Oh sweet mother of God this chapter is 25 pages long. I thought it wasn't going to make it to 2,000 words, but I just love to hurt myself. I'm sorry this is so late, but college hit me in the face along with depression, and then my computer got a virus that erased everything last week. Imma try to get on a regular updating schedule, depending on school. This took so long because I can't write dialogue and I think I'm awful, even though theforeverknight is exploding from my fic on how 'beautifully its written'. Meh.

The first part of the fic is very dark, and you've read the warnings in chapter 1. Next chapter this WILL be rated M.

For the awesome guest that commented 6 hours ago, my long lost friend and cocreator TheAmazingJoker, and my beta theforeverknight; that puts up with my bullshit.

Kat Aclysm - Evil Rabbit Morty is my favorite from pocket mortys. Daycare Rick is may favorite Rick cause he got pink socks and takes care of a bunch of smol children.

Thanks for all the reviews! I love you all ;)

Dances with Wolves

"Why should I apologize for the monster I've become?

No one ever apologized for making me this way."

-The Joker

Morty woke up feeling suffocated. He panted, throwing the blankets off of his sweaty form. Morty sat up, allowing the heavy bedding to slide down between the space near the wall. He adjusted his new goggles, taking in new colors that he had never been able to see well before. Morty unconsciously carded his hands through greasy hair, categorizing his new, bright world. He sighed, swinging his legs off of the side of the bed and ignoring oncoming nausea.

He sat thinking for a few long minutes, trying to make sense of things. Why would a Rick spend time making him special lenses? Was it because he needed him to be able to see properly on missions, or for another ulterior motive? And what was he going to do now? If he killed this Rick would he just be reassigned again? God, was this going to be an endless cycle… Would he ever be free? Morty got up, nearly tripping over a box.

He stumbled, grabbing the bedside dresser for support. Paper crumpled under his hands, and he found a hastily scrawled note. Morty flattened out the crinkles in the paper and began to read, shoving the box away with his foot.

The closet was cleaned out, so all the shit that would fit you is gone. I dug around and found some of my old band merc you can wear until I feel like looting a mall. Get a shower, you smell like piss. Bathrooms the last door at the end of the hall. AND DON'T FUCKING THINK ABOUT ATTACKING ME. I took the liberty of hiding anything that could be used as a weapon last night. No running off either. I put alarms on all of the windows and doors, there's surveillance cameras in every room but the bathroom. So don't try anything kid.

It wasn't signed, but it was very obvious who wrote it. Morty balled up the paper hatefully, and tossed it in the empty garbage bin near the nightstand. The old fucker had trapped him. What was he gonna do? Morty hastily dug through the box on the floor, discarding any clothes without long sleeves. Most of the shirts were black, red insignia for The Flesh Curtains splayed over the fronts. Many were too big for him, and would be baggy on his thin frame. After digging deep into the box, he found a sleeved shirt with red stripes along the arms and a red portal in the center.

At least the sleeves would cover his bruises. The colors would also help him fit into the dark if any monsters came by since the old man took his suit. Morty removed the shirt from the box, some underwear, darkened jeans with torn knees, and a pair of white socks that he guessed were Rick's. His old sneakers would be fine to wear for the time being, even if they were dirty and the soles flopped as he walked.

He gathered up his items and left the room, pushing back the urge to heave.

Without his Xax'ic, the effects of not eating and the pain in his body bore down on him without mercy. When Morty had first entered the shower, he'd clamped a rag between his teeth to stop from screaming in agony. The hot water burned the wounds around his throat and stomach for what seemed like an eternity.

Long minutes passed, the water finally soothing his battered body. He sighed in relief, disconnecting the showerhead and sitting on the floor of the tub. Morty hung his head forward as he washed his hair so that the shampoo couldn't drip down to the burns circling his throat. Even now, as he used his fingers to tear through his tangled head; he couldn't stop himself from thinking.

Morty thought about many things, most of those things revolved round a man named Rick Sanchez. He always wondered how he got here. How he became so pathetic… so dependent. Morty sat at the bottom of the tub long after the suds had been rinsed out of his hair, holding the pouring nozzle over his head.

Morty let his fingers rub the slick porcelain, disconnecting from reality. He was thrown back into a deep memory that he never wanted to think about again.

He remembered the first time he met his grandfather, all those years ago. Well, it wasn't exactly the introduction, but the actions that followed soon after. Morty met Rick Sanchez when he was five years old.

Morty didn't remember much, his mind was always in a drug filled haze and he guessed that it altered his memories over the years. But he did recall his mom crying over the man, so happy and ecstatic at his return. He couldn't remember what happened in-between, the next tattered part included his mother giving him a bath.

His mom had been called away to an emergency, and she left him. Morty stayed in the bath water until it became icy, much like he was now. The memory began to slip away, and Morty growled at his loss, tearing out a chunk of hair. He kept the spray over his head as he lurched forward and twisted the knob to cold, shivering under the freezing water.

Morty sighed as the lucid visions began again, pulling his knees up to his chest. His Rick wore a wolf mask. Empty white lenses, jagged teeth protruding from the blackened muzzle, and matted blue fur spilling behind erect ears. It was nothing like his mother's mask, or even his sister's, and it felt wrong.

His grandfather - whom he'd only known for a few hours - leaned heavily on the door frame, pushing the snout of his mask up to chug a bottle of hard alcohol. Years later Morty had realized that that his mom had expected Rick to watch him, and presumably get him out of the tub while she was gone.

The next chapter of the memory was a blur, and it had Morty wondering if it had really happened or if it was just a bad dream. His grandpa had kneeled in front of the bath, looking at him for a while with a tilted head. Next, he was under water. Rick, the man that his mother trusted, had shoved his head under the cold water.

There was no reason for him to do what he did, and Morty never questioned why he did it, or anything he did for that matter. Rick had held his thrashing body underwater until he inhaled a lungful of liquid, finally pulling him back up. Morty had coughed and gasped frantically, and Rick had gotten up and left like nothing had happened.

Morty never told his mom, and Rick disappeared for another seven years.

He sat under the freezing nozzle for a long time, even after the memory had faded away. Morty couldn't tell if he was crying because the water pelted his head, hiding what could be tears. It was okay now. He was dead, and Morty was alive. Morty turned the tap off once his lips started turning blue, drying himself off and getting out of the shower. He idly wondered what he was supposed to do afterwards, before shrugging and opening the medicine cabinet.

If Rick needed him, he could damn well come and get him. Morty combed the cabinet, hissing when he couldn't even find an old razor. The old fucker had been thorough, he'd give him that. When he wrote that he'd hid everything, he meant everything. With no possible weapon, Morty switched his priorities to the injuries dotting his body.

Morty grabbed some antibiotic gel from the cabinet and a roll of medical wrap that had been left on the top shelf. After laying his supplies out on the sink, he took a moment to assess himself in the mirror. Morty ran a hand over his stomach and winced at the shallow scratches that were left there, and that would probably join his collection of scars.

Rick had not gone down without a fight, even though it was a short lived one. His Rick had been too surprised at Morty's attack to do much damage before Morty had killed him. The only thing he had been able to accomplish, was sinking his own razor claws into Morty's abdomen. The fact that Morty wasn't gutted, meant that he hadn't gotten far.

Morty twisted the cap off of the gel, smearing most of the tube over his stomach and throat. There wasn't much he could do about the bruises over his arms, except hide them until they faded. Morty threw the empty tube away and began to wrap himself with the bandages, cursing when he realized that no scissors were left to cut them with. He groaned and used his sharpened teeth to do the job.

The bandages covered up a vicious scar that he'd gotten on one of Rick's runs. It was an ugly thing that curled around his hip, never healing right because of the uneven stitching Rick had given him in the field. Morty thinks that it's the worst of the injuries he had received during their adventures; Rick having aliens hold him down as he tried to sew him back together.

Morty was conscious for far too long during the incident.

He finished cleaning up and shuffled into his jeans, pulling a shirt over his head to hide old cigarette burns on his chest and the splotches on his arms. Socks and shoes came next, and he patted down his clothes as he looked in the mirror. "Good as new… I guess." He frowned at himself. Too skinny, too short, and too stupid.

Morty's stomach gave a painful lurch from hunger, and it forced him out of the bathroom. It's not like he could stay in there forever anyway. Avoiding Rick would only make things worse. He sighed and adjusted his goggles, heading down the banister and towards the scent of food. Morty walked through the living room, only stopping to contemplate hiding in a closet. There was a chance he could bend a metal hanger into something useful before Rick found him.

Morty decided against it, glancing around the unfamiliar house for the cameras Rick had written about. When he didn't find anything in plain view, Morty glanced in the direction of the kitchen. His ears picked up on footsteps and the clanking of pans, now sure that Rick was distracted for the time being. He wasn't going to waste a chance. Not if he didn't know when he would have another opportunity as golden as this.

He quickly scoured the room, throwing open drawers, searching the tops of shelves, and behind the television. There was no sign of the cameras, or anything he could use against Rick. No stray weapons or lost paperclips; nothing besides the legs of the chairs and tables, which he certainly wasn't going to risk smashing apart with Rick a room away.

Morty huffed, out of breath and already feeling tired. Probably because of the sorry state of his body, continuing to frantically paw through the room. He'd dropped to the floor to peer under the coffee table and couch, when someone cleared their throat. Morty jolted up, heartbeat thrumming against his chest. His head slammed forcefully into the bottom of the low table, the legs clattering loudly against the floor.

Rick stared down at him, crossing his arms. "And what the fuck do you think you're doing?" He asked, tapping his foot impatiently.

It took Morty a few moments to process the question, spots still dancing in front of his vision and unable to keep from cradling his head like a baby. He stumbled to his feet, using the coffee table as a support with one arm, the other preoccupied with the shooting pain in the back of his skull. Morty squeezed his eyes shut, answering halfheartedly. "Nuffin."

He could still feel his teeth rattling, when Rick suddenly grabbed the hand cradling his head, pushing it away. Morty tried to push back, but Rick gripped his bruised arms and pulled him close. "Stay still, ya little shit! I-I'm tryin' to figure out how bad you hurt your stupid head," he hissed.

Morty growled and slammed all of his weight into the Rick, a sense of accomplishment washing over him as the man backtracked a few feet and lost balance. It was short lived, Rick cursing and fisting Morty's damp hair. He squeaked as Rick grabbed the strands, forcing Morty's face into his chest.

Morty could barely breath, suffocated by the fabric pressing into his nose. Rick carded through his hair, brushing the bump beginning to form on the back of his head. When he didn't find any blood, he gave a satisfied grunt and shoved Morty away. He gulped for air the second the man withdrew, tense and unnerved by the experience. He righted his goggles that had been knocked askew in the brief skirmish, glaring at Rick.

Rick was unimpressed, removing his flask from his coat and taking a long swig before speaking. "I told you not to fuck around, kid," he spat in an irritated tone. Rick capped his flask, his free hand snatching Morty's wrist and dragging him in the direction of the kitchen. "Hope that bump on the head taught ya something, Morty. When I tell you to do something, you do it," Rick emphasized, squeezing the boy's wrist hard.

Morty didn't resist as he was led to the other room, feet meeting linoleum and the scent of food ripping into his stomach. Rick tossed him into an empty chair, heading to the stove and filling up a plate for him. Morty watched in silence, taking in the new smells and the brightly furnished kitchen. He unconsciously took a spoon from the table, trapping it between sharp teeth.

Morty gazed at the mess Rick had made of the room; pots and pans overloading the sink, enough food for ten people stacked in different trays. His mind wandered, gnawing absentmindedly on the spoon. "Why'd you make so much?" Morty asked around the metal, running his hands across the clean wood of the table.

Rick kicked the fridge shut after rooting around for something, reaching in the cabinet for a glass and a coffee mug. "Hmm?" Rick responded, not paying attention as he juggled things in his arms.

Morty's teeth clamped down on the spoon. "Food!" He hissed angrily, not liking Rick's lack of focus.

"Oh," the Rick said passively, sitting a glass of juice in front of Morty. Rick started to place some condiments on the table. "I have security monitors in my room," he stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "So I knew when ya got up. Went to make some breakfast, considering Beth's not here and you're about ready to keel over on me." Rick stared vacantly at him for a couple of seconds.

"Didn't think you'd take so goddamn long in the fucking bathroom, and I got bored," Rick said with a shrug. "So I kept makin' shit until you started dicking around in the living room." He sat a plate in front of Morty; a mess of different foods piled together haphazardly. Bacon, scrambled eggs, hashed potatoes, toast, and messily-made pancakes.

Morty almost died, just from the temptation dangled in front of him. It had to be a trick. Don't eat it. He did something to it. Morty hugged his cramping abdomen, pushing the plate away. Morty watched as Rick poured himself a cup of coffee, putting his mug down in front of a seat at the opposite end of the table.

Morty tried to distract himself from the hunger pains, staring at the dark circles still under the Rick's eyes. Maybe even darker than the night before. Morty took the spoon out of his mouth, allowing the brittle metal to rattle against the table. Rick hadn't slept last night. He thought. An insomniac Rick wasn't rare, but judging by this one, he must take it to an extreme. Morty drummed his fingers on the wood, trying to put his ideas together through the haze over his starved mind.

What was it the guards said? The Suspicious Rick? The Paranoid Rick? What was that supposed to mean?

Morty's head snapped to attention as Rick started to ramble again, pulling up his legs to rest on his seat. "Beth, dipshit, and Summer should be gone for a few more days," he seemed tired as he spoke. "Left a message on the answering machine when I was - umm - 'less than sober'." Rick made quotations with his hands. He seemed to shrug off his solemn demeanor, giving Morty's untouched plate a sharp look. "Eat your fucking food," he commented, becoming aggravated.

Morty shook his head as the Rick narrowed his eyes at him. "I don't want it," he deadpanned, sliding the plate farther down the table.

Morty felt his heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears as he openly refused the Rick. Something that he had learned from regretful experience, was that you never say no to a Rick. He was at war with himself, on whether or not he should fight this man; only choosing blatant disobedience because of his promise to himself.

He was never going to fall victim to a Rick again. He wasn't going to be a stupid, helpless little kid who didn't know any better. Morty pulled his knees close as he observed the man's reaction, nervously digging his nails into the edges of his wooden chair. Rick's shoulders tensed, and he yanked his flask from his lab coat. Morty watched as the Rick proceeded to spike his coffee with whatever heavy drink he chose that day, capping the container and forcing it back into his pocket. Morty jumped when Rick slammed the mug back down on the table, liquid sloshing over the edges and rolling down the sides.

Rick immediately rounded on Morty.

"Frankly, I don't give a damn if ya want it or not," the Rick growled, glaring at him. Morty glared back from behind his knees, almost unable to meet the man's eyes. Rick waved his arms as he continued. "You may have started this - this little hunger strike or whatever the fuck you wanna call it, but I'm ending it." Rick slapped his hands down on the table, making all of the silverware vibrate. "Now," he added.

Trembling and unable to keep up with their glaring contest, Morty opted to stare at Rick's shoes instead. "You can't make me do anything," Morty replied somewhat regretfully.

Morty saw Rick's hands fall from the table out of the corner of his eyes. He heard footsteps and before he could react, Rick's arms were on either sides of him; gripping the spine of the chair and trapping him. Morty squeaked at the close proximity, Rick coming nose to nose with him; the front legs of the seat not even touching the ground as Rick shoved him backwards. Morty shrank into the chair, previous confidence gone in an instant. He almost choked from the scent of stale alcohol and soap that radiated off of the man.

Rick forced Morty to look at him as he spoke, threatening tones seeping into his voice and crawling down Morty's spine. "Do ya want to die, you little idiot? Is that what you want, huh?" He hissed in Morty's face, the boy trying to turn his head away. "Do you want to die, Mooorty?" Rick dragged Morty's name out, the chair tipping back dangerously.

"Well, too bad!" Rick let go of the wobbling seat, the legs rocking violently and banging back to the linoleum.

Morty's stomach fell to his feet as the chair settled, his hands clawing the underside of his seat in an effort to keep himself grounded. He could swear that Rick heard his thundering heartbeat, pounding away in his chest. Rick backed up a few steps, and Morty hugged his legs as tremors shook his body, forgetting why he had even rebelled in the first place. Rick went through a few drawers, grabbing a fork and knife before slamming them all shut in quick succession.

Morty flinched as each cracked horribly.

Rick's furious expression melted into one of firm annoyance after a glance at his mess of a Morty; curled up and terrified on a kitchen chair, staring at him in pure trepidation. He sighed loudly, rolling his darkened eyes. "I'm not going to let ya off yourself," he insisted, cutting up the food on Morty's plate - much like one would for a child. But that's all this Morty was wasn't he?

Rick sawed through the food with more force than necessary, curling his lip as he continued. "So get over yourself cause you're gonna fucking eat," he glared over the plate. "And I. Can. Fucking. Make. You."

"No?" Morty weakly protested, uncertainty leaking into his voice. He couldn't really remember the subject, the anxiety had long since ripped his reasoning apart. Morty rocked a bit, gnawing the hem of his new shirt, completely dissociating from the argument.

The bleary look in Morty's eyes was the only thing that stopped Rick from dragging the kid over to the table by his hair and forcing food down his throat. More violence would only make things worse. Especially when the kid was zoned out. Instead, Rick grumbled to himself as he finished cutting up Morty's pancakes, drowning half of the plate in syrup after a moment of consideration.

"As I said before," Rick stated carefully, like he was speaking to a little kid. "This isn't negotiable." Morty didn't respond, hiding his face behind his legs.

"Morty," Rick snarled, hooking a leg around the kid's chair and sliding him close to the table. Morty looked at his plate for a few seconds, but when Rick tried to hand him the silverware, he buried his face in his hands.

This wasn't working. Rick rubbed his eyes, mumbling. This situation was unnerving to say the least… The kid's ability to completely distance himself, to change mindsets on a flip of a coin. One second, he was a raging, defiant, murderous teen - in the next he was lost in a world of his own, the mental capacity of a child. It was very concerning, and something itched in the back of Rick's mind that he ignored. Fine. If he had to treat Morty like a baby to get him eating, he'd do it.

He couldn't lose another Morty. Not so soon…

"I didn't do anything to the food," Rick coughed awkwardly.

Morty peeked at him from his hands, unable to comprehend the situation. Rick eyed him with rapt attention, Morty wrapping his arms around himself. He was listening, maybe all of the words weren't getting through, but it was good enough. Hunger was painful. It was a cold fact that well. A cruel, drawn-out way to die. The kid wasn't fooling anyone when he said he wasn't hungry, or when he said that he didn't want the food.

Rick would bet everything on how much this kid actually wanted to eat, refusing not to over some ingrained paranoia.

Most likely caused by his other Rick. He thought grimly, not wanting to know what had happened to make this boy so scared of accepting food from him. Rick resisted the urge to dig out his flask to drown the thought.

Rick gave in, spearing some food on Morty's plate with the fork. The kid tracked his movements carefully, his legs finally dropping from the chair. "I don't know what's going on in your tiny, insignificant mind, but for Christ's sake pay attention, ya little freak, because this is the one time I'm fucking doing this for you."

Rick made sure Morty was watching, stuffing a forkful of pancake in his own mouth. The sweet food made him feel sick, he hadn't wanted to eat anything that morning; not after his drinking binge the previous night. His stomach rolled, and he swallowed quickly to continue speaking.

"There," Rick concluded, handing Morty the fork. He took it without hesitation. "See? Completely fine."

Morty nodded airily, Rick collapsing into the seat across from him to sip his hard coffee. Because God knew he needed it after this morning. Was it really morning? Rick pondered, glancing at a clock on the wall behind Morty. More like three-ish in the afternoon.

A bit of clarity was returning to the kid as he ate his pancakes drenched in syrup first, emptying his glass of juice silently. Rick wordlessly poured him another, thanking the universe when Morty didn't force him to taste test it too. Rick began to organize questions in his head, drumming his fingers on the table and bouncing his leg. He had so much to ask this kid, but no guarantee that he would ever get answers.

Morty's movements became more coordinated as he finished his pancakes, shifting his goggles, the boy reached across the table for a bottle of ketchup as Rick got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. Morty clicked open the cap and sniffed the contents, amusing Rick with the concentrated expression painted on his face.

Rick almost dropped his coffee, quickly swiping the bottle from Morty after he dumped a large amount of the ketchup all over his food. " Hey!" Morty exclaimed as Rick put the container out of reach.

"So you - you're finally coming back to your senses. Good. Because I'd like to know what the fucking deal is with your weird mood swings."

"Nothing," Morty said, shoveling more food in his mouth to avoid the question.

Rick sat back down, brow furrowed at the boy's response. "Don't fucking lie to me, Morty," Rick ordered.

"I'm not-"

"One rule here kid," Rick cut him off. "If you don't want to answer me, then just say so. I don't like liars and you better bet your ass I've been playing the game long enough to see through whatever bullshit you can come up with." Rick took a long swig from his flask, tucking it back into his coat afterwards. "I won't press ya for answers, as long as I think you're not doin' nothing asinine or dangerous. Every man, alien - creature…" Rick prattled. " deserves their right to privacy when it comes to thoughts." Hell I don't even like people picking my mind, was left unsaid.

Morty picked up his half empty glass of juice, reeling back to hurl it at Rick.

Rick didn't flinch, but he did put his coffee down in preparation for another fight. "Do it Morty," he mocked, Morty halting with the glass held tightly in one hand. "I guarantee ya won't like the consequences, but if you think it's reallllly worth it…"

Rick left the threat vague, in a guilty hope that the boy would assume the worst. The most Rick would actually do, would be to tackle him to the ground and to ban him from glasses; but Morty didn't know that. Maybe that's why he felt a tightening in his chest, feeling bad in a way. It didn't matter though because Morty did assume the worst - something that left implications Rick didn't want to think about - and slumped back down in his seat.

He never answered Rick's question, and Rick decided to drop it. He'd figure it out himself. Morty finished the rest of his food as Rick formulated more plans, getting up to dish himself more from the multiple containers on the counter. Morty kept his back to Rick as he did so with stiff, sluggish movements; waiting for the old man to stop him. Rick didn't, but the boy's deliberate slowness was catalogued among the many files in Rick's mind, to be dissected and connected to any new information.

Rick noticed Morty's fork that he had left on the table, tapping his foot impatiently. "Don't get used to forks kid, because after today, you'll be dealing with spoons," he said nonchalantly, breaking the thick atmosphere.

"What? Why?" Morty scrunched his face up as he added more food to his plate, the nervous shaking still evident in his fingers.

"Today was a special exception to the rule, I didn't even plan on giving ya one to begin with," Rick explained as Morty searched for wherever Rick had put the ketchup bottle. "I don't trust ya not to try and gouge my eyes out, so you get to eat shit with a spoon until I decide otherwise." Rick took a long swig from his flask, dumping more alcohol into his new cup of coffee.

He brought the flask up to the light, squinting at the shiny reflecting metal. "And from what I've seen, it's gonna be a very long time," Rick informed.

Morty didn't say anything about Rick's boycott, grabbing the ketchup bottle off of a high shelf and pouring more on the newly dished food. Rick chose not to snatch it from him this time around, not wanting to start another pointless argument. He had questions that needed answers, and he wasn't going to compromise them by fighting over ketchup.

Rick waited until Morty had sat down to begin, staring listlessly at the bottle left on the counter. "So, I'm assuming ya don't have ketchup in your dimension," he half-asked half-stated.

"No," Morty responded distractedly, shoving another forkful of food in his mouth. "We don't have - I mean, we didn't have a lot of things you do," Morty stumbled over himself as he spoke.

Rick had to keep from smirking at finally getting some sort of answer, no matter how insignificant. Ask meaningless junk, and then lead into the harder shit when he got comfortable. Perfect. "Whaddya mean?" He asked, barely able to contain his excitement. His leg bounced wildly in anticipation.

Morty dropped his fork, frowning. "Oh. Umm," he seemed to be thinking, carefully choosing his words. "We have electric and water and a bunch of stuff, like radio, but we don't exactly have the -" Morty struggled to find a word to get his message across. "Industrialization that you do." He still seemed unsure of his choice.

"Like, we kinda keep to ourselves if that makes sense." He looked over to Rick and the man waved his hand, signaling him to continue. "Everything we have is local… We don't have big cities or anything, so we make stuff ourselves. I don't mean my m-mom or anything, but the town." Rick noticed how the kid stuttered at the mention of his mother, picking up on the lack of Jerry's presence. Interesting.

"No TV?" The Rick asked. Morty shook his head, finishing his second plate of food. This Rick was so… Weird. He talked and talked and talked. Rambling about dumb things and asking questions like he cared about him. It was extremely upsetting for some reason.

"But I've watched a lot of television when I was with -" Morty cut his answer short, rewording it as he realized his mistake. "While I was in space," he ended solemnly, buried memories swirling into his head.

Sitting in empty hotel rooms, watching repeats of infomercials and pretending everything was okay. The musty smell of unwashed sheets and moldy, water-damaged walls. Mysterious carpet stains and the racket of cities outside the windows. Sometimes his Rick was passed out drunk in the bed, while he sat on the edge and watched mindless programs.

Sometimes he wasn't there at all and Morty didn't know when, or if he would even come back.

Sometimes he would even sit in the dirty bathrooms with his portable radio; mostly when his grandfather brought a lady friend back, or when he was in a drunken rage.

"-ck?" The man across the table asked, snapping him from his reverie.

"Sorry, I was…" Morty shoved his goggles up to rub tired eyes. "What did you say?" He mumbled with his palms digging into his eyes.

Morty knew that the Rick had caught on to his latest bout of complete disassociation, but the man didn't comment. "I asked," Rick pronounced clearly, making sure Morty hadn't faded out of reality again. "If ya wanted to talk about your Rick," the man said gently, if that was even remotely possible.

Morty almost laughed at the thought, and only restrained himself because it would probably make the Rick think he was crazier than he already was. And make him interrogate you more. He thought grimly.

A Rick being gentle… what an abstract idea.

No, he wasn't being soft because he was nice. It was because he wanted something.

"No," Morty quickly replied, his voice hardened. His eyes vacantly drifted over to the glass of juice, condensation rolling down the clear layer and to the wooden table.

The Rick hummed unhappily, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head back towards the ceiling. "So…" The word lingered in the air as he formulated another question. "Nightmare Dimension huh?"

"I-I don't know. I guess? That's what people keep telling me," Morty answered truthfully, his fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

The Rick rocked in his seat, bringing the legs off of the ground as he stared into nothing. "Last night, when you were drugged up pretty good, ya started talking about monsters or some shit." He paused and looked over Morty. "A goddamn explanation would be nice right about now."

Morty scowled at him, fisting his shirt. "I don't owe y-you anything," he hissed.

Morty had hoped his tone would drop the subject, but it only seemed to amuse the Rick. The man let the legs of his chair slam back to the linoleum, a challenging spark in his darkened eyes. "Ooooh, is that so," he voiced condescendingly, crossing his arms. "You were just soooo scared of the dark last night, begging me to keep the lights on and not to leave you to the invisible monsters." Rick made the situation out as more dramatic than it was, goading Morty into an answer.

"N-no I didn't!" He defended, face hot from embarrassment.

Rick laughed at him. "Aw, is the wittle fourteen year old scared of the dark? You'd probably be crying for me and pissing yourself without a nightlight," he giggled.

"Shut up! It's not funny!"

Rick howled, shoulders shaking. "Okaaaay," he slurred sarcastically. "Ya gonna spill and tell me why a teenager is still crying about the boogeyman comin' ta get him." Rick folded his hands, a smile still plastered on his face.

"I-I don't want to," Morty whispered, hands fisted in his lap.

"Yeah? Well, maybe I don't want to give ya any lights tonight," Rick said casually.

Morty's head snapped up to the man. "You can't do that!" He shrieked desperately.

"Mmmm. I can," Rick assured, closing his eyes.

"No!" Morty yelled, but Rick didn't say anything else.

Morty's insecurities and anxiety bloomed as minutes passed in silence, finally breaking after the ticking of the clock behind his head became too loud. "Th-there were monsters in my dimension," his voice was barely audible, and he knew Rick was straining his ears to listen. "They liked the dark…"

Rick kept his eyes closed as Morty elaborated. "I haven't - I mean I don't," he stammered. "They kill people. It's why we don't take our suits off… It keeps them away. We can protect ourselves. But I don't have it anymore…" Morty almost sobbed out the last sentence, but knew to never show weakness in front of a Rick.

The man leaned forward, laying his arms on the table. His eyes opened, lazily drifting over Morty. "How bad are they?"

"What?" Morty's eyes burned.

Rick didn't say anything else, gesturing to his throat.

"S' fine," Morty said thickly, the wounds around his neck throbbing painfully. He reached up to feel the bandages.

Rick made a disapproving noise. "I wanna know how bad it is." The 'it' was obvious to both of them. "I'm not an idiot, Morty. I know those bruises and shit ain't gonna magically stop where your sleeves happen to be."

Morty opened his mouth, a lie already at the tip of his tongue. He thought that he was good at faking. Years of telling concerned passerbys that he fell or was in some kind of accident flashed across his mind. Don't tell, don't tell, dont tell!

Rick noticed his reluctance, rambling some more. "Healed up my side last night." He rolled up his shirt to show a melted looking scar. "Not the best shit, and I'm not gonna lie, Morty, it burns like a motherfucker, but it's a stash I whipped up for emergencies." Rick took a long swig from his flask. "Don't recommend it," he said offhandedly. "No idea about the side effects, and the shit leaves a nasty scar. That's the - that's why I haven't messed with your injuries yet."

"It's not that bad," Morty replied. He hadn't realized the man had fixed his side up. He had to pay better attention. He was getting sloppy, and that would only lead to bad things.

Rick grunted in agreement, taking another long pull from his flask. "Im-Imma give ya the benefit of the doubt this time, Morty." He stuffed the container back in his coat. "But if I figure out you're lyin' to me - and I can guarantee I will - I'll be beyond fucking pissed."

Morty rubbed the bruises on his arms, the sleeves of his new shirt concealing them. He shivered at Rick's threat, avoiding his glare by looking down at his empty plate. "Okay," he mumbled.

Rick got up from his chair, motioning for Morty to follow as he headed towards the living room. Morty did so without protest, his mind a jumbled heap of confusion.

Who was this man, and what did he want from him?

They sat on the couch watching various television shows. Rick never stayed on a channel for long, quickly becoming bored and flipping past commercials. An awkward silence had issued forth since they'd left the kitchen, and frankly, Morty had nothing else to say. Rick kept asking questions, and when he didn't answer, the man rambled on about something entirely off-topic.

The laid back, casual demeanor did not fool Morty. He saw how the Rick reacted to every action he made; a subtle shift, and the man's eyes would dart over to him, dissecting his mind. It made him shudder and curl up as far away as he could, pressing deeply into the corner of the sofa.

Morty worried the collar of his new shirt, wondering when the fabric would become gnarled under his sharpened teeth. His Rick always got angry when he did this, cuffing him on the back of the head and calling him names. It's the reason that his Rick stopped buying him clothes. Because what was the point if he was just gonna ruin them. What a baby. Gnawing on your shirt like a toddler. Pathetic.

Morty wasn't sure if his thoughts were his own anymore, or if they were long forgotten echoes of his Rick's melded into his brain. God, he hated himself…

He stared at the show on the TV. It was something about a team of weird aliens, and there were lots of explosions. The loud noises and splashes of blood mixed with bullets made him flinch. Many bad, traumatizing visions haunted him. Rick looked over to him to gauge his reactions, turning down the volume, before switching the show completely.

Morty breathed a sigh of relief, his palms sweating from withdrawals. What he would do for a good hit right now. He shook his head, dislodging the thought from his mind. Morty picked a stray strip of leather off of his worn shoes, watching the new program interestedly. It was a kid's cartoon about…. crying breakfast foods? Morty shrugged, enjoying the upbeat storyline as Rick began to fiddle with an invention he'd had stuffed in his coat.

He hated the fact that Rick was treating him like some fragile child, but the relaxed atmosphere was too perfect to disrupt with complaints. He'd rather be watching a show about cartoon food friends, than something about death and war and murder anyways. Rick kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, playing with some wires inside the gun he was working on. All was quiet, except for the ambience of the television and an occasional burp or mumble from Rick.

Morty wrapped his arms around his stomach, cramps plaguing him and making him nauseous. He'd definitely eaten too much; not used to taking in a bunch of food at once. Morty heard Rick let out a long sigh, the back of the gun clicked back together as he finished. The man checked one of his watches, before taking a long pull from his flask and sinking back into the couch.

"So," Rick said, trailing the walls with tired eyes. "We got a drop-off tonight, MoOOUUGHty," he belched. "Loyal customer too. Always pays upfront. Never hafta worry bout' him."

He waved his finished gun around. "Banned in twelve dimensions…" Rick tucked the weapon back into his coat, side-eying Morty suspiciously. "Not gonna tell ya what it does though." He clicked off the TV, cutting the show off in mid-sentence. Morty wouldn't admit that he was a little disappointed. He'd have to remember the name of it, so he could see the ending one day.

Rick removed his feet from the table, hunching forwards with his arms resting on his knees, hands dangling between his legs. He gazed at the blank screen, a passing question fluttering across his mind. Morty furrowed his brow as the Rick decided on whether or not to ask whatever idea popped into his head.

"What was I?"

"Wha-" Morty stuttered out as Rick cut him back off.

"You said that everyone in your dimension dresses up as shit to scare monsters away or something," Rick reiterated. "You're a bunny. So what was I?" He asked curiously, a spur of the moment question.

Morty ground his teeth, rage bubbling up in his heart. He'd almost forgotten how much he loathed this man…

After a couple of minutes, Rick seemed like he had given up on getting an answer; his back cracking as he got up from the couch. Just as he headed past it, intent on sauntering back to his room, Morty spoke up:

"He was a wolf," Morty spat, filling the word with more malice than Rick had thought possible.

Rick turned around, looking at Morty curiously from the behind the back of the sofa. Morty got to his knees, peering over it as he spoke in a demanding tone. "I want my suit back!" He bared his sharpened teeth, fingers digging into the fabric of the seat.

Rick sniffed at him. "Too bad." Morty hissed back. "Now come on, we got - we gotta get some sleep. We'll be out late tonight for my deal, ya little shit."

Rick barely had time to react as Morty flung himself off of the back of the couch, tackling him to the hard floor. They briefly grappled for each other; Morty trying to dig his fingers into Rick's eyes and struggling to get ahold of a stray limb to sink his razor-sharp teeth into. After a well-placed knee to the groin, Rick had lost all patience - ruthlessly pulling back the kid's goggles so that they slapped back into Morty's face. As he stumbled back with a stinging pain, Rick grabbed a fistful of brown hair. He flipped the boy over, pinning him to the ground and shoving the muzzle of his new gun to the kid's head.

Morty fought weakly, and Rick slammed his head into the floor with his free hand, digging the weapon firmly against the boy's head. Morty whimpered, breathing harshly. He felt sick, his vision blurring into a multitude of colors.

"Ya wanna try that again kid?" Rick growled harshly, his weight suffocating Morty and making the boy's injuries scream. "Cause I'd love to try out my new gun." Morty heard him cock the weapon.

Morty tried to respond, but all that came out was a strangled cry laced with agony. The weight immediately subsided, Rick jumping off of him as if he had been shocked. Morty gasped for air, his head light and his stomach rebelling. He curled in on himself, and couldn't stop the thick sobs from escaping his mouth as the full extent of his wounds bore down on him.

Rick vanished from his sight, and Morty suddenly felt very ill. A few seconds later, arms grabbed him around his middle, hauling him over a bucket. Morty heaved violently, emptying his stomach into the bin. It went on for a couple minutes, even after everything had been forced out and reduced him to a mess of weak sobs. Rick brushed his hair out of his face while he was sick, rubbing comforting circles into his back.

Morty felt pathetic.

After spitting into the bin one last time, Morty sat back and buried his face in his knees to hide his shame. Rick got up and took the bucket somewhere, and Morty tried to scrub the tears away before he came back. Stupid bastard. He cried softly. Great. Now he was gonna make fun of him for the rest of the day. You stupid, weak, pathetic excuse of a Morty.

But why did he care so much about what Rick thought of him? He cleaned off his wet goggles.

Rick shuffled back into the room, flask in hand. "Shouldn't have let ya eat so much," he muttered, talking to himself. Rick's feet appeared in front of Morty, and he bent down to offer a hand. Morty reluctantly took it, trying to lift himself up on shaky feet.

"Up, up, up," Rick encouraged, patting him on the back as he leaned heavily against the older man. Rick didn't shove him back to the floor like he expected, supporting most of his weight. "S'rry," he apologized cradling the cuts on his abdomen that were most likely bleeding through the bandages.

"Can ya make it up the stairs?" Before Morty could respond, Rick had swept him off of his feet. The man headed up the banister with long strides, talking the whole way. "Forgot about your 'not bad injuries'," Rick snorted.

Morty moaned as his gravity was lost on the walk up the stairs, the man trying his best not to jostle him. They reached the top, and Rick set him down, keeping steadying hands on the boy's shoulders. "You good?" Morty could have sworn that concern was in his voice.

Morty nodded and the Rick opened the door to what he guessed was his own bedroom. "Get your blanket and pillow out of the room you were in last night." He straightened out his lab coat. "You're bunking with me from now on. Any complaints?" Morty shook his head and scurried off to retrieve the items on unsteady feet.

Morty stood outside the doorway, looking into Rick's room with his blanket and pillow tucked under his arms. The wall was a mess of wanted posters, blueprints, and crazy spiderwebs of colored yarn connecting them. His dresser was littered with half-finished inventions and drug paraphernalia that made Morty's fingers itch with need. Rick's cot was pushed up against the back wall, sheets and blanket sprawled out. There were no windows, which would be perfect in fending off monster attacks.

Morty stepped into the room with a frown, crushing an unnoticed beer can as the scent of stale alcohol filled his nostrils. It was a smell he had grown user to over the years. Morty felt out of place, watching Rick sift through boxes stacked in his closet. The man pulled out a sleeping bag and threw it haphazardly near his own bed, and Morty worked to flatten it out. He sat cross legged on the ugly green bag, draping his blanket over his shoulders as Rick continued to look for something.

"Fuck yeah!" Rick cheered, snatching the desired object from a box on the highest shelf. Morty was amazed that the pile hadn't collapsed on the old man. He snickered at the thought. A Rick killed by falling junk. Wouldn't that be a fitting end.

Rick gave him a weird look, before holding up a night light shaped like a cat dressed in a space suit. Morty quirked a brow at him.

"My room doesn't have windows," Rick said. Morty gave him a pointed look. Do you think I'm stupid? Rick crouched down to plug the plastic into an untouched socket, pink light filling the room. Rick grinned at the smiling cat, accomplished. "So this'll keep ya from screaming your fool head off when I shut the door." Rick slammed it shut for emphasis.

Morty pulled off his goggles, placing them beside his makeshift bed. "And it'll keep ya from trying to kill me in my sleep," Rick added, and Morty looked up in surprise. "Can't leave ya unsupervised while I'm sleepin', so you'll just have to deal with being roomies. I'm a light sleeper, remember that."

Rick's eyes followed Morty's to his desk. He stepped over the kid, collapsing onto his cot with a loud groan. "And don't even think about touching my shit, or I'll leave ya in a reality where everyone has mouths for eyes and only listen to Nickelback."

Morty disregarded the threat, scoffing as Rick rolled over with his back facing him. Morty pulled the covers over his head, burrowing into the layered sleeping bag underneath him. A long, content sigh escaped his lungs as he finally began to drift into sleep.

He just wanted to act like everything was fine for a few hours, before he woke up back inside this hell. The soft pink light flooding the room and soothed his torrential mind.

"Why are you so scared of the dark," Rick asked tiredly. "I get the monster thing, but you've been out of that dimension for a while, haven't you?"

Morty pulled his covers back to blink sleepy eyes awake, looking blearily at the smiling space cat plugged into the wall. "I have," he answered with a yawn.

"How long?" Morty closed his eyes again.

"Years, I think. I can't remember things too well anymore." He could almost hear the cogs in Rick's mind processing the new information. It was obvious that the man wanted to know what Morty meant by 'anymore', but Rick didn't ask about it because he knew he would never get an answer.

Rick waited for Morty to elaborate further. Time passed, and Morty's eyes slowly opened, and he was sure that he'd lost consciousness for an unknown amount of time. He turned on his side, facing away from Rick and curling up into a tight ball.

"Rick?" He said into the darkness, his voice scratchy from sleep. "Are you still awake?"

Rick made a noise from up on his bed to confirm that he was still listening. Morty briefly wondered if the man really ever slept.

"Not all monsters are mindless creatures, waiting in the dark to kill you…" Morty stated critically. He heard Rick uncap his flask above him.

"What else is there?" Rick said in a hushed whisper, as if his voice would be too loud.

"People are a lot scarier," Morty replied in a muffled gasp, finally slipping into a dreamless void.

Rick didn't sleep that night.

A lot of foreshadowing in this chapter about Morty. Try and figure out the secret I'm keeping ;0

Review, like and favorite for more! If you have any questions about the story, don't be afraid to pop by my PM or tumblr. I go by the same account name and try to answer and reply to everyone. Also, I tend to post sneak peeks and in depth stuff on my tumblr, so don't miss out.

I am now taking requests for oneshots concerning Rick and Morty to help with writers block and to stay fresh. Send me a message if you want a specific story written, or have a prompt. Rules are no pairings or incest, and I have the right to deny any idea I'm uncomfortable with. Pocket mortys has a lot of potential and I'd love to hear what Ricks and mortys you can come up with!

PaigeK9, signing off!