: ̗̀ ➛ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏᴛ ᴄᴀʀ ๋࣭ ⭑ ⚝
pairing: ʀɪᴄᴋ ᴤᴀɴᴄʜᴇᴢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
cw: ᴄʜᴜʙʙʏ ᴄᴏᴅᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʟᴏᴋᴇʏ ᴀɴɢᴤᴛʏ, ɢɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴤᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ, ᴄᴏᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴄʏ ᴠɪʙᴇᴤ (ᴤᴏʀʀʏ), ʀᴇғᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇᴤ ᴛᴏ ʙᴏᴅʏ ɪɴᴤᴇᴄᴜʀɪᴛʏ, ʀɪᴄᴋ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴀᴤᴤᴜʀɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴀʟᴤᴏ ᴀɴ ᴀᴤᴤʜᴏʟᴇ, ᴜɴᴤᴘᴇᴄɪғɪᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴤʜɪᴘ
summary: ɪɴᴤᴇᴄᴜʀɪᴛʏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘᴤ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ғʀᴏᴍ ʀɪᴄᴋ ғᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ, ʜᴇ ᴤʜᴏᴡᴤ ᴜᴘ ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴇᴡᴤ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴤ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ.
wc: 𝟷.𝟽ᴋ
ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ɪɴ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴤᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴏɴᴛʜᴤ ʙᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴤᴇᴀᴤᴏɴ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ʀɴ ɪ'ᴍ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʀɪᴄᴋ ᴤᴀɴᴄʜᴇᴢ ᴤʜɪᴛ. ɪ ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ᴛʜɪᴤ ɪᴤ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴤ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɴᴏ ʀɪᴄᴋ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ :(
The bed that had once been comfortable had turned glaringly solid. Your side was starting to cramp, having laid there stationary for too long. The darkness of your bedroom was draped silently over you, serving as the only comfort you had at the moment. Your skin tingled with an unspoken discomfort, as though voicing it’s disapproval of being stretched over your bones. Somewhere in the grooves of your mind between your conscious thoughts, you were acutely aware of the way your body changed because of your position, and it only added to the haze of insecurity you’d been stirring in for the past week. The sudden drop in self assurance was like a bullet to the head. It knocked you off your feet - hard. You’d stopped hanging around the Smith residence; stopped letting the weird old man you were entangled with drag you to a random planet for some random desire he had.
Honestly, you weren’t completely sure he would even notice your absence. Aside from constantly keeping himself working, he had Morty. He had his entire family, even Jerry. He also prided himself on keeping up the illusion of detachment, always making sure the people around him knew how little he cared about their existence. Most people who truly knew him saw through it, it wasn’t the most complex of coping mechanisms, nor the most believably executed. He consistently had little slips of his mask - his subdued humanity slipping through his poorly covered wounds. Not so much in the destruction he caused, he couldn’t care less about strangers, but he’d get sentimental if his family was on the line.
You’d known him long enough to have somehow wormed your way into that category. You’d seen him soft before, not often, but enough. Normally when he was too drunk to stand and his hands were clawing at you like he wanted to get underneath your skin. When he would mumble out disconnected strings of affectionate thoughts, how much you meant to him. The next day, when he was as sober as he let himself get, he would deny it. You always saw how his eyes doubled back, quick to write you off but skittish when it came to hurting you; like he had to analyze just how visibly deep his words cut so he knew when to stop pushing the blade. You’d gotten good at reading between the lines, you had to get good at it to be around Rick. There was no other way he communicated. You bent along his edges or you got booted out, and that’s just how it was. So, when you’d started pulling back, even before you stopped coming over entirely, you thought he was blissfully unaware.
Of course, the smartest man in the universe noticed immediately. You stopped touching him, tensed up when he touched you. It was accurate to say you wore the internal discomfort in the little things, pulling your shirt down more, starting to only wear pants even though it was summer. Anyone who didn’t know you would think nothing, your resolve was high and your smiles still bright. But he wasn’t anyone. He did know you, deep and thoroughly. He knew you as well as anyone ever could, so of course he knew something was up. The lack of your energy permeating his lab and his home made him feel on edge. He drank more, snapped at Morty, took them on bullshit adventures just to push off the inevitable confrontation he knew was coming. It frustrated him that you let trivial human issues interfere with being there with him. But deeper than that, he knew what you needed was comfort, reassurance, for him to simply tell you that he thought you were pretty and he wanted you. Needed you. And he couldn’t do it.
So, he did what he could. He got drunk. Off his rocker, stumbling and slurring his words drunk. His inebriated brain only seemed to notice the lack of you more. A stupid, tiny voice in his head inquiring about your whereabouts, thinking about how he missed you. He drank and drank until that voice was dead air, but no amount of alcohol could keep it down. You were in his bones, in his blood. There was a sliver of his heart carved away where you fit perfectly, right next to all the people he claimed not to give a shit about. It was then, in his garage, at almost midnight of your seventh day gone, that the dam broke.
The portal was bright as hellfire in the abyss of your room. You’d lit a candle earlier, but it had burned out. Your clothes were slightly damp from not bothering to dry off completely when you’d showered. It hadn’t mattered at the moment, you just wanted your clothes back on, wanted to lay back down. You didn’t bother to turn over as you heard clumsy footsteps attempting to get closer to your bed. The sound of the wriggling green gateway closing brought an unexpected wave of comfort, pulling you slightly back into your body. The sound of his breathing did the same. Even though you could tell by his inability to walk properly that he was fucked, it was a comfort nonetheless. Something familiar and warm after bathing in the cold for a week.
“Y-you’re killing me, you know.” You honestly thought he was here to pass out. Hearing him speak nearly brought tears to your eyes. “A week of adventures with…with fuckin’ Morty. Shit’s been - i -it’s fucking boring without you.” You could barely hear him as he grumbled his frustration, pausing and breathing through his words. For being as drunk as he was, his words were surprisingly well articulated. He’d clearly been thinking about this.
Your eyes were slightly puffy from when you’d been crying, and your voice cracked a little as you matched the low volume of the man behind you. “ ‘m sorry.” You didn’t feel like explaining, you didn’t even know if he wanted you to.
“You’re not-” He paused a second, hiccuping and shifting his feet as though the floor was moving beneath him. “Y - you’re not slick, sweetheart.” You hadn’t moved, didn’t want to face him, even if it was in the dark. “I fuckin’ - I see that shit you do. You think I - i’m the smart - smartest man in the universe and you think I can’t tell when you get insecure?” You stared ahead, you honestly didn’t know if you’d thought he would notice. Even then, noticing was one thing, caring was another. He seemed frustrated, not necessarily at you, but his words were expelled rather than spoken. Like he had a point to prove. “Jesus, baby. If - if you w-wanted a fucking clue - clueless idiot, you should have dated Jerry.” Your ears rang at the word dated. Is that what you and Rick were, dating? The word was so incredibly juvenile when it came to him. Nobody dated a man like him. You were his or you weren’t. You didn’t know if you felt insulted he would dumb down the connection between you two like that; or elated at the subtle claim of intention. He cared enough to notice you. To notice when something was wrong and what it was. With him, that was everything.
The bed dipped behind your back as he sat against the headboard, leaning his bobbling skull against the wall behind it, like he could barely keep it up on his own. “Can I tell…you w - wanna know a secret?”
This piqued the interest of your swirling brain. You let a moment pass, but when he didn’t continue, you gave the littlest response. “Yeah.” It was simple, quiet, all you could really muster right now.
“You look the way you look be - because I fucking made you that way.” He slurred it out like it meant nothing, but you felt the blood freeze up in your veins. “Every Rick…every Rick has a - we all have a you. I - it’s fucking me and you.” The inhale you took felt sharp in your lungs, what the fuck is he talking about? “So cut this shit out. You look…fuck, you look perfect.” He was barely audible as he trailed off, getting lost in his own thoughts. If someone was listening in, it would have sounded like he was talking more to himself than anyone else. He sounded angry, but in a pent up way. Like he was saying something so obvious but so buried that talking about it at all was a kind of release. “Be - because I wanted you this way. You fuckin’ - does that compute, sweetie?”
You’d learned a long time ago not to question the things he told you. Don’t look for dust under the rug or you’d probably get bitten by an alien spider or something along the lines of extraterrestrial harm that he would inevitably have to save you from. But this? You had no idea how to even begin to process this. You weren’t even sure what exactly he was telling you. Were you a clone? A robot? Nobody knew the full extent of his synthesizing abilities. You could be anything at all. Maybe he was just fucking with you, for all you knew. His voice was practically oozing sincerity but it was hard to tell when he got like this.
You wanted to turn around, wanted to question what he’d told you. But his breathing audibly evened, mellowed, and he’d passed out. Dropped a bomb on your entire left and then slept. Sound and peaceful, like he had the right. You realized, regrettably, that he did have the right. You’d given him the right when you let him in. That was what knowing Rick was. And you wanted to hate it, wanted to hate him. But you couldn’t. There was a fresh mix of hope and shame and want churning in your stomach at the prospect of that confession being true. He didn’t just want you, he’d made you. Exactly as you were, you were his perfect little being. Something just for him. It’s a revolting revelation and one that made you unbearably hot in your body and furiously affectionate for the man sleeping on your bed. You finally turned, the stark white of his lab coat that he’d yet to remove was almost bright in the darkness. Disgustingly loyal and mindlessly loving, you laid your head on his lap and curled into him. Joining him in sleep like a dog to it’s owner. Maybe that’s what you were.
He always talks about being a God. You suppose it’s fitting that you’d be made in his image.
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