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This place was a fucking maze of screens and metal- of whirring lights and sounds.
Morty was uncomfortable on the unfamiliar upholstery of the ship. He wasn’t sure where Rick had gotten it- somewhere from his grandfather’s original dimension, the boy assumed- but it somehow seemed both less advanced and hastily put together than the one he was used to riding in. The seat was scratchy on the back of his arms- his palms sweaty from their position on the steering mechanism.
He could barely inhale. There was too much going on.
The blue lights surrounding him were alive, worming their way into the ship and swarming his head with the answers to questions he hadn’t even known he’d harbored before now. The voice of the other Rick- his real grandpa? - was its own breathing entity. If his very existence was wrapping a tight cord around Morty’s neck, restricting his ability to breathe, he couldn’t imagine how Rick felt in his presence.
He could still feel Rick’s body engulfing him moments before. Morty had been scared at first, petrified of the kill bots. He felt silly for it now. He probably didn’t even have to crawl to Rick’s side. Rick wouldn’t have let them touch him- didn’t let them. He offered up his own body as a shield almost as if it was second nature.
He supposed it was.
Morty had closed himself off within the ship. Safe. He knew Rick knew that much.
He watched his grandfather leap and glide through the endless onslaught of combat as if, at the very core of his being, he was engineered for this exact encounter.
No- it was more like he was engineered for something else entirely, and this man- this Rick- had taken it all away from him.
Morty knew he was stupid- he wasn’t gifted or bright; he could never hold onto the flow of what Rick was saying. He was aware of his uselessness, his sheer replaceability, but he’d also seen enough in his short life to know where this was going.
He could hear his moms’ voices through the speaker on the ship’s dash. They were in danger, they needed him.
But so did Rick.
Rick needed a reason to leave; to give this up; to fucking survive.
Morty shakily pressed the button to open the glass shield that encompassed him.
“My moms are in danger!” he shouted, his throat on the verge of closing up; of failing him. He felt his voice wobble with panic as the words tumbled from his lips, watching Rick down another kill bot with sinister fluidity.
“Those versions of them are,” Rick spat, not even bothering to look back.
What the fuck? No. He had to get him out of here.
He knew Rick was aware of what this really was- so, why? Why was he even bothering? Rick was the smartest man Morty fucking knew- in the whole goddamn universe. If Morty had pieced it together, he knew Rick had.
That’s why he wasn’t sure of the exact reason his next words flung themselves from his mouth. Maybe they were more of a desperate plea to get Rick to come along; to appeal that part of his grandfather that was nothing more but a slave to logic and calculation- maybe even an attempt at rattling that speck of Rick that feared the unknown.
The after.
The absence of God.
C’mon, Rick… Weigh the odds.
“We gotta save them!” He begged, pulling the ship up to hover above the platform. “Rick, this is an obvious trap. If you go down there, he’s just gonna kill you!”
“Good,” Rick hurled back, throwing his body forward, two more bots pitching downward by his sides as he landed knee-first on a slightly lower platform.
If Rick’s comment about his mothers had stabbed Morty in the gut, that single word was the swipe that flayed him. He felt his innards falling to the ground, and he scrambled to pick them up- to shove them back inside and find somewhere, someone, to stitch him back up.
“What?!” Morty asked, tone laced with bewilderment.
This was the same man who just put himself on the front line in favor of Morty- who tucked him beneath the haven of his spindly frame and was willing to be sliced in half with a laser if that’s what it took to keep Morty alive for even a brief moment longer.
Now , he wanted to talk about the insignificance of a human life?
He wanted to die ?
Morty wasn’t going to let him lay down and give up that easily.
He brought the ship back down to land on the platform, turning to open the door but- but suddenly, he was trapped. He was no longer inside of a ship, but a tight glass box with no way out.
He watched his grandpa near that glass tunnel. He watched the elder jump down.
Morty desperately punched the glass; kicked at it; threw his body against it, but- nothing.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“RICK!” the boy shouted, feeling his knuckles split open as he punched the glass with more fervor; his words like blades sawing at his throat; his blood smearing along the invisible barrier that separated them. “RICK, PLEASE! PLEASE D-DON’T DO THIS! FU-FUCK YOU, R-RICK! I-I-I NEED YOU, GRANDPA! PLEASE!”
Morty couldn’t breathe. It felt as if a rubber band had been wound around his chest. Tears and snot poured from his little body as if he was nothing more than a broken faucet and he fell to his knees.
Fucking useless. Broken. Pathetic. He couldn’t save him.
He braced himself on his hands, shaking with holding up the weight of his body without enough oxygen.
His vision went blurry, and he knew his grandpa was dead.
He was next.
Morty shot up, taking in a deep gulp of midnight air as his eyes darted open. He brought his unsteady hands up to claw at his neck in the darkness- his throat was so dry- as he kicked and cursed at the blanket that stuck to his damp form.
It was a dream, he told himself. A dream.
Eventually, the boy steadied. He looked around, eyes now adjusted to the obscurity of the room, and let himself gradually trust that he was home; in his bedroom.
Light seeped through in a sliver from his doorway.
He’d asked Rick to leave it cracked. The elder insisted on putting Morty to bed every night since, making sure his room was up to par with the latest addition to his “protocol.”
“Just in case,” he’d assured Morty. “He doesn’t care. He’s n-not gonna come for you, buddy, b-but I’ll be fu-fucking damned if he- if that bitch tries.”
His ragged breathing steadily morphed into deep, concentrated breaths- his heart slowing down from that persistent pounding to a stable thrum.
Morty wasn’t sure why he did what he did next, because never- in all the time he’d known Rick- had he ever extended any comfort towards him. Despite every fiber of logic in his being telling him it was a fruitless endeavor that would only end in more distress, Morty placed his feet on the soft carpet of the floor and stood.
Maybe he just needed to know that Rick was alive; still there- a corporeal being that could walk and talk and breathe.
As he moved through the hallway, the house was still and quiet. Not an inkling of the typical humdrum of life stirred inside, as if in a defiant stance to the overhead light of the hallway giving the corridor a façade of insomnia.
He flinched at the cold biting into his feet from the hardwood flooring, pushing himself upward to instead walk on his tippy-toes until he reached the bottom of the stairs.
The evening hung low on the bottom level of the home, threatening to absorb Morty until he was nothing more than an aura, too- floating around in that liminal space between the known and unknown.
Morty had never been a fan of the dark. It held too many questions and yielded too few answers.
He’d disliked his grandfather for being the exact antithesis.
Rick and the night were like yin and yang- taking and giving in opposite natures- but Rick loved to punish himself. Morty wondered if Rick knew his grandson saw the way he’d let the night pull the thoughts from his head and then hurl them back into his aging flesh as if they were daggers.
Morty wrapped his arms around himself, the night air rousing goosebumps along his sweat-laced skin- but a part of himself knew it was to hold himself together.
He gently padded his way to the doorway of Rick’s room.
The first bout of panic set in when he realized his grandfather’s door was wide open. No light shone from inside but…
No- Rick probably just forgot to close it, Morty told himself- but he was unable to still the quickening pounding on the inside of his ribs.
With a few steadying breaths, the boy rounded the corner and stared into the empty void of the room.
No Rick.
His cot looked undisturbed.
Morty felt as if breathing were some impossible task- as if the atmosphere was laced with toxic gas that blistered deep into his chest when he tried to inhale.
Quick sharp gasps permeated the stillness surrounding him as he moved without thinking. Just like Rick had showed him to clear a space with a gun, he moved swiftly but steadily around corners- a second nature to him now.
This part- running; scoping; gauging a situation- was what came organically to him at this point. He only faltered when it came to making a decision.
He cleared each of the silent rooms one by one.
The living room. Clear.
The dining room. Clear.
The kitch- There was a figure.
Behind the counter was a shape standing tall and willowy, nothing but a black silhouette- the outline of a man he knew well. Morty could tell it was Rick- his Rick.
Something about the breathing pattern, the way his shoulders hunched forward- even here, in the absence of light, Morty knew. He thought he’d be able to tell his Rick apart from any other lithe thing even in the absence of all of his senses.
Something just felt… right. Or wrong.
A sense of calm. Or panic.
One could not exist without the other with him, but Morty knew- he knew- and he could take solace in that. That was enough.
Too often, he felt as if he knew nothing, so- here; now; knowing who’s back at which he stared- that would suffice.
Morty stood there for a long moment, feeling content enough to go back to bed with a sense of having been pacified just knowing that Rick was still a tangible being haunting his family home. He felt himself slow to a calm, his own shoulders sliding forward in a similar fashion to his grandfather’s, as relief flooded his mind. The gentle push and pull of the waves drowned the anxious torrent of thought that had commandeered his small form just moments before.
Then, just as he thought he was about to slip out of the kitchen without being noticed, a soft rumble of a murmur snaked its way across the distance between the two.
“Nightmare?”
If recounting this moment, Morty wouldn’t have said that the tone in which Rick spoke was laced with any intention of being gentle. He wasn’t a foolish enough child to think the elder was capable of anything of the sort. It was just sputtered into the air with a flatness that felt… hollow; pained.
It was something more akin to how he sounded when he was gravely injured; like a small exhale doused in self-pity.
It was a tone that Morty knew well.
He took a moment, debating whether he would even bother answering, before he slid onto one of the bar stools. The leather of the seat was cool as it kissed Morty’s thighs through his pajama bottoms.
“R-Rick?” The question came out a little more than a gruff croak. He had all but forgotten how hoarse he’d been when he woke up, but now the memory sunk back over his thoughts.
“Yeah?” the figure sighed, shifting a bit- the rustle of fabric a soft hum over the grain of the surface separating them. The light above the stove flickered to life, spinning a dim yellowy blanket over the kitchen, Rick’s finger hovering over the switch before he turned to face his grandson.
The golden light hugged the sallow face of Morty’s grandfather like a glove, the fine lines and cracks across the old man’s blank expression the seams of its tender handiwork. In his left hand, Rick held a can of light beer. A plush red robe draped off the harsh angles of his sinuous pallid frame and he splayed his free hand flat across the counter, leaning forward.
He was nothing more than a wisp of energy- the living memory of a man. If Morty leaned into the silence enough, he thought he could have heard the whirring of the machinery keeping his body alive- if he were to look close enough, maybe he could see it stirring beneath his skin.
“Do-“ Morty began before Rick cut him off.
“Water,” the man said pointedly, jutting his chin to indicate a full glass that sat on the edge of the counter closest to Morty, a few inches from his left hand. “Drink. You sound like- you’re talking l-like the fuckin’ Grudge or some shit.” Rick’s eyes bore into his own with more intensity than Morty thought he’d ever seen from a hooded gaze, but his expression remained unreadable- lips nothing but a thin line aside from when he’d take a curt sip of the beer he lifted to his lips every few moments.
Morty hated how Rick would do that- ask a question and then interrupt him when he went to answer. He guessed, though, that he couldn’t really complain about it right now. He’d brushed off Rick’s probe about his nightmare with just as much casual disregard as Rick allotted his own curiosity.
Pushing aside his irritation, Morty eagerly obliged his request. He wrapped his hands around the glass and raised it to his mouth. Not bothering to wrap his lips around the rim to take proper sips, he opened wide and chugged eagerly until no more than a few gulps swished at the bottom. The liquid ran down the sides of his chin, dripping down his neck and soaking into the collar of his still-damp shirt.
He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.
“Where- How did yo- W-Why did you have water sitting there al-already? L-like… how did you know I was going to need a drink?” Morty muttered. He wasn’t really sure why he even bothered to look for answers with Rick. It could just be assumed that he was always ten steps ahead of everyone else. Fifty steps, if it was Morty.
“Y-You know, when Beth would have a bad dream, I would always h-hold her. She preferred w-warm milk or horchata b-urrrrp-ut I didn- I’ve never comforted you before, a-and I’m sure as hell not fuckin’ holding you, so.” He took another drink from his can.
Now, Morty wasn’t even sure if he could read Rick’s tone anymore. It was something he’d never heard in the man’s cadence. He set down the glass and lowered his gaze, twiddling his thumbs over one another.
“How did you kn-know I had a nightmare?” Morty flicked his eyes back up to find Rick now fidgeting with the top of the can, thumbing the metal tab.
“I figured that w-was the most likely reason for you to be sneaking around, back to the wall like you were on s-some cheesy ass co- police show,” Rick offered, an airy chuckle jouncing his breathy statement to an odd rhythm.
Morty furrowed his brow, cheeks heating with a bit of embarrassment. “I- uhh… I-I couldn’t find you,” his voice wavered, cracking a bit. He had to clear his throat to continue, fighting against that lump swelling there. “I dreamt th-that… in my-my dream you… ya know… I couldn’t st-stop you. I just wanted to-“
“See if I was breathing?” Rick finished for him. Morty blinked back the tears threatening to slip down his cheeks.
“Y-Yeah. How-“
“I still peek in fr-from time to time,” Rick shrugged, looking back up at his grandson. Morty raised a brow, not fully understanding. “To see if Beth’s breathing- y-you and Summer,” the old man clarified, lowering his stare again.
“O-Oh…” Morty whispered back.
Morty got up, exhaustion now pulling at his eyelids. Even if he hadn’t been tired, he would've appreciated the isolation so that he could cry. He didn’t want Rick to see him like this.
As much as Morty knew it was stupid to idolize the man in front of him in any way, he couldn’t help but want Rick to think he was strong.
Maybe a little part of him knew that Rick had no one else left to depend on. Maybe a part of him just wanted to be for Rick what a grandfather should be for a grandson; or a parent for a child. He got the feeling Rick was a lot like him in that way- that he’d never gotten that- and he wondered if he still felt like Morty did. Scared. Just a boy.
A boy trapped in the shell of a sad old drunk.
In all of those ‘maybe’s, there was a certainty. Rick would have Morty.
So, Morty turned to walk away, pressing his palms into his eyes until stars danced in the edges of his vision.
“Gimme a minute and-and I’ll be -urrrrp- up,” Rick said emphatically.
Morty startled, slowly turning on his heel and dropping his hands. “Huh?”
“Y-Yeah. Just let- gonna finish this beer and then I’ll grab my shit. Y-Your rug comfy?” Rick picked an invisible piece of lint off of his robe, no inflection to his voice to indicate sarcasm.
“Uhhhh…” Morty was unsure how to respond. Was he really-
“Ehhh, nevermind. I know it’s not. I’ll bring an extra blanket.”
--------
He did cry. Just a bit. He swallowed down the bile trying to snake its way out of him.
It had been a while- maybe twenty minutes- and he started to think Rick wasn’t coming. That was okay. Morty didn’t think he needed him to. He’d really only needed to see him. To make sure his family was safe.
He was almost asleep when he heard the door creak open, and the inside of his eyelids turned a light orange from the flood of light coming in from the hallway.
There was some rustling and grunting- a clank that told him Rick had brought a six pack with him- before he heard a gruff sigh.
The boy let a few more moments pass, waited to hear Rick’s breathing even out and deepen, before he spoke.
“Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“I… I bet you were a good dad.” Morty whispered, letting the stillness of the room soak up his words. He wasn’t sure that Rick had even heard him, but then a strange, soft noise gurgled from the center of the room.
Rick cleared his throat.
“Shut the fuck up, Morty.”
The corner of Morty’s lip twitched up softly before silence enveloped the room once again.