It's strange to go back to a dead blog. I'm not going to spend much time going through it, but I'm grateful to see it still alive even after all this time.

I'm always open to writing and roleplaying again, but I know that pretty much all of the people I'd written with are gone now. Which is fine and understandable; most people grow up and move on.

Food forest. Inter-cropping. Every other word Bill said was digested with a nod of Morty’s head that signaled he was listening, watching every movement with his single eye.

Tilling the dirt, planting the roots with a gentle shake of the crop, before being patted down with floamy soil. A routine he knew well, but he did invite Bill over to help him, after all; and so he’d follow along attentively, whether the information was repeated or not.

Then the question came. An inquiry that caught Morty off-guard, shown by how he froze in place, before letting his hands fall forward, loosely dipping into the soil before redirecting to repeat the action he’d seen Bill unfold. Within a few seconds, he replicated the action, dusting off his hands in an obsessive-compulsive motion he could never refrain from, no matter which chore he was doing.

After the question came an awkward…compliment? Well, ya look good. What did that mean? Less darkness under the eyes, he imagined–more skin on his bones, muscle toning the figure that was his biological form. Looking ‘good’ to him and Rick both might have been a positive aspect, but not one he took lightly, blinking over at the entity now settled next to him.

“I appreciate your meager attempt at flattery, but I am sure you are as aware as I am how awkward it sounds out loud.” A clunky sentence coming from himself, he knew, but one he’d worded carefully.

“…That is to say, thank you for the sentiment.” Kindness. It was strange, it was foreign, and it was new. It was no excuse for him to withhold his manners, however.

“Existing on my own has been a personal challenge. Keeping myself alive, it seems easier said than done, but I think I’ve managed to stay healthy.” Then Morty stood, gesturing to the intricate system of tubes that overlay his garden in gesture of what he’d created, before his vision set upon Bill’s once more.

For a moment, fear returned to him as he recalled the select few seconds of personal experience that continued to haunt him with an ache in his hand and tired old wounds that still splintered the sensation of hot glass within his skin. Part of him automatically moved without much thought coordinating the process, and it showed by how he stood upright in a firm, statuesque position, attention remaining nonetheless centered on Bill.

“I wasn’t doing so well for a while, but I’m feeling better now,” he explained in a stiff voice.

“Thanks for asking.”

Meager attempt at flattery. Well, the boy certainly wasn’t WRONG about that. Bill regretted speaking as soon as the words left his mouth — Not because the comment was insincere. Morty indeed looked much better these days. Healthier, at least in the physical sense. But because, as his company observed, he fumbled over the sentiment. It hadn’t rolled off his tongue so much as it awkwardly spilled off it, with a strangled tone that suggested Cipher was hoping to CONTAIN it. Refrain from verbalizing it. So he breathed a short and mirthless laugh, lips barely twitching up into a smile ( if they did at all ), before he pulled his focus back to the task of planting seedlings at hand.

     “ Not flattery I assure ya, more just statin’ facts — But yer right, sounded a lil’ uncanny, huh? Ha. ”

The Old God FELT the waves of fright and apprehension ebbing off of Morty, drowning him in a potent pool of guilt. Golden eyes glanced over his shoulder, immediately falling upon his scarred hand. There were nights he couldn’t believe what he’d done, prayed a day would come where he’d wake up to find it was all a twisted nightmare. But there was the evidence, plain as day. A reminder that, to Morty, to his husband’s own flesh and blood, he was nothing more than the monster that nearly killed him.

Still, Cipher conjured no sense of self-pity. However awkward this was for him, discomfort was NOTHING compared to what he’d put this kid through. Nothing compared to what he must be feeling. He wasn’t sure when would be a good time to bring up that particular elephant in the room — if such an opportunity would arise at all — and his jaw hung ajar slightly. As if he were about to mention it but… No. Best not open that can of worms until he gathered a bit more composure. The LAST thing he wanted to do was strike that conversation sounding half-hearted. Disinterested. Meager merely due to his own awkwardness.

“ Yeah. Of course… I’m glad yer doin’ better, ” Cipher responded at last. And he was. He was incredibly glad for that. He scooped a small pile of mulch over the apple sapling’s roots before he too rose to his feet. “ Sure looks like y’are — This is quite the place ya set up here ! An’ ya built it all yerself, huh? Hell, color me impressed. ” Bill offered Morty a half-smile, attempting to appear as physically non-threatening as he could ( if that were even possible ). As he wiped the remnants of soil off one hand with a dirtied rag, his free pointer finger gestured up to the greenhouse ceiling.

“ I really like how ya set up the waterin’ system. ” He gazed up at the spiderweb of translucent pipes above them, a gentle mist cast down from their pores that left a fresh dew on the crops below. “ It’s clever! Mistin’ rotations are real efficient. Takin’ care of yerself is a helluva challenge but shit, kid. Yer far better at it than most. ” And by the small flicker of awe in his eyes, one could tell his compliment was absolutely genuine. 

Of course he couldn't blame him for the damage he'd done, a vengeful response to his own attempt at taking Rick's life; and while he may not have understood their relationship for what it was, or the people they were, he respected the desire for revenge and ultimately accepted the fact that what happened between Bill and himself may or may not have been personally deserved; but it had happened, it was past, and by some strange shift in the universe, Bill seemed to be trying for better. So was Rick.

So was he.

It might have been the ultimate deciding factor to keep in touch with them even though he'd dealt with so much trauma from both of their behalf, while he was well aware he could have cut contact entirely and flee. Rick had given him the opportunity, and it was proven by the way he no longer felt his grandfather's eyes on him, mechanical or otherwise, a solid example that he finally had his own personal space. As a 'man' of opportunity -- as he apparently was now after his 18th birthday -- he took the advantage for all it was. At first, it felt cowardice, fleeing from his responsibilities, the err of his ways, his relationships, his girlfriend, but overall it gave him time to think.

Too much time to think. Too many nights to splinter his hands on the broken wine glasses and whiskey tumblrs, intentional or otherwise. Mornings and lengthy days of pretending he had a plan before ripping up every blueprint tacked across musty walls, ever wiping the sweat from his brow while his body repeatedly ejected toxins from multiple attempts to stop drinking. The last time was the worst.

Eventually it was enough time that he'd began to find his path, learning to utilize his smarts in favor of self-defense, hunting, gathering, and other various survival skills as he'd refused to further rely on anyone else to look after him; even if it proved he had a long way to go at first, trekking through hot, frustrating days and tiresome, insomnia-riddled nights.

"Are you stating fact, or has your opinion escaped you in a time you had not wanted it to?" It was his turn to flicker the slightest hint of a smile, one only the most attentive would notice.

"Nonetheless, I do not mean to take the sentiment the wrong way." Letting out a sigh, he reached for the mulch to set a layer for himself as they conversed.

"I am not used to hearing I am doing well. I expect it to be followed with a criticism at best, scolding at worst. I apologise for the mere fact I have yet to adjust to, let alone believe such a thing." In his own mind, he could always do better, and thus he would strive to accomplish exactly that, no matter what exactly 'it' may be.

Standing up once more, he retrieved the towel, wiping off his hands properly, down to digging stray dirt from underneath his fingernails. Finally, after a few moments of standing frozen, his vision slowly drifted up to Bill's -- if only to see for himself that he could look him in the eye, and face this fear for what it was, even as his heart vibrated and his ribs rattled through heavy, nervous breaths that were likely audible to the other party.

"Thank you, however. This area has been mostly a place of experimentation for me. I have made many mistakes, and I have learned much from them. This was definitely not my first build." Hours. Days. Weeks. Digging, potting, replanting. Scavenging. Eating what he could, trying to utilize anything else he couldn't otherwise. Hunting, skinning, cooking. Boiling bones for broth and sharpening them for tools, wrapping hide around a bundle of moss and soft, dewy grasses to create a spongy bedding to sleep on, perched a foot above the floor to allow the flexibility of his weight from slightly heavier gravity. It showed that everything was clearly handmade, but also the amount of effort showed with how tightly-bound the hide was pulled together by flexible sinew, wrapped and tied into even, intricate knots and wrapped around a sturdy, hand-carved wooden frame in the far corner, by a 'window' that offered light from the vibrant daytime star that was now his heat, light and energy source.

Wringing his wrists in a moment of anxiety, his vision drifted downward in another moment of avoidance. They were both avoiding, he knew, feeling it in the thick tension in the air not caused by the naturally humid atmosphere.

"I appreciate your help. I am certain both of you know more about this than I do, and I always have time to learn more." Acknowledging the final question, he thought back to when he'd began to try looking after himself; after the breakup and after more weeks of suffering in his own vices, wasting away his days as he had shoddy old ideas.

"A bit over seven months ago, if I remember correctly," he stated out loud, grateful most of the carnage of his failed attempts were long forgotten.

"Not long, but long enough I think it shows. I do not think survival is something I picked up, but integrated as I felt abandoned by everyone else. That is not to say it was not my fault... through my own arrogance and greed, I isolated myself," he continued, closing his eyes as he straightened his posture.

Morty stared at his grandfather for a long, silent moment, an action that some would consider invasive or awkward – and so it might be, even in his opinion, as he knew all of his quirks weren’t exactly average – listening to Rick’s words as well as watching every movement while he spoke them, attentive to any strange inflections or body language that he should have been aware of. This was a man he hated enough to take an attempt on his life, yet the strange aspect of forgiveness rung through his mind like a buzzing fly. Who was he? What position did he hold in regard to his own, seemingly only remaining family?

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard Rick ask him a phrase as a question before, not hesitate, let alone seem to be at a loss for what to say. With a slight tilt of his head he showed he was listening intently, clearly digesting everything that was said in his direction. Naturally, every word and behavior struck him with confusion while he digested them for what they were. For a moment, he mulled over his own vocabulary in his mind before he spoke aloud, as he’d learned to do.

“It has been a while, indeed,” he spoke precisely, but he couldn’t quite place the feeling that lied beneath those words. Time was an eternally lingering, yet farfetched concept, only bound by certain scientific laws such as aging and evolving, among a plethora of other constructs that depended on where and when they were, what time and space boundaries they existed within. A fair amount of time had passed, and his eidetic memory latched onto the calculation down to the minute, glancing away in a moment of feeling dismal over the matter.

He’d tried all his life to communicate with Rick, and now was his opportunity to do it the way he felt as though he needed to from the start.

“Thank you,” he said in appreciation to the aspect of looking better as he’d clearly made the attempt to clean up his act.

“I suppose I could say the same to you.” Rick’s differences were definitely visibly noticeable to him, but there was something about his change in his behavior that Morty appreciated. Perhaps it was the softness in his eyes, the way his facial expressions softened compared to the stone-cold glares he’d witnessed throughout his childhood, or the way his shoulders weren’t so stiff, cuing him to relax his own – whatever it was, he finally gave way to trying to adjust to them. It. Him. The person that had seen and experienced so much more than he could imagine, that had finally requested to see him and for nothing more than a dinner and a reunion far away from home, and thus their history; hopefully with no strings attached.

With his vision returning to Rick’s the suggestion of his age plucked at the corners of his lips with a feeling that was unfamiliar, and though the smile was slight, he was sure it would be noticeable even to Rick alone. Through his time weaving in and out of his own ego, sense of self, and everything around and in-between, he thought he owed it to himself to take pride in the fact he was older. Wiser, more experienced, as he’d learned his own hardships and thus changed his own outlook, something that helped him appreciate Rick’s attempts, as awkward and disoriented as they were.

“I sure am.” There were differences in Morty, as well, such as the fact he spoke with pride, but not a boosted ego of false beliefs and expectations; harsh realities and events had visited him in their time apart, and if Rick paid attention, he’d notice the slightest softer cadence in his voice, and the way he didn’t lift his chin with his posture as if he were above all others. He looked at Rick as if they were equal, as they were in flesh and blood, and so he thought the interaction deserved the same respect he’d been given.

“But I suppose it sounds a bit awkward on the tongue.” Another new fluctuation to his voice that indicated the hint towards a joke, though his tone was still mostly flat, the indication that he was still practicing acting outside of his typical mannerisms.

“Thank you for the gift, by the way.” Manners weren’t new to him, but the genuine honesty behind them was, and it showed in the way his jaw still twitched, threatening to bring back the stubborn tics of his stutter that he’d trained so hard to leave long forgotten.

“It has come well in handy.” Finally, his vision traveled down to look at the menu in front of him, quickly skimming the drinks as he immediately made a decision, opening the next fold to scan over the options with his usual incredible speed, finding what he’d wanted in the span of four seconds and another page-flip, returning it to its front cover before he set it back down again and returned his attention to Rick.

His heart raced and the air felt thinner as tension tightened the muscles throughout his body, but he mentally ruled out the anxiety, letting himself relax again before he spoke once more.

“My overall well-being has clearly fluctuated, but I am trying my best to do better now.” Trying was an indication that he wasn’t necessarily doing too much better compared to before, but it was evident he’d been putting forth the effort.

“Despite my attempts at isolation, those that mattered most still contacted me, including you. Now I have a dog nearly larger than I am, a pleasure that’s accompanied me since Christmas day. I still owe Bill a statement of gratitude, but perhaps you can pass along the message. I named him Hades, as something he might appreciate,” he continued, his eye softening while he fondly remembered his new animal companion waiting back home.

“My sister must have picked up on my personal interest in androids as she sent me one of her own creation, which has helped me immensely. Including the bike you gifted me, I’m not sure I could show enough gratitude for what has now become a rather fitting lifestyle for myself.” While his heart felt heavy, the weight seemed to lift at the pure sentiment of honesty alone.

“I have experienced great pains and many pleasures, maybe too many for someone my age. I suppose that is why I appreciate the aspect of adulthood, but I know I still have a long way to go.” Morty knew that Rick knew humankind never reached full biological adulthood until about 25, and the aspect of tracking years was but a cultural one; still, he was grateful that Rick noticed at all, let alone mentioned such a thing.

“What about you? Still living at the cabin, I assume?”

=========

The change in Morty’s demeanour was obvious, and while Rick didn’t wish to make his Grandson feel like he was being scrutinised, he couldn’t help notice the changes in him; the boy was speaking more confidently yes, but even more importantly; he was communicating comfortably; there was no trace of grand standing, nor guardedness. Rick sensed an openness beyond mere formality, beyond the need to converse, no, this was different, as if Morty wanted to tell him about his life rather than simply feeling obliged to. The difference is stark and admittedly Rick is so taken aback that he can do nothing more than simply sit in silence, listening as Morty talks about so many different things seemingly all at once, clearly compelled to provide Rick with a summary of that which has been most important to him, pausing, it seems, only for breath.

“Hades…” The old man gradually repeats with a smile, slowing his pace to slow down Morty’s rate of thought, focussing on one thing at a time. “A good name for a dog, I will pass on your regards to Bill and your thanks.

Staring down at his menu, the old man can’t help but think about how quickly his Grandson has chosen something from it…at an almost inhuman speed - there was a time in his life when Rick believed indecision to be weakness and the old man can’t help but wonder if it is a behaviour he has passed on to the boy. Stubbing out his cigarette, he attempts to stub out the thought and instead re-focusses on Morty’s voice.

“Yes, I’m living at the cabin and like you, trying my best to be better, or some version of better at least…”

Waving over to the waitress for a coffee refill, he rubs his hand through his coarse beard as he considers Morty’s comment that he is looking better. “…turns out that drinking whiskey for breakfast, lunch and dinner for thirty years doesn’t keep you sane it just puts you on the path towards eventual organ failure…” He laughs mirthlessly as he shakes his head, wary of delving too much into their shared past.

“I’m recovering you could say…I’ve built a life for myself that’s worth living…my only regret was that it took this long for me to stop surviving and start living.”

He pauses as he stares at the boy while words he can’t say, stick hard and fast in his throat – it is not his only regret, no, he equally regrets all the times he failed to show his grandson the affection and warmth he most sorely deserved over the past 18 years. Should he say it now, it might sound insincere, regardless of his sincerity; he promised he wouldn’t himself he wouldn’t enter into this meeting with his usual intensity, lest he drive the conversation in a difficult direction.

"I see," he responded simply, as he felt 'I understand' would be a bit too personal for something he couldn't fathom. As a practical, intelligent person, his mind worked within certain boundaries while his imagination wasn't so strong outside of those limitations; the idea that Rick had two-thirds more of a lifetime than himself was difficult to comprehend. What he did understand, however, was the overcoming of one's own evils; both in their head and the bottom of a bottle.

"I was drinking a lot. So much. I do not really know why...I do not remember much, but perhaps that was the trap I fell into. There are blanks in my mind, gaps I will never get back from what was...well, a temporary damage in comparison." Pausing for a breath, he reached for the glass of water placed before him on the tabletop, calculating the amount of water he'd ingested so far that day.

"It sounds like you have been busy. I wish I could say the same, but I think that I am still learning...to survive as well as to live." Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his seat to take a deep breath, sighing it out through his nostrils.

"While I appreciate your offer, there are still many things I need time to contemplate before I face them, and that might be one of them. Nonetheless, once I feel stronger on my feet, I likely would not mind stopping by." Opening his eye halfway, he offered another slight smile, though it was short-lived.

"I have a lot of amends to make, and I am still understanding my share of forgiveness." There was a mild, bitter edge to his voice as he revisited the tiring sensation of emotions churning in his stomach, a firm reminder of his inner turmoil.

“ We found organizin’ our garden as a food forest actually yielded more crop production per square foot of mulch. Far as I know, y’can achieve similar with a greenhouse. Inter-croppin’ is nice too. Takes a bit more plannin’, but in the long run? Saves ya lots of work. Pair ‘em up well an’ the plants will nourish each other on their own. I mean, obviously ya still gotta water ‘em but uh… Ya know. Pretty cool stuff. ”

Bill was surprised that Morty even took him up on his offer to help him design his greenhouse’s extension, an invitation he made through Rick. It wasn’t that he was afraid to talk to the boy. No, quite the opposite — He knew how nervous he made his husband’s grandson. And considering everything that had happened between them? The shit he had pulled on him? Well, he couldn’t blame Morty for that, now could he?

     Nope. Couldn’t blame anyone other than himself.

They ambled slowly through the permaculture trail, Bill leading the way as he explained their design process — rambling incessantly about what crops they had chosen to pair, how the levels of the food forest had been laid out, all of the different customizations they’d considered and incorporated. And still, none of that eased the restlessness in the air between them, a tension so thick that Cipher SWORE he could cut it with a knife. Maybe, just maybe, it would behoove him to shut the hell up for five minutes and actually engage with the kid. Actually ask him about his life. Well, if Morty was willing to share of course. 

Tilling the dirt, planting the roots with a gentle shake of the crop, before being patted down with floamy soil. A routine he knew well, but he did invite Bill over to help him, after all; and so he'd follow along attentively, whether the information was repeated or not.

Then the question came. An inquiry that caught Morty off-guard, shown by how he froze in place, before letting his hands fall forward, loosely dipping into the soil before redirecting to repeat the action he'd seen Bill unfold. Within a few seconds, he replicated the action, dusting off his hands in an obsessive-compulsive motion he could never refrain from, no matter which chore he was doing.

After the question came an awkward...compliment? Well, ya look good. What did that mean? Less darkness under the eyes, he imagined--more skin on his bones, muscle toning the figure that was his biological form. Looking 'good' to him and Rick both might have been a positive aspect, but not one he took lightly, blinking over at the entity now settled next to him.

"I appreciate your meager attempt at flattery, but I am sure you are as aware as I am how awkward it sounds out loud." A clunky sentence coming from himself, he knew, but one he'd worded carefully.

"...That is to say, thank you for the sentiment." Kindness. It was strange, it was foreign, and it was new. It was no excuse for him to withhold his manners, however.

"Existing on my own has been a personal challenge. Keeping myself alive, it seems easier said than done, but I think I've managed to stay healthy." Then Morty stood, gesturing to the intricate system of tubes that overlay his garden in gesture of what he'd created, before his vision set upon Bill's once more.

For a moment, fear returned to him as he recalled the select few seconds of personal experience that continued to haunt him with an ache in his hand and tired old wounds that still splintered the sensation of hot glass within his skin. Part of him automatically moved without much thought coordinating the process, and it showed by how he stood upright in a firm, statuesque position, attention remaining nonetheless centered on Bill.

"I wasn't doing so well for a while, but I'm feeling better now," he explained in a stiff voice.

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aches from old injuries. finicky battle wounds, stiff joints from being restrained in captivity - things that their body never erased, pain that reminds them every day of what they went through. maybe it’s obvious, like a limp, or maybe it’s something that is only clear with early morning stretches and groans. maybe the aches grow worse in rainy weather, or when they think about the injury that caused the soreness.