Chapter Text
Morty wonders, sometimes, if the Morty of that seemingly perfect dimension haunts him as a means of taking revenge for killing his family.
Rick's drunk again.
Stumbling over air, fingers grasping around pencils and the flask he keeps drinking from. Getting rid of his bottomless vodka did nothing. He just goes through them faster than Mom through wine glasses, throwing them out one after another until they pile up on the floor like his beer bottles.
Morty doesn't know if this is better or worse than the bottomless flask—if the visual representation of his drinking disturbs him, then he doesn't show it. It's disgusting, never failing to make Morty's nose scrunch up and his lips curl from the sight and smell of it. Genetic disease, was what Rick called it. If he had it then Mom had it, and if Mom had it then Summer had it, and if Summer had it then he most certainly had it.
"H-hey," Morty calls, soft and trembling and as fragile as he feels. "You should go to bed."
"Don't start giving me that tone M—" A belch. "—orty." Rick isn't even looking at him, hurrying to pick up the sheets of metal and inventions that fell to the garage floor. He doesn't flush pink when he's drunk, but the green spit is a pretty good indicator as any. "Y-you always doubted me, didn't you? Well I'm going to—going to make something that's going to kn-knock those socks off."
"You always do." The span of their shadows stretch and distort underneath them, circling like sharks that caught onto traces of blood. A tipsy Rick once grumbled that his trepidation of sharks was stupid—that statistically speaking, he'd be more likely to contract Malaria from mosquitoes than to become shark food—right before dragging him through a portal to retrieve a fungi that could potentially release a plague. "I'm not doubting you."
"Fuck you!" he slurs, spit flying into Morty's face. He wipes it using his arm as Rick continues, "You're d—" A longer belch this time. "—oubting me all the time n-now. Not out loud. You don't—you don't s-say it anymore, Morty."
He flails away from his shelf of inventions. More of them crash to the floor and Morty finds himself conflicted, eyes darting to his grandfather and to the floor; he's confused on whether or not he should be attempting to pick them up and potentially trigger another emotional tangent. He decides on standing so terribly still that he barely breathes, as if scared of the look in Rick's eyes. For a second, he imagines that this is how people and aliens alike feel before they die.
He's never felt so anxious while Rick was drunk. Not since they first started going on adventures, and he was fretting whether or not he should be driving the ship while inebriated. For better or worse, a lot has been changing lately.
Both inside and out.
"Well?" Rick challenges. His eyes are half-lidded now. "Are you going t-to—to say anything? Or do I—I have to do everything 'round here . . . "
He doesn't slump, but it's a close thing. Morty kicks into gear then, arms out to catch him, eyes trained on the lean in his stance. He feels human again—snapping back to reality like changing the channel.
"I think you should sit down for a few minutes." He doesn't answer Rick's question, it's not likely he'd be able to remember it once he sobers up. Water off his back, these things are. "Here, take a seat. I'll—I'll bring you some water."
"Water? Everything I need is—is here Morty." Uncoordinated fingers tap his flask, which he's somehow still holding. He muffles a burp. "Just me and my vodka." An arm goes over Morty's shoulders. "Just me, my vodka, and you. A hundred . . . years, Morty. Rick and Morty, for a h-hundred years . . . "
Morty's relieved for a moment, but it's very short-lived. Too short-lived. Another thing that's been changing lately. Rick claimed himself as his dad just days ago, and he'd been so happy then. Anything to get his mind off that dimension he left. Anyone to wash the blood that seemed to never leave from underneath his eyelids.
"Yeah, buddy." Morty hopes his voice is stronger than how he feels. It has to be. He stares at the flask. "You and me for a hundred years."
He retreats into the kitchen for water. He knows Rick will continue to knock things this way and that, so he hastens his speed. Nearby, on the counter, a bowl sits, alone and forgotten. Morty originally came down for some cereal and got sidetracked. The door leading to the garage was cracked, and it was then that he saw the light of a green portal and a lean, stumbling man stagger through.
It was natural, going there and helping him.
He fills the glass with water. Shutting off the sink, he has the foresight to put his bowl back into the cabinet. He didn't feel like eating anymore. He shuffles back into the garage and tries his best to smooth his face into calm, unsuspecting indifference.
"Do you want to sleep here tonight?" Morty asks. He sets the glass on the desk. Rick's eyes are closing on their own, and Morty's as weak as much as he's a leech, so he'd have a hard time clamoring to get Rick to bed if he has to support both of their weights.
Luckily, Rick answers for him. There's a hum, a roll of his head, and he hits his desk with a thump. There's a ripple in the water, but the darkness seems to swallow everything else. Morty waits for a moment, as if holding his breath. Nothing happens, and in the stretch between seconds is when he determines that Rick has fallen and will remain asleep.
He turns around.
He goes to bed.
But he does not sleep.
The night melts into ruminations and half-dreams that grow more distorted as the hours drawls on. For once, he wishes to be dragged out of his room by the foot for an adventure, but no such thing happens. Rick was getting better at not doing that, but the space left during his nights has not been filled with sleep. No, instead he wakes smelling blood and tasting tears. The blood was nothing but his mind, but the tears were not. He's never been good at hiding his emotions.
Summer. Mom. Rick. All good at hiding their despair with something else. Morty just so happened to have inherited his lack of nonchalance from his father. If he thinks about things too deeply, then his lips wobble and tears bead at his eyes. Then Rick would sigh and roll his eyes, as if reluctant to tend to his emotional state. It's not his grandfather's fault—Morty's just a bit much, almost all the time. Over time, he's gotten better at not feeling what he does in that very moment, but not feeling something isn't the same as hiding it. Once the lights turn off, once the doors close and the moon cements itself in the night sky, he's all on his own and worse off for it.
He ruined lives. He ended lives.
And he needed no weapon to do as much.
Perfect Morty may have died in a freak accident, but he seemed like the luckiest Morty he came across so far.
Back when Morty chose to become a plant, his most pressing need was to grow.
There were other needs as well, such as sunlight and carbon dioxide and growing flowers bright enough to attract bees, but all of it was to support his desire to grow. When he was an animal, his being was centered around one entity. He followed Rick and had to claim his territory or die trying. He ate and followed and lived until he was inevitably killed. It was pretty similar to what he was used to, and did it accordingly. When he stumbled, Rick excelled. When he died, Rick followed.
It was when they decided to traverse separate paths that things began to change. If the cycle of violence was riding a horse, then practicing nonviolence was watching the horses race. Becoming a plant allowed him to watch and grow, multiplying in ways that helped those around him. He adored it, if only because he was at his most useful that way. Selfishly, he wanted to extend that to the rest of his life. Could he help others, by merely existing to provide and not to kill? Was he at his best by talking and inspiring rather than by doing?
It was a futile hope. He has the mind poison.
Nothing inherently matters, which leads him to start yanking on ivy vines with more force than necessary, tracking up clumps of soil big enough for them to leave debris on his jeans. Next to him, he ignores the shears.
"Careful, son." Nearby, Dad throws his vine into a trash bag. "We don't want to cause more damage than necessary."
"Didn't you s-say these are invasive?" He keeps pulling. The ivy had been an on-and-off battle for years, perhaps predating the house itself. It climbed around the tree and clogged up the gutters often enough for Mom to complain. They looked pretty in the early fall, clusters of light green flowers and dark berries growing within the vines, but otherwise choked out flowers and circled around the house as if waiting for the right moment to kill them all.
He felt a little bit bad, pulling at it. Whenever someone ate, killed, or plucked Morty, he allowed it to happen. Feeling anything other than contentment was hard to come by, and there was enough of Morty for him to continue living. He was here, but he was also there, between this, over that, underneath something, possessing the ability to grow in just enough anything, and persisted as such. He was here or he was not. He was edible or he was not. He was helpful or he was not.
He sank into the ground, roots growing around soil and taking in nutrients. He was reminded of that as he pulled up roots and leaves of the ivy. He was getting closer to six very familiar graves. He resolves not to think about that as he keeps pulling. He pulls and pulls and pulls until his mind is filled with nothing but pulling. He sweats until his skin knows nothing but the persistent sun and clamminess of his perspiration. He listens until he knows nothing but the gentle caw of cicadas and Dad's happy humming behind him. If he worked at it enough, Dad could have been a gardener. Not that Morty was going to be the one to say it, just that he was thinking about it.
To circle back, plants don't feel much outside of contentment. Plants don't feel bad when they're pulled from the ground, or chewed and swallowed, or trampled on enough to create a path. Sometimes Morty wishes he was part plant. Then he won't feel sad or bad or mad or whatever this mucked-up, foggy, metaphorical creature that takes residence underneath his ribs trying to fuck him over throughout the day. Then he won't curl up in his bed at night in the darkness and count the seconds making up the empty hours until broken by drunken incoherent rambling or Mom's call for breakfast. Then he won't—
"Well, I did take care of these before, but . . . " Morty turns around to see Dad awkwardly laughing while scratching the back of his neck. He swallows. Right—before they had to bury their counterparts (Morty for the second time) in the backyard. They moved to a dimension where their Jerry didn't dedicate time and energy to removing these vines.
He's getting pretty close to those graves.
He changes direction. Swipes his arm over his forehead and swallows around the bowling ball in his throat. "A-and this will help—uh, will make the vines go away?"
"What? Oh no!" If Dad notices the abrupt change in topic, then he doesn't mention it. He likely didn't. "They'll only come back—they're an invasive species."
Oh yeah, he remembered that. Remembered between Mom's complaints how Dad said something about English vines choking out plants with as much efficiency as they keep growing. Rick volunteered to do something about it, if only to upset Dad. That led to his father leafing through books and testing weed killer until he figured something out. That something being the pair of shears in his hands and a heavy bottle of herbicide he bought from the hardware store.
Thinking about it, Morty doesn't understand why Dad insisted on his help anyway. Was this a new way to foster more father-son bonding? Dad's always been the sort to go out of his way to spend time with them, and usually Morty would at least try (a solid 50% of the time) to participate, if only to keep him happy.
But then he thinks about Perfect Dad. How fun it was to spend time with a father who at least looked like he was competent. Turned out he had more shit going on than the one just across the yard, and it made him guilty all over again for returning back there in the first place. Rick, once again, was right. There were better things to do than getting an "emotional hand job" from other versions of his family while grieving other versions of himself.
His (thankfully, gloved) hands slow. He's not helping a lot by being here. It's hot and he's sweaty. He wishes he was a plant. He wishes he's more suave with his emotions. He wishes he can remain content and happy forever. He wishes he doesn't feel guilty about dead people. He wishes he didn't ruin Perfect Rick's life. He wishes he didn't disrespect Perfect Morty's death.
He looks down at his wrist. He's not wearing a watch. "Oh, would you look at the time . . . I have to go."
"Go?" He can hear the disappointment in Dad's voice. "Go where?"
"With Rick." An unfathomably believable lie. "We're getting . . . something. I don't know. Crystals, I think?"
Dad says something, but it's lost in the backdrop of his thoughts. Morty tugs at his fingers until the gloves come off, and heads into the house, hastening his retreat to his room before anyone can ask questions.
Hunched over his handheld video game, the bright Game Over screen taunts him. Morty sucks his teeth and narrow his eyes, straightening his back for one, two, three seconds before curling back down again to jam the Restart button with more force than necessary.
He's been stuck on the same level for ages already.
Games don't measure up to actual adventures, but actual adventures measure up to blood that never seems to wash out and overgrown vines that choke and die. Obviously, he's trying to take a break from that. Not that Rick knows he's taking a break from it, but he's taking a break from it. He'll think he's taking a break from it, but the most he'll hold out for would be around a week or two before Rick drags him somewhere horrifying and he's left bereft if he's not following orders. It's a redundant cycle that a part of Morty doesn't really want to break.
Mom hinted that it was an unhealthy dynamic, and Summer made jokes, but he takes it in stride. Dad doesn't like it, of course, but he doesn't like Rick half the time and tittered around him out of fear the other half the time, so there's little ground for an unbiased opinion from him.
Isn't as if that perfect dimension really got along with their Rick, either. Heavenly at first, with its lack of intergalactic adventures and the ability to sleep through the night, but then it all collapsed inwards with little habits that made Morty internally tilt his head to the side. Nothing really says a bigger juxtaposition than Perfect Summer and Perfect Mom being regular volunteers at the soup kitchen while his Summer and Mom likely haven't said the words soup and kitchen in the same sentence since Dad was in the early stages of whatever space flu he caught.
He puts a pause to his introspection because he's in the middle of a boss battle and is trying to weave his way through each attack. He has three—no, now he has two—lives, a combo move that he needs to pull off, and a pattern he needs to adhere to. Boss battle or not, his moves are timed and that means his player needs to make timed decisions.
Up, down—no, up again—and around this thing because if he doesn't then he won't be able to get to this other thing and—no, remember that boss has a giant fucking hammer—
Game over. Again.
Dammit.
Morty very carefully doesn't toss the device. Instead, he sets it down and falls backward onto the floor. If he's on the bed then he falls asleep, and if he falls asleep than he'll wake up again reliving the Perfect Dimension's prototype portal gun, and if he thinks about that one more time then he'll either cry (more likely) or scream (less likely . . . but the chances aren't zero). His head bumps against the floor and he tries to not think, and he's usually very good at not thinking very deeply about things, but of course the one time he doesn't want to think about something, he ends up thinking about the thing. He would meander downstairs and try to keep himself busy but the thought of having to interact with anyone at all sounds worse than going back to his game, so he ends up doing neither.
Doing nothing—a good solution for now. If he does nothing than nothing will happen. If he did nothing than nothing would have happened. If he said nothing to Perfect Rick then, again, nothing would have had happened. His wife wouldn't have left, he wouldn't have skipped his medication, and he wouldn't have a crumbling life in search for infinite dimensions to justify his newfound nihilism and fuck, Morty really messed up there, didn't he?
There was no other dimension he knew of that resembled the Perfect Dimension (and now he's giving it a name) and it's probably for a reason. Happiness and having a portal gun don't intersect.
It's that persistent nothing matters message that leaks through the cracks in people and pool in places it shouldn't. For Morty, it must have been his words. Or his mind. He thinks about that a lot—that he has mind poison. That simply not caring about something can leak out and poison the area. Like pollution. That would kill him if he remained a plant—would kill the parts of him that felt contentment. Choke him out like ivy. Would kill him again and again until there's three two one none of him left. Would keep killing, even afterwards.
Would kill kill kill him and hack at him. Like trying to help someone and getting people killed. Like trying to help himself and still getting people killed. Like doing neither and still somehow getting people killed. He's no longer thinking about the Perfect Dimension.
He's killed plenty. He's been responsible for the death of plenty more. Between all of his adventures, the nothing matters mantra he was so keen on resisting seeped its way through the pores in his skin, penetrating the marrow of his bones until he resembles just a little bit more like Rick.
He picks up the game again. Presses Restart with just as much pressure as the first time, eyes screwed with the intensity of . . . something.
"Jeez," he hisses, but he can't quite tell what emotion saturates his voice. He slams button after button, and stares blankly when he loses for the third time. That was his last life.
He turns the game off this time, too frustrated to hash it out strategically. It's as if he's trapped by something, but it's not necessarily his room. That trapped feeling was there in the backyard. It was there last night with Rick. It was there when he floated up the stairs in a stained MIT shirt. He wanted to get used to it, but he couldn't. It made him antsy and yet unable to move. It made him want to claw at the walls but the thought of actually getting up to do that proved too big of a task. There are plenty of things that prove too big of a task for Morty: the inability to keep his grades up, his lack of talent in strength or intelligence. He's not as cunning as Summer. Not as cutthroat as Mom. Not as heroic as Space Mom. He's even lost Dad's situational tenderness.
He's defined as nothing and best identified as such. Useful in cancelling out brainwaves, stumbling after Rick, and needing to be rescued every other adventure due to something he happened to have done merely minutes to hours before.
But Rick's also getting better, and if he gets better then—then—
But then he thinks about Perfect Rick. He didn't need Morty. Perfect Rick was cut out of the Perfect Smiths' lives. Perfect Rick had a wife. Perfect Rick didn't drink. Perfect Rick had a class to teach. Perfect Rick had more than a garage in a suburban neighborhood. Nothing mattered, so everything mattered.
Except nothing actually matters, which just means that nothing matters.
And there's no room for both logic and sentimentality. Something that's unneeded doesn't stay, and something that's unwanted has even fewer chances, even if it's needed.
That night, post-dinner, a man stands in front of the maw to the otherworldly. He steps—once twice thrice—and crosses his arms. Little authority, he had. Little control, he had. But the situation beckons it.
A low alarm goes off—some sort of nameless shrill shatters the silence—and lights flicker and beep. An automated voice fills the space.
"Jerry, you better worship your lucky fucking stars this is a pre-recorded message—"
He's scared. He often is. Goosebumps line his crossed arms and he has no means of saying or doing anything to deter Rick, if push comes to shove. The line is obvious: he's the thing that tainted Beth's genetic lineage. He's here, but only because he's loved and not by Rick. He has a job now, yes, but the house ran perfectly fine on one legal income and one mysterious one.
But as much as Beth and Rick want to run this house like a machine, it is anything but.
"I thought we had boundaries about how much time you get to spend with him." Not like that conversation went anywhere. "Morty and I were happily pruning away at the ivy in the backyard when—"
"—of course you're going to ignore the fact that this is a pre-recorded message. I anticipated that. I can't believe I'm anticipating idiocy."
"I know you can hear me, Rick." A sigh. It does absolutely nothing to dispel his anxious energy, but few things do these days. "Look, I don't want to step on anyone's toes, but—"
"—employ protocol GET JERRY OUT OF THE FUCKING GARAGE. Don't come back. Or do, and I'm shrinking down a nuclear warhead and inserting it into your dermis."
Jerry's not scared of needles, but he's seen the syringes at the horse hospital. Knowing Rick, he'd use something similar to that, if not worse. Strap him down have fun with it, all while drunk as a skunk.
It's honestly a mystery how Morty spends so much time with him. It's almost as if Rick hasn't changed at all.
But he has.
And Jerry's counting on that.
He rubs his hands up his arms. Tries not to fidget and fails. "Okay. Just . . . don't overdo it with Morty."
The automated voice doesn't pipe up again. For a moment, Jerry wonders if he didn't speak loud enough. He shifts from foot to foot, weighing his options. Logically, he should turn with his tail only minimally tucked between his legs and flee. He doesn't frequent here, nor does he want to.
However, he's the man of the house, in a way. He got a job. He's making decent money. He's getting somewhere. Becoming someone who's worthy of more respect. He's getting pushed around less.
Just as he opens his mouth, a hatch in the floor opens, and out comes Rick.
"Before you jerk yourself off to the thought of you right for the first time in your life, I want to remind you that if Morty doesn't want to hang out with you and happens to use me as an excuse, then it's your fault, not mine." Rick doesn't close the hatch behind him, side-stepping that to look for something at his desk. "So stop projecting, it makes you look more pathetic than usual."
"He wouldn't do that." Doubt infects his tone, but he keeps talking before he can really think about it. "Besides, what could possibly be more important than quality time with his father?"
Rick rolls his eyes. He doesn't even turn around when he responds, "He's a teenage boy. Whatever he's doing has j-jack shit to do with any of us."
Roiling waves.
Something underneath his skin fights, pricking at tender skin and burrowing deep within his chest. If he breathes, then his lung stutter, diaphragm pushing up and down and up and down and up—
The thing that killed Perfect Morty wasn't any other version of Morty. It was an outside force, the perpetual need to keep going, keep climbing, keep chasing perfection. Foreign thing, empty where other things inhabit. Mom nor Dad never demanded perfection, and for that he's grateful. Never did more than a light scolding for his grades. Never asked him to join clubs. Stopped pestering him about friends a long time ago.
He saw bits of Perfect Morty's funeral. His friends seemed to have mattered very little, in the wave of his death. Friends, clubs, and activities had very little effect on death itself. It seemed to have mattered very little in the wake of things.
There was a carcass left in its wake. Perfect Dad and Perfect Mom and Perfect Summer hovered around him, showering him in love. And for a while, he adored it. Would find some way back to it, if he could. Infinite dimensions meant infinite possibilities. He's sure something like that existed out there somewhere.
Somewhere.
"Morty?"
A blink. He wants to peel his skin off. He instead scratches his arm and sits up. "Hmm?"
"I asked if you're watching that." Summer points to the television with her phone, eyebrow raised. "But based on that, I already, like, know the answer."
"I'm not," Morty says, perhaps redundantly, and passes the remote over. "I-I kept losing on my game and wanted—wanted to take a break."
"Never said I cared." She falls onto the couch cushion next to him and flicks through the channels.
Morty sinks back into his mind at that. Dad's outside, trying to hack at the ivy again. Mom's at the table, wine glass in her hand. Morty initially went downstairs for a break from his game—yes, he's still stuck at that very same level—but ended up draped over the couch. Nearby, the door to Rick's garage remains as closed as ever.
He takes out his phone, if only to have something to do. Summer put on some dating show (he thinks it's called Love Island, not that he cares) and it wouldn't be uncharacteristic of him to stare at anything but the show. So, that's what he does.
Time melts together, and it melts until there's a shuffling and the sound of feet against the floor. Morty perks up, expectant, then watches as Rick stumbles into the living room. He's not drunk this time, he won't have to take care of him this time, but the blowtorch in his hands means that there's only a matter of time before the right circumstances arrive and he takes his flask out again.
"Ugh." Summer looks over at Rick and scowls. "Don't block the TV."
"Morty." Rick completely ignores her. "You're coming with me."
Loyal dog, he is. But anything to stop sinking, to stop thinking, to stop wishing he could ask for the things that are already there.
He's taken to the garage, past lights and metal and pencils, day-old beer bottles littering the floor. Some shattered glass sparkles near the corners, but Morty pays no mind to it. Behind them, Summer mutters her complaints, and Mom stirs just a bit at the table, but they otherwise remain uninterrupted as Morty's dragged into the garage. Rick's talking a mile a minute, words cluttered together like knots and joined by a (not so rare, nowadays) moment that almost resembles sobriety.
At some point, he dropped the blowtorch. He never did know where it came from, just that it was no longer needed. If Rick's inventions can't survive being dropped then they aren't Rick's inventions.
"I upgraded the garage's security system and it needs to scan your brain."
Morty blinks. He knows he shouldn't (he can't even dream of understanding this kind of stuff) but— "What?"
"Your brain, idiot. T-the security system needs a scan of your brain."
"Oh." Lo and behold, he understands things just as much as before he asked his previous question. "Don't you have some implant that can scan my brain for me?" He has a ton of them and he doesn't even know what half of them do. He would be more outraged about it, but he's taken to stuffing those kinds of thoughts in their respective boxes and shoving them to the side to think about another day (and that day never arrives).
Morty's met with an eye roll and a look that says I can't believe I'm related to this dumbass. He tries his best not to feel embarrassed. "I removed most of them when I had to re—regrow your amygdala, and I had to take a couple more out getting your bone marrow to fix the p-part of your brain you fucked up so spectacularly."
Oh yes, he remembered that. It wasn't like he intended on losing his empathy—he only wanted a few more hours of complements! Things felt better when they looked and sounded nice, even if it was fake.
It was too bad he, as Rick said, fucked that up so spectacularly.
Rick's already tapping away at something on the wall. "And before you complain, no, it won't hurt as much as I'd want for it to—"
"Hey!"
"See? That complaining right there? It's why I want shit to hurt you." He looks directly at him with a flat look. "You get into shit. You touch shit. You mess shit up."
"Do you have a point or do I have to r-read between the lines?"
There's a button smash. "I'm trying to make sure you don't touch my dangerous shit. Or vodka. Or space parasites that'll eat your brain if you're not careful, which you aren't."
Morty throws his hands up. "Jeez, how many time do I have to say I'm sorry for it to stick?!"
"Until it's what you're known for saying in your high school year—yearbook." Rick muffles a burp. Morty's eye twitches. Just because he's not drunk doesn't mean he hasn't been drinking.
It's not like he has anything else to do, but all of the sudden he wants to do anything but this—including watching Summer's stupid Love Island show. "How long will it take?"
"A few seconds, then you can go back to mindlessly watching two strangers kiss." He opens up a panel in his arm and Morty's enveloped in green light. "Surprised you didn't put up more of a fight."
"It'd be a w-waste of breath." Just like every other time he protests something during their adventures.
"Damn right." The light stops. "Now leave. I have better things to do than entertain you."
"I have better things to do than to entertain you," Morty retorts, but it's a weak one. Usually, he'd put up more of a protest and sit down on the nearby bench until he's dragged into something. This time he shuffles to the door and shuts it behind him before Rick could formulate a retort.
He muffles a yawn. He probably got at least one life by now in his game, and he's more than willing to do something to take his mind off of how tired he feels.