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This is pretty much futile, and Rick knows that. He doesn’t need to be here.
Rick Prime doesn’t care about his family; he left them some ten years ago by now, he’s not coming back. There’s no point looking here, no point investigating the place at all, no matter what he’s heard about the family growing, about the potential of the youngest to benefit Ricks, about anything.
Honestly, he kind of just wants to see Beth.
That’s a bit too much honesty, he decides, so he takes a swig from his flask as he portals in behind the house. It’s the middle of the night. A glance up and around confirms that no lights are on inside, and the click of a button on a specialized tool silently disables the burglar alarm. Rick simply walks in through the back door.
The first things he sees are framed pictures of the quaint little family. A wedding photo of Beth to some ridiculous man— yea, he’d heard about Jerry, but Jesus this guy looked useless already— an elementary school picture-day picture of a girl, maybe 4 or 5 at the time— god, no, she looks so much like Diane, oh fuck— and finally, a picture of all four members of the family, the first picture to include the newest edition.
Beth and Jerry stand side by side; Jerry looks normal, Beth looks exhausted, with sweatpants and slightly unkempt hair. The girl— Sally? Sarah? No, not quite— wears a bright pink skirt and oversized tee shirt for a band that Rick doubts she listens to. She looks like a little monster, ready to terrorize the family. Then there’s the boy, and Rick knows right away what he’d been hearing rumblings about.
Despite being no more than two years old, the dazed, distant expression on his face tells Rick that his autism’s been passed down; hopefully the kid landed the type that makes school easier, not harder, but either way at least he’s not neurotypical. He’s got curly brown hair that reminds Rick briefly of his father, and he’s wearing jorts and a yellow tee shirt that looks all too right on him. God, what a specimen. While Sasquatch— or whatever her name is— is standing in front of Beth, the boy is sitting besides Jerry’s feet. Nobody’s looking at him. Jerry’s looking at Beth, Beth is looking at Sadie-Sasha-Serena, and she’s looking threateningly at someone behind the camera. Nobody’s looking at the boy. It’s like he’s not even there. Rick’s chest constricts.
He walks further into the house, quickly and quietly finding and ascending the stairs— the picture wasn’t enough, he really wants to see Beth. Then he can check out the garage and anywhere else, make sure Prime hasn’t secretly set up shop here, then he can leave like he was never here.
The door to the master bedroom is cracked open. Rick pushes it just a little more, wincing at the very, very quiet creaky noise it makes. Then he just stares like a fucking creep at another version of the daughter he didn’t get to finish raising.
She’s so peaceful like this. Asleep. Some of that peace passes onto Rick as he watches her chest rise and fall. With a deep breath and renewed life, Rick turns to proceed back down the stairs.
Instead, he startles, stifles a yelp, trips, catches himself on the wall, and stubs his toe. He leans on the wall and holds his throbbing toe as he looks down at the source of the fright.
The boy’s very slightly older now than he was in the picture. Somewhere between two and three, probably. He’s wearing yellow pajamas with rockets all over them, and the shirt says “Out of this world!” about nothing in particular. He’s staring at Rick with intense curiosity and all Rick can do for a long moment is stare back.
Eventually, Rick slowly creaks Beth’s door shut and takes a few steps toward the kid, not quite sure what to say but opening his mouth anyways,
“Hey, kid. What, uh, what’re you uh, doing, a-w-what’re you doing up?”
The boy just tilts his head. Huh. Delayed speech? Or just doesn’t wanna talk? Either way will help Rick out right about now.
Fatherly instincts kick in and Rick takes another step and kneels down onto the ground, reaching one hand out,
“I’m your grandpa. My name’s Grandpa Rick. What’s your name, buddy?”
The boy looks at the hand, then back at Rick, then seemingly decides this is fine.
“M-muh-m-Morty.”
Damn, he got the stutter too? Kid got all of Rick’s genetic problems. Someone’s gonna have to keep an eye on him for alcoholism.
“Nice to meetcha, Morty. Geez, I uh, hope I didn’t wake you up or anything.”
Morty shakes his head calmly.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
He nods. Rick smiles.
“Well, you should-you should probably go back to bed anyway, y’know, maybe just lie there and hang out. Play with some toys or something, I dunno.”
Morty blinks. Grabs Rick’s hand. Rick stares.
“Or you could, you can hang out with me if, I guess, if you want. But you gotta be quiet,” he chuckles at himself, “I’m gonna guess that’s not gonna be a problem for you, right kid?”
And Morty smiles.
He lets out the smallest giggle, closes in just another step, and looks up at Rick with stars in his eyes and Rick can no longer think. Nothing else in the multiverse exists now, except for this boy.
“Alright, c’mon little buddy, Grandpa Rick’s gotta go check out the garage.”
So that’s how Morty ends up sitting on some table in the garage next to the laundry machines, kicking his legs and watching Rick root around, touching things on shelves and waving around instruments that Morty is simply too small to understand. He seems to want to, though, always reaching for whatever’s in Rick’s hand. This doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Oh, you-you wanna be Grandpa’s little helper, Morty?”
Morty nods enthusiastically, drawing a chuckle from the older man. As a prize, he’s lifted from his resting place and given, after a moment of thought, a magnet.
“Here, walk around the room and see what this thing sticks to.”
Morty very much enjoys his little task, and ends up fascinated by the properties of magnets— some things stick to it, some things don’t! It’s distracting, but in a good way, and it’s not like this takes a lot of thought for Rick. Speaking of, after some searching, Rick sighs as one of the instruments beeps again; the funny noise makes Morty giggle, which makes Rick turn and smirk at the boy,
“You think that’s funny, huh? Well, check this out!”
Rick whips some tool out of his pocket and the room erupts into spiraling rainbow light. The air sparkles and Morty is mesmerized.
“Yea,” Rick chuckles, “I thought you’d like that.”
The useless search ends and the playing begins. Once they’re done spinning around and reaching for lights in the garage, Rick produces several different light-up or fun-colored technological toys for Morty to hold and look at while he canvases the downstairs and checks the backyard for good measure. They end up in the kitchen, Morty on the counter with a scanner giving him readings he can’t even begin to understand, seeing as he can’t read. Casually but quietly, Rick rifles through cabinets until he finds a suitable bottle, then uses it to refill his personal flask. Morty pauses his scanning to reach for the flask curiously.
“Nope,” Rick laughs, catching the boy’s hand and gently putting it back in his lap, “that’s not for kids. This is a grown-up drink, buddy.”
The disappointment only lasts a moment before Morty, seemingly mollified by Rick’s nonchalance and kindness, returns to playing with the scanner. Rick sighs— he’s run out of things to search, it’s been an hour and a half, he really should get out of here before someone wakes up and sees him, but he knows what he needs to do first and it kind of breaks his heart.
“A-alright, kiddo, let’s go back to bed.”
Morty whines petulantly but allows Rick to pick him up. The tiny arms around his neck and shoulders drive Rick mad with memory. God, he’d love to take care of this kid, really spend time with him.
But he has a job to do. A mission. He can’t just abandon that, set it aside, no matter how much he craves family. At least, not yet.
He kneels to tuck Morty into bed— space-themed sheets, holy shit— and, in a moment of weakness, gives him a little kiss on the forehead. Morty squirms happily.
“G’night, m-mor-little buddy.”
“Goob night, Gwampa Wick.”
Luckily, Morty’s eyes are closed, so he doesn’t see the singular tear that makes it all the way to Rick’s cheek before being wiped away. One of Rick’s hands stays in the boy’s hair, petting until his tiny chest is rising and falling and his tiny face is fully at peace. Morty is asleep.
With a deep, hefty sigh, Rick stands, reaches into his lab coat, and brandishes the tool he knows he needs. He points it at the peaceful, sleeping toddler’s face.
“S-sorry, little buddy. Can’t have you ratting me out.”
And in a brief, insignificant flash of light, Morty’s memory of tonight is gone, stolen away and stored in a little tube.
Rick leaves the room. Shuts the door behind him. Another tear escapes, disposed of much more swiftly, and the rest are held back by the force of spite. Down the stairs, to the back door, pause.
Rick turns and shuffles through a few drawers— living room and kitchen— until he finds what he needs. Then he leaves.
For a good few years, a poorly-kept picture of a toddler in a yellow tee shirt lives on the dashboard of Rick’s ship, right where he can see it.
At least one of them can remember.