Rick and Morty: Smartest Morty in the multiverse

Morty was still chewing on the last thick edge of the cannoli, flaky and creamy with the faint burn of cheap powdered sugar clinging to his fingertips.

when he heard the light patter of socks against wood Summer, floating down the stairs like she always did, eyes locked on her phone, tapping something brain-dead into group chat.

She was halfway across the room when the scent hit her his scent not just clean, but layered, something sharp and calculated: bergamot, cedarwood, a trace of leather and static ozone, nothing like the teenager she remembered. Her eyes snapped up, and her whole posture stalled. "You?" she said aloud, almost too loudly, eyes widening as if Morty had just materialized from a puff of Italian smoke. Her eyes skimmed him black slacks that didn't crumple, belt tight and tasteful, shirt fitted like it had been made for someone who didn't slouch or apologize for existing. Summer's face twisted. "Since when do you dress like a Bond villain's intern?"

Morty didn't even look up from his plate. He wiped a finger along the corner of his mouth, deadpan. Rick, still nursing his drink on the edge of the room, took that as his cue to disappear, muttering something that sounded vaguely like, "My cue, cuties," before slinking off into the garage. Summer watched him leave, brows still pulled tight, then turned to Beth, who was half-focused on a wine glass she hadn't sipped from yet. "Hey, what was that noise earlier? The crash?"

Beth didn't look up. "Morty's new bike."

Summer blinked. "Wait, Morty has a like a motorbike?" Her voice lilted with disbelief, like the concept had to bounce off a few walls before registering.

"Apparently," Beth replied, vague and tired.

Morty had already risen, tossing the empty paper bag into the trash. The sound of the bin lid closing echoed more than it should've. He turned and started for the stairs, clearly done with the room, but Summer stepped in fast, blocking him halfway with her arms crossed and that same bratty posture she'd used since she was ten. "Whoa, whoa, whoa hold up. You don't just get to stroll around here looking like a perfume ad and not give me a ride. I deal with your crap all the time. Fair's fair."

Morty tilted his head, not with curiosity but surgical patience. His gaze trailed her up and down her hoodie, her lazy bun, the bare feet she hadn't bothered to cover. She looked like a meme about retail workers on break. "You 'deal with me?'" he repeated, the words rolling from his tongue like they belonged to a foreign dialect.

"Yeah. You're always in some freaky mood. You blow off school, you show up bleeding, and now you've got a motorcycle and cheekbones. You think that doesn't affect the family dynamic?"

He stepped forward, just enough to make her lean back instinctively. His voice was so low it made the air tense, like static clinging to skin. "Summer, you're not entitled to me just because you notice I've changed."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh my God, relax. You're not that deep."

He grinned without warmth. "No, but you are that shallow. You can't stand not being the center of attention for five seconds, so here you are, demanding a joyride like it's an Instagram post waiting to happen."

That struck. Not hard like a slap, not loud like a shout but deep. A hum of shame settled behind her eyes. She opened her mouth to retort, but the words broke apart before they formed. Morty moved past her, toward the door.

"Wait," she snapped, tone shifting.

He paused.

She didn't look at him when she spoke again. "Just one ride. I'll shut up after, swear."

Morty watched her for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then he nodded, barely.

The ride started quiet. Summer behind him, helmet half-crooked on her head, arms looped around his waist with an awkward tension like she didn't want to seem clingy. The engine purred beneath them like a predator lounging between kills, and the wind kicked up against their faces as they sped out from the cul-de-sac, the sun dipping low enough to paint the world amber and broken. Suburban silence peeled away behind them, replaced by the hiss of speed, the friction of movement.

For the first few minutes, Morty let himself exist in it this strange vacuum where her voice was gone, her sarcasm muffled by speed, her presence reduced to weight and heat on his back. But then the thoughts crept in. Not feelings he didn't permit those but assessments, inventory.

He hadn't brought her because she was owed a favor. He didn't believe in familial obligation or emotional debts. He brought her because Summer, for all her screeching and ego, was useful. She had reach. Friends. A social web Morty never cared to build. If he needed proximity to power in the high school hierarchy, she was a shortcut. If he needed cover someone to mislead Beth or redirect Rick's curiosity Summer could be bent to serve. She liked control, but more than that, she liked recognition. Morty would give her just enough of that, like salt to keep a beast tame.

She wasn't on this ride because of guilt. He didn't feel guilt. He simulated it sometimes, like a pianist mimicking emotion through tempo but it was all calibration. She was here because she had already been wound up to spin. Now he'd watch how far she'd go.

They rode past the hill near the old water plant, where kids smoked and claimed rebellion. She leaned into him slightly when they curved around a tight bend, and he let her.

Summer laughed once sharp, genuine. "Okay, okay, this is actually kind of sick."

Morty gave no reply. Just leaned harder into the throttle.

By the time they pulled back into the driveway, night had begun to crown the sky, and the stars peeked through like they were bracing for something. Morty killed the engine, the growl falling into nothing. Summer climbed off, helmet hair mussed, eyes glassy from the wind.

"That was okay, I admit it, you're cool now. Still annoying. But cool."

Morty looked at her like he was cataloguing a painting appreciating it only for its ability to reflect something he already understood. "Get inside before Rick locks the door."

She opened her mouth to sass him but thought better of it.

In the kitchen later, Rick glanced at them as they entered. He smirked. "My cute little murderers are back."

Summer rolled her eyes. "Ew, Rick. Gross."

He waved a hand, already walking away. "Hey, you follow the walking perfume ad, you get what's coming."

And just like that, he vanished, as if he'd never cared enough to notice her standing there.

Summer stared after him, more confused than annoyed. Morty poured himself a glass of water, not looking at her, not offering.

She turned, about to ask something some snarky retort ready to fire but paused when she saw his face in profile. Calm. Cold. Beautiful in the way fire looks behind glass.

She said nothing. He didn't need her to.

And that's how the night ended quietly, without apology, without repair. Just two people in a kitchen, one of them calculating, the other wondering when the rules changed.

Morty finished his water. His reflection in the faucet barely looked like the boy who used to stutter through excuses. Summer hadn't noticed the change until it was too late. Now she was riding pillion to something she didn't understand and he was already too far ahead to explain.

______

After thinking for a while how can l realistically get the part for modification of the Ducati.

I came to a conclusion to watch all the episodes of season 8 that I haven't watch because l can't be ask to wait....(`•~•`)

I now have an idea of Morty going into the garbage dispenser to collect parts for his new ride...

Dealing with salvotron is quite easy as well so what you guys think it's a good idea or nah