Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13431867.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Evil_Morty/Rick_Sanchez_(Rick_and_Morty)
  Character:
      Evil_Morty_(Rick_and_Morty), Rick_Sanchez_(Rick_and_Morty)
  Additional Tags:
      Emotional_Hurt, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Canon-Typical_Violence
  Series:
      Part 11 of The_Rickest_Morty
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-20 Chapters: 1/? Words: 2169
****** Watch Me Fall ******
by wasted_truth
Summary
     “People are not born heroes or villains; they’re created by the
     people around them.” ― Chris Colfer
     Sometimes in life, we are forced to a breaking point by circumstances
     that are under the control of the multiverse. In those moments, we
     find out who we truly are and what we can bear. Evil Morty breaks,
     and what lies beneath is not what he or Rick would have expected.
     This is the story of a villain.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Morty woke up alone. Confused and half-awake, he flopped over so that he could
read the digital clock. Six-thirty in the morning. He rubbed his face with both
hands, listening for sounds of Rick down the hall in the bathroom. He heard
nothing and eventually gave up on the idea that Rick had slipped out of bed to
take a piss. Morty pitched a sigh and climbed out of bed to dress.
I guess we’re going have another weird day, Rick? Morty thought, pulling a tee
shirt over his head.
Rick had been stand-offish and angry for a couple of weeks now. Any time Morty
tried to reach out or ask him what was wrong was met with silence, rebukes, or
outright insults. Morty couldn’t help the fact that he was getting tired of
this, and he was running out of ideas on how to approach Rick.
Even worse, Rick was still initiating sex most nights, and Morty wasn’t
refusing.
Morty colored at the thought as he walked down the stairs. Part of him was so
angry at Rick for the way he was acting, but the rest of him missed their
closeness and was hurting. On the nights that Rick went straight to sleep,
Morty would lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling with a terrible tightness
in his chest. His heart struggled to beat while it was strangled. Tears burned
in his eyes but did not fall.    
Whatever was happening, Morty knew he couldn’t go on like this much longer. It
hurt too much. It made him question all these years he had lived with Rick, all
the way back to the day Rick had saved him from the Citadel.
“D-608, your new home, Morty.”Even now, he remembered those words.
It doesn’t feel like home, he thought, opening the door to the garage. Not
right now.
The hatch to the laboratory below the garage was open. Rick had started going
down there every day since he had come home from a delivery drunk. At first,
Morty had finished their remaining jobs and delivered them. Without Rick acting
as point man, though, the jobs had dried up. The clients were used to seeing
Morty, but when it came down to it, they wanted to conduct business with Rick,
not a teenage boy. Instead of drumming up new business or answering calls on
his space phone, Rick was working on biological experiments that he refused to
explain and were not for a client. There was a stack of unopened bills on the
kitchen table, and the food in the refrigerator was dwindling. Morty didn’t
know how the bills would get paid if they had no work.
 
Climbing down into the laboratory, Morty didn’t bother to hide the sound of his
feet ringing on the ladder rungs. A dull lime-colored light emanated from
beneath him. As he reached the bottom, he could hear soft clicks and then a
grumble that sounded like Rick’s voice. Peeking around the ladder, he saw Rick
sitting at a table, looking through a microscope at a glass slide. Other slides
lay on the table around him, and there was even a stack of petri plates that
looked like they contained blood agar.
“Rick.”
The man jerked his head back from the microscope, but didn’t turn to face
Morty. “What.”
Morty crossed his arms, not caring that Rick couldn’t see his display of
frustration. “What are you doing down here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m using a microscope.”
Rolling his eyes, Morty tried to keep his voice even, but it was a struggle for
him. “Thanks, Rick, I can see that. I meant, what are you doing. We don’t have
a biological order. We have no orders. Are you experimenting or something?”
“It’s not your fucking business. If I wanted you to k-*buuurp*-know, I would
tell you myself. Now piss off. Go to school or something.”
Morty’s mouth fell open. “What. Did. You say?” He didn’t give Rick a chance to
answer. “School? School? When have I spent one day in school, Mr. School-Isn’t-
a-Place-for-Smart-People? What should I do, Rick, just march into the school
and pretend I belong?!”
Rick grabbed the sides of his head. “Stop yelling.”
“How about you lay off the booze instead!” Morty snapped, taking angry
satisfaction when Rick noticeably cringed. “It’s seven in the morning, you
drunk asshole.”
Morty caught the sight of Rick gripping his hair and crouching forward in his
seat before furiously climbing back up the ladder to the garage. When he
reached the top, he slammed the hatch closed. It wouldn’t stop Rick from
getting out; he was just trying to make more noise.
What now. Breakfast I guess.
In the kitchen, he poured himself the last of the cereal, and there was barely
enough milk. After throwing the box and carton in the trash, he looked in the
fridge again, even though he knew there wouldn’t be any more milk for his
breakfast.
Wait…am I the only one eating anything?
He surveyed the contents of the fridge again – it was easy because their food
was dwindling. That second look convinced him that Rick wasn’t eating, or if he
was, he recently stopped. The fury that Morty had been feeling started to shift
into a heavy worry.
After he set up his bowl at the kitchen table and grabbed a glass of water,
Morty sat down and opened the laptop that was always there. Eating with one
hand and typing with the other, he Googled ‘alcoholism symptoms,’ and clicked
on the first link that looked reputable. He clicked onto the symptom list, and
that worry sank into his gut as he found symptoms that were too familiar.
Aggression. Agitation. Self-destructive behavior. Anxiety. Discontent.
Loneliness. Nausea.
Morty pushed the laptop back and dropped his spoon into the bowl. He buried his
face in his hands. If this was it, what could he do? It’s not like Rick would
accept his help. Not now.
How could this happen? He’s always drank, but he’s…hit the wall or something.
I’ve watched him drink and juggle life with no problem. Did something happen to
make things turn bad? Why now?
He did some more online searching, everything from NIH to Reddit; he even
looked at some metaphysical sites out of desperation. Logically, though, he
could only reach one conclusion. There was no way Rick would accept his or
anyone else’s help, if he didn’t want it. A lot of the standard versions of
help, like accepting a higher power, would drive him into a rage or derisive
laughter.
I don’t know what to do. He won’t talk to me, he won’t listen. Do I just let
him spin out? I can’t live with him like this. I need a plan.
Morty forced himself to finish his cereal, but in the face of this, it tasted
as bland as ash.
 
At around two o’clock, Morty got tired of fiddling with his own creations. He
had been testing an AI system that he had hooked up to the computer for audio,
but his concentration was shot. He unplugged the wires that ran behind his eye
and sighed in frustration.
I have to face that this situation is escalating. What can I do, when I know
things are coming to a boil?
He cleared a space on the table in front of him so he could put his head on his
arms. I have to tell him what I suspect…and the only outcome is that he will
blow up. I can’t live through this one more time, even though he keeps…reaching
out. If it’s bad, I’ll have to leave. I don’t know where I’ll go, but we need
some space from each other.
Feeling like all his limbs were made of cement, Morty made himself go upstairs.
He found a suitcase and a couple empty duffel bags. He packed a minimal amount
of clothes and toiletries and used the rest of the space for tools, components,
and other things he had built that would fit. He also packed a spare laptop
that they kept for emergencies and several cards that were loaded with
different alien currencies, again for emergencies. Both duffels he could carry
on one shoulder and he took the suitcase by the handle and went down to the
kitchen. He took some things from the table, including his AI device. He
rummaged around on the table, which was a mess of papers, wires, and other
parts, just to be sure he had gotten everything important.
Lifting up a pile of mail, he found a black eye-patch. He pulled it free and
dropped the mail, so that he could examine it. Rick had made it for him months
ago. It had a transmitter on the inside that fit perfectly with his eye wires.
Rick had wanted him to try using a remote receiver, instead of hooking up
directly like he had been, but Morty had never done more than test it. He
didn’t have a pressing need to do anything remotely, so he had set it aside,
where it apparently got lost under the mail mountain.
Morty shoved the eye-patch into the front pocket of his jeans and carried the
bags to the garage, where he set them against the wall. With that contingency
plan in place, he went back into the house and sat in front of the TV, trying
not to fret.
 
“Rick…Rick.” Morty was standing next to him while he stared through the
microscope. It was like he hadn’t moved from this morning. What is on those
damn slides?
“What.” Rick didn’t look up.
“Are you eating dinner? We’re almost out of food, but I think I can make
Hamburger Helper without the hamburger.”
“No.”
Morty sighed and rubbed his forehead. “So, what, you’ve gone all day without
eating? Did you get all your calories from whiskey today?”
Rick’s head snapped up and he turned to glare at Morty. “This again? You’ve
become a fucking nag. Find something else to accuse me of, because this is
getting boring.”
Morty stiffened so he wouldn’t flinch. In this weird lighting, the hollows and
angles of Rick’s face stood out in a sick relief. “You’re bored? You’re not the
one living with an angry drunk, day in, day out.”
“Oooh, that really stings. Oh no, call me a drunk, I’ll never recover,” Rick
sneered. “At least be fucking original. Wait, you can’t. You’re just a Morty.
You’re lucky if you have an independent thought.”
I’m…just a Morty? He didn’t evaluate it; he saw red.
“Well, if the smartest man in the universe says so, I’m sure it’s fucking true.
After all, you’re a brilliant scientist, musician, sex god, and yet you pick
your bedmates out of a playpen at the Citadel! You think you’re so goddamn
perfect, yet you are the most flawed motherfucker in the multiverse. It’s not
your mind that’s exceptional – it’s your goddamn ego!”
Rick stood slowly, leaned over Morty, and smirked. “I never heard you ask to go
back to that playpen.”
Morty’s body didn’t know what emotions to feel first, but that combined pain
released as he shoved Rick as hard as he could. Rick staggered backward, lab
coat flapping, and fell over the chair he had been sitting in. The seat slipped
out from under him and he hit the floor hard on his
Staring at him with narrowed eyes that leaked tears, Morty managed to spit out,
“Same old story, Ricks controlling Mortys? I wish I were back in the Citadel,
believe me. Go fuck yourself, Rick Sanchez D-608.”
“You're nothing without me,” Rick groaned into the concrete floor.
Morty drew back his foot and kicked Rick in the back as hard as he could. Rick
yelped, but Morty was already up the ladder. He exited the hatch and didn’t see
Rick curl up into a ball, gripping his abdomen and struggling to breathe.
Flipping the hatch shut with his foot, Morty was rushing through the garage on
an autopilot fueled by pain and a crushed heart.
“You’re just a Morty.”
He grabbed his bags and threw them into Rick’s ship out of habit.
“You’re just a Morty.”
The driver’s side door was unlocked, and Morty went with the compulsion to
escape. He jumped in and powered up the ship with a code. The engines came on
with a whine, and Morty backed the ship as fast as he could through the closed
garage door. Fragments of plywood and twisted pieces of metal rained down on
the windshield as he hovered in the driveway.
“You’re just a Morty.”
“I’m not just a Morty!” he screamed, sobbing, digging his fingers into the
wheel.
He jerked the wheel and streaked off into the sky.
“I’m not just a Morty,” he repeated as the landscape below grew small. The sky
began to darken as he got close to the edge of the atmosphere.
I’m the Rickest fucking Morty.
End Notes
     Hello! Sorry for the delay on posting this.
     This is a multi-chaptered fic on Evil Morty and is the heart of his
     story. The first chapter is really a prologue, but I can't pick that
     as an option, so chapter one it is.
     I hope to take you on a ride through how the Evil Morty we have seen
     on R&M came to be - and what lies beyond. Thank you for reading.
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