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The pubescent boy laid down in his bed, the darkness of night around him. He just couldn’t get to sleep, no matter how much he tossed around or twisted his body to be comfortable. The things he did… the things he’d seen. They would only be a blink away from entering his mind again, despite how hard he tries to forget them. Flashes went through his mind of all the chaos he had caused. All the things that had happened to him. All the times he had come close to death on his grandfather’s adventures.
He had enough.
Morty was tired. He just wanted to get asleep. He wished there was a way to just turn his mind off and stop thinking. But, unfortunately, there wasn’t.
He thought to the way people around him have dealt with things. The first thing he remembered was Rick’s self-deprecation, and of course his drinking problem. How he could never go a day without a sip of his flask, how much calmer it made him, and how insane he could be when he finally was sober.
Why did Rick feel the need to do this? He didn’t care about anyone or how his actions might affect other people, especially not his grandson. Morty wanted to be like Rick in a strange way. He wished that he didn’t care as much as he did. The boy just wanted to forget about things, just for a little while. Was that really so wrong? If Rick can numb himself, why can’t he?
No. He shouldn’t think like that. Rick would be so angry with him if he even tried to do something like that. Of course he would be. That’s all Rick ever is. Angry. He sunk into darker thoughts. About if people would really care if he did any of those things. They wouldn’t. No one would care if he got drunk. No one would notice if he sank into a dark depression with no way out.
No one would care if he killed himself tonight.
Usually, he would brush those thoughts off, but Morty realised that it was pointless. No matter how far he would push them down, they would always come back up. Eventually.
Morty had enough. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, standing up on his feet. He tiptoed out of his bedroom, careful not to wake his parents or sister in the rooms around him. He walked down the stairs and headed straight to Rick’s garage. He knew he wouldn’t be in there at night. He always went to his room to get drunk after dinner. But he knew Rick. There’s no way there wouldn’t be a stash of alcohol in there somewhere, free for him to take.
And of course, that’s what happened.
Entering the garage, he flicked the light on and the room lit up. He felt a knot in his stomach, that didn’t let him properly process exactly what he was about to do, but he figured that he would make it up as he went along.
He crouched down near Rick’s workbench, where he had a cabinet full of alcohol. Morty sighed, before opening it slowly, revealing alcohol in all its forms. Wine, whiskey, vodka, even shot glasses were lined at the bottom. He found it kind of strange that he kept these in there, but was too caught up in his daze to really care.
The boy hesitated, before grabbing one of the bottles of whiskey, placing it on the workbench and closing the cabinet once again. He walked over and grabbed the desk chair, sitting in it and staring at the full bottle. He brought his hand to the lid, hesitant. What would his parents say if they knew he was downstairs getting drunk? No, they wouldn’t care. They never did before, why should they care now? Summer would laugh at him, or call him names or something. But there was always one that he could never predict, Rick. What would he do? Who was Morty kidding? The only person his grandfather cared about was himself, if that. If he saw his grandson drinking, he would probably just look the other way and pretend like there wasn’t a problem, like he always did. So Morty knew that there was no way that this would ever come back to hurt him, and squinted his eyes as he practically ripped the lid off of the bottle, the scent of alcohol instantly flooding the air.
Morty knew how wrong this was, but that was the part that really pushed him to take it to the next level. This full bottle of liquor was now on its way to his lips, as he sucked in a deep breath, and took a large sip.
He whined, face instinctively curling up in response to its bitterness. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes. Looked around. Nothing was blurry, he didn’t feel dizzy. None of the effects of alcohol were kicking in. Maybe he just hadn’t had enough?
The boy turned the bottle up again, higher this time to get a bigger swig. His mouth twisted once more at the taste, but he quickly got used to it. A short amount of time past, and none of the effects were there yet. Quickly becoming addicted to the burning sensation in his throat, from the strong liquor, he took another massive gulp from the bottle. By now, the contents of the bottle had almost halved from what it was before, and Morty had drank it in under a minute.
Suddenly, he felt a rush come to his head, as if his mind expanded with a throb. His vision lost focus slightly, and he could feel something, adrenaline maybe, flowing through his veins. It burned in his chest, but not in the hurting way. He liked this high he was on. He loved how it felt. His chest was on fire, but why did that seem to give him comfort?
He tried to think about all of the horrible things he’d done on adventures. Everything that he’d seen, everything that he’d done. But his memory seemed clouded, and he no longer looked at those times with regret and sadness. Instead, it all seemed like one big blur that wasn’t a good or bad memory. Morty just felt… nothing. He was numb. Nothing he could think about seemed like a big deal. He had stopped caring.
It felt nice.
But that feeling wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, the humming in his chest dulled down. His thoughts ran wild, and he started feeling worse about those memories again. Even if it had only been gone for a few seconds, he was starting to miss that feeling. He needed it back. He needed to forget about things, just for a bit longer.
In a haste, he grabbed the bottle again, and drank about three swallows, still wincing at the taste. Morty sat there and waited for it to kick in again, and it did after a few seconds. His head pulsed, everything around him slowed, and his vision got even blurrier. Even his hand in front of him had a squiggly outline. When he finally reached the point that he was at before, and stayed there for a few minutes, he didn’t even think it was close to enough. He wanted more – he needed more.
Maybe this was why Rick was always drunk. He would have judged him less if he knew how good it felt.
Morty went to have another sip, but as he turned the bottle up, he was disappointed to feel none of the liquid flow into his mouth. Taking it away from his mouth, he examined the bottle, pouting as he normally does. It was empty. When did that happen? Maybe he was too drunk to remember it, but it didn’t phase him. He knew there was plenty more alcohol in the cabinet.
He stumbled to kneel down in front of Rick’s workbench, holding his head as it started spinning from drunkenness. Managing to get the door to it open, he grabbed three more bottles of some sort of alcohol, that he wasn’t paying attention to. The type didn’t bother him. He just needed to be drunk. Really drunk. So he could finally forget about things like Rick always did. Not even a bottle amount was enough for him to completely clear his mind.
And now here he was, sculling down another bottle, trying not to think about anything anymore. His eyes widened and he groaned as the alcohol started flowing through his adolescent body. He waited for the feeling to rush to his head. He waited for the relief. It started to come, but it was a very unsatisfying ending.
He was so desperate. Starting to sink into deeper thoughts, Morty remembered things he hadn’t thought about in months. The Cronenberg’s, how he actually saw himself… die in this new dimension that he’s stuck in. That was all his fault, because he was thinking with his dick, and not his brains. The Purge, how he unleashed all his anger on those poor civilians, with little to no guilt. They were just hiding. They didn’t deserve that! Mr Jellybean… he felt his skin crawl with just the thought of that name. Those disgusting memories filled his mind. He couldn’t imagine what would have happened if he couldn’t fight his way out of it. Or what he’d done to others.
No, no, no…
Tears built up in Morty’s eyes, instantly flowing out. He wiped them away, aggressively, but they kept coming. Sobs racked the boy as he opened the next bottle, and took a nice long swig of it, not noticing how much he was shaking. This one was especially bitter, and made Morty wail. He did not like that one. Far too strong. What was he doing? What was he thinking? He couldn’t even concentrate on getting himself drunk. He was hopeless. He was broken. No one could ever care about him if even he didn’t care. These were his thoughts as he slumped down against the desk, drunk, depressed, and defeated.
His senses were so weak by now that Morty didn’t even hear the old man get up from his sleep. The distant sound of a familiar voice caught him so off guard, “What the fuck are you doing in here?” Rick asked, defensively, not even processing the situation in front of him.
The boy froze in his place, “Um- “ he tried to hide the alcohol, but was far too drunk to even know what he was doing.
“I told you to never go in here, wha-URR-t do you think…” the man pushed Morty back from the workbench, looking at the contents on it and the state of his grandson. His pupils were dilated and there was a liquid running down his chin. He almost connected the dots right away, but his heart stopped when he saw the empty bottles on the bench, his hand wrapped around one of them.
They shared eye contact for a few seconds, both processing the situation the best they could. Rick felt a flood of emotions come through him, even some that he couldn’t quite understand. Sadness, confusion, anger, he even felt hurt. He had never been in a situation like this before. He didn’t know how to feel, or what to do. Morty would normally be embarrassed that he was caught, but the alcohol pumping through his system wouldn’t let him.
“W-what the hell?” Rick had no idea what to do, for the first time in a long time.
He stumbled over his words, “I-I-I-I-I can explain, R-Rick,” Morty slurred, practically throwing the bottle away from him on the bench. It tipped over, the liquid flowing out of it quickly.
His grandfather recognised that familiar stuttering of words, and squinted his eyes, “Are you fucking drunk, Morty?”
He didn’t answer.
“Jesus, what did you have?” he growled, snatching the bottle that was spilt, and reading the label.
“J-just don’t worry, R-R-Rick. It’s nothing,” Morty insisted, fumbling around to try and grab the bottle back from him, or push him away.
Rick’s eyes bulged out, “Whiskey?” he was steaming, “Fucking whiskey? A-a-are you kidding me?” he scolded, his paternal instincts suddenly coming out.
For a second, Morty almost believed that Rick was worried about him. For a second, he almost forgot that he was talking to his grandfather, “Stop pretending like you care!” he yelled, “You don’t care about anything! Especially not me…” he stopped.
Rick furrowed his eyebrows, “What are you talking about?”
“Y-y-you take me o-on all these a-adventures, Rick, a-a-and you never stop for a s-second to think ab-ab-bout how it could l-leave me feeling!” he yelled, “You don’t even… you don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself Rick!” he spat out, looking up lazily, “I-I-I’ve done so many shitty th-things… I just couldn’t s-stop thinking. I wanted to forget, R-Rick. And I kn-kn-knew that… it works for you all the time…”
The old man felt his fist clenching. Not out of anger, but because he knew that Morty was doing this because of him. It was all his fault, but he was too stubborn to admit that,
“Morty, y-you shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be drinking,” he tried to put his hand on his grandkid’s shoulder but was pushed away.
“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked aggressively, “I-I see… I see you and mom d-d-doing it all the time. Summer does it. Dad does it every now and then. I’m the only one th-that hasn’t… even touched the stuff. S-so I don’t see why not!”
As Morty breathed out, he erupted into a fit of coughing, extending a hand to Rick’s torso for support. But that didn’t work as the chair he was on pushed back, and Morty fell onto the concrete floor of the garage. Rick flinched as he watched his grandson catch himself on his knees and hands, with the sound of impact. The boy continued hacking and coughing until finally, he gagged, and watery fluid came pouring out of his mouth at a forceful rate in between coughs as a sickening smell broke through the air.
Rick’s eyes widened at the heart-breaking sound of Morty’s gagging. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he crouched down, avoiding the greeny-yellow liquid now on the floor. That could be cleaned up later. He thought back to all the times his friends were drunk when he was younger, and how he handled them. He stroked Morty’s short hair, comforting him as he looked up for a second, confused as to why Rick wasn’t hostile in that moment. But that thought was cut off by more of the fiery fluid came up from his stomach, and just stayed there as it all came out of him; his grandfather now patting his back to try and get everything out this time. It just seemed like the young boy’s body simply couldn’t handle the amount of alcohol that he had consumed.
When he was finished, the garage went completely quiet, both not knowing what to say as Morty sat up, ashamed of what he had just done. Rick pulled him onto the chair again, and turned to his workbench again to grab something.
“W-what are you doing, R-Rick?” He asked, tiredly.
Rick felt horrible about this whole situation, that he didn’t know what to say to him. He never expected something like this to happen to Morty. The kid didn’t deserve that. He grabbed a tissue, and turned to his grandson, wiping the vomit away from Morty’s chin. The boy groaned as he did this, but that didn’t stop him. When the drool and vomit were gone, you could easily see that Morty was tired as he slumped up against the bench.
His eyes were close to closing, when Rick spoke, “I’m taking you to your room,” he said.
His grandkid just rubbed his eyes, “Okay, R-Rick,” he replied, still dizzy from the alcohol.
They were both very careful as the younger stood up. Wavy at first, Rick helped him to stand up straight. Morty put his hand to his head, beginning to walk out of the garage, swaying. Rick walked behind him, making sure he didn’t tip over. The man had so much going through his mind at the moment. About how he was such a shit grandfather, and how Morty would definitely hate him after all this was over. He had so many questions, but didn’t dare ask them. What Morty was saying to him before wasn’t made up. It was completely true. Rick tried not to care about anything and drank to prevent any sign of weakness. Why he did this, even he didn’t know, but his biggest hope that was one day, he would just stop caring because he knew how meaningless caring about anything actually was.
The two reached Morty’s room, where Morty practically crashed on the bed. Rick was okay with that though. He fixed the sheets so that he had blankets over him, but when the teen tried to lay on his back, he was stopped, “Hey, on your side, Morty,” he advised, in fear that laying on his back would cause some vomit to come up in his sleep.
Rick stood over Morty’s sleepy form. He was going to walk away; leave Morty to his own devices. To think things through by himself. But then he heard the voice, “Can you stay, Rick?” he asked, “Please?”
He wasn’t expecting that from his grandson, but he didn’t leave just in spite. He sat down next to him on the bed, and looked down at his grandson, furrowing his brows.
They just sat there for a few seconds, but Morty spoke, “You, aren’t… you aren’t going to tell mom, right?” he asked, voice quivering.
“Nah. I won’t,” he sighed.
His grandfather sighed, “I never want you doing that again, Morty,” he said, starting to get protective.
Needless to say, Morty’s drunk self didn’t appreciate that, “But you’re drunk all the time!” he said, louder than he had intended, “You’re drunk right now, aren’t you? Why can’t I do the s-same thing?”
Rick shook his head, “Because, you’re 14. Even I didn’t go around drunk all the time at 14. You’re young, and drinking like – like you did in the garage – that much isn’t normal,” he scolded.
“B-but, what about at parties?” he questioned, “Or when I’m older?”
His grandfather sighed, “That’s not what I mean,” he shook his head, thinking of the right words to say as he looked at his grandson, who was scratching his head, “You drank because you weren’t feeling well. You drank to try and make yourself feel better. That’s not what – how – w-w-what – how it works, Morty,” he stumbled over his words, like he normally did but this time in a more panicked tone.
“What are you talking about, Rick?” he had no clue where this was going.
“Look, you’re clearly too drunk to have this conversation r-right now, Morty, we’ll continue this ch-chat in the morning,” his voice cracked, but was overlooked by his grandson.
The room went to complete silence. Rick looked back down, and saw the tired figure of the teen, curled up in the blankets, eyes starting to fall shut. Hesitantly, he stroked the boy’s short hair softly, comforting him. He only wished that he was man enough to tell Morty how much he really meant to him.
Morty’s eyes were starting to close when he felt a shift on the bed and an absence on his cheek. He opened them, and saw the lanky silhouette of his grandfather at the door, “See ya,” he mumbled, snuggling into the warmth of his pillows.
Rick turned back around, looking at his grandson, sympathetically, “Try to get some sleep, o-okay Morty?” he tried to hide his voice crack in the sentence by coughing at the end. Luckily, his grandson didn’t pick up on it.
“Okay, night Rick,” he mumbled, tiredness taking over him again.
“Night,” his grandfather replied, shutting his door on the way out and almost running to his room, where he would finally be alone.
And as soon as that door shut, he broke down.
Rick was shaking, hard, and could barely keep himself on his feet. He leant against the wall for a second, before sliding down it. Tears that were still building up since the garage finally came pouring out as he collapsed onto the ground. His eyes stung as silent sobs racked his frame. He was such a failure.
As a grandfather, it was his job to look out for Morty when no one else gave enough of a shit. It was his job to teach him the way of the world because no one else could be bothered to. It was his job to protect Morty from everything, even himself, and he couldn’t even do that. But now Morty was in his room, most definitely passed out because of how much he drank, and all Rick could do was cry.
Crying.
He almost laughed at himself. Rick Sanchez, one of the most feared criminals and most useful allies in all of the galaxy, the smartest man to ever live, was crying because his grandson had a bit of alcohol. What would the other Ricks say if they were here? What would his friends say? What would anyone say if they saw him in this state? They would all think he was pathetic, because that is what you are when you cry. Pathetic. That’s what he was right now. That’s all he ever was.
Instinctively, he reached into his lab coat and felt around for the flask that he always had filled with any type of alcohol. He found the familiar lid of the bottle, but before he could bring it to his lips to taste its contents, he remembered the entire reason why he was slumped down with tears streaming his face, and was overran with guilt. He was so used to drinking his problems away that he didn’t even think twice before it.
This was why he was such a horrible grandfather. This was why he couldn’t make anyone happy. This was his problem.
Now what would happen next was entirely in his control. He could either drink, and go back on everything he had told Morty tonight, or he could just put the flask down and leave it to settle. Any other time, he wouldn’t have even thought twice about drinking, but this night was insane, and this was coming from a nine dimensional being. Any other time, he would have downed the flask in one go, and passed out on his bed after. But this time, he realised something. He was the complete and only reason why Morty did that to himself, why he drank. If he could have just been a better grandfather, maybe he could have stopped him from doing that. Maybe this situation would have never happened. Usually he would have been sure, but Rick had no idea what to do this time.
Rick caved under the pressure of his own thoughts, throwing the flask across the room, where it landed with a clank on the floor. He wasn’t going to drink tonight, but not because he thought he was better than that, but because he knew how disappointed Morty would be. Even if he acted like he didn’t care, that was before he knew he was actively hurting Morty.
So, he just sat there, face trapped in a pained expression, sober, and alone. Curled up into a ball and sobbing into his own hand. No one would help him. No one could help him. Because he knew he wasn’t worth the effort.
He was going to help Morty.
He had to.