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Rick blinked up through the dimness of his late night bedroom. The center bar of his cot was digging into his creaking back. He huffed out a sigh and turned onto his side, pretending to himself that the shift would make it better.
It never did.
Rick was not on good terms with sleep. As soon as he closed his eyes, the recriminations came. Bad son. Worse father. Philanderer. Thief. Abuser.
Murderer.
Rick was not on good terms with sleep. As soon as he closed his eyes, the recriminations came. Bad son. Worse father. Philanderer. Thief. Abuser.
Murderer.
In the daylight Rick was a god, but when the sun went down he became a child, frightened of the monsters hiding just below his bed.
Or, as it were, his cot.
Or, as it were, his cot.
Maybe if he had someplace comfortable to lay his head he could sleep before his demons caught up with him, but Rick didn& #39;t deserve that, so he didn& #39;t ask for one. Beth offered once and he bit her head off for it, and the topic was dropped.
His nights all started the same way, flipping through interdimensional cable until one by one the Smiths went to bed. As he sat with the volume cranked up he would drink.
It was a race; could he drink enough to pass out before the tv bored him senseless?
Tonight, the answer was a resounding & #39;no.& #39;
The cot creaked as he shifted again.
Tonight, the answer was a resounding & #39;no.& #39;
The cot creaked as he shifted again.
He could get up and hit the sauce again, but the room was spinning and he knew that if he drank anymore now he& #39;d just throw up on himself. Maybe in his sleep. Maybe he& #39;d aspirate and die.
Beth had been through enough. He couldn& #39;t make her find him like that.
Beth had been through enough. He couldn& #39;t make her find him like that.
The monsters were dancing in the dark, though. Tonight& #39;s show was an oldie but a goodie. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his mother& #39;s pale, cold face, wreathed by the flowered scarf she& #39;d worn everywhere that last year after she lost her hair.
It was his 13th birthday and he& #39;d gotten to the hospital early, eagerly carrying the chocolate cake that he& #39;d baked for them to share.
The doctors pushed him out of the way in their haste when she crashed, but it was too late.
The doctors pushed him out of the way in their haste when she crashed, but it was too late.
Nose to the wall, Rick tried to block out the demons dancing before his eyes, but it was no use.
He sat up in bed, groaning at the sudden rush of blood in his head. He dragged his hand down his face. There was only one cure for him, and he didn& #39;t like to admit it.
He sat up in bed, groaning at the sudden rush of blood in his head. He dragged his hand down his face. There was only one cure for him, and he didn& #39;t like to admit it.
But he was drawn like an angler fish& #39;s victim out of his room and up, up, up the stairs.
Morty& #39;s door creaked as it opened and again when he shut it behind himself. The sleeping boy stirred.
Morty& #39;s door creaked as it opened and again when he shut it behind himself. The sleeping boy stirred.
He meant to sit lightly on the edge of the boy& #39;s bed, but he dropped down and made the springs groan instead.
"Move over," he slurred. Fuck, he was drunk. "Morty. Morty. Move over."
"Geez, Rick. How drunk are you?"
"Move over," he slurred. Fuck, he was drunk. "Morty. Morty. Move over."
"Geez, Rick. How drunk are you?"
Morty yawned and did as he was asked, though. He tried to hold the blanket under his chin and settle back in for sleep, but Rick asserted himself under the covers. Morty blew out a pouty sigh but didn& #39;t fight. He just put his arms around his grandfather and closed his eyes again.
"You can& #39;t keep doing this, Rick," Morty said quietly. "Mom and dad aren& #39;t gonna keep ignoring it."
"Fuck your mom and dad. You think I give a rat& #39;s ass what they think of me?"
"Yeah, Rick. I do."
"Rick Sanchez isn& #39;t anyone& #39;s bitch."
"Fuck your mom and dad. You think I give a rat& #39;s ass what they think of me?"
"Yeah, Rick. I do."
"Rick Sanchez isn& #39;t anyone& #39;s bitch."
"Rick, that doesn& #39;t even make any sense. Seriously--how drunk are you?"
Morty started to sit up, but Rick wrapped his arms around him and pulled him solidly to his chest. "Don& #39;t look at me," he said, in a pale, frightened voice.
Morty started to sit up, but Rick wrapped his arms around him and pulled him solidly to his chest. "Don& #39;t look at me," he said, in a pale, frightened voice.
Morty& #39;s body slotted against Rick& #39;s like it was made to be there. Rick flinched when Morty touched his cheek, but the boy& #39;s hand remained firm. He caressed him until Rick started to shake. Then the tears came, as they always did.
"My mom died," he sobbed. Like it had just happened yesterday. Like Morty had any idea what he was talking about.
"Oh, Rick," the boy sighed.
No mockery. No reproach. Just quiet, loving acceptance.
"Oh, Rick," the boy sighed.
No mockery. No reproach. Just quiet, loving acceptance.
Rick stretched out his neck, seeking in the dark until his lips found Morty& #39;s. Their kiss tasted like toothpaste and whiskey and the salt of both their tears.
