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"Rick, I-I don't know about this--"
Morty's clearly trying to keep quiet. His voice carries into the dining room through the garage door, which is open just a crack. Rick's response is less audible, but his tone is no-nonsense.
"Aw jeez, do I really have to?"
"Yeah," says Rick, slamming the door open with one hand and shoving Morty through in front of him with the other. He stumbles, righting himself just as the rest of the family turns to look at him. Him, and the pretty pink dress he's wearing. There's a beat of silence while everyone processes this; Morty stands frozen, looking like he might cry, or run away, or both. Beth opens her mouth, but Summer speaks first.
"Nice outfit, baby bro," she says, casually twirling spaghetti around her fork. "I like the shoes."
Morty, blushing now, looks at the cream colored gladiator sandals on his feet.
"Th-thanks, Summer," he says, carefully making his way to the table.
He takes the free spot next to her, breathes a shaky sigh of relief once seated. Rick settles into the chair across from him. Beth and Jerry exchange glances.
"So... is this what the kids are doing nowadays?" Jerry asks tentatively.
"Not kids, Jerry. Just everyone with half a brain, who knows that scraps of cloth don't say shit about who you are as a person." Rick spears a meatball.
"How come you don't wear dresses, then?" Beth asks.
"The Venn diagram of 'dresses that look good' and 'dresses that can withstand having hydrochloric acid spilled on them multiple times' is two extremely distant circles, sweetie. W-What Morty wants to wear is up to him."
His features soften when Morty meets his gaze with a small smile. The dress's thin straps lie flatter on his shoulders as Morty sits up straight, his posture losing some of its nervous tension.
Beth's grip on her fork tightens, but she doesn't protest.
"Whatever you say, Dad."
Then Summer turns to Morty, points at his collar, and asks, "What's that?"
Beth hadn't seen it before, but there's a chain hanging around Morty's neck. Its pendant, glinting gold in the light, is in the shape of a heart. A locket, by the looks of it. Morty's hand flies to it immediately, undoubtedly leaving a fingerprint on its surface.
"O-oh, um," he stammers, "It's a n-necklace? I just thought it looked nice."
"Did you put a picture in it yet? Who's it of?" Summer teases, reaching for the pendant.
"No one!" says Morty, too fast. His fingers close defensively, catching gauzy pink fabric in their grip along with the locket. "I-I mean, I only got it today." He casts a shy look at Rick, so brief you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention.
Beth is, so she doesn't.
She bides her time, washing down the bitter words she wants to say with a glass of zinfandel, and ignoring the concern on Jerry's face when she pours herself another.
"Morty, are you finished? I'll take your plate," Beth offers at the end of the meal, rising on unsteady feet. Morty stares at her like she's been abducted by aliens. Maybe he is trying to figure out if she's been abducted by aliens. Beth doesn't know or care. She takes his silence as a yes, reaches out for the plate.
She doesn't stop when she knocks over her wine glass on the way. It wobbles and falls, and its contents spill out all down Morty's front.
His sharp gasp cuts through the other conversation at the table. Rick stops explaining intergalactic fashion, eyes zeroing in on the red liquid seeping into Morty's dress, dark as deoxygenated blood.
"Oh god, Morty, I'm so sorry-- don't rub at it, it'll make it stain worse, I'm sorry," Beth says in a rush.
Tears pool in Morty's eyes, and he starts breathing faster, the same way he used to when he fell and skinned his knees on the playground as a child. He was such a clumsy kid. Beth always figured he got it from Jerry's side of the family. It hadn't mattered to her, then-- she'd kissed it better, like she knew a mother should, and bought the largest box of Band-Aids she could find. Beth doesn't have to wonder when that maternal affection disappeared. Sick satisfaction settles in her stomach, mixing warmly with the zinfandel.
"I-I-I, I'm--" Morty pushes his chair back with a clatter. "I'm going to the bathroom," he blurts out, and flees the table.
"I'll help him," says Summer, standing to go after him, but Rick waves a hand.
"Don't worry about it, I-I got this. You don't wear a white labcoat everywhere without knowing how to remove a stain or two," he says. He gets up and goes, not looking at Beth even once.
"Whatever, I was done anyway." Summer regards her with thinly-veiled disdain in her eyes. "Thanks for dinner, Mom."
After she leaves, Beth sits. She rights her cup, pours more wine.
"Beth?" Jerry asks. The glare she levels at him must not have as much heat behind it as desired, because he keeps going.
"You didn't... that wasn't on purpose, was it?"
"Of course not," Beth says. "I pay the water bill around here, don't I?"
Jerry takes a bite of garlic bread, unconvinced, but he doesn't question her further.
"Besides," Beth adds, "I'm sure my father has some kind of ultra-effective stain remover. Morty will be fine." The alcohol won't let her keep the irritation out of her voice any longer. "Clean this up, will you?"
Beth doesn't wait for an answer. As she reaches the top of the stairs, the bathroom door opens. Morty emerges, wearing his typical yellow shirt and boxers; Rick follows, his hand on the small of Morty's back.
"Is it okay?" Beth finds herself asking. Morty can't, or won't, meet her eyes. Rick speaks for him.
"Yeah, every - everything's fine," he says. "Listen, there's something I need to get, so I'm taking Morty with me tonight. Don't wait up for us at breakfast."
"Sure thing," mumbles Beth. Later, she lies awake too late, dodging puffs of Jerry's garlic-mint breath and thinking that nothing good ever lasts. There's a dull thud against the door. She startles.
"Rick, stop it," Morty says with a muffled giggle. "A-at least wait until we're out of the house, jeez."
"The fuck do I care?" Rick replies. "I-it's not like we won't be doing the same shit all weekend."
There's a low hum that Beth knows comes with an open portal. It fades a moment after, and Beth feels like a weight's been lifted off her chest. She sighs, and Jerry holds her closer as she shuts her eyes.
Beth doesn't dream. In the morning, she has a pounding headache, and frowns as she opens the kitchen cabinets. Hangovers sure hit harder than they used to. She figures a little hair of the dog remedy won't hurt. The first bottle she pulls out is a rosé, sparkling cerise in the morning light. Beth banishes it to the back of the cupboard, finding the color a bit too close for comfort, and chooses a merlot instead.