wearing (a part of Morty hopes it was that one specifically, so the scent is fresher). Morty brings that one up to his face and takes a deep breath of his scent.
Rick smells like motor oil and alcohol, when you first meet him, but the sweater is drenched with his real scent. It’s something indescribable, something Morty has never smelled before in his life. There are definitely recognizable notes. A scent not unlike ozone, the smell of lightning about to strike, and then something sweeter, kind of like the drink his dad has on his birthday. Whiskey, but not the potent scent of alcohol. The sweeter undertones.
But all of it is hard to decipher between the other notes, the ones that smell otherworldly. Morty would travel the galaxy to find the source. It’s almost like an aphrodisiac, the way it has his toes curling and more slick leaking down his thighs. He really needs to get out of these pants, but first - he grabs a pillow and sticks it into the sweater like it’s a pillowcase, then sets it at the head of his nest. It’s not like anyone has to know. He’ll guilt trip himself for it later.
Morty ditches his clothes, trading his boxers for a tighter pair with a heat pad. For once, he’s grateful for his incontinence problems, since it leaves him with a fresh supply of the things. Finally, Morty grabs the bags of food and water and sets a few of each on his nightstand. This is a level of preparedness he’s never had for anything in his life, but he’s been anxious about his presentation since he was four years old - he’s literally been preparing for a decade.
Now that everything is ready according to his pre-made plan (that he hadn’t thought would be useful for four more years at least, for fuck’s sake), Morty can finally crawl into bed and pass the fuck out. He’s worn out from how emotionally and physically taxing the last hour has been, so it only takes him a few minutes to fall asleep.
—
Morty has a really, really strange dream.
It’s the middle of the night. His room is pitch black, with the exception of a glowing, swirling mass of green sitting in front of his window. Someone stands in front of it, face hidden in the shadows. The green swirl whooshes away, and seconds later Morty’s eyes adjust. It’s Rick. Morty, now in the full grips of his heat, can barely do anything more than whimper.
Rick’s shoulders slump. He pulls out his flask and takes a long gulp, burps, and puts it away. Morty is sick of him being so close yet so far. His skin is burning, and Rick’s proximety isn’t helping. He buries his face deeper into his sweater-wrapped pillow and reaches a shaking hand out.
“Shh.” Rick’s hand meets his. It’s so much bigger, almost comically so. He could probably hold both of Morty’s fists in one hand. “I’ve got ya, M-Morty. Grandpa’s here.”
Rick kneels beside his bed. Morty wishes he would get in, take his clothes off - not for any nefarious purposes, the first heat isn’t for that, but so Morty could have as much of Rick’s skin touching his own as possible. His entire family is supposed to be in his nest, comforting him through this. Rick’s hand is a pitiful substitution, but Morty is so touch starved that it’s starting to feel like the sun itself is in his hand.
“A-Alpha,” he whines, tugging hard, like that will convince this dream Rick to lay in bed with him. If it’s a dream, his dream, then can’t he have that much at least? Rick doesn’t obey the rules of dream world, but the universe is kind enough that his other hand falls into Morty’s hair. His fingers comb gently through thick curls.
“It’s okay, kid,” Rick says. His eyes look so tired, so lost. Morty desperately wants to help him, but he can barely help himself. “Alpha’s got you.”
The next morning, Morty wakes up crying. He wishes the dream was real. He knows it never will be.