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There is something Rick needs from Morty. Something very important, Morty thinks, even if he doesn't know what. It will take him a long time to realize what has been done to him, but he will, eventually, understand.
Morty didn't know what made him so special. As far as he remembers, he was just a regular-old teenage boy. He went to school, jerked off, had a crush on a girl, jerked off, did his homework, jerked off etc etc. But apparently, there was something special about him. Something that made Rick want to dig his bony fingers into him, and never let go.
Rick made sure of it too. Made sure Morty would never leave. Made sure he was attached to him, infinitely, across the entire multiverse. He grew Morty like a bonsai tree, cutting and pruning where and when he needs, shaping him to twist around Rick endlessly, their roots so deeply intertwined any attempt to escape would ruin them both.
Morty grows. He craves Rick's approval, his acceptance, his love. He spins and spins, his moral compass orienting itself to Rick's magnetism. Rick is the supermassive black hole at the center of the universe. He is God. You can't beat him. You can't escape him. You can only accept what he decides to give you for your worship.
Morty became an extension of his grandfather. A sixth finger, a third butt cheeck, a second heart. Or maybe a doner liver. He wasn't sure what he was but he knew where his bloodstream came from. A limb can't survive without the body. So he adapted. God, had he learned to adapt. If Rick craved worship, Morty would give it. The naive wonder in his eyes has long since been fake. He'd memorized the screwdrivers, he knew where to get Rick's booze and his drugs. He'd learned to fireman carry Rick's limp gangly body, and it only got easier as he grew. The yelling and the cursing, sharp knives Rick stabbed into Morty's most tender parts, they still hurt. But they were repetative enough to get used to. Morty had a purpose, a faith of some kind, and it was more than most people ever got.
The dogma was simple enough. Nothing matters. Until it suddenly fucking does. And Morty might be stupid, but since Rick had made him a part of himself, he couldn't help but notice. Rick lies. In a pathetic, human way, he lies and lies. He has molded Morty to be an extension of him, his acolyte, his fucking avatar. But after everything the only thing Morty could find in him was this lowly, sickly human need.
Not the desire of a god to be rightfully worshipped. Just a whiny little sack of meat crawling on the floor, covered in his own piss, begging to be loved.
What was it all for, then? Morty had so much of himself removed, almost surgically, by Rick. He didn't even know if there was anything else left. So he held on to what he had. He couldn't hate Rick. It would be like hating the universe itself. Like hating the light, or the air he breathes, or his own skin. He couldn't hate Rick, because there was nothing but Rick. And yet he did.
A small man. A weak, sad man. A man clinging to Morty like an old abandoned dog. Pet him, bring him food, speak in a soft voice. Nothing matters. Do whatever you want. If God wants you to have him, why refuse?
Anything you want, for the small price of selling your soul! Cut it up in the right shape, make macaroni art from it, put it on the fridge - if daddy likes it, then everything's okay! What movies did you use to like? What songs? Did you think blood is yucky? You can't remember, huh. Doesn't matter now. Nothing matters.
It festers. The smell of rot and vomit sneaks through their RV ship. Still better than living with family. They just don't understand. The universe is their oyster. They can do whatever they want, truly. And if it mostly involves drinking and getting high and selling drugs and weapons and hooking up and then drinking and getting high again, over and over. Well. Just buy a fourth liver.
Still, these things were losing their intrigue by the day. There are only so many kinds of high you can have until they all feel the same. Morty looked like he slept under the intergalactic highway and smelled like death. Everything hurt. But at least it made Rick happy. Kind of?
Rick was never happy. But recently he's been even unhappy-er. And it's not like Morty hasn't been trying. But this mood hanging over Rick was different. Somehow it seemed like Morty made it worse. When Rick looked at him, really looked at him, his eyes would glaze over, his brows furrowed. Something different from sadness. Guilt.
It pissed the fuck out of Morty. One fucking thing he was supposed to do and he was still failing. This old sack of shit spent years and years making sure he had a nurse that would keep his wrinkly ass wiped, and was now getting all sad and regretful about it. What a dick.
Morty's hands itched for something different. It was strange. He couldn't define himself by what he wanted, but he could by what he didn't. Rick wanted to drink and fuck and get high. Morty didn't. He didn't crave it like Rick did. So he stopped.
"A man with an ego so big you could grab it like a joystick" his other self once said. He always knew what it meant. But he was too scared to reach his hand out. It was easy now. Just a little push in the right direction. They could be God, together. Nothing matters. Bend the universe over and fuck her how you like. Enjoy the ride and pay the price. How stupid.
Rick knew. Rick always knew, everything. Of course he'd figure out Morty's childish attempts at manipulation. And if there was anything Rick craved more than love, more than worship, was absolute and total control. Morty was so focused on what he wasn't, he forgot what he was. He was Rick's. The truth of it became so clear, so fundamental, Morty didn't know how he could've forgotten. He was a whiny little sack of meat, crawling on the floor, begging for forgiveness. It didn't work.
It was that look again. Disgust and regret and guilt so striking it gave Morty whiplash. Rick wanted to leave. Morty didn't. His hands itched for something different.
The way he grabbed Rick, it was out of despair. His body moved itself to stop him from leaving. He wasn't expecting Rick to fight back. He wasn't expecting himself to fight back ether. He wasn't expecting to win.
Rick was an old man. His body was frail and weak. They both had cybernetic implants.
BAM BAM BAM
Morty didn't stop until Rick went limp in his arms.
Rick's face was covered in blood and snot and both of their tears. His breath was shallow and he was spitting out teeth. But despite the gore, despite the pain, Rick's single open eye was completely and utterly focused on Morty. They've always had the same eyes. Maybe that's why it was so easy to read the fear in them. Morty's stomach felt funny.
Have me have me have me. You wanted this. You wanted me all to yourself. And now you want to leave? You think that will make it better? I know how to do nothing but love you. I can't stop it. I can't help it. I won't let you take this away from me. Stay. Please stay. Please please please.
Morty was rambling and he was crying and he was holding Rick's bony neck in his hands. He knew how easy it was to snap, and the though of it sent tingles down his spine. Something was definitely wrong with him. Something Rick must've forgotten to remove. This urge growing like a cancer inside him, day by day, so slow they missed it.
It was okay though. Rick would fix. He put his scrawny hand on Morty's shoulder. It was trembling.
Morty went down easily, the fight and anger leaving as fast as they came. He was crashing Rick with his weight but he refused to move. Rick hasn't hugged him since Morty was a teenager. It was nice.
***
Rick fucked up.
Morty was trembling in his arms. He was clinging to him with all his strength. They were laying on the floor, tangled up in a mess of blood and limbs. The fucker wasn't tall, not taller than Rick, but he had grown muscle Rick never could. Rick's old metallic ribs creaked under the weight. His face hurt. It's been a long time since someone had beaten him this hard. He pet Morty's head.
Manipulative little shit.
Rick wasn't sure when it started. He was too drunk and high to notice for a long time. His bottle was never empty, his veins always pumping some sort of drug through him. Morty made sure of that.
But Rick, even at his stupidest, was still smarter than most. After awhile he noticed something off. Morty's glass of rum and coke, or whatever pussy shit he drinks, it was never empty. He would hold it in his hand, bring it to his lips, and never take a sip. He was so natural about it too, distracting Rick with jokes and conversations, acting like a drunk idiot, dancing and partying. But his eyes stayed sharp, following Rick through the crowd, watching his every move.
He would whisper something nice and funny. He would nudge him, gently. Two steps to the right, one step forward. Rick was following his whims and he didn't even notice.
He was using him. Morty was using Rick to get what he wanted, and Rick hadn't even noticed! Even after everything he'd given Morty, he still wanted more. They all did.
It felt like betrayal. It hurt more than every other backstabbing bitch ever did. He let the boy into his heart, he practically raised him, he gave him things he'd never given anyone. He gave him everything, literally. The whole universe and more.
And it still wasn't enough.
Maybe Rick should've expected it.
He wanted someone to love him, unconditionally. Something harmless and small, something he could let in behind his walls without fear of getting hurt. And Morty had been so tiny, so soft, so pliable. Unsure of himself in every way possible. Still, he was Rick's grandson. He had his blood, his DNA, his eyes. He had potential. A core inside of him that wouldn't break.
But even puppies had claws that needed cutting. Muzzles to keep them from biting. A leash to stop them from running away.
Morty was a good boy. Needy, easy to train. Rick wanted him all to himself. He needed it more than he could ever admit. This toxic sludge swirling in his stomach. This unhealthy attachment. He let it take over.
The seeds were planted by him a long time ago, and now he was reaping the crops. Maybe he put too much of himself inside. Did he really expect his grandson to grow into a shorkie?
Rick thought he got exactly what he wanted.
A partner in crime. A son. A family. A brother in arms. A dog. A nanny. A drinking buddy.
Someone who was like him. Morty had his skill, his weapons, his knowledge, his connections, his taste in music, his philosophy.
So was it really a surprise that he'd become a manipulative bastard? How many times had Rick done it to others? How many times had he done it to Morty?
Rick was angry. He was sad and guilty and perverted. The urge to leave was sudden and overwhelming, so much so that he actually started packing his shit.
It was a noble wish. To leave Morty alone, finally. To let the kid figure himself out, start his own life. A healthier future, one where Rick isn't poisoning his heart and mind with his narcissistic bullshit.
Morty didn't want him to leave of course. That was expected. He cried and clung to him, looking actually, genuinely, pathetic. Kicked puppy vibes, except the puppy is in his mid twenties and is technically an emancipated adult. Rick shoved him off and went for his space car, determined.
What wasn't expected was Morty slamming Rick against the door. Grabbing him by his shirt, roughly, pinning him down. He was mad and feverish, moved by despair and addiction.
Rick tried to push him off. When it didn't work, he tried harder. Morty still managed to hold him down.
Panic rose in his throat and Rick threw the first punch without thinking. The position was awkward, he couldn't bring his arm back far enough, but he managed to land knuckle to jaw with a quiet slap. Morty barely flinched. They inhaled the stale air sharply.
Morty had a heavy hand. No shit. It was Rick who taught him how to punch. But Rick, even in his prime, was slim and wiry, winning mostly by using his brain, not brawn. Still, he could always hold his own in a fight. Not this time.
Such a weird feeling. A primal, animalistic fear. An opponent who was truly stronger. Who could pin you down and pummel you until your face turned into red mush. It makes your instinct kick in, your body seize, cover your face with your hands, knees to chest, protect the vital organs. Higher brain functions turn off, and you forget about the tazer in your arm, and the morphine in your spine and even the ability to scream.
Rick wished that was all it was. No matter how much he'd liked to pretend otherwise, he was still just an ape wearing clothes. Panic and fear weren't unusual. Even losing wasn't something unfamiliar.
It was Morty. It was Morty, with so much rage and hurt and fear in his eyes. It was Morty, wearing the face of the broken man Rick has been watching in the mirror for the last fifty years. Utterly lost in the man that ruined his life.
All fight left Rick at once. He couldn't fight this. The punches stopped.
For a brief moment, it was just their heavy breaths filling the empty space between them. Then, Morty broke. The endless pit of need and obsession Rick kept locked deep in his lungs, that oily, dirty feeling. Morty had it too. It leaked through his mouth and eyes and nose along with tears and snot and heavy, desperate words. Have me.
He rambled on and on. It didn't make sense, but Rick understood. Morty just said the things Rick never could.
It was horrible. The honey, tooth rotting, bubbly happiness that rose to Rick's throat like bile.
Rick got everything he's ever wanted.
He was trembling. He needed to hold Morty. They needed to hold it each other, or they'd fall apart.
Rick couldn't leave. Morty wouldn't let him. He would lie and cry and scream and hunt Rick down if he had to.
Manipulative little shit.
It's what Rick would do, too.