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“MOORHGTY! Morty!”
Rick Sanchez, a god of gods, is slamming his fists on the ground like a toddler. His irritated groans are washed over by burps and belches, driving him deeper into his rage. He kicks at a rolling chair rapidly like the muscle reflex of a dead rabbit’s leg. The world spins, a familiar cold lacing the ground.
“R-Rick. What happened this, this time, pal? It’s real late.”
A blinding white pierces the room, following a faint clicking noise signifying the flick of a light switch.
“Why are you—why are you, FUCK! You little piece of—shit! Are y-you trying to make me see god? Because the, the mirror’s right there! Just—UUrrgh—just shove it in my face and I’ll get the idea! I’mhhhghh…”
Morty holds in a sigh as he watches his grandpa thrash. He’s wearing his signature yellow shirt, paired with spare shorts instead of his usual jeans. The edges of his sleeves seem to be worn, stains of unidentifiable purple goo splattered across his torso. There was no time to change into his pajamas by the time they got home from their last adventure.
His lips don’t even begin to curl up in disgust as a wet patch starts to form on the man’s brown pants.
“Okay, I-I-I’m not gonna ‘humor’ you this time. I learned my, my fucking lesson from last week. Get up.”
As expected, Rick mutters out a few venomous ‘fuck you’s and half-finished insults whilst his hands scramble towards nothing, his legs unwilling to move the way he wants them to. They twitch and bend in opposite directions, making him grit his teeth as he feels a charley horse coming on.
Suddenly, small hands grip on both sides of his torso, hoisting him upwards. He makes grunts of rebellion as he weakly beats at them with his fist.
“LLLET, let me gOhhhh…”
Almost comedically, his head drops on his grandson’s shoulder in an instant, soft snoring beginning to rumble from his chest.
Exhaustion carves dark circles under Morty’s eyes as he drags Rick up and into the dimly lit hallway. The feeling of mucus drooling down his back doesn’t seem to faze him anymore—he only hopes that the wafting smell of urine and strange alien substances doesn’t wake the rest of the family. That is, if the incessant yelling didn’t get them up already.
Rick’s bedroom smells substantially worse than its owner does, which has to be some sort of achievement. It’s been a while since Morty’s gotten a chance to take a good look at his grandpa’s room.
A metallic thud echoes out, and the boy winces, realizing he’d hit Rick’s head on one of the dingy legs holding up the bed. The sudden intrusion automatically triggers one of the millions of defense mechanisms littering his grandpa’s body, laser rays popping out of a hatch in his forehead and pointing directly towards Morty’s chest. For a long, debilitating moment, his traitorous mind decides whether or not to move.
“S-stop, just, just stop, already, Rick…” he whispers out in exasperation, more to himself if anything.
He quickly shifts the direction of the rays, causing the electric bullets to bounce around the room as if searching for a target. He crouches as he listens to the sizzling of wallpaper and the clatter of objects, shielding his unconscious grandpa with his body by cradling him closer. A flash of light grazes his cheek and sears a few strands of hair. Within a few seconds, the room drops silent.
An analogue clock under the bed ticks upwards, reading 3:57 AM.
“Y-y’know, Rick, I have school tomorrow. Or, or just, today, I don’t f-fucking know. You can’t keep, keep pulling this shit.”
Morty doesn’t actually want him to wake up, but he blabbers on anyways. Quietly. With caution. Always with caution, when it’s with grandpa.
Rick continues to snore in response, a trickle of drool trailing down the corners of his lips. He’s pulled up gently onto the bed.
“…And I g-get it, school doesn’t matter, but, but people flinch when I enter a fuck-fucking room. Like, it was a power thing at first, but—but then they started staring at me like a god to be feared. The-the way people look at you. I don’t want to be like you. I d-don’t want to be anything like..”
“Ma…”
Huh?
Morty tenses. It now hits him that he really, really doesn’t want him to wake up. He thinks if he gets berated (or hit, or threatened with a knife, or taught a lesson in a cruel, unconventional manner) right now, he’ll cry.
“Mma..”
Rick reaches towards Morty’s arms, gripping onto them.
The kid swallows, hard.
“U-uh, no, I’m, I’m—“
He watches his grandpa hum contently, shuffling closer towards his body heat, causing the bed to creak. He looks so at peace. The seemingly permanent furrow of his brow has dissipated, the mattress swallowing the man in its tender embrace.
Sometimes, Morty hates the way his own gut twists when he looks up at Rick. The universe has bred him to be empathetic, infinitely. His intestines seem to wrap around itself, a deep, guttural pain that sprawls upwards to move his mouth.
“Y-yeah. It’s, uhm. It’s me, Rick. Go, go to sleep now, okay? Staying up isn’t good for you.”
The man grumbles lowly—something about needing to get a project done. Morty stares dispassionately down at the pathetic silhouette squirming beneath him, then begins to softly card his baby fat hands through silver blue hair.
“None of that. Get your ass knocked out b-before I do it for you.”
Rick curls up into a comfortable ball, snickering lazily to himself.
“Sttay…”
Not even a second passes.
“Okay.”
He isn’t in control of himself as he crawls up onto the bed, limbs sore and cheek beginning to burn from the lasers. Oh, right. The lasers.
His eyes scan the room whilst he mindlessly nudges Rick’s head onto his lap. Many plastic tubes are scattered across the ground. Parts of the wall are melted. A curious glowing pearl lies shattered on the ground. His heart pulses quietly in his chest, pumping the iron he can already taste in his mouth as he acknowledges that he will likely be hollered at in the morning. There is a hollow ache in his chest, blooming from his lungs and letting its dead petals flow through his veins.
He begins to hum a lullaby, one that a toddler Morty listened to over and over on his iPad as he paid no mind to the tinkering of glass and wine behind him. He rocks gently. His arms cradle his grandpa the way he always wanted to be cradled—a sea of warmth holding him, absorbing him. Bringing him with the currents as he lies breathless, eyes glued onto the stars above. They dazzle and dance around the clouds. Iridescent shimmer rains down towards the ground beneath them, revealing the watercolor of purples and blues behind the speckled white.
The universe is vast, massive, in this memory of a dream. You cannot reach it through a gun or a gadget. You cannot touch it at all. It is a reminder that there is always more.
He clutches the fabric of Rick’s clothes a tad too tight. Jealousy disrupts his haze.
You’re lucky that I’m not a Rick.
You’re lucky that someone would hold you this gently.
You’re lucky that you’re not me.
Sleep prods at the corners of Morty’s vision, the music vibrating from his throat growing slower and slurred. Rick is dead asleep with the faintest upward curve prodding at the corners of his mouth. The kid almost wants to break out into a sob as his brain understands that its mission is over, and starts pushing him towards the brink of unconsciousness.
—
“—ORRGHTY! What the fuck did you do?! You-you-you know that little sperm-colored ball was an egg,right? I told, told you not to fuck around with m-my shit!
Now it’s, it’s never gonna see the world, Morty! Its mother will be devastated! She paid me her life savings to make, make sure her baby would see tomorrow, and y-YOU just ruined every last hope I had o-of saving it!”
Morty is shaken awake, squinting as he attempts to adjust to his surroundings. Spittle is sprinkled all over his face, paired with the smell of alcohol drenched vomit. What he thought to be a shattered pearl from yesterday is pushed into his face.
His eyes flicker up at Rick, who is gritting his teeth in the way he does when he needs answers.
“She-she will mourn forever, Morty. She’ll probably kill herself! Look a-at what you’ve done, you little shit!
A-a-and, whatever ass music you put on last night, it made m-me want to put a bullet in my throat so bad that I passed oURRt.”
Morty doesn’t respond. He realizes that nobody will be his reprieve, here. Not even divinity, as it spits and sputters all over the kid’s face. His expression grows unreadable, lips whittled down to a thin line and bearing eyes of the dead. His posture is stiff beyond exhaustion. Decay loosens his muscles. Guilt prods at his ribs for his own lack of remorse.
He doesn’t notice Rick’s sudden silence when he jumps off the mattress, nor the funny look he gives him once he makes his way towards the living room. Not the furrow of his brow when he spots the seared face of his grandson. And, luckily, not the way he rolls his eyes afterwards, giving up any small possible notion of worry that had temporarily seized his judgement.
Morty dreams, that night. He dreams of the tide, purple, blue, and stars.
He dreams of being held, and the only face that stares back down from above is himself.