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“Throw me the thing, M-uh-orty. The thing, with the lights, the thing!” Rick’s voice floats up from the crawlspace under the garage.
Morty wiggles his fingers over the tools spread out in front of him, and makes a low, concerned noise. Nearly half of them have lights on them. This wasn’t like digging through his dad’s toolbox for a Phillip’s head; he couldn’t even begin to describe the shapes and colors of these things, let alone give Rick what he wanted.
“M-morty, c’mon, you’re re-ugh-ally fucking Grandpa over on this one…” He sounds agitated, now, which is only worsening the fog in Morty’s mind.
“We only have so much time before it –“
There’s a crackle in Morty’s ears, like fireworks just before it goes off, and a vibration under his feet. A puff of smoke escapes from the crawlspace opening, snaking around Morty and filling the garage with gray air.
“Rick!” Morty screeches. His rare moment of speech is overshadowed by his terror.
He sticks his head into the crawlspace, coughing, narrowing his eyes in the sudden change of lighting. The ladder Rick used to get in and out had been blown away, but Morty’s too panicked to care. He takes a deep breath, wheezing with the smoke, and jumps into the crawlspace pit.
It’s deeper and wider than any normal crawlspace but knowing Rick, he should have expected that. He lands on a shag carpet directly below the opening, which softens the blow, but something’s probably sprained, if not fractured.
Morty rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up. There’s a large machine off to the side, pulsing with orange light and smoking. He moves towards it, eyes sweeping the floor for a discarded Grandpa. Before he can get too close to the machine, something grabs his ankle, yanking him down. Morty shrieks and collapses on the concrete floor.
“Morty, y-y-you stupid little bitch!” the something says. Morty’s relief is short-lived, extinguished by the look of pure rage on Rick’s face.
Rick’s arm is twisted in a grotesque way and he’s missing a pinkie, but Morty knows that’s like getting a splinter to him. He can’t understand the anger, because Rick will fix it, like he always does.
“You fucking – fucking shit! You know how much time that took? A-a-and, now I gotta start all over again, go back to that fucking Craxon 9 planet, I f-fucking can’t stand that place, M-uh-or-ty! But you wouldn’t know, would you, you dumbass piece of shit?”
Rick’s on his feet now, pacing back and forth and cradling his arm. He’s mapping out how exactly he’s going to fix the machine, he can’t just abandon the project, but fuck all if he wants visit Craxon 9 again. They eat every third child over there, just because they taste good. He’d be okay if it was like, a sacrificial thing, but it’s not, and they have entire restaurants devoted to it.
Rick’s so wrapped up in his thoughts, he barely sees Morty, who’s clasped his hands over his ears and snapped his eyes shut.
If Rick says I’m a dumbass, I must be a dumbass, Morty thinks. A bubble of sadness rises in his throat and he sniffles, the tears breaking through and falling freely.
Rick stops in his tracks, suddenly struck with guilt. Morty was different, he knew this, he knew Morty couldn’t handle every situation. He should have been more specific, or something, just anything to not be here, being the perpetrator of his grandson’s meltdown.
If Morty’s eyes were open, he would see Rick’s expression soften, his anger melt away. He told himself he was never going to do this, never lash out at Morty, never make him feel the way that stupid motherfucker Jerry did. But here they were, and it made Rick’s heart drop.
“Hey,” he says, softly. Carefully. Penitently. He puts a hand gingerly on Morty’s shoulder.
Morty squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, trying to stop the tears, but they just keep coming. He realizes he’s shaking and feels stupid, so stupid, for getting worked up. He can’t focus on anything, feeling scattered, like there’s a million busy bees stuck in his skull.
“I-I’m sorry, Morty. Grandpa just… lost his cool back there.” Rick would pinch his nose bridge if his free hand wasn’t broken, because what kind of lame apology was that?
Morty peeks open one eye, using his hands as a shield. When he sees that Rick isn’t angry anymore he lets his hands drop, visibly relaxes. Though the tears still fall in heavy drops, they slow, which is something.
“I really am sorry,” Rick says. He takes his hand off Morty to run it through his mess of spikes.
Rick knows that sorry is for suckers, that it’s better to show your remorse rather than say it and do nothing about it. His hand is twisted and he’s steadily dripping from a severed finger right now, so he’ll make it up to Morty later.
He stands, offers his elbow to Morty to help him up.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he says again. He can’t help it. Nobody’s cared about him like Morty has, and he feels like he’s shitting all over the favor.
Rick feels the same about Morty, anyway.
Morty steadies himself and lets go of Rick, before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.
“Th-thought you were d-dead,” he whispers.
“Nope,” Rick says. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
When Morty looks up at him, bewildered, Rick pats his fuzzy head. “J-j-just kidding, Morty. Let’s get the hell out of here.”