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It had been a week since the fear hole.
A week since Morty dragged himself from that dank, tendril-lined pit of despair, staring up at the blue-haired object of his terror. No longer alone, like he’d entered.
When Rick stopped in the middle of that hallway, after leaving the bathroom, Morty knew what was coming. He knew Rick would disregard his warning; leave him for a chance to see his late wife even if it cost him the meager remains of his sanity. Replace his grandson with a ghost and never return.
Instead of the terror he expected, it was a dull buzz that flushed Morty’s veins like saline. New, but not unwelcome. A calm acceptance.
When Rick returned just a moment later, blaming his disappearance on a sudden need to shit, Morty leveled Rick’s casual façade with a cocked eyebrow of his own.
Rick sure is a fast shitter.
Now, one week later, Morty lay in bed, stuck in a staring contest with his ceiling. He couldn't sleep. He hadn't slept. Not more than a cumulative eight hours since his exit. It wasn't nightmares, or terror, or unease that fueled his wakefulness—not this time. The initial shock had long since waned.
It's his thoughts that hadn't. His curiosity. The hole ripped that chunk from his amygdala and soothed its tattered edges, but it dropped the crushing weight of a memory in its wake. A dream too confusing, too convoluted to parse alone. If that’s even how it worked—like a dream or hallucination. Something built entirely by his subconscious, characters and a story pulled like taffy from the folds of his brain, hinging on his interpretation of reality rather than reality itself.
And yet he parsed. As he had all week. He picked through his mind, combing the memory to find seams where the mirage bled into truth and truth into real. And so much of it did. It was overwhelmingly believable—everyone had seemed in character. Rick was his usual abrasive self, if not too caring, as had tipped Morty off in the end. His mothers hadn’t seemed strange, and his father was painfully normal. Even Summer was, like, totally the ushe’, and stuff.
But Morty had never met his grandmother. And that's where it all fell apart.
She had such a pivotal role in that vision. So much screen time. Her interactions with the family, mostly Rick, were so natural. She was the yin to his yang, the sail of his ship. The fluid to his portal gun. Morty had never seen Rick so happy with another person, so fulfilled and content with the offerings of just a single universe.
And he still hasn’t. None of it was real.
So where, Morty wondered, had he pulled it all from? The one dusty Polaroid he’d extracted, years ago, from a drawer in his mother’s night stand? The few passing comments she’d made? Beth rarely spoke of her childhood, and she met Morty's attempts to learn more about her parents with redirection and vague dismissals. Never anything descriptive. Morty didn’t even know exactly when his grandmother left, or how she died.
Well. He did know that, now. Sort of.
He knew that she was blonde, fair skinned like Mom. She had freckles along the bridge of her nose. He’d committed that faded photograph to memory, the only one in the house that he knew of, hidden away at the bottom of a box like a dirty secret.
It really was a sweet picture. Rick was in it, holding his daughter in his arms and leaning into his wife’s embrace. Great, wide smiles, Beth’s mouth open as if shouting "Cheese!" He could hardly imagine that expression on his grandfather’s face now. So unburdened. So filled with glee.
It was only now, as Morty wondered if it exists in this universe, too, that he realized it was not his grandfather in that picture at all.
Not his grandfather—in every sense but literal. His Rick, technically, but not his Rick. It was with a shiver that it dawned on him.
That heartwarming photograph, so full of love, captured Rick Prime. The same Rick that held Mom—not Morty’s mom now, but his actual mother—in his arms so affectionately, leaning into the touch of his lover, and ruthlessly murdered their alternate counterparts not long before or after that picture was taken. The same Rick that erased the mother of his daughter, his wife, across the fabric of reality just to stop one person from ever again feeling her touch, hearing her voice. For no other reason than to punish another self for a polite refusal of power. "A different kind of Rick," he’d said.
When Morty received that downloaded memory, most of it passed in a blur, but he distinctly remembered that first conversation between them. He remembered feeling the love Rick felt for his family, seeing it reflected in their eyes, just before the bomb dropped. Maybe the hole pulled from that subconscious, some hidden part of him that remembered Diane from the download? He retained little of anything from the seventy years that flashed through his mind, but he could recall pieces of the hunt. That forty year chase.
Morty imagined his Rick, so horribly distraught after the blast, funneling the last dregs of his energy into the construction of a portal gun. His Rick, combing the multiverse for a hint, just a crumb that might lead him to the man that took it all away. Decades wasted in a drunken stupor, enough blood on his hands to flood the earth three times over. A reluctant acceptance of surrender, an ark in the shape of a citadel, one of every kind of Rick boarding side-by-side for their survival. The curve, a rainbow that promised "never again." The monstrosities it harbored.
All for his Beth. His Diane.
A man so full of love for his family that he wasted a lifetime avenging them. That same man, in a different life, with enough hatred to destroy them anyway.
It was curious, Morty thought, that his grandma, but not mom, had been erased. Why not wipe their beloved daughter instead, let that infinite stain of innocent blood drive every Rick mad? Why not wipe them both? What was it that made Diane so special that not even Prime himself could keep her, so important that Beth was an afterthought? So extraordinary to drive a man to search tirelessly for forty years, to lose himself in bloodshed, at the bottom of a bottle?
Once again, as he had every night for one week, Morty wished to know more about his grandmother.
For the first time, he was determined to.
Mom was a no-go. He hasn’t tried recently, but any attempt made before was like talking to a rock. Actually, he’d met rocks more informative. She’d made it perfectly clear that any and all digging into the life before his birth was off limits. Space mom might feel differently now, even if her upbringing was identical, but Morty wasn’t sure when she’d next be on-planet, and with the federation in constant pursuit, she rarely took calls.
There was one more person who knew his grandmother. One he’d never asked.
One he’d never dared to.
Morty should be hesitant. To casually ask about something so clearly painful, to dig his fingers into that freshly closed wound and rip at the stitches—it should be unthinkable. A week and one day ago, Morty never would have dreamt of it. What if he reacted poorly, or took offense at the question? Could he be sent spiraling by just the broaching of the topic?
But now, one week later, Morty was beyond courtesy. There was no more fear to hold him back.
He had to know.
What was the worst Rick could do? Replace him?
That shallow buzz, like white noise, flowed through him once again.
Morty cracked the door and peered inside. Rick was at his workbench, facing away from the door, welding something small. A big metal mask covered his face. Morty quickly averted his eyes; the bright arcs burned white spots into his vision. He stepped into the garage.
It was loud, and Rick was unaware of his presence. Morty thought it best not to startle him while he held seven thousand watts of electricity in his hands. He finally paused, removing his mask and turning the metal object over in his scrutinizing gaze.
Morty enjoyed seeing him so focused, so in the zone. After killing Prime, he wasn’t sure if his grandfather would ever be more than a glorified bottle opener. Now, as the man worked, he even looked mostly sober, flask out of reach on the opposite desk.
Done stalling, Morty rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. Rick jumped in his seat, a small gun popping from his shoulder to swivel to the door as everything in his hands clattered to the table. His head jerked towards Morty, and he sighed. He shoved the little gun back into its hatch.
"Jesus, Morty, it’s four in the morning.” He dragged a greasy hand through his greasier hair. “Don’t- Don’t you have school tomorrow, or some other menial obligation?"
"Since when do you care about school?" Morty replied.
Rick paused at the beginning of a rebuttal and crooked a finger at his grandson.
"…T-ooUGh-ché," he belched.
Rick turned back to his workbench and tinkered with something Morty couldn’t identify. He’s right, Morty should be asleep. In just three hours, he’ll rise to the sound of his alarm and drag himself to school, crusty eyes straining at the light, brain barely functional enough to automate his breathing. Just as he’d done every day for a week. He even had an algebra exam to flunk. Right now, though, Morty wanted answers.
He considered how to best approach the subject. He really should've come up with a plan before bolting from bed and tip-toeing downstairs.
Might as well just rip the Band-Aid off.
"Morty, n-not to interrupt your loitering, but grandpa’s trying to weld. So, unless you have a mask—"
"—What was my grandma like?" blurted Morty.
And Rick froze.
Morty saw the line of his back, how it straightened almost imperceptibly. The way his hands stiffened, his grip on the wrench white-knuckling. He relaxed near instantly, and if Morty were anyone else, he might not have noticed. There was a pregnant pause before he answered.
"Wh-why do you ask?" he grunted out.
"Just curious, y-y’know?"
Rick turned just enough to pierce Morty with his gaze from his peripheral.
"‘Just. Curious?’ A-at this godforsaken hour? On this day, specifically?” He tilted his head. “No, I don’t know, Morty.''
Morty winced. "Ha h- uh- n…no time like the present, right? I-I mean, four PM, four AM, they’re both just times! What’s the difference, r-really!"
Rick stared at him a moment longer, squinting.
As though nothing had happened, almost quickly enough for it to not have been weird, Rick was fidgeting with his tools again, tightening a bolt on some strange machine. Feigning nonchalance.
"I dunno, Morty," he drawled. "I’ve never met your grandmother."
The boy rolled his eyes. Really? They're doing this?
"Playing dumb doesn’t work for you, Rick. You- you have to know that."
"Do I? A-a-am I that smart?" Rick gibed, finger pressed cartoonishly to his bottom lip. He returned to his work.
Morty waited.
When the silence became too much to bear, nothing but the sound of metal against metal, he tried again.
"What was- what was she like, Rick? Diane?"
This time, Rick didn’t flinch.
"How about you go ask your mom? She knew her for longer than I did," he shrugged.
"I dunno, Rick. That’s not my mom, right?"
Rick twisted, shooting Morty a glare over his shoulder. His grandson stared back, smug.
Rick turned back to his project, fiddling a little faster. Silence again.
When it was clear he wasn’t getting a response, Morty continued.
"I have. All three of them. Before and after you showed up,” he argued. “She- she never tells me anything. Just b-brushes me off."
Rick exhaled through his nose, an exasperated huff. His shoulders rose, and his hands were moving swiftly still, with a little more fervor.
"Gee, Morty, I-I-I sure do wonder why. What about being abandoned by your own father and—and then losing your mother during an unsupported teenage pregnancy might be just a little bit difficult to talk about?"
His retort slipped out before he could stop it.
"Do you wish you’d been there for her?"
Rick swiveled in his chair, a look of wild disbelief leveled at Morty.
"Morty, what—? You—that wasn’t my—!"
He stopped, catching onto Morty’s game. Rick narrowed his eyes, spinning back to his work and taking a deep breath. He continued tightening bolts, a little steadier than before.
"Listen, you little turd,” he sighed. “I really need to weld some shit, and I don’t need you going blind. Get out of the garage and go- go jack off, or something, I don’t care. I-I’m busy. Really running out of patience, here."
"Why not just answer a few- few of my questions? It would get me out of your hair a lot faster," Morty needled.
Rick’s hands sped up. "I don’t come down to the garage to stroll down memory lane, Morty, I come in here to work. Which I’m trying to do. You’re interrupting."
"Unless you’re going down to watch through my erased memories, right?"
"What?!" Rick bristled, eyes comically wide. "How do you—?!"
"—I paid Summer to tell me. Doesn’t matter, n-not what I’m here for."
Rick grumbled under his breath, something that sounded a lot like "Fucking, double crossing bitch…" and turned back to his desk. His fumbling accelerated.
"S-so if the sub-basement is for reminiscing, but n-not the garage, why not head down there?"
"Why, so- so I can erase this conversation from the both of our minds?!" Rick sneered. "I told you, Morty, I’m busy." He had a screwdriver now, working screws so hard they were stripping. "N-not that you would know anything about that, since you’re so- so Hell-bent on being a pain in my ass."
"T-then just—just give me back your downloaded brain, then, so I can see for myself!"
Rick was the picture of exasperation. He rolled his eyes, sighing a hackle-roused groan. "Morty, if that’s how it worked, you wouldn’t still be such a dumbass. You-you can’t just pick and choose what to remember from 7 yottabytes of data unless it’s for plot convenience, it’s not a catalog—"
"I’m not asking for a mem- a ‘mem-ore’—" how do you pronounce memoir? "—her life story, Rick! What was her favorite color? How did she take her eggs? Did she like cats or dogs? Literally A-NY-THING! Would it kill you to open up a little?! Actually, knowing—"
"TURQUOISE! OVEREASY! DOGS! Jesus fucking Christ, Morty, are we good!? Is that enough ‘Twenty Questions’ for tonight!?” Rick was seething, chair twisted towards Morty with his project in hand. He was trying and failing to pry one of the metal walls off.
Morty stared at him for a moment, impassive.
He would regret this. He could feel it in his bones. He would wake tomorrow, rife with guilt, filled with disbelief that he'd taken it so far.
But he had his foot in the door. He was so close. Just a little more...
He pointed at the tool in Rick's grip.
"...Rick, your screwdriver is upside down."
Rick looked down. Sure enough, he was holding the steel rod, blunt handle rubbing uselessly at a metal seam.
He threw the screwdriver at the ground.
"I-I KNEW THAT!" he roared. "FUCK, Morty, w-what has gotten into you!? Are-are you some little spy from—from the new federation, trying to learn the answers to my Google security questions and hack my Porn-PornHub account? Trying to- to get under my skin so you can invade earth and-and-and probe everyone’s ass, or something? Are you s-some kind of skin walker? Actually, w-why don’t I head downstairs real quick so I can—"
"What, replace me? Trade me out for a more obedient clone? I-I-I–I don’t care anymore, Rick! Just tell me about her!"
"I’m not—! I-I’ve never—! T-That isn’t even what I was going to say! I was going to grab my- my microchip scanner and—!" Rick took in a deep, whooshing breath, project forgotten on the floor as he dragged his hand down his face. "Okay, you manipulative little bastard. I-I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’ve been acting weird since—s-since… since the…"
Since the fear hole.
Rick’s eyes widened. For the first time since he entered the garage, his gaze really turned to Morty, actually looking at him, studying his condition. He lingered on the dark purple bags under Morty’s bloodshot eyes, his chapped lips and disheveled appearance. He looked at his watch again, thoughtful, before turning back to the wall, breathing deeply and holding each inhale before letting go.
Morty waited. Rick still sat silently, head in hand, facing away. Morty couldn’t see his expression.
He was really feeling the time. He was suddenly exhausted, rubbing at his eyes with a stifled yawn. Morty was just about to call it, turn around and go back to sleep, maybe try again tomorrow if he didn’t feel too guilty in the morning, when Rick’s chair squeaked.
"...Close the door," he sighed.
Morty’d completely forgotten he was still standing in the exact position he’d entered, door wide open. It’s a wonder they hadn’t woken the whole house. Probably some kind of high-tech soundproofing, knowing Rick.
Morty slammed the door, heart in his throat, and shuffled over to sit on the stool at the adjacent workbench.
"...H-hand me my flask."
‘I’m too sober for this’, Morty read between the lines.
He obliged, nearly throwing himself at it, and scrambled back over to Rick. He downed it in one long swig after Morty sat back down, wiping the lingering drops from his mouth with a forearm. He turned, pointing an accusatory finger.
"...This is coming out of your adventure cards, I hope you know that. You better not- no more questions after this, you take what I give you. I swear to god, Morty, i-if you ‘Give a Mouse a Cookie’ this shit…"
If Morty nodded any faster, he might break his neck.
Rick turned away again, picking at dust and metal filings.
Morty waited, watching his grandfather’s tired form, not daring to speak in case it broke whatever spell had made him yield. He seemed to be collecting himself, bracing for what was to come. Maybe even stalling. His gaze shifted back and forth, from Morty to the dirty surface of the counter, until…
"Sh-she was… s-stubborn. The most self-assured person I’d ever met." He swallowed. "S-so confident, but n-not to a—to a self-centered degree. M-Maybe it was, but I — it was all the same to me." Rick's voice was level, carefully devoid of emotion.
Morty thought that was it. Really, it’s all he bargained for. But to his surprise, the man continued.
"I was… I think I was 16 when we met. She was about a year older. I was at the library—this- this was the sixties, Morty, so there weren’t any public computers be-besides the rudimentary one I’d built at home, but since no one else had one, and there was no internet, and no one else stored their files digitally... Well, y-you get the idea. I was looking through their encyclopedias and textbooks. I think I was trying to find more about- about worm-holes."
"For portal travel?"
Rick shook his head. "Well- at the time, n- I don’t think so. I-I’m pretty sure I just… wanted to learn more. You can only do so much calculation yourself before you want to c-compare with other physicists. But… but, yeah, I guess it did morph into that, eventually. Just—just intra-dimensional. It was never interdimensional un—until—" His voice caught, and he cleared his throat.
"...I was sitting at a table, reading, when this girl sat down across from- from me. Just… s-staring. At first I ignored her, figured she was just- just spacing out, or something." Rick shrugged. "...But then, she asked about my hair."
"Your hair?" Morty was more awake than he’d felt in days.
"...Yeah, my hair." Rick chuckled airily. "I was homeschooled—well, I stayed home and taught myself, m-more accurately—so I guess I’d never- never really thought about it. But having a bright blue ball of cotton candy on your dome isn’t e-exactly normal. Honestly, it’s kind of impressive no one asked sooner. In hindsight, people probably-probably did, but I usually had my nose too deep in a book to notice.
"She… I think she asked if it was natural. If I dyed it. I told her I just came out of the womb a troll doll—those were huge at the time, Morty, those fuckers were everywhere—and she laughed. Asked me if she could touch it."
Morty laughed, astounded. "What- did you let her?"
Rick’s smile looked nearly bashful. "Heh, y-you bet I did. She-she ruffled my hair, really tried to mess it up, yelled something about it looking the exact same as it had before. I n-never really combed it, and—and it was a miracle I pried myself away from my project that day to wash it, so it was always just an unruly puffball. Kind of like now, but fuller, and less starfish-y. No bald spot, obviously. You–you better hope you get your dad’s genetics there, about the only good his sorry genes could do for you.
"An-anyway, we kept talking, and eventually her dad showed up to take her home. She went to public school and her dad- her dad worked late, so she would come to the library and wait for him. That’s probably—probably why she was so wicked smart, for someone that went to school.
"But—but she left for the day, after saying goodbye. Told me she’d 'see me tomorrow'…" Rick trailed off, staring at nothing. He was idly scratching the back of his head, other hand fiddling with some loose screws, or tapping at the workbench.
"So- so did you? See her the next day?" Morty pressed.
"No, uh, I didn’t," he chuckled. "I stayed home and worked on whatever doo-dad I was building. I think... I think I was dismantling a toaster?"
Morty shot him a searing look of disapproval, and he rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, okay, Johnny Bravo. Not everyone is desperate like you. I did see her the day after that. I wasn’t, uh… the most social person. Didn’t know how to keep friends, and didn’t really feel the need. In my mind, I just didn’t need to use the library that day, so I didn’t go. When I got there, there she was, pissed that I didn’t show up and ‘save her from overwhelming boredom,’ and that her ‘living troll doll’ was nowhere to be found. Looking back, it was hilarious, and she would tease me about it all the time, but when it happened... I was a little intimidated, Morty. I must’ve looked it, too, because she stopped and told me she was kidding. Invited me over to read with her."
"S-so… there was no police drone?"
"‘Police drone?’ What? Why would there be—there weren’t even computers, Morty, why would–?"
"N-never mind! For-for-forget I said anything!"
Rick stared at him like he’d grown a Glabflorpian’s fourth eye before moving on.
"We—it continued like that, for a while. I’d show up around when she got out of school, even if I had nothing to do there that day, and I’d listen to her talk. She’d tell me about all the latest high school drama, affairs between teachers, the whole nasty works. Sometimes, she’d ask for help with her homework, but I’m—she was definitely smart enough, so—I’m pretty sure she was just making excuses to make me talk. I, uh, used to be more of a listener. M-Morty, shut the fuck up, I-I-I’m not lying. She’d ask, and I’d tell her about my latest experiment, the newest drug I’d tested, and how I might augment it for the next trial. S-stuff like that."
Morty was about to tease him for being such a gameless nerd, but...
("Seems like losing me made you cooler," Diane said.)
...It wasn’t funny anymore.
"She was genuinely interested. Actually seemed to understand a lot of what I was saying, too." Rick shifted in his chair. "She’d come back a day later, full of questions like she’d done more research, and we’d talk for hours about whatever biological process or feat of engineering I was working with, or that she’d heard about at school, or on the radio. I’d never… never had that before. Someone who actually understood what I was talking about, or at least put in the effort to. I remember building that computer—I mean actually finishing it, the screen lit up and everything, I even– the console printed ‘Hello, world,’ it wasn’t even just binary. It–it was impressive, even for me. Took me months. I was so excited to show it to my parents—well, I knew my father wouldn’t care, but—as soon as Ma got home, I dragged her to my room and booted it up, and…"
He smiled wryly, looking at his shoes.
"...And she just nodded. Asked me what I wanted for dinner."
Rick swallowed. It took a moment, but when he continued, his voice was soft.
"With Diane—when I showed her stuff like that, her eyes lit up like quasars. Every weekday, I’d wake up and try to find something else to show her, figure out what to make that would really blow her socks off. This one time, I made her a—"
He sobered. Morty watched his expression fall.
"...I—I remember… there was this one time," he said. "That day, she showed up late. Her face—she was—she was really upset. Frustrated. I asked her what was wrong. She—she said they gave her detention. Th-That she’d skipped her home economics class to-to join the shop class instead. Actually—she’d been doing it every day. It was just that, that p-particular day, one of the other teachers caught her."
Rick sighed, looking to the wall. "The '60s—there was no—no 'Title Nine,' yet, so if you weren’t lucky, or you were in the wrong state…" He rolled his neck.
"...Well, schools were technically co-ed, mostly, b-but there were differences. F-for one, girls couldn’t wear pants or shorts. That’s something else she—but, but anyway, they also had to take home economics instead of a shop—a construction class, like the boys did. Learn how to clean a house, cook meals, take care of kids, th-that sort of thing. Oh, it was—it was still segregated, too. Racially. That-that was, uh… t-terrible. So—yeah.
"But she finished ranting to me, and—m-my parents—they were more... traditional. Especially my dad. I… I didn’t leave the house much, beyond the library, so I was, uh... sh-sheltered, I guess. Not a lot of different 'P-O-V's for me to hear. I-I looked at her, and I—" he swallowed, rubbing at his eyes for a moment, "m-my dumb little ass—I said, 'well, yeah, you’re a girl. When will you ever use a hammer?'"
Morty watched him, how his throat spasmed and his head shook.
"I-I-I’ll never forget how she looked at me. How… betrayed she looked. Like she couldn’t believe that, for all I seemed to know, I was still just—just ignorant like everyone else. Sh-she started tearing up, and before I could—before I could say anything, or show her what I’d made, she... she stormed off."
He said nothing for a moment. Contemplative.
"Sometimes…" He paused, hand moving to cover his mouth, thumb rubbing at his nose.
"Sometimes, I-I wish I’d just—d-doubled down. Let her see how much of a—how much of a little asshole I was so that she’d never forgive me. So that she—so that we never—"
He choked on air, turning away with a gasping breath.
When he finally continued, he was quiet.
"...She didn’t even see it. It was a Spathiphyllum—a peace lily, her- her favorite flower. It was just a little sprout, then, didn’t- didn't have any blooms or anything, but I’d, uh… modified it. To grow four times as fast and… s-spread. The blooms- I’d made the flowers turn—" his breath rattled.
"Turquoise," he finished.
He took a moment, picking at the skin of his hand.
"...I couldn’t understand why she was so upset, at first. I thought: 'statistically, most women would need to know how to- to take care of a house, and cook dinner, and their- they would just let their husbands build stuff or fix appliances, right?' You know, like most assholes with that mindset did. I just sat there, after she left, and went back to reading whatever dumb nerd shit I’d picked out for the day. When she didn’t come back, I went home and figured—figured she’d be over it tomorrow. And so I went to sleep, and came back the next day.
"I waited for her to show up, like I normally did. And I kept waiting. Figured she- she’d just gotten detention again or something. When the library was closing for the night and she still wasn’t there, I thought maybe she was just sick, or something came up and she had to miss school. The next day... same deal.
"On the third day, I showed up with nothing but the plant. No plans to read, nothing I wanted to learn—and I just- I just sat there. Waiting for her to show. I guess I thought she’d just get over it, and we could go back to h-hanging out. But the hours passed, and with nothing to do—my mind wandered. Started thinking about what I’d said, actually putting myself in her shoes. You’d think I would’ve figured it out sooner, all this—" He knocked his forehead with his fist, "—brain in here, but I’ve just always been inconsiderate, I guess." He laughed humorlessly.
"...To be so smart, so motivated to learn and create something new, and then d-denied that opportunity just because you have the wrong set of parts…
"...and I’d just… brushed her off. Like she deserved it."
Rick lowered his gaze. Morty could barely see his face, but what he could make out was overflowing with remorse.
"The fourth day, I didn’t go to the library. I knew she wouldn’t be there. Left the lily on my desk—it was budding. I spent that morning digging through the garage, loading what I needed into a milk crate, until nothing else would fit. I picked it up and started walking.
"There was only one high school in town, not too far from the library. She usually showed up around 3:45, so I figured school had to let out around 3:30. I left at 3:00. It was freezing outside, and it had been raining all week, but the crate was so heavy—I mean, I-I’m a skinny guy now, but imagine 16-year-old bookworm me—everything I’d brought was so heavy that I couldn’t hold an umbrella without dropping it all."
He smiled.
"It was about 3:40 when I got there. I was sopping wet, and—and my arms were about to give out, but more than anything, I was terrified I was too late. The school must've let out earlier than I thought—there was almost no one around, just a few stragglers hanging around under trees, or awnings, out of the rain. I-I was freaking out, thought I was going to have to walk all the way back and do it all again tomorrow—and then I saw her.
"She was sitting on some steps at the back entrance. I remember—she was wearing the most god awful, ugly skirt—She’d been dress coded again. She refused to show up in anything but pants. But—she was watching me. Her- her stare, it was—piercing. Terrifying. I’m pretty sure I was shaking like a leaf, more from the eye contact than the cold, but I walked up to her, box in hand.
"Wh-when I got to her, I set it down. I pulled off the plastic cover and started taking everything out, one by one, laying it down in front of her. A box of screws, some safety glasses, a pair of thick gloves. The state-of-the-art electric jigsaw I’d gotten for Christmas that year. And—and my dad’s b-brand new power drill.
"...I held the drill, offered it to her, a-and said: ‘So that you never have to use a hammer.’" He chuckled, shaking his head.
"She- she grabbed it, set it down next to her, and I pulled a hammer out of my pocket. Held it out for her. Said: 'but, if you want to… there’s nothing wrong with that, either.'"
Rick’s smile turned so sweet. Morty didn’t think he’d ever seen his face painted quite like that.
"...She took it from me. Looked at it for a bit. Her face was still completely flat, hadn’t changed at all since I’d approached her—but then she stood up, hammer in hand. She took a step towards me—I nearly shat myself, I thought for sure she was going to bash my brains in, probably would’ve deserved it too—and wrapped me in the biggest hug.
"She whispered in my ear—'thank you, Rick,'—and kissed my cheek."
Rick idly rubbed below his eye with two fingers, one arm wrapped around his body.
"...I’ve never been much of a hugger, even then. Makes my skin crawl. But… that day, I decided…
"...maybe hugs were okay, if- if they came from her."
Then he made a noise—Morty would almost have called it a giggle if that were something Rick did—before continuing. "She let me go, and oh-so-smugly informed me that my hair did, in fact, look different in the rain. We talked like that for what felt like hours, shoving each other back and forth, bantering until it hurt to laugh. I was showing her how to use the jigsaw when her dad pulled up, and she asked him if he could drop me off at home, too. He didn’t look too happy about it—I mean, I was still drenched, p-probably looked and smelled like a wet rat—but that, uh, wasn’t the only reason, I guess." Rick’s expression twisted into a frown, and Morty barely refrained from asking what he meant. "...He agreed, though, so I didn’t have to walk all the way back in the rain."
With a half-grin, he continued. "We got back to my house first, and she—heh, she walked me to the door, like a real gentle-lady. Smiled and told me she’d ‘see me tomorrow.’ My dear old father—he beat my ass when he found out what I did with his brand new drill and the rest of the stuff from the garage—but, when I showed up to the library the next day, and Diane was there to see the peace lily finally bloom…
"It was totally worth it," he whispered.
Rick was quiet for a beat. Completely still, no longer fidgeting with the contents of his pockets, or whatever junk lined the surface of his desk.
"Sh-she was… she was my first real friend. My best friend. My parents weren’t big on homeschooling groups—they really didn't- really didn't exist, then—and I didn’t have any siblings, so I didn’t have very many peers. Even if I did, I don’t think it would’ve changed much. I wasn’t really interested.
"...But Diane... seeing her, it…
"...it was the highlight of my day."
The room was silent for a while. Rick stared at the wall, unmoving as if in a trance.
It was only when Morty yawned that he jolted in place, coming back to himself with a start. Morty watched as Rick’s wide eyes swiveled to his, blinking away some emotion Morty couldn’t identify before turning to face the garage door, away from him. Almost like he was embarrassed.
"...Well, uh, those- those were the cliff notes, I guess. Hope that sated your weird, sudden obsession, M-Morty."
Morty watched him. He was being weird, back stiff and shoulders hunched. He’d pulled something out of his wallet and was fiddling with it in his hands, in front of him where Morty couldn’t see.
"Yeah, uh, th-thanks, Rick. I really- really appreciate it. Really. She sounds…"
Amazing. Incredible. Unforgettable.
Irreplaceable.
"...Really wonderful. I-I wish… I wish I got to meet her."
Rick let out a choked sound at that—Morty thought maybe a hiccup—before he cleared his throat.
Morty was so tired, he thought he saw Rick’s shoulders shake.
"Yeah, you—you’re welc—d-don’t mention it."
They sat in not-so-comfortable silence after that. Morty was drained—thinking felt like moving each word manually through molasses.
...The fear hole, he concluded, did work like a dream. For one, their first meeting didn’t involve a police drone Rick built for the feds.
But his grandma… it sounds like that version of her wasn’t too far off. Maybe that part was pulled from Rick’s downloaded brain? Her personality?
He thought back to Prime, and every other Rick who abandoned his family for a piece of infinity.
"Rick… did every Rick meet their- their Diane the same way? Or at least—most of them?"
Rick sighed. "Morty, a-are you familiar with the book 'If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,' or was that reference lost on you?" His voice was hoarse with exhaustion, but there was something else about it.
"I-I’m familiar, obviously. I mean, who-who isn’t? But–"
"There’s no such thing as 'most' when dealing in infinites, Morty, but—but, yes. Most Ricks have… roughly the same sappy story."
"Even—?"
"Yes," he hissed.
"...Even him."
Morty wanted to ask. How could someone possibly go from that—a story straight from a Hallmark special, practically soulmates, to...
...But Morty looked at Rick, his lowered head, body stiff, and knew he was at his limit. He couldn’t bring himself to push it.
"Uh... thanks again, Rick. I mean it. I—I’m sorry I was so weird about it. Should've just asked normally, when you weren’t busy."
Rick said nothing. The morning sun was bleeding through the edges of the garage door.
"F-for what it’s worth… I’m really glad you made up with Diane and-and got together in the end. I mean—If you hadn’t, I-I never would’ve met you, right?"
Rick flinched, hand moving from whatever he was holding to cover his mouth. He lowered it after a moment and turned his head just slightly to look at Morty over his shoulder, from the corner of his vision.
Morty barely caught the red-tinged line of his puffy eye.
Oh shit.
"...Get some sleep, kid."
It dawned on Morty. He’d been crying.
"Ha- Uh, w-will do, Rick!"
Sober crying.
He tossed a quick ‘goodnight’ to Rick, scrambling to leave. It was only from the new angle of the door, when Morty looked back one last time, that he saw the crinkled photograph in Rick’s hands.
For the first time in a week, as he lay in bed, Morty didn’t wrestle thoughts of the hole for a chance to sleep. He didn’t agonize over the true origin of his fake-grandmother’s personality, or fake-family dynamics. He didn’t see the light of his alarm clock go dark, nor hear the crash of bottles breaking in the garage.
For the first time in a week,
Morty slept.