Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

INT. ALIEN RESEARCH FACILITY – NIGHTMARE DIMENSION 43B

The facility groans beneath the weight of its own destruction. Emergency lights flicker like dying stars, casting the trembling walls in pulses of red and white. Electrical arcs snap from exposed wires. Sirens scream in layered tones, some pitched too high for human ears. Beyond the chamber, a distant explosion rattles the floor like a warning shot from hell.

Rick is elbow-deep in a half-gutted control panel, fingers yanking out wires with manic precision. Across the room, Morty stands at a cracked monitor, frantically scanning lines of alien text and biohazard warnings in nine violently red languages.

“R-Rick, this is a bad idea!” Morty shouts, panic rising in his voice. “The machine’s unstable! The screen is literally bleeding! Th-that’s blood, Rick!”

“R-Red means spicy, Morty, not dangerous!” Rick snarls, not even glancing up. “I’ve got it—urp—under control.”

He doesn’t. The machine hums like a dying god—and then, with a soundless rupture, a bolt of jagged violet energy bursts from the reactor.

It lances through the air with surgical precision and strikes Morty square in the chest. There's a flash of light—then nothing but smoke and silence.

When the haze clears, Morty's clothes lie in a heap on the floor.

And standing in the middle of them is a four-year-old.

He has the same disbelieving eyes. The same frazzled brown hair. But he’s half the height, drowning in his too-big shoes, small fists clenched at his sides.

“Wh-what the hell just happened?!” the tiny version of Morty squeaks. His voice is higher, but unmistakably still him.

Rick stares. The color drains from his face. The cables slip from his hands.

…M-Morty?” he breathes. “Oh n-no. Oh shit.”

He stumbles forward, dropping to his knees and gathering the boy up with trembling hands. Morty is warm, real, squirming and angry—but tiny. Rick holds him like glass, horrified.

“N-no no no no—Morty! A-Are you okay? Can you t-talk? Are you—are you in there?” His voice is cracking. “H-How many fingers am I holding up?!”

“I’m four, Rick!” Morty shrieks. “I’m not stupid! I’m just tiny! Th-this is your fault!”

“I—I know,” Rick says, voice raw and panicked. “I know, buddy. J-Just hang on—I’ll fix this. I-I’ll fix everything, okay? Just—just stay with me.”

INT. RICK’S SHIP – HYPERSPACE

The ship screams through hyperspace, trails of collapsing starlight smeared across the viewport.

Morty is strapped into the co-pilot seat, nearly swallowed by cushions and safety harnesses. Rick’s lab coat is draped around him like a blanket. His legs swing above the floor, his face blotchy and furious, tears clinging to his lashes.

Rick pilots one-handed, the other stretched protectively across Morty every time turbulence rattles the hull. Sweat beads at his temples. His eyes flick constantly to the child beside him.

Okay, okay… q-quantum-level chrono regression,” he mutters, like a mantra. “N-Need rhodonite serum, fractal plasma, stabilized temporal lattice—shit. All restricted. Council-grade. G-goddammit...”

His jaw tightens. A deep, terrified silence follows.

“I c-can’t fix it,” he whispers. “N-Not without drawing attention. Th-they’d see. They’d come. Th-they’d take him.”

Behind him, Morty starts to tremble.

“Y-you said you could fix it,” he whimpers. “You always fix it, Rick! I—I don’t wanna be like this—I d-dropped my portal gun and—and my arms don’t reach anything, and—and I hate it!”

His words break apart under a rising tide of sobs. He shakes, helpless in his own skin, overwhelmed by fear and emotions his little body can’t regulate.

Rick fumbles to unstrap him, hands clumsy with urgency. He pulls Morty into his lap, clutching him tightly to his chest.

“Hey—hey, shhh, Morty, please don’t—don’t cry, buddy—” Rick’s voice cracks. His heart’s pounding so loud it feels like it’ll knock his ribs out of place. “I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Morty.”

He rocks them gently back and forth, trying to hold him together. Trying to hold himself together.

“Y-you’re so small,” he chokes. “G-God, you’re so small. I’ll fix this, Morty. I-I’ll find a way. I’ll steal it, I’ll rip it from their cold, dead hands—urp—I’ll burn the whole f-fucking Council vault to the ground if I have to. I-I’ll make them give it to me.”

Morty’s sobs soften to hiccups. He stays curled in Rick’s arms, face buried against his chest. His voice is barely a whisper.

“I h-hate this, Rick… I hate you…”

The words hit harder than a bullet. Rick flinches, but doesn’t let go.

He just holds Morty tighter, blinking against the burn in his eyes.

“Y-Yeah,” he says softly. “I—I would too, kid. Y-you got every right.”

And still, he rocks them through the void—white-knuckled and silent—like if he holds Morty close enough, the universe won’t be able to take him.

Chapter Text

INT. SMITH HOUSE – FRONT HALLWAY – NIGHT

The garage door hisses open with a tired hydraulic wheeze. Rick steps into the house, slow and cautious. His hair is a wreck, his coat streaked with grime and something faintly radioactive. Bloodshot eyes sweep the room like he’s walking into a firing squad.

In his arms—clutched tight against his chest, wrapped in his scorched lab coat smeared with soot and god-knows-what—is something small. Soft. Breathing. Fragile.

Itty bitty Morty.

Rick’s holding him like something breakable and flammable all at once, and it feels wrong. Or maybe it feels too right, and that’s worse.

He doesn’t feel like himself. Not entirely. His face is slack, eyes wide and glassy, like he’s just seen a ghost and it followed him home. Every few seconds he glances down at the kid in his arms like he's not sure if he’ll still be there, be safe.

Rick can't seem to stop doing it.

He hates it.

Morty shifts beneath the coat with a tired, grumpy sigh. His face is puffy from crying, cheeks blotchy, eyes red-rimmed and glaring. He’s swaddled in too much fabric—barely a head poking out—looking like a disgruntled gnome because he's stupidly tiny.

Rick’s brain, normally a fortress of sarcasm and sharp edges, is melting. He hates the way holding Morty like this makes his arms feel both wrong and right. How the weight of him—light and trembling—triggers every ancient, unwanted, deeply-buried protective instinct Rick thought he surgically removed decades ago.

God. He’s so small. His whole face fits in Rick’s palm.

That shouldn't be allowed.

He stands there in the entryway, frozen like roadkill in its last moments. He doesn’t know what to do now. He hasn’t known since this whole thing exploded in his face and all his brilliance went down like a flaming train wreck the moment Morty looked up at him—tiny, teary, and furious.

Beth wanders in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Hi, Dad! If you’re back, can you—” She stops. Stares. The towel slips from her fingers.

Rick shifts Morty slightly, unconsciously shielding more of him with the coat.

It’s ridiculous. Beth is Morty’s mother, not a threat. But Rick’s brain won’t shut up—won’t stop screaming about the time where she didn't hesitate a single moment to say she chose Summer's life over poor Morty's. It still pisses him off. Especially now that Morty is in this vulnerable state.

Anyway, shielding Morty like this is obviously ineffective. Rick could build a better shield in his sleep. And if Morty keeps pouting like that—pulling out those stupidly effective, gut-wrecking expressions—Rick will build one. Probably six.

Beth blinks once, then again, slower. “...Is that...?”

Rick swallows and scowls slightly at his daughter as she takes one slow step forward. “We had a, uh—w-w-we had a situation.”

Morty peers up over Rick’s collar and glares. It’s about as threatening as an angry marshmallow and entirely too effective at burning Ricks insides like lava from how cute his little pouty face is.

“Don’t. Laugh.” Morty grumbles.

Footsteps echo behind them. Summer’s halfway down the stairs, earbuds in, phone in hand. “Did you guys seriously just get back? You’ve been gone for—” She stops mid-step. Sees Morty.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “What the hell.”

Rick is too tired to defend himself. Or maybe too full of screaming, unceasing panic to bother. Morty shifts in his grip again, grumbling something inaudible, and crosses his arms in a huff—his whole body puffed up like an angry teddy bear.

Rick immediately clutches him tighter, like he might be snatched away.

More footsteps. Jerry pokes his head in from the living room, popcorn bowl in hand.

“What’s all the yelling abou—” He freezes. Blinks. Stares.

Beth steps closer now, her face unreadable. “Rick. What happened.”

Rick’s voice is a hoarse rasp. “R-Regressor beam. He, uh… he got hit. C-caught in the blast.”

Summer stares. “So now he’s... what, a toddler?”

“I’m four,” Morty corrects through gritted teeth. “I’m physically four but I still remember calculus, so b-back off, you vultures!”

Unlike most Mortys across the multiverse, his Morty is a genius—just really bad at attendance.

Beth’s face twitches, trying not to smile. “Oh my god, Morty—your face—”

“Don’t you dare,” Morty warns, waving her off.

“Look at his teeny little hands,” Jerry coos leaning in.

Rick’s whole body tenses. This idiot could kill Morty from sheer incompetence even on a good day—today is not that.

Rick's grip tightens. “Don’t,” he growls.

He hates this. Hates that anyone else is seeing Morty like this—soft and vulnerable. Hates that he’s seeing Morty like this and that some stupid hindbrain reflex keeps whispering, protect him, protect him, protect him, like a broken alarm.

“I just need some rare components,” Rick mutters, already backing toward the stairs. “Council-grade crap. I’ll figure it out.”

Summer’s still staring. “Is it permanent?”

“No!” Rick snaps—too loud. Morty flinches.

Rick swallows, guilt hitting hard, and lowers his voice. “P-probably not.”

Morty hears the probably, and that’s all it takes. He curls inward a little more. Rick sees it. Feels it. The hope draining.

Beth leans in, performatively maternal now. “He’s been so stressed. This might actually be good for him.”

Rick makes a strangled noise.

“I have the emotional capacity of a teaspoon!” Morty yells. “I cried on Rick’s ship for f-forty minutes and threw a wrench at his head! How is that good?!”

“He did,” Rick mutters. He’s not even mad. His brain’s already betrayed him in every way. Of course he just took it. His dumb old heart wants to coddle this gremlin.

Beth reaches out again. Morty dodges.

Summer is full-on biting her lip. “He’s... honestly? Adorable.”

Morty groans in mortification and buries his face in Rick’s coat. Rick watches helplessly as his tiny fists curl, eyes blinking too fast like he’s about to cry again and just barely holding it together.

His hair’s all tufty, sticking up in wild little angles. His nose is stuffy. His pout is a weapon of mass destruction.

Rick can’t take it.

“T-too goddamn cute for your own good,” he mutters, wrapping the coat tighter. Morty glares up at him, betrayed.

“You could sell cereal like this,” Summer offers, snickering.

Rick’s grip around Morty tightens possessively, voice low and deadly. “Nobody makes fun of him. N-not right now. He’s four—with the emotional control of a war vet and the body of a-urp- a Beanie Baby.”

“So… like a baby with depression?” Jerry asks.

“Exactly, Jerry. Except this little bundle of joy could explain why your marriage is collapsing in graphic detail.”

From the coat, Morty tries to glare Jerry away. It’s pitiful.

Rick matches it, sends a sharper one back at Jerry. The idiot slinks off.

INT. SMITH HOUSE – RICK’S ROOM – LATER THAT NIGHT

The room looks half-nursery, half-science lab. Rick’s dragged in an array of monitors, containment equipment, and something that might be a crib—if cribs came with perimeter force fields and biometric locks. Scattered across the bed is a ridiculous pile of blankets, small pajamas, and plushies Rick very obviously panic-bought.

Morty sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed, arms crossed, frowning at the universe. He’s the picture of rage compressed into a preschooler's body.

Rick sits beside him, holding a children’s book with the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for dismantling bombs.

“…and then the little froo-urp-py kitten found his way home,” Rick reads aloud, “w-where his family loved him very much -despite his constant attempts to blow up the garage.”

“T-that’s not what it says,” Morty mutters unimpressed.

“Yeah, well, I took some creative liberties.” Rick shrugs. “The book’s about finding your tail or whatever. Very little conflict, Morty. B-boring plot. Low stakes.”

Morty sags, and exhales heavily, a sigh that’s far too old for his body. He looks impossibly small in Ricks bed against the oversized pillows. His feet feet dangle over the edge, fists curled in his lap.

His lip wobbles. He tries to fight back tears.

“This sucks,” he whispers. “I can’t even hold a spoon right, a-and everyone keeps acting like I’m a Teletubby.”

Rick slowly puts the book aside.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “I know, Morty.”

Morty grabs the nearest plushie—a tiny stuffed pickle—and throws it weakly across the room. It bounces off the wall with a sad little thump.

“You said you could fix it!” he snaps. “But you can’t, can you?!”

Rick flinches, guilty and visibly gutted. “...I don't know.”

Morty’s lip trembles again, and then it’s too much. His shoulders curl in, and the sobs come hard and fast—ugly, unfiltered, and Rick is moving before he knows it, gathering him up again. His tiny fists knot into Rick’s shirt like they’re anchoring him to reality.

Rick holds him tight, rocking slowly, gently, like Morty might dissolve if he moves wrong. Every soft, broken sob that shudders through Morty’s tiny body feels like it digs into Rick’s ribs and stays there. It’s too much. It’s always too much when it comes to Morty but this has made it so much worse.

And god, he hates this.

He hates how small Morty is in his arms. Hates how the kid’s whole world is burning down and how Rick—Rick—was the one who set it on fire. He hates the sound of those hiccuping sobs and how they rip straight through every defense he thought he had left.

Apologizing isn’t something Rick does. He doesn’t grovel, he doesn’t admit fault—he rewrites reality to pretend the cracks were part of the design. But Morty’s crying. Morty’s hurting.

So he rips the words out like knives from his bleeding heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and raw. “I didn’t mean to screw-urp this up. I-I f-fucked up reeeal bad this time and I should've- should've done more, protected you, but I fucking didn't. I didn't Morty and I'm so sorry.”

It hurts to say... But it’s true, and Morty deserves to hear it.

Morty mutters something unintelligible into his chest, voice thick and wet, too exhausted to form real words.

Rick just keeps holding him, hand rubbing soft circles on his back.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not letting a-anything touch you like this. You’re safe, Morty. Even if you’re tiny, and pouty, and—” he huffs a breath, eyes stinging, voice cracking, “—so goddamn aggressively adorable it’s ruining the smartest brain in the universe.”

Morty hiccups. Lifts his head just enough to scowl at Rick, watery eyes full of lingering betrayal.

“Y-you’re still the worst,” he mumbles.

Rick smiles faintly, helplessly. “Yeah,” he says. “But I’m your worst. Rick and Morty a hundred years.”

Morty says nothing, just sleepily passes out, his tiny batteries completely drained.

Rick tucks him against him like something sacred—something that shouldn’t be exposed to the cold edges of the universe and stands to put him to bed. But when it comes time to set him down, to transfer him into the absurdly overbuilt, high-tech not-a-crib across the room—the one lined with soft biomesh and quantum shielding and a containment field tuned to lullabies—Rick hesitates.

Morty’s curled against his chest, breath warm and uneven against his collarbone. Every time Rick shifts, Morty stirs, making a faint distressed sound, and that’s all it takes—Rick folds like paper.

Nope. Can’t do it.

With a shaky sigh, he eases back onto the bed, Morty still cradled in his arms.

He doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t even try.

He just lies there, staring up at the ceiling, one hand splayed protectively over Morty’s back like it’s the only thing keeping shit together.

The not-a-crib glows quietly in the corner, useless.

And still, Rick doesn't move.

Because Morty’s here.

And Rick can’t let go.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

INT. SMITH HOUSE – KITCHEN – EARLY MORNING

The sun creeps in low through the kitchen blinds, casting golden lines across the countertops. The fridge hums quietly. Rick stands at the sink, unmoving, staring into a mug of coffee he’s forgotten to drink. His coat is wrinkled, eyes bloodshot. He looks like hell—and he knows it.

Beth wanders in first, bleary-eyed at his summons. Summer and Jerry trail behind in her. They don’t speak. Not yet. Everyone’s scanning the room on instinct, as if they're expecting a rift in space-time to open under the fridge.

Rick doesn’t turn when he speaks.

“D-Don’t let Morty hear this,” he mutters. “He, uh… he doesn’t know yet.”

The air stills.

Rick’s voice is hoarse. Heavy.

“I-I can’t undo it.”

Beth stops. “What?”

Rick sighs, knuckles white around the mug like he’s barely keeping himself from throwing it.

“N-Not without materials locked in the Council’s vaults. Stuff they’d never give me. Not without tracking us. Not without risking Morty even more. And I-I’m not—I’m not doing that. I won’t.”

“So… he’s stuck?” Summer asks, voice low.

Rick finally nods. Just once. Slow.

Defeated.

“Yeah. H-His body’s gonna have to grow up again. Naturally. I’ll keep trying, but…” He exhales. “Right now, he’s four. And he’s gonna stay four.”

Silence drops like a guillotine.

Jerry opens his mouth. Sees Rick’s face. Shuts it again.

Rick finally turns. There’s guilt in every line of his posture. He looks older than he ever has.

“He was crying so hard last night I—I thought his heart was gonna stop. You know how tiny kids can’t regulate emotion? It was like watching a g-grenade that didn’t know how to explode.”

Beth softens, just barely. “He’ll be fine, he’s still Morty, Rick.”

“Exactly,” Rick growls. “It’s worse. He’s still him. Just trapped in that tiny, helpless little body. Stuck dealing with his traumas on top of toddler meltdowns, and going through puberty again once his body catches up.”

Summer winces. “And we’re gonna be here for all of it. Again.”

Jerry tries for optimism. “W-Well, silver lining, right? We get a second chance to do things right. He’s already smarter than most four-year-olds.”

Summer turns to Rick, voice sharp. “If anything happens to my brother while he’s like this—if you let so much as a bruise happen—I’ll cut your heart out with a melon baller old man.”

Rick gives a slow, hollow nod. “Y-Yeah. That’s fair.”

INT. SMITH HOUSE – KITCHEN – LATER

Morty stands near the front door, tiny arms crossed over a comically large backpack. The straps drag near his ankles. His hoodie’s too big and his glare is too sharp for his tiny face.

“I’m going,” he says. “To high school. I want to go. I—I need to.”

Rick, seated at the table with his fourth mug of lukewarm coffee, stares him down like a hawk. He looks exhausted—haunted.

“Morty,” he mutters, “you’re four. You—you can’t even reach a locker, let alone survive gym class.”

“But I’m still me, Rick!” Morty snaps, voice cracking. “I still remember everything! I—I’m smarter than half the seniors in that school, and I don’t—” He stops, fists clenched. “I don’t want to start all over.”

Beth walks in, heels clicking, perfectly composed and ready to meet with the principal. She glances at Morty, gives a perfunctory once-over, and shrugs.

“You can try Morty,” she allows, brushing a crumb off her blazer. “If you want to go to high school that badly, fine. Let’s see how that goes.”

Rick's eyes narrow protective hackles raised.

“Y-You’re seriously just... just tossing him in the deep end because he asked? Beth, Morty doesn’t need to go back to school at all. Let alone start over. He especially doesn’t need to go through twelve more years of glue sticks and humiliation just to prove he knows how to spell his name.”

Morty mutters, “I can spell everyone’s name.”

“Exactly,” Rick growls. “Let him test out. Skip the god damn dog-and-pony show. He could ace the GED with one hand and a juice box.”

Beth sets her tablet down, tone sharpening.

“He’s not testing out. He’s going to finish school.”

"Huh? W-why?!" Rick demands. “What’s the point? You know he’s ahead of that stupid 'curve'. Hell, he is the curve.”

Beth lifts her chin, voice cool. “He had the reset button pressed. Physically, legally, emotionally—he’s four. If he wants to prove he’s ready to be an adult, he needs a proper foundation. If he can graduate high school normally, then fine. Otherwise?”

She lets the silence hang.

Morty tenses. Rick seethes.

“Morty doesn’t need a foundation,” Rick snaps. “He needs an environment where people don’t treat him like a toddler with a lunchbox and a fragile ego.”

“Well, he has a lunchbox,” Beth says coolly, “and like most four-year-olds, he has a fragile ego."

Beth shrugs, scrolling on her tablet. “He can try high school. But if it doesn’t work, he starts over. That’s it.”

Rick drags a hand down his face.

“Y-Yeah. Great.”

INT. HARRY HERPES MEMORIAL HIGH SCHOOL – LATER

It’s worse than anyone imagined.

Morty barely makes it past the threshold before a security guard kneels down and asks which daycare lost him. A teacher escorts him to the office to ‘wait for Mommy’. When Morty yells as he’s being dragged there that he’s here for honors planetary calculus, everyone laughs.

Jessica coos, picks him up calling him 'Lil Einstein' and breaking his tiny heart.

Someone else calls him “Morty Jr.” and asks where his mommy and daddy are.

He kicks them in the shin.

By lunch, he’s hiding under the bleachers, hoodie over his head, clutching a juice box like a weapon and trying not to cry.

Not one person took him seriously. He didn’t finish a single class. A girl tried to film him. Called him “precious.”

He hated it.

INT. SMITH HOUSE – KITCHEN – THAT EVENING

Beth is beaming, having just picked Morty up. She sets down her purse and starts unbuttoning her blazer with the smug energy of someone about to win a very specific PTA war.

“The school called,” she announces. “They said he made it halfway through the day before the teachers insisted on me coming to pick him up.”

She’s delighted.

It makes Rick sick and furious because poor Morty looks devastated.

“Kindergarten’s going to be perfect. He’s gonna destroy those kids. Reading? Math? He’ll crush them. I can’t wait to see Donna Fletcher’s face when my kid’s writing essays while hers is still eating glue.””

Rick scoffs. “Oh, right, r-right. Very nice Beth. Now I know why you want Morty in school. Y-you just want to parade him around like your new baby genius to flex on the rest of the wine moms.”

Beth smiles, unbothered. “If I happen to enjoy the idea of wiping the smug faces off a few other mothers who think their kid knowing the alphabet is impressive, that doesn’t mean it’s not good for Morty too.”

Morty stares into the distance like the world has personally betrayed him. He’s silent. But the sadness is there—tight and sharp. His whole body is small and slumped.

Rick sees the cracks forming.

Turning on Beth again, angrier now he insists, “Morty doesn’t want to start over. He’s already lived it once. You’re acting like this is just some game reset when he’s still in there, Beth—he’s still him.”

“And he’s still my son,” she says calmly, without a trace of hesitation. “And legally, he’s a minor. He needs structure. And the school won’t even consider letting him test out unless I sign off my approval. And I won't.”

Rick’s jaw tightens. “So y-You’re gonna lock him in a sandbox because it makes you feel like a better mom?”

Beth doesn’t flinch. “I’m making sure he gets the recognition he didn’t get the first time around. You're the one who dragged him across dimensions and ruined his grades.”

Rick opens his mouth. Closes it. Morty flinches as Beth lifts him and sets him in a booster seat like he’s a doll. She then pours cereal onto the table in front of him like he’s an actual toddler and not a teenager who knows how to use a goddamn spoon.

Jerry, walking in with a bag of groceries, sees Beth’s glee and perks up.

“So Morty’s going to kindergarten?” he grins. “Oh man, I can finally brag about my son being a genius again! Like, baby genius! That’s marketable, right? Do they do scholarships for preschool?”

Morty sits silently at the table, arms around his knees in the booster seat. He stares at the cereal, the pieces untouched, eyes hollow. He doesn’t say anything.

Not one word.

Beth doesn’t notice. Jerry’s still talking.

“He’s gonna own circle time,” Jerry says. “I’ll print custom shirts. ‘Honor Student, Age Four.’ Maybe a bumper sticker—”

“Jesus Christ,” Rick mutters horrified, too quiet for them to hear.

But Summer hears. She leans against the wall, watching Morty with a rare kind of softness.

“You okay, dude?” she asks gently, pityingly.

Morty blinks at her. Then shakes his head.

She nods. Says nothing else.

Rick is already moving.

He crosses the room and scoops Morty up mid-sentence, ignoring Beth’s chipper voice talking about lunchbox themes. Morty doesn’t resist—just curls up, silent, small, -heavy with quiet misery.

“Where are you going?” Beth calls after them.

“Away,” Rick snaps, razor-sharp. “Away from this bulshit cheer squad.”

Beth blinks. Doesn't follow.

Jerry’s too busy writing ‘HONOR STUDENT’ on a lunch bag in bold marker.

Summer watches them go.

Looking at her self absorbed parents, she mutters, “Assholes.”

Then leaves too.

INT. SMITH HOUSE – GARAGE – LATER

Rick sits cross-legged on the floor with Morty in his lap, still bundled in his hoodie, eyes red, jaw tight like he’s swallowing down all the pain.

Rick stares at the wall. His voice is low.

“We’ll figure something out, kid.”

Morty doesn’t respond.

He just leans in.

And Rick holds on.

Because no one else is listening.

And he’ll be damned if this world—or that family—breaks him.

Chapter Text

INT. SMITH HOUSE – KITCHEN – THE NEXT MORNING

The kitchen is too bright for how heavy the air feels.

Morty sits hunched in a custom hover booster seat Rick slapped together hoping it'd make him smile. It's made out of old stabilizers, duct tape, and something he won't admit to Beth was originally part of a grenade.

Morty’s tiny hands grip the edge, feet swing above the floor. He’s in a banana-yellow hoodie several sizes too big, sleeves swallowing his hands. He looks like a plush toy someone forgot to love, and the glare he’s directing at the bowl of oatmeal in front of him could strip paint.

Rick stands beside him, tired and already defeated.

“I don’t want oatmeal,” Morty snaps. “I want a breakfast burrito. With ghost pepper sauce. And bacon that fights back, Rick.”

Rick exhales, long and frayed. “You’ll eat what doesn’t kill you, tiny tyrant.”

“I used to be taller than this chair,” Morty grumbles, swatting the bowl aside.

Beth sits at the other end of the table, scrolling through her tablet with one hand and sipping her coffee with the other. “Well, someone’s feisty this morning. We'll need to get you some new clothes soon... I can't wait. This might be the cutest you've ever been Morty.”

Rick tenses slightly.

Jerry enters, bright and chipper. “Yeah, even the swearing is cute now. Like a tiny baby sailor. Ooh~ we should get him a sailor outfit!”

Beth glances at Summer smiling, “You’ve gotta admit, Summer—it’d be pretty cute, right?”

Summer doesn’t smile. “No,” she says flatly. “It’s not.”

Beth blinks, surprised. Summer doesn’t elaborate.

Jerry either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “So, Mo-mo, is my lil champ ready to crush kindergarten? Bet those other kids won’t even know what hit ’em!”

Morty doesn’t look at him. He stares straight ahead, dying inside.

Summer watches the scene unfold in silence. Her expression is tight. Controlled.

Then, without even looking, Morty flings the spoon across the kitchen.

It floats harmlessly to the floor, caught by Rick’s anti-mess field.

“I’m gonna sue everyone in this room,” he says, voice brittle and humiliated.

Jerry chuckles like he still thinks this is a sitcom. “Aw, c’mon, kiddo—”

“I’m not your kiddo,” Morty snaps, voice breaking. “I’m not your second-chance genius baby. I’m not your punchline or your do-over or your photo op for the next damn parent-teacher night!”

Beth’s hand stills over her tablet. Jerry’s smile falters.

Rick is already moving, crouching beside him again to brush oatmeal from his hoodie and unbuckling the hover-seat’s overbuilt harness.

“I’ll keep working on a solution,” he murmurs. “I swear, Morty. But until then, we’ll get you the best—uh—crayons, test prep, whatever you want.”

“I don’t want crayons,” Morty chokes. “I want to not be treated like a goddamn pet. Rick, he called me Mo-mo.”

Tears sting his eyes. He turns to Rick like he’s the only one left who might see how wrong this all is. And he does. Rick’s jaw ticks. Jerry’s ass is grass. No one talks to Morty like that and walks away whole.

Beth sets her tablet down. “You’ll adjust, sweety. You were so anxious the first time around— at least this time you won’t be the weird anxious kid who gets picked on.”

Morty closes his eyes, defeated.

Summer’s voice cuts through the air like ice.

“He had a clean start,” she says. “He just didn’t get the support he needed the first time.”

Beth turns to look at her—really look at her—finally registering the anger.

Rick doesn’t speak. His hand stays on Morty’s shoulder, steady. Protective.

Jerry, ever clueless, chimes in: “And hey! Kindergarten means show and tell, right? We could print your IQ test results and laminate them—”

Morty’s breathing grows unsteady. His head lowers. He blinks hard, fast.

Rick watches it happen, then scoops Morty into his arms without a word.

Morty doesn’t resist. He just curls up, face pressed to Rick’s coat, trying to disappear.

Beth raises her voice slightly. “Where are you going now?”

Rick doesn’t look at her. “Somewhere that doesn’t treat him like a mascot.”

Jerry tries to joke again. “Wait, does Mo-mo want a juice box?”

Rick stops cold. Turns his head slowly.

“Say ‘juice box’ one more time, Jerry.”

The chill in his voice freezes the room.

Jerry drops the joke like a hot coal.

“I didn’t ask to be reset,” Morty says quietly, trembling, “I didn’t ask to be cute. I didn’t ask to be everyone’s second-favorite science experiment. I just wanted to go to school. Not get carried around and cooed at like a goddamn pet.”

Beth exhales, shifting in her chair.

“Morty—”

“No,” Rick cuts in. Voice low. Lethal. “You don’t get to act like this is about him. It’s about you. Your little redemption arc. Your Pinterest-friendly parenting comeback.”

Beth stiffens.

Rick rises fully, arms tightening around Morty.

“You're his mom so technically I have to let you run the school thing. But don’t you dare pretend you’re doing this for him. You're treating this like it's just some fun new chapter. But he’s still him, Beth. He’s still Morty. He remembers every time you didn’t show up. Every time you said Summer was your priority. Every time you dropped the ball. And now you want to reset the scoreboard with stickers and pre-K testing.”

Beth doesn’t reply. She looks down at her coffee like it might save her.

Jerry clears his throat, awkward. “I mean—maybe this’ll be good for him. Structure. Clean start. Maybe get a—uh—gifted program scholarship—”

Rick snaps, head whipping toward him. “He’s not a show pony, Jerry.”

Jerry shuts up.

Morty is still frozen in place. Eyes wide. Lips pressed together so hard they’re bloodless. Like he’s afraid if he breathes too loud they’ll shove him back in a booster seat.

Rick’s hands shake as he leans down again.

“I know I’ve been hovering,” he murmurs apologetically to Morty. “I’ve been treating you like you’re fragile too. Like I’ve gotta carry you through this because I can’t risk losing you again. But I shouldn’t have let them treat you like this.”

Morty still doesn’t move. His voice is barely audible.

“I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

Rick nods once and stomps off without another word. Morty doesn’t resist.

“Where are you going?” Beth asks, quiet.

“Away,” Rick says. “Someplace where no one’s gonna clap when he does long division or try to take his picture when he says the f-word.”

Jerry raises a finger. “Do we still need to pick out outfits—?”

Rick glares over his shoulder.

“Try me, Jerry.”

Jerry lowers his hand. “Right. O-kayyyy...”

Beth doesn’t stop them as Rick leaves. Just stands there, finally quiet.

INT. SMITH HOUSE – GARAGE – MOMENTS LATER

Rick sinks onto the old couch in the corner of the garage, Morty curled against his chest like dead weight. His hoodie is pulled halfway over his face, and his breathing is shaky but quiet.

Rick stares at nothing. He doesn’t touch the machines around him. Doesn’t open a portal. Doesn’t even drink.

He just holds Morty. One arm wrapped around his back, the other over his legs. Protective. Guilt-ridden.

“I should’ve taken you and run the second they started smiling.”

Morty doesn’t reply.

But he doesn’t move either.

And for now, Rick takes that as permission.

Morty won't be going to Kindergarten today.