A/N: I always said I was going to write more R&M scenes from Rick's perspective...it's been like three years since I last uploaded one, but, hey! Better late than never!

I was rather fascinated by this particular memory from "Morty's Mindblowers." They both seemed so...resigned. You could tell neither of them really cared, and Rick obviously knew what was going to happen; what the hell was he thinking?

Another boring tuesday afternoon. Of course, it didn't have to be boring, if my dumbass grandson didn't insist on-on whatever-the-fuck he was doing. I shot a glance to my right, at the empty spot on the couch, and frowned. Shouldn't he be finished with his little project by now? I groaned and switched the t.v. off. Better go see what's taking the little turd so long.

I entered the garage to see Morty kneeling by a nearly-finished wooden shelf, holding a fucking bubble level to the top and staring at it intently.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Y-you want your shelf level, or not?" Morty asked, looking over at me.

I was getting more annoyed by the second. Level? Really? "And if I say 'yes,' you're gonna provide that for me with that?" I pointed at the stupid tool.

"Yes, see the bubble?"

Okay, now I was really fucking pissed off. Fucking smug little piece of shit. "I'm familiar with the bubble, Morty," I said, snatching the offending tool from him. "I also dabble in precision, and if you think you can even approach it with your sad, naked, caveman eyeball and a bubble of fucking air, you're the reason this species is a failure, and it makes me angry!"

I was ranting, I knew it, but I didn't care. I snapped the bubble level over my knee for good measure.

Morty's comically shocked look warped into a glare. "You're drunk."

Astute observation. I'll fucking show you.

"You wanna put up a shelf, put up a shelf. You wanna experience true level? Well, do you?"

Morty heaved a dramatic sigh and looked up at me with one eyebrow raised. "Y-yes?"

"Then get ready have your fucking m-EEUUGH-ind blown, Morty!"

I honestly couldn't explain why I was doing this. I mean, there was no point. Morty didn't doubt that I could make something "true level," I knew he didn't. Why the hell would he? I'd made every single fucking thing he'd ever asked me to and then some. I had nothing to prove. Hell, he didn't even understand what "true level" meant, he had no frame of reference. He didn't know you could feel the difference. He probably assumed I was going to use some kind of complex tool to show him the floor was truly level. I could pretend otherwise, but I knew Morty had only agreed because he thought I wanted to show him. Quickest way to pacify a pissed-off drunk Rick? Compliance. Stupid...stupid fucking...piece of…

I sighed and wiped my brow, looking down at the freshly chemically-scrubbed square of concrete. Pointless. Morty doesn't care, I don't care, I should just stop. But I didn't. I continued working, painstakingly altering the concrete's surface at the molecular level in order to prove a point. A pointless point. And the worst part was, I knew exactly how it would end; fucking badly.

I put on my goggles and pressed a button on my laser grid. With a satisfying hiss, the concrete square snapped into place. I checked the sensor; perfect, precise, true level. I went to the dining room where Summer and Morty were finishing up their breakfast.

Here we fucking go.

"Ugh. Alright, c'mon." I said, my tone resigned.

Morty stood and followed me to the garage without a word. He looked at the sectioned-off square of concrete with a bored expression. He glanced at me as if to ask, "is this it?" I glanced at the square then back at him, gesturing with my hand. Go on, get on it.

Morty shrugged and stepped on.

"Oh, it's sooo—oh, oh, oh, oh, my God!"

His sarcastic statement dissolved in straight-up moans of pleasure.

"Uh, yeah, true level, bitch." I said.

Existing on a truly level surface caused an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction, because though the brain craved perfection, it could never hope to actually achieve it with a clumsy body and dull human senses. I watched Morty writhe on the surface, trying to decide when to burst his bubble.

Summer came into the garage then, ignoring Morty's frankly embarrassing display. "Morty, come on, we're leaving for school," she said, grabbing Morty by the arm and pulling him towards the door.

Shock registered on Morty's face, and as he stared around at the imperfect garage, it morphed into an expression of profound discomfort. Just as I knew it would.

"Uhh, everything's crooked! Reality is poison!"

He lunged for the square, desperate for perfection. I moved forward and grabbed him, pulling him into my arms as he flailed.

"I wanna go back! I hate this!" he cried.

"What's his deal?" Summer asked.

"Can't live like this!" Morty cried.

"Shh, shh, shh, shh, Morty, Morty, Morty," I said, stroking the kid's hair.

"Go to school, Summer. I'll go into Morty's memories and do a little-" I clicked my tongue and made a snipping gesture with my fingers.

Summer shrugged and left. I continued to try and comfort Morty, stroking his hair and back as he struggled.

"Lambs to the cosmic slaughter!" He yelled, turning towards me and burying his face in my bare chest, gripping my shoulders.

"Yeah, I know buddy, I know."

We stayed like that for a while, him sobbing into my chest, me gently rubbing his back. Occasionally he'd squirm around in a futile attempt to get comfortable on the imperfect surface of the garage floor, and I'd tighten my hold on him until he stopped.

"W-why'd you do that, R-Rick?" he asked when he was calm enough to speak. "W-why'd you ha-have to show me that?"

Something unpleasant coiled in my stomach. Guilt. I sighed. "I don't know, Morty. Why...why'd you say you wanted me to show you?"

Morty paused in his sniffling. "I-I don't know," he said quietly. He shuddered again, cringing against his imperfect surroundings. "Hnnnggg, I-I can't...can't live like this, R-Rick!"

"It's okay, Morty. I can fix it."

He looked up at me with red, teary eyes. "Y-you can?"

I smiled at him briefly, then plunged a needle into his arm and injected the sedative. He collapsed against me, and I hoisted him up and carried him over to my workbench. I set him down and grabbed the memory gun.

"Grandpa will fix it," I said, and hit the switch.

This is the dance we do; one of us on some bullshit, the other sliding right along with it. Sometimes its me making some stupid invention at Morty's naive request (like the love potion or the animal communication device), sometimes it's Morty going along with my latest Rickdikulous scheme (like stealing a giant piece of isotope 322, or getting a crystal from a princess), but it's almost always guaranteed to end badly. Not that we ever learned our lessons. Maybe because we're both self-destructive. Maybe we were just that stubborn. Or maybe because I kept removing his memories of terrible mistakes. Lambs to the cosmic slaughter, indeed.

A/N: Thanks for reading, reviews are love 3