Archive of Our Own

Rick is desperate the first time.

It’s somewhere in the first month of moving into the Smith residence. Although it’s been at least two weeks of his consistent presence, his daughter continues to watch him with startled disbelief as he settles into the house, filling space in the garage and passing her in the hallways. Jerry is annoying, and he can’t see it changing any time soon. He appreciates Summer’s fuck everything attitude and Morty…

His grandson is nothing more than a cloaking device to him, and if Rick had a heart, he might have pitied the poor boy for being tossed into the deep end of his problems. However, even while he’s showed no interest in Morty beyond his role as a minion, it was impossible to remain ignorant to his one strange, defining characteristic.

Morty likes to cook.

He’s… awful at it.

From the day he moved in, it was simple routine to wake up to the acrid smell of something burning in the kitchen, if not the sound of the panicked fire alarm as it screamed a good morning through the hallways. He wasn’t keeping track, but he’s pretty sure the first modification he made to the house was putting a bullet through the shrill, beeping device on the ceiling, before irately fixing it for Beth’s sake.

Fires on the stove, in the oven, in the fucking fridge—became common occurrence. After the first week, he got tired of striding to the garage every time and nailed a fire extinguisher to the kitchen door-frame.

Despite this chaos, Morty continues to cook every so often. On most school days, he accepts Beth’s (desperate, painfully desperate) pleas to allow her to cook, nodding as she reasons that he’s too busy with school. But sometimes her words will be waved off and Morty will pull out ingredients, blissfully unaware of the pained grimaces everyone shares over dinner. Sundays are always safe, but Saturdays are unavoidable.

Every time Morty cooks, predictably, the excuses come.

Summer didn’t have time to sit down and eat, so she’ll have to make a quick bowl of cereal instead. On the cursed Saturday, when she can’t use her usual reason of school, she’ll sit down for the obligatory meal and spit most of it out in her napkin.

Beth will say she’s dieting. She’s carefully watching her calorie intake and Morty’s cooking is just too wholesome and full of carbs. When Morty pleads and teases her to make an exception, she’ll grin and bear it as she nibbles at her meal. Usually most of it goes into the compost.

Jerry—fucking Jerry, is the weak link. He pretends to adore Morty’s meals, but the overcompensation is so over the top that it’s a miracle his grandson hasn’t picked up on it. Usually, he’ll try to sneak out of eating his share with ridiculous strategies—yes, Jerry, we can all see you sliding your breakfast off the table and now there’s a pile of food on the ground—and for once, god bless Morty’s shared genetics to the loser because he only blinks obliviously as the rest of them scold Jerry excessively.

And Rick? Puppy eyes or not, he never planned to subject himself to abomination that was Morty’s cooking. When Morty first prodded him, he shoved away the plate of horror with a cold refusal, even as Morty whined about all the effort he put into it and how Rick was contributing to the first world crisis of wasting food.

His adamant rejections were accepted, if reluctantly, and Morty soon learned that although there was a fifth member of the household now, he was still preparing only four plates of food. It was a common source of argument between him and Jerry.

Apparently, the rest of the family had formed some fucked kind of suicide pact. All of them allowed Morty to cook their meals without complaint, having made the agreement to never tell Morty that eating his food was like shitting through your mouth. But fuck that, he wasn’t going to pretend just to spare Morty’s precious feelings.

But desperate times, desperate measures.

He’d just returned from a hellhole on god-knows where, his entire body was aching and fatigued, littered with burns and bullet wounds. The feds, the criminals—half of the galaxy is now on his ass, and by the frantic beeping of his watch as it notifies him of activated defenses around his safe zones, he’ll have to lie low for a while. House-arrest.

Worst of all is that he’s fucking starving.

Beth gasps when she sees him in the doorway, her chair sliding as she gets up and stumbles over to hug him. Rick fights the urge to push away her arms and stays still as she embraces him. It might have been heartwarming, how worried she’s been after his week of absence, but he’s really not in the mood right now.

He needs food. Anything will do.

“Gimme’ some,” Rick sighs, having accepted his fate as a dead man walking. A dead man walking straight into the pungent, choking clutches of Morty’s culinary skill.

His hand snatches up Jerry’s empty plate. As Jerry indignantly squawks, Morty stares at him with confusion with the serving spoon limp in his hand. “You…” Morty frowns and confusion furrows his brow. “Y-You want to eat?”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake,” Rick snarls, holding the plate forward insistently. Morty stumbles back as if it were a pointed gun, his tray of… breakfast wobbling in the cradle of his arm.

“I thought you hated my cooking,” Morty says as he carefully dishes out scoop after scoop. There seems to be some system to it, as if Morty is serving him a multitude of different sides, but they all look like shit to him. Normal shit, constipated shit, diarrhea—shit, was he really doing this?

He picks up his fork and knife and looks down at the plate Morty has settled on his place-mat. Dubiously, he pokes at a pile of mush. “What’s this?”

“Scrambled eggs,” Morty answers with a smile, oblivious to the conflict in the statement.

“…It’s orange.”

“I thought I’d add some spices for excitement, you know? A little salt, paprika, turmeric, cinnamon…”

Ah. That’s why the room smelled so confusing. He eyes his forkful, and quickly shovels it into his mouth before he can regret it.

Big mistake.

He gags, shoves a hand over his mouth before he spits it out entirely. It’s pure pain. That’s the only way to describe it. He’d expected something overly bland, maybe a bit funky, but this was nothing short of excruciating. His eyes start to blur and water at the burning, confusing taste of eggs hidden under a torrent of spice.

“How much cinnamon did you add?” Rick chokes out. He feels his mouth begin to corrode as if he’d taken a bite of solid acid. He grabs his cup of water and chugs down heavy gulps.

“A few table spoons?” Morty hums thoughtfully. “Oh—and I added some honey to sweeten it up. But I think I added too much, so I also put in some lemon juice to balance it out.”

“You’re right, Morty,” Summer says. Rick raises his eyebrows, taking in her blank face. “Can you get more lemon juice? I always like a little extra.”

“Sure,” Morty smiles. He turns around and leaves for the kitchen with his empty serving dish. Immediately, Rick sees everyone at the table pick up their napkins and frantically start piling food into them.

“Seriously?” Rick asks as Summer shushes him with a glare.

“I hid the lemon juice on the top shelf,” She whispers, tying up her napkin. “So hurry up and give me your shit before he comes back.”

Beth hands her another bag of food. Jerry continues to sulk although Rick probably did him a favour when stealing his plate. Even as his throat burns, he says, “I’ll be fine.”

“Your funeral,” Summer says, quietly sliding her chair back with a glance to the kitchen archway. “The trashcan’s outside if you change your mind.”

She sets off for the backyard and Rick looks down at his plate. There’s still a horrid aftertaste in his mouth, but now that the initial survival instinct of spit it out, for god’s sake spit it out—has ended, he realises…

It’s not that bad.

Well, it’s fucking revolting, but…

In his long life, he’s had bullet wounds, acid burns, he’s had limbs torn off. He once camped out in a sewer after escaping the Federation, and while he was still half-paralysed from the drug they gave him, an alien rat chewed through his side and nestled into his stomach—he had to pull the thing out along with its new litter before he could patch himself up.

Morty’s food—although disgusting—was pretty harmless. He picks up his fork and takes another bite, ignoring the wide eyes of his daughter as if he’s doing an act of god.

The strong, prickling taste makes him grimace, but he forces himself to chew. His next bite is something that vaguely resembles a breakfast sausage, but it’s charred beyond belief and somehow tastes like chocolate behind the grease. The one after is a pasty, bland mouthful that sucks up all the saliva in his mouth. Might have been potatoes at some point.

“Shit, grandpa,” Summer breathes out with reverence when she returns to the table. Beside her, his daughter frowns.

“Dad, you really don’t have to eat it,” She promises with concerned eyes. “I can make you something later.”

Footsteps echo on tile and Morty comes in, smiling triumphantly as he holds up the yellow bottle of lemon juice. “I found it!”

He puts it down next to Summer then pauses, looking down at her empty plate. “You already finished? Aw man, sorry Summer. I don’t know how I lose these things so easily.”

“It’s fine man,” She dismisses, standing up. “See ya.”

Beth slides out her chair too. “Thanks for breakfast, Morty.” She pets Morty’s hair for a moment and Rick rolls his eyes at the proud smile on his grandson’s face. Jerry follows her with a nervous, guilty glance sent Morty’s way.

“It was delicious as always, buddy!” He says with a loud, forced laugh. “How do you cook so well? It’s genius, what you come up with. That coleslaw that you made was just amazing.”

Tilting his head, Morty asks, “What coleslaw? Wait, did I get you another plate?”

Jerry goes pale. As he fumbles, Beth grabs his arm and drags his out with one last, sympathetic smile at Rick.

“How is it?” Morty asks as he picks up his utensils.

“It tastes like shit.” He scoops up another bite.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Morty’s head whip over to stare at him, eyes blinking like a startled doe. “What?”

“Idh shucks,” Rick says around a mouthful. He swallows. “It’s horrible. Disgusting. You’re lucky I’ve done anal or I wouldn’t be able to handle the taste of ass.”

“You, y-you—” Morty splutters, his face turning red. “W-what’s wrong with it?”

“What isn’t wrong with it. Jeez, I-I-I can feel my taste buds committing suicide like fucking pop rocks.”

Morty stares and Rick eats more fervently, ignoring the despondent expression on his face. “You really don’t like it?”

“Mother Teresa of fucking Calcutta wouldn’t eat this shit, Morty.” He takes a second glance and freezes when he sees Morty close to tears. “That doesn’t mean—” He sighs. “Look, I’m eating it, aren’t I?”

Turning his head away, Morty softly asks, “Why?”

“Because it’s food. And I need to eat food. So congratulations, it may be the taste equivalent of waterboarding, but it’s passed the basic requirement to be considered food.”

Morty still looks a little put out, but at least he stops sulking. “Well…” He shrugs, before his normal perkiness returns and he sends Rick a blinding smile. “At least we get to eat together. This is the first time we’ve sat down for a meal, just—just the two of us.” He picks up his fork with new enthusiasm, shoveling a bite into his mouth.

“Whadya’ think?” Rick asks, watching him intently as he chews.

Morty frowns down at his fork, nodding pensively. “A bit more salt next time.”

~

The second time, it’s to mess with Jerry.

His son-in-law annoys the crap out of him. It’s like living with an extra-strength laxative. Therefore, it’s only logical that Rick would use his new-found superpower for the noble cause of fucking with Jerry Smith. His ability to stomach Morty’s food is a blessing in disguise, a skill that inspires awe in those who witness it. Today, Rick would like to inspire fear.

Jerry’s a fucking coward, so it’s never hard. He sits down for breakfast and watches as Morty comes in, his ratty blue apron tied around his waist like a little housewife and carrying a pot by the side handles.

“What’s on the menu today, Morty?” He asks as his grandson dishes out a bowl for him. It looks like chunky margarine.

“Oatmeal,” he says with a sunny smile. Rick looks down at his bowl of “oatmeal”. He picks it up and flips it upside down, shaking it when nothing happens—and maybe he should call DQ, because it seems his grandson has invented the breakfast version of a Blizzard.

Summer raises an eyebrow and digs her spoon into her food, lifting up a heavy chunk. “It’s a little… thick. And yellow.”

“I wanted to cook it with half-and-half cream so it would be extra rich, but then—I, I-I-I accidentally used apple juice instead. I added the cream afterwards.”

“Anything else?” Rick encourages, testing a bite. Meh.

“Some thyme and coriander for flavour, and sour cream to give it a little…” Morty shrugs, smiling shyly at him. “You know.”

“I do know,” Rick agrees. He turns to Jerry with a grin. “What about you, Jer-Jer? You like it?”

Morty eagerly turns to his dad with the infamous puppy eyes and Rick bites back his wide smirk, watching as a green-tinged Jerry pokes at his meal. “Yeah!” Jerry laughs in a high, painfully-forced voice. “Just wow—I love it! Love it a lot!”

Morty nods, watching him patiently. Rick can practically see the cartoon sweat-drop trickle down Jerry’s forehead under the expectant gaze. “Love it…” Jerry says again, slowly scooping a chunk onto his spoon with the speed of an elderly sloth. Rick watches intently and by chance, Jerry catches his gaze and seems frozen by his dark, glinting stare.

“You’re taking a long time, Jerry,” Rick observes. “Is something wrong—Ah, I know. Morty, pass the ketchup.”

“Ketchup?” Morty asks, looking between Rick and his dad. “I mean, if you want.”

“Oh, he wants,” Rick says as Jerry’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Morty looks uneasily between them, but does grab the ketchup bottle from the table prop and hands it to him. Rick leans over with a large smile and squirts a pile onto Jerry’s bowl with a squelch.

“Go on, Jerry. Show him how much you love it,” Rick prompts.

“I love it,” Jerry whimpers. He takes a spoonful of red and yellow mush, lifting it to his mouth as his entire frame trembles. His eyes seem to dart around for an escape, landing on Morty’s waiting eyes to Beth’s helpless shrug, before finally landing on Rick’s pleased, devious leer—his face turns from panicked to angry as he grits his teeth.

“Screw you, Rick!” Jerry slams his spoon against the table. “It’s so funny now, but I’d like to see you eat this shit!”

Rick raises his hands placatingly. “W-What—what do you mean by that, Jerry? Y-You saying that your son’s lovingly-prepared meal is shit?”

Jerry goes pale. “That’s not what I meant,” He hastily corrects as he turns to Morty—but the damage is done, and Rick watches as his grandson wilts like flower.

“You don’t like it…” He mumbles, and if the table was empathetic, it would burst into tears from the sadness in Morty’s gaze as he stares a hole into its wooden leg—and shit, this is getting out of hand. Because he’d just wanted to make Jerry squirm but of course, the idiot would ruin everything. Rick has to clean up his mess or he’ll have a kicked puppy instead of an enthusiastic sidekick for the next month.

He grabs Morty’s arm and pulls over his grandson. “Screw what he thinks, Morty. Who gives a shit if Jerry doesn’t like your food. He prefers fuckin’ puffy Cheetos over the crunchy kind. He’s a tasteless weirdo!”

“I like puffy Cheetos,” Morty says weakly. Rick squeezes his arm again.

“Not the point! The point is that Jerry doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Now—” He picks up his spoon and turns to his confused grandson. “Morty—as a fine connoisseur of the gourmet arts, what do you pair with this?”

Morty blinks at him, but at least confusion is better than a sulking rain-cloud. “I—I, I have some oranges?”

“Pile that shit on, Morty—” He snatches one of the oranges from Morty’s hesitant hands. He dips it in his oatmeal and swirls it around for good measure before taking a large bite out of it, peel and all.

Juice sprays out of the fruit with the same pressure as a punctured aorta and Jerry flinches away from the droplets as if it’s liquid shit. It’s rubbery and sour, but Rick has no regrets as he watches Jerry intensely as he chews, causing the man to recoil in abject horror. He gives a grin of chewed pulp.

“The ketchup, Morty.” He holds out his mangled orange. “Don’t be stingy, come on, fuck yeah—"

Morty complies and squirts a heaping of ketchup onto his orange, but even as he ogles like Rick’s a maniac on the loose, there’s a befuddled smile twitching on the edge of his lips. His daughter looks petrified, the fork dropping from her limp hand and clattering to the floor. Summer is recording on her phone, her face hidden by the screen but her shoulders trembling with smothered laughter.

When there’s condiments dripping from the fruit like a fondue fountain, Rick takes another bite with an exaggerated moan of pleasure. “Fuckin’ delicious, Morty. God, I—I can’t get enough.”

He shoves the last chunk into his mouth and chews, feeling the ketchup run down his chin like curdled blood. Just for shits, he shoves a hand into his bowl of oatmeal and takes a gooey, greasy handful to stuff his face with. He sends Morty a thumbs-up as he swallows—before staring down Jerry, daringly, as he takes another over-sized mouthful, oatmeal chunks and ketchup oozing from his mouth with every bite.

As Jerry’s eyes begin to well up with a new glint of fear, Rick cackles and relishes in the feeling of complete dominance.

Afterwards, as Rick licks his fingers with a satisfied sigh and sends one last compliment to the chef, Morty stares at him—stares at him with wide, adoring eyes, as if he’d hung the moon and stars in the sky.

~

The third notable occasion is for his daughter.

It’s Beth’s birthday. They go out for a family brunch and movie. Rick gives her the vacuum-bot he made as a gift, Pookie—because Morty wouldn’t stop whining until Rick gave up and let him name the stupid thing.

Even that wasn’t enough. Rick had to give it a digital face with changing emoticons, and then it was sound effects, then greetings for every time of day and before he knew it, he’s spent eight hours tinkering for the whims and wiles of a teenager. Beth appreciated it, at the very least.

Jerry gets her another mug with a cheesy animal pun on it—one that Rick’s sure will slowly makes it’s way to the dusty back row of the cup pantry, as all the other unused ceramics have. Summer gets her a gift-card to some clothing store they both like.

Morty, as he does every birthday, bakes cookies as a gift. As least, that’s what he says they are.

His grandson watches with guileless eyes as Beth lifts the Ziploc bag out of the present paper, blind to the slight cringe that curls her lips. “Thanks, Morty,” She says, examining the pastries inside as if they’re dead frogs. “Are these chocolate?”

“Uh—no, they’re peanut butter. I just burnt them a bit,” He says with a sheepish smile. Rick raises an eyebrow at the scorched hell-spawn in their baggie. A bit, he says. “But they’re still good! I promise!”

“I’m sure they are,” Beth chuckles nervously, setting them aside.

He walks into the kitchen ten minutes later and sees Beth hovering over the trashcan with the bag in her hand, one move from dropping the cookies into the bin. When she notices his footsteps, she looks up like a deer caught in the headlights.

“It’s not what you think—” Her shoulders relax. “Oh, thank god. I though you were Morty.”

“Here,” He sighs, holding his hand out. His daughter blinks, uncomprehending.

“He’ll take one peek in there and be heartbroken. It’s fine, I’ll eat ‘em.”

It was the least he could do. Beth had always wanted that kind of dad, the one to grin and bear it in the name of affection. Might as well try something—and the sacrifice of eating Morty’s cookies was definitely something.

“You don’t have to. I can hide it and he won’t know—”

“Sweetie, it’s okay.” He gently pries the bag from her fingers and shakes it in the air. “I’ll be in the garage. Don’t worry if you hear retching.”

Thankfully, Morty isn’t waiting for him in the garage when he enters. He steps over the makeshift cubby of Morty’s spot—an old mattress covered in pillows that Morty does his homework on. It could be considered their spot, since Rick usually crashes on it every few days in an alcohol-induced slumber.

He plops down at his desk and opens up the baggie, raising his eyebrows as he pulls out the cookie of the day. They’re a charred black, like hunks of coal.

In chunky icing, as if he’d used a butter knife instead of a piping bag, each cookie has a white letter. Out of boredom, or perhaps in a futile, subconscious attempt to delay his impending trip to the toilet, he spreads the cookies out on his desk and starts to rearrange them into possible combinations.

Morty’s cheesy, so it’s laughably simple to drag the cookies around until he forms the message, Love you Mom!

“Oh Morty…” He murmurs, biting back a smile as he picks up one of the abominations. His grandson was an idiot through and through, the most atrocious cook Rick will ever meet, but… He was genuine. Sweet.

He tests one of the treats against the edge of his desk, scoffing in exasperation when it holds up with the resilience of pure diamond. Fortunately, most his teeth—and all his body parts in general—are artificial enhancements, so he won’t break his entire jaw for this sacrifice.

He puts it in his mouth and after some teeth-grinding and persistent bites, a piece finally comes off.

Somehow, along with a cloying, sugary taste, it also burns his tongue lightly. Spicy, in a way that reminds him of jalapenos—if those jalapenos had been slow-cooked above a volcano until they were ashen husks, marinated with the remnants of tears and plant misery.

At least it wasn’t as bad as Summer’s birthday. He remembers being the designated taste-tester and trying a freshly-baked vinegar-tofu-banana-potato bun as Morty watched hopefully, bouncing on his feet with his oven mitt-clad hands clasped together.

Rick sighs before popping the entire thing in his mouth. Gag. The strange chicken flavour has evolved into that of a funky taco.

He’s being stupid. Completely ridiculous—because he could just toss these in his incinerator downstairs. Morty wouldn’t know, Beth wouldn’t know—and yet as soon as he considers it, his mind returns him to the night before, sitting on the counter-top and watching his grandson flit around the kitchen and hum along to the radio.

The image of Morty carefully mixing a confusing mish-mash of ingredients with a hilarious level of attention. Of laughing when Morty realised he added salt instead of sugar and corn starch instead of flour. The triumphant smile when Morty pulled them out of the oven as it leaked black smoke, oblivious to the jeers and scolding as Rick stood on a chair to reset the fire alarm—all of it stays it his brain like a persistent itch.

He bites down with another loud, audible crunch and stares at the remaining cookies to distract himself from the taste. -ove you Mom!

Later, as he lounges in front of the television with Beth flipping through a magazine in the reading chair, Morty comes down the stairs and drops beside him with an expectant glance at his mom.

“Have you tried the cookies I made you?” Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Morty’s blinding smile, practically beaming as he peers keenly at his mom.

“Of course, sweetie,” Beth chuckles, and Rick almost rolls his eyes at how panicked she sounds. He thought his daughter would’ve been better at lying.

Morty doesn’t notice, at least. He starts to prattle on about all the things he could make for her next year—pies, cupcakes, tarts of any kind—as he asks her if she wants anything in particular, Beth grins with a pained edge to her lips. “I’ll love anything you make me, dear,” she says.

“I’m so glad you liked them this time!” Morty grins at her, bright and pure like a fucking daisy. It’s pathetic. He has no idea, not a single fucking clue—

Rick digs his fingers into the armrest. His stomach turns.

It must be the cookies.

~

The fourth time is out of pity.

Morty’s school ends at 3:00. His bus arrives at 3:16. He and Summer walk home and arrive at 3:20. By 3:30, he should have grabbed a snack and strolled into the garage with sock-covered feet, already talking Rick’s ear off about what happened at school that day.

Which is why, at 3:40, Rick is a little annoyed that he still has to grab his own tools. He pushes his chair back and turns to the door, but can’t hear the soft steps of Morty coming down the halls, nor an exchange of mandatory pleasantries with his parents.

He gets up and swings the door open, frowning deeper when he sees Morty standing alone in the kitchen, his back turned to Rick.

“Morty? What the hell are you doing?”

Morty jumps, turning to look at him. Rick freezes when he sees the glint of tears, hastily wiped away as Morty hides his face once more.

“Oh—hi, Rick,” He says. “I’m, I’m just…”

He walks over and sees a large container in Morty’s hands, filled with green and red cookies. He remembers Morty baking them last night, adding in far too much peppermint and not enough eggs—they ran out, and Morty made the educated decision that they weren’t necessary anyway.

After he dolloped a final touch of icing on each one, he’d taken a bite out of a freshly-baked treat as if it were the nectar of gods, waxing poetic about the perfect consistency and golden finish. Rick kindly pointed out that they tasted like Santa’s shit, but did reach over to split the last cookie which didn’t fit in Morty’s container.

“Why throw them away?” Rick asks, leaning against the sink. “What’s wrong with ‘em?”

“You—” Morty chuckles with a watery smile. “I… I love you.”

Rick blinks. Morty glances at him out of the corner of his eye, his lips twitching.

“You don’t have to pretend, Rick. I know they’re bad.” He tilts the container into the trash—the cookies land in Rick’s hands instead. He pushes them back into the container and takes the box out of Morty’s arms as his grandson tilts his head in confusion.

“Don’t—” Sighing, he sets the pastries on the counter as his hands jitter. He’s jittery. How the hell can Morty just spring that on him? Fucking hell. “You were one inch away from marrying them last night. What the hell happened?”

He watches as Morty fiddles with his hands. “It’s the last day of school before Christmas break so… I-I-I thought I’d make cookies for my homeroom. But everyone was laughing at me and Brad kept saying they were…”

Rick groans, determinedly not looking at those puppy eyes. “Pass me one.”

He reaches over and glares when Morty pulls the container away from him, defensively clutching it to his side. Morty meets his eyes for a second before shifting to stare at the fridge. Rick huffs and beckons with his hand. “Don’t be coy. You were force-feeding those to me yesterday.”

“That’s—that’s right, isn’t it?” He mumbles. “I force you to eat everything I make. And y-you always tell me how much it sucks but—I just…” His feet shuffle. “I like cooking for you.”

“You don’t force me, Morty,” He corrects. “I don’t eat your shit because I care about you. It’s food, and it’s tolerable.”

“I know you ate the cookies I made for mom,” he says softly, and whoops. “I found the wrapper in your trashcan when we were cleaning the garage.”

“She came in for a bit. We shared them,” he bluffs, but Morty shakes his head, staring down at his cookies through the plastic of the Tupperware.

“Just—thanks, but no thanks,” He says, fingers flexing around the box. He steps back and turns to the hallway. “You can stop doing it.”

“Hey—” Rick snatches his wrist, dragging him back. “First of all, Morty, I always get whatever the hell I want. Second, right now, I want a fucking peppermint, Santa shit cookie.”

Ignoring his sputters, Rick tugs at the container held protectively to Morty’s chest, forcing the lid off and reaching in for a sugary monster. He chomps down on it with a scowl sent his grandson’s way.

“Listen, Morty. Your little school mates are spoiled brats, so don’t waste your time scrolling through their stupid-ass Yelp reviews. Why the fuck do you care what they think? You don’t even talk to them. But me,” He stares at Morty intently. “I’m saying they’re just fine.”

He plucks one out for Morty, who takes it with a budding grin. “Even though I added sesame seeds instead of chocolate chips?”

“I’ve got no fucking idea how you did that, but it explains a lot.”

He sits on the countertop and pats the spot beside him. Morty jumps up and scoots closer, his legs swinging back and forth as he nibbles on his cookie. When Rick gives the half-assed compliment that they tasted better than rotting carcass, accompanied by a short ruffle to Morty’s hair, his grandson beams at him with the same light as a dancing star. Whatever the hell that looks like.

It’s the puppy eyes. They’re fucking lethal. That moping, pitiful expression is the reason why he takes Morty to Blips and Chitz for an arcade run, and why that excursion is followed by a trip to an alien petting zoo, then topped off with a visit to an orchard that grows fully-prepared cakes on trees.

The next morning, Rick wakes up once again to the shrill screams of the fire alarm. He sighs and grabs the fire extinguisher—but when the smoke finally fades from the kitchen, Morty smiles sheepishly at him and holds out a tray of scorched, button-sized cookies. He can’t find it in himself to feel annoyed.

~

It’s Valentine’s Day.

Last night, Morty puttered around the kitchen like a headless chicken as he attempted to make chocolate. It was funny at first, but after three hours and four trial runs, Morty’s flustered panic was raising Rick’s blood pressure too. He left for the garage, but even as he tinkered at his desk, he could still hear the loud clattering of abused kitchen tools.

After an hour, the chaos finally lulled—and as Rick passed him on the stairs, he saw his grandson was carrying a plastic baggie with heavy chunks inside, one that Morty did a shoddy job hiding from his view.

With a sigh, Rick had gone to bed knowing that tomorrow, his Valentine gift awaited him.

He’s resigned himself to it. Briefly, he considered deactivating his taste buds until it was over, but he might as well bite the bullet and eat whatever present Morty made for him. The curious side of him even wanted to try it, simply to see how badly Morty fucked up this time.

He’d never tried Morty’s chocolate, after all. Maybe it would be the one treat Morty can actually pull off. Immediately after that thought, Rick scoffs. Yeah, right.

Each time Morty bakes a treat, he has an average of four “minor goofs”, as he calls them, although both minor and goofs are questionable words to describe the fucking catastrophe of his artistic process.

Too much sugar, too long in the oven, a nonsensical ingredient choice—on one very baffling occasion, Rick heard crying in the bathroom only to go in and have a teary-eyed Morty explain that he mistook the toilet for the oven, and poured all his raw cookies into the porcelain bowl. How the fuck.

The door to the garage clicks open. Rick’s head whips over curiously, until he realises what he’s doing and fixates on his project once more. In the corner of his eye, he sees Morty enter and waits for the telling crinkle of a chocolate bag. Surprise, Rick! Happy Valentine’s Day.

He hears a mechanic clink. With a frown, he turns around and watches Morty load his clothes into the laundry machine.

“Hey,” Rick says pointedly.

Morty turns around and gapes—as if finding him in the garage was the greatest surprise—before turning back around and dropping a laundry pod into the machine with far too much concentration.

“What’s up?” Rick tries again, unimpressed with Morty’s new religious conversion to the stare at the wall and maybe he won’t see me cult.

“Doing laundry,” he squeaks out. Rick is about to make a wisecrack about his lame-ass reply, but then he sees the little bag at Morty’s feet, previously concealed by his laundry hamper.

He swivels around in his chair and rests an arm on the back, a grin playing on his  lips. “Are those chocolates?”

Morty jumps and turns, snatching the bag off the floor and hiding it behind his back as if he’s being held at gunpoint. “Hah—no,” He says, voice high and painfully nervous.

It makes Rick pause. Morty’s never been shy about making food for him. It’s like having an eager puppy badgering him for attention, tail wagging and everything. So why…

It’s Valentine’s Day, a taunting voice whispers in the back of his mind. Rick wishes that irritating thing was tangible, just so he could put a bullet through its head and move on. He has to settle for ignoring it, as he’s been doing recently with increasing aggravation.

“Bye!”

He blinks, and Morty’s already rushed out the door, the wood slamming behind him with a thud. The chicken shit.

Whatever. He’ll be back eventually.

And he does come back, an hour later—suspiciously quiet, with the plastic baggie missing from his hands. Rick rolls his eyes. If Morty’s going to beat around the bush, he’ll gladly douse that bush with gasoline and burn it into ash.

“Where’s the chocolates?” Rick asks with a raised eyebrow, blatantly accusing.

Morty’s entire frame tenses, like a cat preparing to flee up the nearest tree. “Huh?”

“The chocolates—the, the ones you were making last night, what’d you do with them?” He finally snaps. Morty stares for a second, before his eyes go wide and dart away.

“Oh, I… I—I-I made those for—for Jessica,” He stutters with pink cheeks.

Oh.

Of course. The hours spent labouring away in the kitchen, with tenacity Rick had never seen him use on any other occasion. Of course, it would be for his little crush, not his fucking grandfather. And here, Rick had been waiting all day for his gift of sloppily-made sugar bricks.

“Whatever,” he dismisses as he turns back to his project. If anything, he’s glad. In a fortunate twist of events, he no longer has to tough through the horrid project of a newbie chocolatier. “What’d she think?”

Ducking his head, Morty says, “I haven’t given them to her. I… I’ll do it later.”

How about never, Rick thinks darkly, before huffing at his grandson. “Well, that’s unfortunate—it’s all hands on deck for the week. Say goodbye to fresh air and sunlight.”

“What are you working on?”

Morty comes over, peering over his shoulder as he grabs a random pile of scrap. “I won’t bother explaining it to the likes of you. Just know it’s more important than any shit you have at school—which means you’re not going this week.”

Morty shuffles beside him, looking the opposite of reassured. Gritting his teeth, Rick holds out his hand. “Pass me a screwdriver.”

Morty eventually settles down on his cubby, occasionally getting up at Rick’s call to pass him something he doesn’t really need—and the chocolates remain stubbornly in Rick’s thoughts as he puts far too much aggression into the hunk of wires in front of him. Fucking Valentine’s Day and fucking Jessica and fucking Morty.

Maybe he should have let Morty go over and give his stupid present. It would teach the kid a lesson—he can already imagine Jessica’s green face as she gags after one bite.

She’d probably throw up on Morty’s shoes. No one likes Morty’s cooking, after all. No one but Rick can stomach down the abominable creations of his grandson. He’s the only one who eats every bite of Morty’s food, who toughs through the mash potatoes with kiwi and mango, and braves the sandwiches with Spam purée—and Morty stays up late to make chocolates for fucking Jessica—

It’s a matter of pride. He’s been eating Morty’s shit for two years, and his hard-earned title of fucking awesome isn’t going to be lost to the first teenage girl that shakes her ass in Morty’s direction.

With that objective cemented in his brain, he goes up to Morty’s room after dinner. While his grandson is busy doing the dishes, he starts to search through possible hiding spots—his backpack, his drawers, finally he finds the plastic bag tucked away under Morty’s bed, and undoes the ribbon tie with a triumphant smile.

The door swings open, and Morty freezes where he stands. Slowly, Rick edges the heart-shaped chocolate into his mouth.

“Don’t!” Morty shrieks, running over to rip the bag out of his hands. Rick makes a gargled complaint as Morty shoves a hand into his mouth and pries the chocolate piece from his teeth.

Rick sits up with a huff as Morty huddles the bag against his chest as if it were a baby. “What’s the problem?”

“W-What—” Morty gapes, his grip tightening on the bag. “What’re y-you doing in my room?!”

“I’m always in your room,” Rick points out. “Besides, I-I-I wanted a snack.”

“Then go eat something else,” Morty mumbles. Rick blinks at his sour tone, watching him march out the door without a glance back.

Well then.

~

Two weeks. Morty hasn’t cooked anything in two weeks.

No one minds, really. After the first day of confusion, followed by the second day of celebration, everyone seemed to accept Morty’s new habit of hiding in his room until Beth called the family for dinner. But Rick’s calling the shit—because there was no way, no way that Morty would willingly stop cooking.

It can’t be a crippling rejection from Jessica, because Rick’s kept an eye on the poorly-hidden gift in Morty’s closet, and it’s remained untouched and ignored since he tried to steal a bite. No family members have made accidental, clumsy insults about Morty’s competence as a chef—and it can’t be Rick, because Morty’s refused to interact with him for even the slightest moment of eye contact, meaning he’s had no opportunity to shit on his grandson’s sensitive heart.

Finally, the air freshener that Beth put in the hallway gains some leeway, and the house begins to smell of a pleasant, flower scent. Rick can’t remember the last time he woke up to the crisping scent of black toast. He never thought it’d be possible to take such a horrible smell for granted. No one but him seems to miss it.

And here’s the thing—Morty’s cooking is straight from the depths of hell, but after so long, Rick’s gotten a taste for it. Morty eagerly took up the job of force-feeding him when he forgot to eat, so now he can’t help but crave the funky sandwiches that were faithfully delivered each day, 1PM sharp on weekends and 4PM on weekdays as a late snack.

There’s a knock on the door. Rick looks over, concealing his frown when he sees it isn’t Morty, but Beth.

“Hey dad.” She smiles and walks over, resting a plate against her forearm. She holds it out for him and asks, “Want a snack?”

“Thanks, sweetie,” he says as he reaches out for it. Cookies. They’re a perfect, golden crisp. After so long of seeing the malformed cookie-corpses that Morty always made, he almost doesn’t recognize the neat little pastries. He gently picks one up and stares at it. “Did Morty make these?”

Laughing, Beth shakes her head. “I got them at the grocery store. Don’t worry dad, you’re not going to be poisoned anytime soon.”

Somehow, the words are the opposite of comforting. He examines the immaculate shape of the pastry, its delicate crumble, and his stomach turns in a way that black, burned treats never made him feel.

The cookie tastes like dust in his mouth.

~

“Hey, Morty.”

His grandson freezes, clutching the straps of his backpack tighter. Rick sees him prepare to bolt and tuts, grabbing the handle of his bag and dragging him into his bedroom.

Morty pulls out of his grip, stepping away with his newly-trademarked bitch face. “What do you want?”

Sitting down on his grandson’s blue sheets, he pats the spot beside him. “Come on, sit.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, and Rick snorts, watching him cross his arms as if daring Rick to challenge it. Briefly, Rick considers picking him up and chucking his ass out the window.

He crosses his fingers instead, sitting back. “What’s going on? Come on—just, just get over with it and let out all that teen angst.”

The frown deepens. “Screw you, Rick,” he says, turning away—reminding Rick that the first rule when talking to an angsty teen is to not point out they’re being an angsty teen.

“Buddy, hey, I’m—I’m trying here, okay?” He holds his arms out pacifyingly, and sighs when Morty finally relaxes and comes over, sitting on the edge of the bed as if every centimeter away from Rick brought him one mile closer to god. “Tell me what’s going on—and, and don’t spout that everything is fine bullshit at me.”

Rick watches his fingers twist together, his shoulders shuffling. “I’ve just—got some stuff going on. I-I-I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t know what to do.”

Rick nods, but behind his straight face, he’s cringing. He’s not the guy for heart-to-hearts, and definitely not someone you should go to for advice. Why the hell did he think confrontation was a good idea? “You’re confused, then?”

“No, I just—” His hands tangle in his hair and tug at the curls. “I—I-I know who—w-what I want, but it’s—I shouldn’t—”

“Morty, if I didn’t do any of the things I shouldn’t, I’d be a vegetable,” he states. “It’s—I-It’s a big universe out there, Morty, there’s always going to be someone, somewhere telling that you shouldn’t do something.”

“But—” Morty’s eyes meet his, before skittishly darting away. “But what if—it was something even you think is… wrong?”

Rick barely manages to bite back his scoff. As if Morty could ever surpass Rick’s long history of sin and depravity. His grandson is a glowing angel in a world of trash and rubble. If he knew the things Rick has done—the things he’s thought of doing…

“It doesn’t matter, Morty.” He shrugs. “Nothing matters.”

“Well, even if it doesn’t matter—I-I shouldn’t have feeling for—for—” His eyes flicker between Rick’s and his walls, wary and hesitant and—ah, fuck.

Finally.

He hums. “Feelings for who?” He asks innocently, internally cackling as Morty fidgets. “What’s they’re name?”

“I-I-I’m not telling you,” Morty says quickly.

“Come on, tell me their name.” Rick grins. “You should have someone who’s good for you. I need to make sure you’re not in the wrong crowd.”

“Just—just leave it alone, Rick!” Morty pulls away and Rick hastily grabs his wrist.

“Morty, hey. Listen to me—” He pauses, meeting Morty’s brown, curious gaze, and swallows. “You should have someone who—who likes your cooking.”

“My cooking?” He asks, before smiling. “I don’t think I’ll ever find someone like that, Rick.”

“Morty,” He says again. He pointedly squeezes Morty’s hand. “I like your cooking.”

He waits as Morty processes the words, fighting the urge to fill the silence with a half-assed backtrack of his words.

Finally, his grandson scoffs. “Yeah, of course. You’re always complaining about how bad is all the time. And you never clean up your plate after you’re done! The dishwasher is only four feet away from the table, y-y-you know—”

Rick sighs. “You’re so fucking dumb.”

Morty’s lips pull into a frown—it lasts two seconds, before Rick leans in and kisses it off his face.

It’s a modest touch of their lips, but when Rick pulls away, he stares as if Rick had just reached in his ear and pulled the plug on his brain. He swallows down the fifty virgin jokes on his tongue, but does file them away for a later, less dire moment.

“You like my cooking,” he says, and Rick can see the little light bulb turn on above his head.

He rests his forehead against Morty’s cheek. He winds his fingers down to Morty’s wrist and feels the rapid pulse under the skin. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“Can we—” Morty fumbles. “Can we do that again?”

Chuckling, Rick presses their lips together once more, feeling the shudder run through Morty’s frame and the way his breath catches in his throat. Morty’s wrist pulls from his grip, his fingers entangling with Rick’s instead. When Rick’s free hand winds into the brown curls at the base of his neck, Morty lets out a soft moan and presses closer like he needs Rick’s touch to breathe.

Rick pulls away with a grin. “How’s that?”

“Good,” Morty says, faintly. “Really good.”

It makes Rick let out a pleased hum—and maybe, just maybe he lowered his voice to make it more rough, more intimate, so he could see Morty’s cheeks redden. Morty bites his lip and stands up, and Rick sits up as he starts searching through his closet, pulling out the familiar bag of chocolates with an excited smile.

He plops down next to Rick and holds it out for him. “Here.”

“What is it?” Rick feigns, taking it. He peeks inside and recoils at the smell—like rancid milk and stale sugar.

“The chocolates I made for you. For Valentine’s Day,” Morty shuffles, smiling down at his knee. “I—I never had to courage to give them to you, but now…”

He peers at Rick expectantly, and it takes a moment for Rick to understand what he’s waiting for. No. He wouldn’t expect him to…

He looks dubiously down at the very, very expired chocolate. Instead of a deep brown, the chocolate is pale, with edges and crumbs of white mixed in. Sure, it’s sweet that Morty kept it, and that he even made it in the first place, but he doesn’t think Rick will actually eat three week old chocolate, right?

Rick sighs, looking at his hopeful expression. He slowly pulls out a piece, cringing on the inside.

It’s nasty. Definitely spoiled and curdled, if not completely poisoned. His throat retches repeatedly to vomit in a futile battle against his unfortunate affection. He swallows it down and can’t tell if the rancid aftertaste is from the chocolate or from his tongue oozing blood, sweat and tears as it clings to the final shred of its life.

“How is it?” Morty asks, smiling.

He swallows again, his throat shuddering in revulsion. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“W-What’s that supposed to mean?!”

~

It’s been a week since then, and Rick’s made a commitment to the task of fixing Morty’s taste buds.

“Hey,” Rick says, beckoning Morty over with a nod of his head. “I made breakfast for us.”

In the corner of his eye, he sees Morty duck his head with a shy smile, looking down at his bare feet. “Thanks. And good morning.”

“Morning.” He feels arms wrap around his chest from behind, Morty’s body pressing against his, and sighs in contentment. Morty leans around him and watches as he flips another pancake—light, fluffy and a perfect golden.

“What brought this on?” Morty asks, pressing lips against his shoulder. Rick makes sure to turn the grill off before spinning around to loosely embrace him, causing him to smile, still-half asleep and soft around the edges.

“Family’s out, we’ve got extra eggs—” Rick pulls him closer and presses their foreheads together. “Maybe I-I, I felt like spoiling you today.”

“Or you didn’t want to try my new omelet idea,” Morty says, pecking him on the lips.

“I’m out of laxatives, babe. Maybe tomorrow.”

“You’re horrible,” he says with a fond eye roll, stepping out of Rick’s arms. He looks down at the pancakes with a soft smile. “They look really nice.”

“I’ll teach you,” Rick promises, shoveling them onto a plate with the spatula. “This is a proper breakfast, Morty. Y-Y-You’ll see the world in a new light today.”

“If you say so,” Morty agrees teasingly, following him to the dining table. Rick snorts at the obvious way Morty drags his chair closer until they sit with their arms touching and their legs tangled. He’d expected his grandson to be bashful and coy—but just like with his cooking, Morty does whatever the hell he wants, and for some reason Rick goes along with it every time.

Rick cuts a forkful and holds it to Morty’s lips, watching intently as Morty closes his mouth around the bite.

Morty spits it out immediately and starts coughing. He grabs the offered glass of water from Rick’s hand and chugs it down with the desperation of a man in a desert.

“You okay?” Rick asks, watching as he sets down the cup with a clack.

“It’s awful,” Morty chokes out, his eyes watering.

Rick frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Oh my god, Rick.” He covers his red face with his hands and Rick’s brow furrows when he sees the muffled smile. “This is disgusting—w-w-what did you do?”

“Are you laughing?” Rick demands, pulling at his arms.

Morty leans away from him and laughs harder, nodding his head. “Just taste it! It’s so bad—Rick,” he gasps, clutching at his sides. “How did you not realise how bad it was?”

Glaring at him, Rick snatches up his fork and shovels a piece into his mouth. “It’s fine,” he growls. And it is. It takes like a perfectly good pancake.

“It’s okay, Rick,” he says with a wide grin. “I-I-I mean, I had to get it from somewhere, y-you know?”

“Shut the fuck up—you’re cooking is way worse than this—this isn’t even bad.”

“Maybe I should make that omelet today—”

“You fucking turd—get back here, you piece of shit!”

The next day, they take a cooking class together.