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“Well, this is it,” Dad, who Rick calls Dumbass Supreme, but is really called Jerry, says. He scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick, and grins sheepishly at his family.
“It s-ugh-ure is,” Rick says, bored. He’s leaning against a workbench, and raises his arm like he’s stretching, only to grab an alien liquid and gulp it down. He belches.
“I’ll miss you, Dad,” Summer says, and she’s a little bit teary. The waterworks are more for herself than her father, though, she’ll miss their good memories more than the man himself. Maybe the societal expectations of divorced-family children are getting to her, too.
Mom scuffles her feet from the doorway, desperately looking like she wants to step out into the garage and push Dad out. She gives Rick a motion to hurry this up, and Rick pushes himself off the bench. If he didn’t want Dad gone, too, he probably wouldn’t be out here, basically blocking the entrance back into the house.
“O-okay Jh-erry, that’s enough, you can go now –“ Rick starts.
“No,” Dad says.
“No?”
“No, Morty hasn’t said goodbye. I’m not leaving until my son says goodbye.”
Morty backs up an inch, a rabbity look of terror in his eyes. He’s here out of obligation, because Mommy asked him in the sweetest voice she had. This was not part of the deal. Morty twists his hands like they’re soft pretzels yet to be baked; his fingers turn red and angry in a matter of seconds. He wasn’t good at hellos or goodbyes. He thought Dad knew this.
“I don’t th-think that’s n-ugh-cess-ugh-sary,” Rick says, and for the first time, Morty realizes he towers over Dad by a good three inches.
“It is so necessary,” Dad says, swelling up his chest like a gorilla on those nature shows. “That’s my son!”
“And t-ugh-hat’s my ass, wanna kiss it?” Rick asks. He quirks half of his unibrow, it’s a challenge. “Or do you wanna leave?”
Soft hands that smell like fruity soap are on top of Morty’s, gently pulling his fingers apart before he starts to bleed. Summer, who is his sister, but no one says “hey, sister”. Just Summer. She shields his view of Dad and Rick, wrapping her body around his. It’s nice, but he begins to whine softly.
“Y-y-you don’t even care about Morty, you psycho-manipulative f-ugh-ucking turd!” Rick shouts. “You’re j-just try-ugh-ing to get sympathy, because that’s what you live on, you f-f-fucking parasite!”
Summer’s arms tighten around him, because it’s true and everyone knows it. Dad never stopped whining about this expense and that expense and why do Morty’s stupid kid classes cost so much? You’re buying him toys at this age? Let him hurt himself, it’ll teach him a lesson.
The worst part? He believed since Morty spoke infrequently, he could hear infrequently, and said it all in his son’s presence.
Son. What a joke.
“L-l-leave, a-hole, before m-my fist meets y-uh-our face,” Rick says. His voice is level again, and Morty lets out a breath. Summer’s hold had stopped him from clapping his hands over his ears.
There’s a pause, and the sound of Dad’s heavy footfalls on the concrete. The U-Haul hacks and wheezes, and as it pulls away, there’s a loud crack. Morty lets out a quiet shriek, and Summer’s quick to pet his hair and give him a reassuring squeeze.
Rick sighs, loudly, looks from his two grandchildren to his daughter. Morty looks like a prey animal having just gotten away from the predator: heavily shaken, but alright. Summer’s eyes are brimming with tears, and Beth is just… gaping at him.
“So,” he says coolly, his angry stance falling away. “A-anyone up for ice cream?” He jabs a thumb towards the driveway. “We can get a new trashcan while we’re out.”
*
Morty’s curled up on the living room carpet when Rick walks in with a gallon of intergalactic gelato and a shiny new trashcan. Nobody had wanted to leave – all instead retreating to their separate areas of the house, and the carpet is Morty Space. He was particular about how it felt, taking the time to smooth all the carpet fibers in the right direction, but once he was settled you’d have a hell of a time getting him back up.
It was another thing Dad laughed at, called him stupider than Snuffles, back when Snuffles lived in this dimension. Morty didn’t understand other dimensions when that happened, so they fed him the old “a nice farm where he can run” story. Well, Mom did. Rick tried to explain it, as was his way, and was alright when Morty didn’t quite get it.
With everyone else, even his daughter, Rick’s temper tended to be short. He seemed just fine explaining things in a slowly, easy to follow voice to Morty, though. Four or five explanations later, lo and behold, Morty understood, and Rick told Beth in a smug voice what an amazing teacher he was.
“Mo-uh-orty, where’s the women? Tu-total sausage fest in here,” Rick says from the kitchen. There’s the slap of a portal gun on the counter, followed by the clanking of bowls being removed from a cabinet.
Morty doesn’t reply, but that’s okay when he’s with Rick. He never tells Morty to “use his words”, just if he decides to talk, cool. If not, cooler, because Rick’s on the narcissistic side.
Rick ambles into the living room, holding two heaping bowls of gray ice cream, one wrapped in a dish towel so Morty’s hands don’t get cold.
“I-eugh-t’s from the E-4712 dimension,” Rick explains, foregoing the couch to sit next to Morty. “N-nothing there can see, so all materials ev-augh-lved to be gray.”
Morty quirks his head to one side, confused, and Rick continues.
“T-t-think of it this w-way,” he says, setting down his bowl. “W-w-why would the flowers waste valuable energy making color if it d-augh-oesn’t affect h-how they’re pollen-augh-ted? Wouldn’t they spend more time making – making nice scents to attract pollinators?”
Morty shrugs, his brain’s too wrung out from the episode with his dad for science.
“They do, and that’s why their f-ugh-ood tastes so fucking bomb,” Rick surmises, picking his bowl back up. “G’head, try it. Close your eyes if you can’t get past the c-color.”
Rick watches as Morty squeezes his eyes shut, dips a careful finger into the ice cream, and pops it in his mouth. There’s a pause, and Rick is almost sure he’s going to spit it out. Then Morty smiles around his finger, and without opening his eyes, digs his whole hand into the ice cream, temperature be damned.
Rick laughs, and it’s lighthearted, with Morty rather than at him. He thumps Morty playfully on the shoulder, keeping his hands in clear view so Morty doesn’t startle. Morty grins, a drop of gray streaking down his chin.
“Hey, k-ugh-id, slow down –“ Rick says. “Don’t get a br-aughn-ain freeze. We’re hitting the town.”
*
The spaceship jingles to life, so much quieter than any Earth car, even with all its bulk. Morty slides into the passenger seat, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d fallen asleep next to Rick on the carpet, gray ice cream still stuck on his fingers. Rick woke him mere minutes ago, telling him to wash up and get out to the garage: they had big things to see.
The ship’s seats are worn into comfortable shapes, and Morty doesn’t have to shift and move and prod the way he does the couch or carpet. Older things are better, Morty thinks, and when he glances over at Rick, who’s nodding along to the quiet pop song coming over the radio, he knows he’s right.
The rocking of the ship is comforting, and Rick always keeps the heat blasting to keep the windows from freezing over in space. Before long, Morty’s lulled back to sleep.
A cold hand on his forearm is all it takes for Morty to shoot out of his seat, awake and startled.
“S-uh-orry,” Rick says, holding up his hands, letting Morty know it was just him. “You can’t miss this.”
Morty takes a second to settle back into his seat before focusing on the sight in front of him. When he does, he can’t believe it hadn’t grabbed his attention sooner; it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
A bright red star, right in front of their window. The flames coming off it are erratic, forming circles and patterns into the space around it, like sparklers on the Fourth of July. It’s shaking, like it’s cold, but that can’t possibly be right.
Morty looks up at Rick, questions burning in his eyes.
“S-eugh-he’s about to Supernova,” Rick says, reclining in his seat and patting his pockets, looking for his flask. He finds it, and takes a slow, deliberate swig; making a fist with one hand and pushing all his fingers outward. “Explode.”
Morty’s knees knock together, a low whimper escapes from under his teeth. He feels like someone stuffed TV static down his throat – fuzzy and disjointed. He starts to twist his fingers together, irritated pink springs to his pale skin almost immediately.
“Hey – hey!” Rick says, putting his larger hand between Morty’s smaller ones, cutting off his twisting. “We’re t-t-too far away for anyt-ugh-ing to happen!”
Morty squirms, his eyes flicking around wildly. He yanks his hand away from Rick’s to chew on a hangnail.
“Morty – Muh-orty, listen,” Rick says. “It’s l-like a show.” His expression softens. “You know Grandpa would n-nuh-ever let anything happen to you.”
Rick would be honest if you asked, say that yeah, it’d be extremely annoying for Morty to have a meltdown in the vacuum of space. And yeah, he really wants these little adventures to turn into something bigger, something that he can use for his work. He’d admit all those things, but he’d also point out he doesn’t want Morty to have to experience it in the first place. He wants to make getting over those hurdles as painless as possible. If you asked. He wouldn’t say shit unprovoked.
Morty rocks back in his seat, his fingers still fidgety. Rick shifts and turns in his seat. There’s a clattering of liquor bottles and other miscellaneous Rick things. He makes a satisfied noise and shuffles back into the right position.
“Here,” he says, pushing a little cube with a button on it towards Morty.
Besides being overwhelmed and on the verge of screaming, Morty’s curious about this thing. He takes it in his hands, stares at the button, then slaps it with all the extra energy his anxiousness is creating. He peels open eyes he didn’t even realize he’d snapped shut – it’s a blanket.
“L-like it? I know you’re into w-warm shit – well, no, gross, not warm shit, warm things –“
Morty wraps the blanket around his shoulders, and the tension evaporates. He’s never known it to be this easy – must be enchanted or something. But the relief is like taking an enormous dump, so Morty doesn’t complain.
He reaches up, just for a moment, and touches Rick’s cheek. It’s almost like burlap, but softer and warmer. Rick, in all the unorthodox things Morty does, never stops him, never chides him like his natural means of communication is wrong.
“Yeah, y-y-you’re welcome, Morty,” Rick says, getting it. Because Rick always gets it. “C’mon, let’s watch this bitch.”
*
Later, when Morty’s back in his bed, the strange blanket still draped over him, he has a vague recollection of something awful happening involving his dad… But that fades away to the memories of alien ice cream from a gray planet and a star exploding and a magic blanket.
Morty sleeps peacefully.