Chapter Text
Morty’s horribly, painfully torn.
On one hand, Rick’s apparently been telling him what to do, almost pushing him around, since he was a toddler. Morty’s never met a 4-year old who willingly swallowed pills, and the way he just trusted Rick on sight, despite not knowing who he was? Despite them being, to Morty’s knowledge at the time, complete strangers? That could’ve been a burglar! Would Morty have sat there and let a burglar read to him?
No, Morty thinks, he wouldn’t. That connection with Rick was already there. Maybe it was from the first memory, but even then, they’d connected so easily. It really seems to be just another part of the huge cosmic joke that is Rick and Morty.
A hundred years, right?
He pushes down the feeling of his family ignoring his misery, of his mother not bothering to wait for him to find his words, of nobody wanting him around. He pushes down the bile of neglect and dismissal and he reflects only on the way Rick made it go away, a feat he pulls rarely these days. Usually, Rick seems to dismiss and discredit him like everyone else.
Though, he doesn’t ignore him, does he? His special little helper.
That’s too many thoughts. Especially when there’s still one memory remaining. He delicately picks up tube #3 and readjusts the headset.
If he got sick now, would Rick rub his back and fetch him snacks? Would anyone tend to him?
He plugs in the memory.
It’s evening. Sunset. Dinner’s just finished and Mom and Dad sent him off to go entertain himself. Summer’s upstairs— she doesn’t like to play with him as much anymore.
Morty thinks he might be around seven. He’s running around, still with that youthful enthusiasm but with a better grasp on the concepts in the world around him. He’s just left his room; no more space sheets, but something equally cheesy that he just can’t recall over his current mission: retrieve the soccer ball.
A wave of something comes over Morty as he remembers why he had a soccer ball in the first place, why he ever tried to play any sport or do anything beyond video games and little books— by the ripe age of seven, somehow, Morty was already aware that he was some kind of failure. It’s a devastating blow.
Everybody’s good at different things. Morty isn’t very good at talking, or making friends, or with numbers, so he decided he ought to be good at sports. Hence, the ball.
Unfortunately, this was not going according to plan; instead of staying roughly on the front sidewalk and driveway trying to figure out how to get the thing to go where he wants, the ball has ended up in the street, rolling all the way to the other side and stopping gently on the wrong curb. Morty huffs. How annoying.
He sees himself stumble off to retrieve it. Sidewalk, grass, curb, road.
There’s something in the corner of his vision. How long has the garage been open? Was it open when he came out? He doesn’t remember, but that swish of white and that flash of cyan— Dammit, Morty, look behind you again, just a little—
He reaches out both hands for the ball. It looks a dull pinkish purple in the evening light. It comes into his hands, settling, getting dust and dirt on his arms, and Morty just stares at the soccer ball. Maybe it doesn’t work properly.
He doesn’t look away from the offending treasure in his arms as he turns to proceed back across the street, back to his own front yard. He’s not stupid, he knows he isn’t supposed to cross the street without an adult, it was just for a moment. It doesn’t matter. Adults say things that you’re supposed to do and not do all the time, and half the time, they don’t even mean it, so how could he—
One: The bright glow of headlights encroaches on Morty’s space very, very quickly. Horribly unsettling. It happens too fast for Morty to respond, and some part of him seems to understand that, because no part of him moves beyond the slightest turn of his head so he can stare the lights in the face, which is really a mistake. Looking right at it, it’s almost blinding enough that he can’t see the green underglow.
Two: Sound. A godawful cacophony that, at the time, is impossible to parse. In hindsight, it’s just a combination of a honking horn and a familiar shout. Some cuss word, probably. Nothing Morty would recognize at the time.
Three: The ground disappears. Instinctively, Morty’s arms clutch tighter around the soccer ball, as though it’s going to contribute anything to his safety at this moment, as though it means anything, he grasps. The floor falls open, the yellow-white light of the headlights fades through a shade of neon green, and Morty falls onto his side in the grass.
A portal. He must’ve been right, then, about what he saw.
“You idiot! W-wh-what the hell is wrong with you?! Didn’t your parents teach you to look both ways before crossing the street?! Jesus fucking Christ—“
A hand grabs Morty around the bicep and pulls and the ball is forgotten. Morty is face to face with, well. The obvious. Obvious now, of course, but not obvious back then. Morty opens his mouth to question the new individual.
“S-s-sorry.”
That… wasn’t a question.
“Shut the fuck up. Are you hurt?” The man in the lab coat shoves him around a little, seemingly checking for injuries. All he finds is an elbow scrape from the landing, which Morty winces when he sees because he’s a child and having his skin scraped off is scary even if he can hardly feel it.
“Come on.”
Thusly, Morty is dragged by the arm behind a man he’s never met before except for when he has into his garage which is used almost exclusively for laundry and storage of old garbage, and he’s lifted and plopped down onto a table while the man pulls some tincture from his coat with a label in a language that, despite being seven years old and never having left the planet, Morty is 100% sure is not in any language from earth. It stings on his elbow, and then it doesn’t.
“Wha-I-w-who—“
“Name’s Rick. I’m uh, your grandpa.” Then he rolls his eyes and mutters, “Boy, that conversation gets old.”
“But I’ve never seen you before. I-I didn’t even know about you at all! How can you be my grandpa?
“Hey, you’re talking more these days,” he belches, “What, you got a—a fuckin’— speech therapist or something?”
“You use a lot of b-bad words.”
He burps again.
“Don’t care.”
Morty squirms to climb off of the table, but a hand sits firmly on his head, keeping him in place, and Rick looks at him more intently,
“Listen up, kid. You almost got hit by a truck. You understand me? That— that thing would’ve flattened you. You’d be a Morty Pancake out there in the road right now if I wasn’t here, alright? And I’m not usually here. You got lucky. Don’t, just, don’t fuckin do that, okay? You gotta— you gotta look both ways when you cross the road, you idiot.”
Morty’s pretty sure this is the first time he saw Rick drunk. Really, actually drunk. The guy’s slurring his words like crazy, and the emotions behind them are falling like marbles. In a way, it’s quite funny.
In the moment, however, Morty finds it less funny. In the moment, Morty is seven years old and being lectured and insulted and he doesn’t like it. In the moment, Morty’s eyes well up with tears.
“Shit, I didn’t mean— ugh, why do kids have to be so complicated! Look, I’m not mad, okay? Does that help? I’m just— okay, I’m a little mad, but I just— I don’t— it’s ’cause I’m worried about you, alright? Don’t wanna see you get hurt, and you could’ve, so I’m. Upset. But it’s fine now. You’re fine. So uh, don’t do that crying shit.”
Morty sniffles and bravely fights back the tears, earning himself a pat on the back and a sigh.
“Listen,” Rick rubs his face with exhaustion, “I gotta finish checking out the place and putting my framework in. There’s been activity around here and— none of this means anything to you so why am I bothering to explain? What are you, six?”
“Seven!”
“Oh, great. Okay, big boy, you wanna help Grandpa get his scans done?”
For whatever reason he has every time before and every time since, that lingering Understanding, Morty nods his enthusiastic assent.
Looking back, the tasks he were given were meaningless, probably more to keep him out of the road than get his help, but Morty loved helping anyways. He landed about twenty minutes of wandering the garage with some alien doohickey while Rick… installed the trapdoor. Nothing under it, at this point, except an empty tunnel with a basic ladder leading nowhere, but there it is. Now Morty knows that at least the entrance to the super-basement-lab-whatever has existed since he was seven years old. More than half of his life. How absurd.
”Alright, little buddy, let’s get you inside.”
The sun is nearly gone and Morty yawns even as he shakes his head,
“Wanna stay. W-w-wanna help you more.”
“I know, kid. You did great.”
Sleepily, Morty meanders towards his ball in the grass, thankfully on his own side of the street. Still, when he looks up from grabbing it, Rick has all but materialized by his side within easy reach. It’s like he’s ready to grab him if he runs into the street again. Right now, to Morty, this means nothing.
“Are you gonna s- s- stay?”
Rick sighs again, heavy and weary,
“No. Hell, maybe someday, but… not today. I’ve got shit to do, you understand?”
Morty blinks up at him.
“No. I don’t.”
“That’s alright.” A rueful grin as he pulls his flask from his coat and takes a long swig. “Here’s hoping you never do.”
Morty hardly gets the chance to see the memory gun this time before it blasts him in the head, taking him completely by surprise, and
And it’s over.
And Morty checks the time, and Rick’s been gone for two hours, and that’s how long he said he’d be gone, and Morty has to put everything back right now before something goes wrong.
The little bottles are delicately lined up precisely how they were before, their container returned to its prior home and sealed away, rehidden, as though they were never there. Then Morty does the same, vacates the room and closes the door behind him, leaving everything pristine, no traces of his crimes.
Crimes? Is it really wrong for Morty to look at his own memories? Sure, these clearly weren’t anything Morty was ever meant to see, but… well, they’re his! Right? They came from his own brain. He lived those memories. He’s allowed to remember them, and he shouldn’t have to feel guilty or weird or hide that or anything.
Right?
Being the worst liar in the world, Morty keeps looking over at Rick over dinner that night, glancing down the table with endless questions and sentiments bubbling and frothing in his throat. Rick notices in approximately five minutes.
“What’re you looking at, twerp?”
“Dad!” His mother rolls her eyes, “Don’t talk to him like that, at least at the dinner table, come on—“
Oh, but away from the table, it’s fine? The standards have clearly lowered. Still, Morty can’t bring himself to mind, his mind still fresh with memories of ruffled hair and boundless encouragement.
“I mean, he’s not wrong, Morty’s a little twerp—“
“Summer, don’t talk about your brother like that! —I swear, this is—“
His dad’s rant and his mom’s exhaustion and his sister’s ambivalence do nothing to wipe the grin from his face, and Rick can tell something’s going on, something sappy, something he’ll hate. So, after dinner, he’s dragged into the garage. Rick immediately turns to tinker with something, just to keep his hands moving and his eyes away. A distraction.
“Come on, spill it. W-what did you get into?”
Morty looks at his feet and shuffles around, pulling at the hem of his shirt and truly feeling like a little kid again.
“Not much— I-i didn’t break anything, I just… well, I got curious about all those memories again, and—“
“Oh, great. I swear I need to lock that room. You saw something fun?”
“I found this little box behind a shelf, with these three memories inside, and…”
It’s incredible, the visible painting of Rick putting pieces together in his mind. It takes perhaps ten seconds before the proverbial lightbulb goes off with a grimace.
“Oh, those ones, huh?”
“I just didn’t know we met that long ago.”
“‘Wasn’t that long ago, in the grand scheme of things— also, yea, that’s kind of the point of removing memories.”
“You met me when I was a kid, and I didn’t know—“
The lab coat whips around,
“You’re still a kid.”
The room goes silent and still as Rick’s eyes land directly on Morty’s for that.
And there it is. The fondness. The face of the man that ruffled his hair and comforted him and let him ‘help’ with projects. The man that Understands.
“Sorry,” Morty offers through that connection, that bond. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
Rick sighs, nearly as world-weary as when Morty was four,
“Whatever. I don’t care.” He turns back to the table, fidgeting with gidgets again, “I-it’s not like I can keep that a secret from you anymore, it’s a bit late for that, so whatever, talk about whatever you want.”
Rick manages to distract himself so much that he’s actually a little startled by the hug; he makes no move to either reciprocate or prevent the arms wrapped around his torso.
“I love you. Y-you know that, right, Grandpa?”
Almost beyond Rick’s control, an arm swings around and he returns the embrace,
“Sappy little shit.”
…
“You really put in the basement when I was seven?”
“Just the framework for it, Jesus— don’t tell your parents.”