Chapter Text
Fine.
Prime could admit it. He cared for Morty. Deeply.
Now, he could finally do what he was afraid to do all those years ago. What he should've done. Take Morty with him. They'd go on adventures, anywhere in the whole fucking multi-universe. Anywhere his grandson wanted.
Oh, wait. Right. He kind of forgot to account for a teensy, tiny, little detail.
The kid didn't even remember him. Shit. Ughhh. This is soooo annoying.
Prime just wanted his grandson back. Dead Wife didn't deserve his cute little grandson. That bastard. He doesn't even treat the boy right. He was waaay too irresponsible. Like, c'mon. Dead Wife had all these trackers and shit implanted in Morty, but he couldn't even be bothered to make sure the boy was okay? Seriously. Prime was especially pissed after that fuckass Mr. Jellybean incident. Where the hell was Dead Wife while his grandson was being assaulted?
Prime was the one who found Morty. He was the one who comforted the poor boy. He was the one who cleaned up the mess. It was all him, not shitty C-137.
The jellybean creep's cold corpse was completely unrecognizable by now. Prime had done a more than stellar job disposing of the pale creature.
Anyways, back to the grandson situation.
What should he even do about that? Well, he could just kidnap Morty. Buttt, there were a few flaws with that plan. For one, again, the boy didn't remember him. And while Prime was sure that Morty held a positive opinion of him for the time being, that's not guaranteed. Dead Wife could easily poison the boy against him if he so wished to.
Damn it. This actually sucks.
Ok, so that's a no go. What else is there? Well, he could always just…wait it out. But that's sooo fucking boring. Well, there isn't any other option, is there?
…
Thought so. And besides, Morty will probably get his memories back eventually. He is his grandson, afterall. The boy can be pretty damn smart at times. Prime believes in Morty. And after the boy gets his memories back, Prime can snatch him away. Away from Dead Wife. Ha. No more grandson for him.
In the meantime, Prime thought that he should busy himself with making C-137's life miserable. You know, for stealing his grandson.
Yea, sounds like a good plan.
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Smoke and ash. Singed cooper. A blurry, but familiar silhouette on the edge of his bed.
The darkly dressed figure was faintly humming a tune. It was…nice. Morty wondered who this man was, and why he looked oh, so familiar?
The boy picked up a faint whiff of strawberries and floral laundry detergent.
As Morty glanced up, hoping to catch a glimpse of what the mysterious person looked like, he was met with a blurry shape of a face.
What the fuck?
The features were all smudged: eyes, nose, and mouth blended together into indistinct smears of colors. It was as if someone ran their hands through a wet painting.
The figure outstretched their arm, reaching down towards the boy's head. Lightly planting a palm in Morty's brown, chocolate hair, the blurry man started gently stroking the child's head.
Morty woke up abruptly, his eyes immediately fluttering open.
???
What was that? What kind of dream was that? Uh…was it even a dream? However, the boy felt that it was waay too real. A memory, perhaps? But, then why couldn't he fully remember it? And why couldn't he remember the face behind the memory?
All the boy remembered was feeling…warm? Like a satisfied, bubbly feeling in his chest.
It was pleasant.
And Morty…well, he wanted it to be real. He desperately wanted to have the knowledge that someone actually cared about him. Cared enough to spare a small scrap of tenderness. Someone whose contact was gentle, instead of rough, or absent. He wanted someone who could tolerate touching him, as if the boy was…well, a boy, and not some kind of rare disease. He couldn't bare the thought that his mind might've just made that entire thing up because of how starved for affection he was.
Morty wanted to choose to believe that it wasn't a dream. But realistically, no one cared for him like that. Not Summer, or Beth, or Jerry. Not even Rick. Sure, Summer loves him…probably. But, not enough to openly be warm to him. And his parents cared about him to an extent, just, not enough. They probably didn't even like him.
.
.
.
Well, he shouldn't keep thinking about this. It's just making him upset.
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Morty tried to zoom in on the person's face, attempting to clearly make out all the features. However, the more he tried recalling the face, the more washed out it appeared. It was like looking through thick television static or fog. The whole memory of this person was cloudy.
Why…why couldn't he remember?
"-orty?" A pale hand came into the boy's view.
"O-oh. Yes-yes. Did you call Summer?" The older girl raised an unamused eyebrow.
"I asked if you, like, wanted hot cocoa. Dad's making it. Said something about how it's the perfect time for it, with the weather getting colder or whatever."
"Oh. Um…y-yea. Sure." Summer stared at her brother for a couple of seconds before turning towards the kitchen. Morty padded shortly behind the older teen.
"Oh, hey kiddos! You're just in time. The hot cocoa is almost done." Morty and Summer took a seat at the dining table, as Jerry came in and set down their steaming mugs.
Morty looked down at his cup. There were two giant marshmallows bobbing up and down in the brown liquid.
"Hey, grandson. You ever tried dipping poptarts in hot cocoa?" The boy made a face at that.
"Gross, grandpop. Why-why would you even suggest that?" There was a playful glint in the man's gray blue eyes.
Grandpop? Was this Rick? No, no. It couldn't be. Rick doesn't sound like that. This voice was smooth, and clear. Besides, Rick hated poptarts with a passion, and frequently mocked Morty's love for them. He also…wait. Wait, wait, wait. The eyes. Gray blue?
As the trio, well, more like duo actually-Morty was a little spaced out at the moment-were enjoying their drinks, Rick stumbled into the kitchen. The man rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, probably looking for his wafers.
"Has any-anyone seen my w-wafers?" Summer silently answered by pointing to the right upper cabinet.
"T-thanks, sweetie." Before Rick could saunter out, in a somewhat surprising act, Jerry offered the scientist some hot cocoa.
"N-nah. That shit-shit tastes like-urrp-sewage water. Much rather drink booooze." Rick slurred out.
"I make the best hot cocoa, right Poptart?" At that, the boy vigorously nodded. The man gave an amused chuckle at the gesture.
His grandpop's hot cocoa was rich, warm, and creamy. The liquid gold felt velvety on Morty's tongue. There were two giant marshmallows. They had goofy faces shakily drawn on by the man using an edible marker, and were stuck on top of the whipped cream. One marshmallow vaguely resembled Morty, while the other was a shitty drawing of his grandpop's(?) face. The drink was poured in a colorful Psyduck mug that the man had impulsively bought. He saw the yellow, weirdly shaped mug in passing while on a short mission. It was in a window display, and the blue-haired scientist knew his grandson's favorite Pokemon was Psyduck. So, he bought it because he thought the boy would like it. He was right in that assumption.
The blurry faced man had always made the hot cocoa exactly the way Morty liked it. It brought the child deep comfort.
"You know, I never understood why people like alcohol so much. That shit tastes like straight ass. Hot cocoa's soooo much better." The smirk the man had on held a smug, confident edge to it.
Hold on. Backtrack a little. Blue hair? The figure's hair was a darker, grayer blue than Rick's. And where…where had he seen that exact same smirk before?
Oh.
He's seen it while looking in his mirror.