MORTY SMITH:

This writing sample is dated: 09/12/22.

Christmas has never seemed so bland before. Morty remembers back when it’d felt almost magical, but after a plethora of experiences featuring science so radically reality adjacent it practically is magic, nothing compares. He plucks the loose threads on the arm of the couch in the living room, his knees curled up to his chest and an arm around them. He avoids looking at the huge commercial Christmas tree propped behind the couch from his periphery. It’s a fake white tree, lit up with flashing, white lights with gold tinsel and garland. It’s as perfect as his family isn’t and that’s enough of an eyesore to see him picking pieces of tinsel off the branches and tossing them to the floor.

“Morty, stop that. You’re ruining all of our hard work,” Beth says as she walks passed. She’s wearing a Santa hat, but instead of a poof ball at the end, there’s a bell. She jingles all the way down the hallway where she disappears into Jerry’s “man-cave” and it takes only a minute before the sound of her raised voice rings through the house. Jerry’s placating tones intertwines with hers and, in under a minute flat, his voice is just as loud and divisive as hers.

“Shit.” Morty sighs, dragging a hand down the length of his face. He doesn’t know why he thought this Christmas would be any different from the last few. He’d been hoping… but that’s never going to happen, not with Rick here, and Morty wouldn’t excise Rick from his life, not for anything in the world. Not even if Morty sometimes thinks he deserves it. Of all the people in his life, Rick is the most important. He’s a living, breathing paradigm shift, and Morty doesn’t know what he’d do without him now that he’s gotten a taste for adventure. Even rarer are the occasions he’s subject to Rick’s moments of vulnerability, where he does something self-sacrificial for Morty’s benefit. It makes him feel some kind of way, but it’s as complicated for Morty as it is for Rick.

Summer walks by, a sucker in her mouth and her phone in her hands. She snaps a shot of the Christmas tree and cocks her hip, rests it against the back of the couch. “What’s got you so grim?” she says, not looking up from her phone. “You look like someone killed the family cat.” A pause where she chews on her lower lip, her fingers frantic across the touchscreen keyboard. “Not that we have one,” she mumbles. Morty doesn’t even know how she knows what he looks like, she hasn’t looked up from her phone once.

“I don’t know,” Morty says truthfully, unusually introspective. “I think I miss what Christmas felt like when we were kids.” He shrugs his shoulders as he thinks about it, his eyes darting passed Summer to the kitchen. He half expects Rick to come walking through, for him to disparage Morty’s feelings. Instead, his mom and dad’s voices get somehow louder. Summer is unaffected, but it chafes with Morty, has him gritting his teeth hard enough to hear them creak.

“Oh, bummer,” Summer says, her voice muffled around the lollypop. “Maybe you should look to the future instead of reflecting on the past. Who cares what we thought when we were kids, Morty. We didn’t know shit back then. Life’s a lot more exciting.” She lifts a hand from her phone just long enough to ruffle his hair. “Go find Grandpa Rick,” she says, pushing up from the couch, “Bring him some hot cocoa or something.”

“Um,” Morty says, but he’s already pushing to his feet, stuffing a hand into his pocket. “Yeah, okay.” He watches her wander off in the direction of the stairs and pulls a lighter out of his pocket. It’s not his, which means it’s his soulmate’s, and that’s enough to send his stomach aflutter. He thumbs over the smooth surface of it before stuffing it back in his pocket. At least it’s not random drug paraphernalia. Morty’s got enough of that to last a lifetime.

Excitement nips at his toes at the thought of his soulmate. Morty wonders what they’re doing during the holidays, if they’ve got family to surround themselves with or if they’re alone out there, waiting for him. His feet slap against the tile of the kitchen as he grabs a hot chocolate packet from a box in the cupboard. It takes a few minutes to make it, most of the time is spent waiting for the microwave to warm the milk. Morty fetches it carefully, but he still ends up burning his fingers. Jerking them away with a hiss, Morty grabs the handle instead of the mug itself. Setting it on the counter, he mixes in the cocoa packet before stirring vigorously to blend the drink.

Collecting it from the counter, Morty carries it from the room and towards the garage. He winces as he pushes open the door and his bare feet meet frigid pavement. From the smell of it, Rick’s been drinking, but that’s hardly abnormal. With a quick breath, he hurries across the cement and curses himself for not stopping long enough to at least put on socks. “Here,” he says, slightly out of breath as he sets the drink next to Rick’s elbow. “Drink it or don’t. Pour whatever that is in if you like,” Morty says, pointing to his flask. “I’ve done my part,” he continues, pretending his mom sent him. It’s easier than being mocked for showing a moment's vulnerability.

Please Note: I also have a few Rick and Morty fic on my A03 account (see below).

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