Chapter Text
The next dream lasts so much longer, all confusing sequences that paradoxically get forgotten in an instant. It’s a bit like playing Roy at the Chips-and-Blitz, though he’d stopped playing that after it started feeling like he was being lobotomized mid-run. He’s back in his unliving body, and he’s torn about it. It’s not terrible, though. He’s aware he’s dreaming, but the rush of joy he gets from being praised is tainted by the mundaneness of it, and then he feels even shittier for it.
Sometimes it gets interesting when he’s being eaten whole, by rats and moths until nothing’s left except the most unappetizing, stubborn bits of his carrion. Most times, the speeches keep running on until Morty starts feeling bored, the thrill wearing off soon enough.
It’s barely even realistic anymore, because his mom keeps droning on about how much of a good kid he was, when he knows the last vestiges of humanity left him way before he started funeral-hopping for fun or eating human-derived spaghetti. He gets it, really. He was a cute, if hollow-minded son who had perfectly mediocre hobbies and interests and sensitivities- could they start rushing things along, now?
Morty tries to stretch instinctively, only grumbling when his feet hit the edge of the wooden coffin. It’s a fancy one this time, he’ll give them that, but it takes him much longer to notice that the scene is much more fleshed out now. The pews aren’t empty, filled with dozens of mourners. The second thing that strikes him is the lack of a Rick and his drunken mumblings. Oh, shit. He’s in a memory, and it’s not his own.
Morty scrambles out, however futile he knows it is with these dreams; he’s stuck for the rest of the service, or until Rick starts throwing up and weeping violently enough that he chases the rest of the attendees out, and he has a sinking feeling he knows why.
Morty tries to clamp a hand over his ears, useless in the face of his guilt swallowing him up. He steals a glance at the alcove he’d watched from that day, trying not to feel sick as that Jerry begins his impassioned speech over how he was going to kill God or something. He can feel the sting in his knees from the climb, the hollow crater in the back of his head from when it met rock at the bottom of a cliff. He can feel every bit of pain that emanates from Mort’s body, and its worse than anything he’s felt before.
It’s not my fault, Morty thinks, half-hysterical. It’s not. I was just trying to go home—
But so was Mort.
The dream goes dark, somewhere in between him struggling back to consciousness and wanting to stay and pay his penance. He’s aching to breathe, chest caving in, and then his head slams harshly into cool metal as he wakes to residual shudders of revulsion.
Morty sits up, blinks, and then promptly retches all over the lab table.
Rick darts away with a frustrated, confused yell. ‘‘W-what the fuck, Morty? I know I’ve been out of the ankle-biter-raising business for a few years but I could’ve sworn you’d outgrown the throwing up everywhere phase like, a decade ago—! I had a fuckin’, uh, an important thing I was cooking up right over there and you blew chunks all over it!’’
‘‘I fucking get it, Rick!’’ Morty explodes, words loud enough to leave his own ears ringing. He can barely take any smug relief in the way Rick’s brow shoots up incredulously, the man looking taken aback for a split-second.
‘‘I get it, okay? I won’t ever ask for a portal gun of my own again, I won’t— I won’t go funeral-hopping or go hang out with an alternate, weirdly well-adjusted version of you to get what I want, I won’t-’’
‘‘Holy shit, kid. Did you catch an alien stomach bug? Is your brain frying itself right now with a fever that’s making you sound insane? What the fuck are you—’’
‘‘The handmade matrix, Rick! Or-or whatever simulation you decided to plug me into! I’ve learned my lesson, just stop, just stop—’’ Morty yells, vaguely aware his tone is veering into hysterics.
‘‘Morty,’’ Rick finally manages to get a word in edgewise, looking almost unnerved, though Morty knows better. It’s more likely the old man is just concerned about the integrity of his shield-turned-punching bag. ‘‘You’re making even less sense than usual. Did something happen? You get, uh, some sorta brain-eating parasite thing from your Eat Pray Grieve solo trip last week? J-just be honest, bug. I won’t even tease you about it. Too much, that is.’’
Morty shakes his head, yanks at his hair, knowing that he must look really fucking unhinged right now. He can’t bring himself to care, not when the stinging pain is the closest he can get to relief. ‘‘Stop fucking pretending!’’ he gasps out. ‘‘How many times do I have to tell you that I’ve learned my lesson and if you leave me in this- this nightmare I’m just gonna go insane!’’
Morty gnaws on his lip until it bleeds. Maybe he needs to appeal to something Rick actually cares about. ‘‘I know you don’t care, okay? That- that Ricks don’t do caring, that its beneath you. B-but the citadel is gone and you’re way too busy to go out on an errand and grab another me who won’t make the rest of the family suspicious, right? Too much time and all that. So save yourself some effort and just-’’ Morty trails off, too caught off guard by the pale tinge that has crept up his grandfather’s face.
‘‘Buddy, I… I don’t know why or when you got it into your head that this isn’t real,’’ Rick says, gesturing vaguely around him, ‘‘But I’m not fucking with you. Rick’s honour, for what that’s worth. Look, you’ve been fourteen for like, a decade. Maybe the manifestation period for mental illness finally caught up to you, and, uh…’’
‘‘Calm down?!’’ Morty bites down to stifle the whimper and tears that want to escape. Despite the cruelty, despite everything, a part of him had still believed that Rick wouldn’t be that awful, that he wouldn’t let Morty suffer like this in his own creation. ‘‘How am I supposed to calm down when you won’t let me out?’’
‘‘Let you out of what, exactly?’’ Rick’s usual exasperation bleeds back into his tone, ‘You better start making some goddamn sense, Morty, because like I’ve been saying, I’m giving you more grace than I’d give literally anyone else because I know you’re a pussy who’ll start blubbering if I don’t.’’ Rick sighs as his words do nothing to try and wipe the stricken expression off Morty’s face. ‘‘Alright. Time for ol’ reliable, then. Wait here while I get the mindblower.’’
‘‘No!’’ The very thought makes Morty feel sick, so much so that he hunches over, aching to be sick again. If he loses his memory of this whole thing, then they die with him. Mort, sober Rick, even that weird Jerry. All the blood on his hands would go away, and he probably wouldn’t even get out of whatever nightmare he was stumbling around in. ‘‘No, Rick. Please, just leave it. You were right it’s just- just a fever dream I got freaked out by.’’
Rick’s already rummaging through a box when he pauses at the desperation dripping off Morty’s words. He scrubs a hand down his face in something between annoyance and concern as he peers at Morty intensely. ‘‘You have been looking like total shit for a few days now. Are you gonna hurl again?’’
‘‘Yes! I mean, no, I’m not gonna throw up on your lab table again, but I- I’ve been feeling pretty sick lately.’’ Morty says quickly. The lie is much easier to blurt out now that there’s a pit of familiar apathy growing in his stomach, knowing that Rick won’t save him, and if he wouldn’t, no one else would bother.
Rick nods, seemingly satisfied that his grandson’s issue is something easily solvable. Simple. Easy. Like Morty himself. ‘‘Well, you could’ve just told me that, but I guess you had an excuse after all. Jeez, Morty, I’m not a monster. I- I woulda let you take a day off adventures. Go get some sleep before I have to clean up more gunk off my table.’’
‘‘Uh-huh,’’ Morty nods automatically, though sleep is the very last thing on his mind, yet again. He walks on autopilot to the kitchen. It feels like when he first buried himself in the backyard, reborn again, unwillingly.
This isn’t like the fear hole. This isn’t like Roy or a reset button. This is a different beast entirely and he doesn’t know how to break out.
Morty stares down at the embers of sunlight that caught on the kitchen knives. There was only really one way to find out.