Work Text:
What the fuck.
The boy was sleeping, when he was jolted awake by a loud crash. Morty, still in his plain yellow pajamas, had rushed to investigate the noise that came from the garage.
When he got there, he saw that, in middle of the garage stood the lanky figure of a tall man.
Light blue hair. A familiar hooked nose. Morty had practically ingrained that prominent, curved bridge, and the tip that dropped downwards into his brain.
No fucking way. Grandpop?
The boy felt a tight, almost restricting, knot in his throat, and his limbs felt like lead. His eyes comically widened, and he could feel a ghost of a smile make its way onto his face, with the corners of the boy's lips slightly twitching. Something that felt dangerously like hope blossomed from the pit of his stomach. As Morty was about to open his mouth, he froze.
Cerulean blue eyes.
Wait…His grandpop had gray blue eyes, eyes that matched him. The stranger's gait was all wrong, too. The way the not grandpa carried himself was slurred, yet erratic at the same time. Morty's grandfather moved in a much calmer, smoother manner, like he always knew what he was doing. The boy felt as if he had cut a hole in the Arctic, and jumped straight in, plunging his entire body in temperatures enough to freeze his ass off.
The treacherous feeling that was hope quickly dissipated, replaced by pure disappointment and unease. Unease that slowly crept in like a damn parasite, digging and burrowing its way through muscles and flesh.
That's not his fucking grandfather.
When Morty looked more closely, he realized that even the hair was off. From the boy's memories, images of shorter, darker, less saturated hair appeared, along with the young face of his grandpa. The boy could practically taste the smoke and ash on the tip of his tongue. Strawberries and detergent trailed behind Prime like a ghost. That strange, distinct smell that clung onto the man.
The stranger in front of Morty reeked of cheap liquor and booze. The boy wrinkled his nose at the sharp, stinging scent of alcohol. Ew.
The man looked eerily like his grandfather, yet the features were all so wrong. It was like trying to force in a puzzle piece that looked like it would fit in the missing section, only to find that the shape was just a teensy bit off.
Who the hell is that?
A heavy, rolling feeling settled in the boy's gut like a crushing, acidic weight. Morty felt chilling pricks all over his back. Crawling, wriggling, and running along his bare skin, akin to a centipede. His heart hammered like a jackrabbit. Thumping, thumping, thumping. The boy forced himself to stay still, oh so very still, as if any sudden movement will cause the imposter to lash out. The air suddenly felt stupidly thin.
Mustering up what little courage he had, though, the action was mostly spurred out of curiosity rather than bravery, the boy nervously blurted out a question.
"Um…who-who are y-you?" The man's head snapped towards Morty, the boy flinching from the sudden action.
"Urrrp…right, you don't know me. I'm y-your grandpa."
"…" What?
"What?"
"Yeah…well I guess Beth never t-urrrp-old ya, huh?" Morty's mind came to a screeching halt. A dull, buzzing made its way up the boy's head, and he clenched his hands into a tight fist, squeezing roughly.
Who the fuck did this guy think he is? A man with his grandpa's face, had the audacity to claim to be his missing grandfather.
Unbeknownst to the rambling man, the boy's stare had taken a violent, cold edge.
Morty left deep, red nail indents in his palms. He imagined lunging at the stranger, digging his fingers into the man's forehead, tearing off his face. Skin peeling, red dripping, dribbling down the imposter's chin. Splotches and specks of maroon decorating the cold, hard garage floor. The boy's fingers twitched, itching to feel the warm liquid that was blood under his nails. Itched to feel his entire hand caked in maroon red, red, red.
"Yeah, you know I-I'm back after-what is it-20 years? Yeah. 20. Yuppp, your grandpa's back, Morty. Grandpa Rick."
20? Hah. Does the imposter think he's stupid? Does that guy really think that he'd fully go along with this, calling him 'Grandpa Rick?' The nickname sounded mocking, and incredibly scornful, as the boy mulled it over in his mind.
Morty already had a grandfather. He left, remember? Shut up.
"Y-you're lying. You're not my fucking grandpa." The fake Prime rolled his eyes. Eyes that were the wrong color.
"Yes I am, you little shit. Just-urrrp-go ask Be-"
"I already have a grandpa." The man's eyes narrowed as the boy interrupted him, his brow pulling into a frown.
"What-uh-did he look like?" Not missing a beat, the child started listing out Prime's characteristics.
"Younger, cleaner, nicer-smelling, his hair was shorter…" Ok, jeez. The brat was basically just insulting him. Morty continued to go on, and on.
"Ok, ok. I get it. Just…s-shut the fuck up for a sec." The boy's face morphed into an irritated expression: pinched eyebrows, sharpened eyes, and lips pressed into a thin, aggravated line.
"N-no! You shut-shut up! You were literally try-trying to lie to me!" Rick sighed.
"Alright, this isn't going to work."
"W-what?"
"Sorry, kid. Those memories gotta go."
Shit.