A/N:

Rated T for gross-ish descriptions/implied childhood sexual abuse/violation of pERsONAL SPACE... most of this only applies to Part II but still.

Sooo, yeah. This is my first fanfic in like... 6 years... Usually I only write my own stuff, but I was inspired by season 2 episode 10. And by two seasons worth of Jerry-bashing. I mean, after re-watching Rick & Morty a shameful number of times, I've found that Jerry is actually one of my favorite characters. I just wanted to give him the spotlight for a bit.

Third-person limited, Jerry's POV, so expect some Rick-hating. Also, it was kind of long so I split it into three parts.

PART I

Summary

In which Jerry almost feels complete again.

And then goes back to being who he will always be,

because that's how TV shows work.

...

"Whadd'you know about friendship, Jerry.."

Confirmed. Shipping Jerry.

Jerry raises his hands as it approaches, crying, "W-wait!" but even as he says it, he knows it's too late. He panics, unable to think, as it opens up above him...

The first thing that comes to mind is Beth's pussy. The smooth, velvety interior walls, the slippery salty wetness staining the lips and bits of hair around the opening, the tight grip it has on his body as it sucks him in… of course, Jerry would never dive headfirst into his wife's apex. Penis-first, sure. And maybe face-first if the night went exceptionally well, but to go headfirst up there? Only babies do that and it's only 'cause they want out!

But Jerry has no choice in the matter. The flesh descends upon him, around him, the mucus from the dark interior dripping onto his hair and clothes. Its pseudopods gather his body and fold it into the fetal position, all within a second of confirming Rick's order.

From within the flap, Jerry can hear nothing but the squelch of liquid and the occasional gurgle from the fleshy walls. He knows they are moving—he can tell by the lurch in his stomach and the gravity pressing him to the back wall. It's warm and humid and it stinks like morning breath. Jerry hates it.

He first tries to escape by prying at the bottom of the flap, digging his fingers into the wet crevices, but some hidden muscles clench harder with every second, squeezing his fingers in a tight vice before pushing them back out of the flesh with a singular, body-wide pulse. So then he just resorts to banging his fists against the walls, but it doesn't do anything. It barely even makes a sound.

After deciding escape is hopeless, Jerry snakes his arms around his knees and lowers his head. The velvet walls pulse regularly against is back, encroaching on his space and then receding. It reminds him vaguely of his time visiting nursing homes as a boy scout—how the older men liked to press against him. He scoots forward as much as he can. It doesn't really help, so Jerry decides to do as he did back then and Pretend Nothing Is Happening. I'm just having a dream, he thinks, a nightmare more like.

"Calm down, Jerry," he murmurs, "Nothing but one of Rick's… stupid adventures. It'll be over soon." He hopes.

Breathing through his mouth, Jerry decides the best course of action is—as much as he hates it—to wait for Rick. Because Rick will come for him, won't he? He has to. Beth will make him. And if not Beth, the kids. The kids love him. Well, sort of… he's pretty sure they don't want him to die, at the very least. Jerry couldn't really say if Beth felt the same in that category, though.

Sometimes when she works nights, he stays up just so they can fall asleep together—partly out of tradition and partly because he's always wired from spending the day spread out on the couch… but also partly because Jerry is sort of worried Beth'll someday come home, exhausted, only to find that Jerry left his empty beer bottle on the coffee table, or his underwear didn't quite make it into the hamper. And then, as always, a minor mistake will release a cascade—seventeen years worth of bitterness, all pooling at her feet as she watches over Jerry's defenseless, sleeping form. Compounded by her father's unashamed distaste for his existence, Beth might find it in herself to stab him, oh, maybe... seventeen times.

These are his more tame anxiety-fueled fantasies. Some nights he imagines Beth using her surgical skills to force a fetus inside him or something, and then she'd make him carry it around for the rest of his life. "Do you feel it now, Jerry? It hurts doesn't it?" And then she'd get real close up to his face: oh–oh are you crying? You're crying? Like a fucking baby.

Jerry shakes himself. Beth can be cruel, but she is not Rick. She is nothing if not predictable. Which means Beth will never, ever kill him… probably. Hopefully. Buuuut she might leave him for dead.

The kids, he thinks, the kids. He'll be okay. The kids'll save him. Jerry at least has the kids. Summer, he knows, doesn't like him much as a person. She doesn't even hug him anymore.

But Morty, Morty likes him a little.

Jerry always felt that he understood Morty to a degree—they never had to talk too much in each other's presence and their conversations never really strayed beyond the mundane. He was happy with this—comfortable.

Jerry used to see Morty as an extension of himself. Morty wasn't good at school, but then Jerry was never an honors kid either. He just barely managed to get a bachelor's degree and now it's pretty much useless. In a sad sort of way, Jerry sees Morty heading in the same direction. But at least the kid lacks fantastical aspirations. All he wants is a job that doesn't suck (although now, Jerry supposes, Morty might wish to be a genius or something else Rick-like. Leave it to Rick to expose a new world of disappointments). Jerry never had to worry about Morty being unhappy before Rick came into their life because Morty was satisfied as it was.

Jerry and Morty used to spend a lot more time together, actually. Whenever Jerry had yard work, Morty offered to help without even having to be asked. He just kinda liked plants, if Jerry could remember correctly. But it's been a long time since they've gardened together. Maybe that's changed by now.

Morty isn't quite the same anymore. He broaches bigger subjects. He's bored with small talk—and in a way, Jerry can't help feeling this is a representation of Morty's future. Morty is no longer satisfied and there is no guarantee that feeling of satisfaction will ever return. Jerry knows best—once you've lost a bit of yourself, whether it be to a situation or to a person, it's hard to be whole again.

Jerry fists his jeans, trying to ignore the sensation of mucus squeezing out from between his clenched fingers. His breath comes out quick and hot, expanding into the small space he created for his body. He's starting to feel a little dizzy and his stomach turns.

Rick. Jerry hasn't really spent any quality time with Morty since Rick. That was it, wasn't it? Now, whenever he checks Morty's room, it's empty except for some hastily shed pajamas and mussed bed covers. When Morty is home, he's either asleep or listless, staring at his phone or the television—or hanging out in the garage with Rick. He wonders if Rick even knows Morty used to like plants. Or if Rick knows that Morty used to like drawing cartoons, too.

Morty was always full of the useless in that way—stuff that wouldn't get you anything in real life. Drawing, gardening, a disturbing knack for predicting the weather just by glancing at the sky. It couldn't make you money unless you knew how to use it, which Morty didn't and likely never would. He just didn't have the intellectual ability to further his drawing skills to the professional level. And it's not like he'd ever develop the charisma needed to be a television weatherman. Maybe he'd end up with a job as a menial yard worker at least. That's what Jerry always imagined when he pictured adult Morty.

But Rick came in and destroyed all of that. He tore apart Morty's flimsy future. How long has it been since Morty has shown Jerry any sort of art at all? Even his failing tests are free of margin doodles. What about weather prediction? Rick must've disturbed whatever weird internal almanac allowed Morty to do that—or maybe Morty just doesn't look at the sky much anymore now that he's been in space. Not much point in observing the atmosphere after catching a glance of everything outside of it.

Rick the Ruiner. He's messed up Morty, he's underlined Beth's own weird daddy issues that somehow always bite Jerry in the ass—Rick's probably messed up Summer somehow too, although she was kinda already on her way to becoming a stripper or something. Still. Now she probably wants to travel space and… and crap.

Jerry lets out a choked sob that he didn't even realize he was holding back. The sound is loud and abrupt after not speaking for so long. Jerry isn't even sure how long he's been encased in the courier flap. His ass and feet are tingling with pins and needles, and his legs and back ache with the need to stretch. It feels as if it's been hours.

Where is Rick? Morty? Do they not know where he is? Are they even trying to find him?

Jerry begins to hyperventilate. Of course. Rick. Rick in all his "wisdom" probably convinced them to leave him, let him go. Jerry blinks a few times, his eyelids heavy. He can't breath—he keeps trying to gulp in the hot air, but nothing sticks, it just seeps back out his mouth.

Is he gonna die? Is he really about to die in a flying space uterus? He's gonna die and he's only thirty-four… and it's gonna be Rick's fault. God, the guy's probably proud of himself, drinking all of Jerry's lite beer in celebration...

"Are you—" he gasps. "Are you kidding me?"

Everything goes dark. Well, it's already dark. Point is, Jerry's body goes limp and his head lolls.

...