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Day One:
It’s cold in Doctor Wong’s office. She’s bundled up in a very stereotypically therapists’ outfit of a thin sweater with a pleasantly coloured cardigan over top, looking comfortable and warm all nestled in her arm chair. Rick, on the other hand, is fucking freezing. Blame it on his old bones or his being accustomed to a regular stream of adrenaline pumping through his system or even his very old and very threadbare turtleneck, but regardless of the reasoning behind his frigid status, the fact remains that Rick Sanchez is freezing his old weathered balls off in his hellhole of an office.
“Thank you for joining me today, Mr. Sanchez. Now, I saw on your intake form that you believe you’re here at your daughter and grandson’s request, but if you could put it into your own words, what brought you here today?” Dr. Wong asks, her sharp eyes flashing behind her glasses. Her hands are empty, sitting still in her lap. Rick almost envies her lack of energy. He’s always got a little bit of shaking going on, from a bounce in his knee to a flex of his fingers. He wonders if that’s what drugs are supposed to do to a person. Every time he’s taken something, including the suspicious powder he’d inhaled before making his way over to the therapist’s office, it’s had the exact opposite effect on him.
“W-well if you must –”he interrupts himself with a purposefully disruptful belch, “if you much know, I had a-a-an, an encounter recently that s-s-s appears to have been the bRurpeaking point for my pathetic offspring and her even pathetic-er son.”
“Could you perhaps explain with a little bit more depth?” she prompts, her stillness becoming increasingly unsettling.”
“Could you perhaps suck on my wrinkly nutsack?” he retorts quickly, reclining with an air of disinterest.
“Mr. Sanchez, therapy is supposed to be a tool for you to use. You’re accustomed to using tools, correct? It doesn’t work if you don’t build the foundation properly. Would you build a quantum carburetor without the proper metals first? No, you wouldn’t because that would be shoddy craftsmanship. Just as in therapy, I can’t help you until you give me the necessary building blocks.”
Rick’s reclining stiffens up from his formerly relaxed appearance. Of course, Dr. Wong’s eyes track his minute movement. Still, he says nothing, almost paralyzed from how little desire he has to be here. Already he can hear little voices in his head, egging him on for not working on something right now, berating him for his weakness, screaming out for a tongue full of illegal alien moonshine.
The rest of the session continues in much of the same way until Dr. Wong’s watch beeps, announcing that Rick Sanchez is free to go. He stands and stretches, thankful that he now has the license to never step foot into this accursed building again.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Sanchez. Now, I’m sure you understand that I will be informing your family that you didn’t show up for today’s appointment.”
“W-w-what?” Rick exclaims, letting out a resounding burp. “That’s bullshit. I was here and I have footage and recordings and all sorts of other bullshit I can use to prove it.”
“I know you’re a straight shooter, so I’ll do you the courtesy and respond in kind. You wasted an hour of my time today. This was not a therapy session, not even close. I don’t care what you show your family, the simple fact is that you were not an active participant in our session and therefore, this was not anything even vaguely resembling therapy. When we get close to what it is, I’ll let you know. Please let Diana at the front desk know that you have an appointment next week at the same time. Take care Mr. Sanchez.”
Day Two
He’s back here, right on schedule. Part of him had screamed to skip, that it didn’t matter whether he went to therapy or not because he’s too smart to be therapized. It just would never work on him. Another larger part saw the defeat and disappointment on Beth’s face as she opened up the email from Doctor Wong announcing that Rick had another appointment to make up for the one he’d squandered a few days prior. So here he is once more. He doesn’t have a game plan for this meeting, but he does have a stealthily hidden remote that’ll activate a more emotionally intelligent clone of himself. Worse comes to worse, he’ll slip out to the bathroom, replace himself with the vulnerable, weaker Clone Rick and then be on his merry way.
Dr. Wong is in the same interaction of her outfit as last time, except this time her hair is pulled away from her face. If she wasn’t the Devil reincarnate, Rick might find her attractive, but as it stands, any beauty she may or may not possess is offset by her apparent need to destroy the smartest man in the universe.
“I figured we might try something different today, something that’s more your speed. More engaging, if you will. I’d like for you to describe your last solo adventure, without Morty, or Summer, or Beth, or even Jerry. Just Rick Sanchez, alone and unfiltered.
Alone and unfiltered. What a perfect way to describe Rick’s base state. His last mission was gory, boozey, and less than fit for normal human consumption. Come to think of it, that might be the perfect way to get Dr. Wong off his back. If she was so disgusted by him and his experiences, he might be freed from ever having to come back here. Letting a sly smirk grace his face, he launched into a slightly exaggerated but still largely true recitation of his most recent exploits.
“Hm, let me think. Most recently, I went to Deodatus in the Argyle System. Had to trade in some old junk I had cluttering up my work space. Just an old Blazer-Lazer and a few other knick knacks. I took my payment in the form of Alien Coke, which I h-h-igh, definitely recommend. Then I ran into the Galactic Dickwad Squad, because ap-aparently they’re cosplaying the Spa-URP-anish Conquistadors or some bullshit. I killed them all. Brutally, graphically, demonically. Here, I took some HIC photos to bring back to the kiddos,” he shoved the high definition phone at her, making sure he’d scrolled towards one of the more vicious pictures–a mountain of bodies with a few hands outstretched towards the camera in obvious agony. Dr. Wong gazed at the high resolution of the photo before leaning back, not looking the least bit bothered. “A few of them pleaded with me, begging that I spare them, that I let them return to their families for one last goodbye. One of them took my gun and shot me, right here,” he gestured to the left side of his abdomen, “so I killed him slowly. I took out my knife and carved him up ever so carefully, making sure that he wouldn’t die or pass out. Then I attached him to a device that would keep him alive indefinitely, trapped in an infinite loop of experiencing not just his own suffering, the the agonies of everyone else in his crew. His brothers, his friends, his foes. He’s out there right now, screaming, writhing, wishing for death.”
As Rick leans in closer and closer, divulging his atrocities and crimes, his stutters diminished, his perpetual belches coming to a halt. All that remained are the cold and calculating tales of a madman.
“And how did that make you feel, Mr Sanchez?”
“God, can you get any more cliched? How did it make me feel? Fuckin’ vindicated, that’s how. That bitch is going to suffer for all eternity, reaping the punishment for his crimes. Do you know what sort of brain power it takes to devise that plan? And then to exact it? I don’t think you quite understand who you’re talking to lady. I’m a fucking God compared to you.”
“I have no doubt that your intelligence is something to fear. But what I wonder more than that is why you chose that particular method of torture.” Dr. Wong says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose a little bit.
“Does it fucking matter why I chose it? The point is that I could choose it and nobody can stop me.”
“I think you misunderstand my line of questioning. It seems to me as though what you think is punishment isn’t quite…punishment, if you will. In subjecting this enemy of yours to suffer your crimes forever, you’ve managed to mirror your own suffering. Much in the way that you can never escape the truth of your actions, you made someone else a victim of the same depravity, and now you go on with your life, knowing at least one person out there in the universe is cursed in the same way that you are. In trying to defeat a foe, you’ve created something that understands you implicitly.”
A whinging beep startled Rick out of his revere and in a flash he’s out of his chair and halfway to the door.
“Thank you for coming today Mr. Sanchez. Same time next week.”
“...Call me Rick.”
Day Three:
The next week is even harder. The day before had been a tough adventure, albeit a necessary one. He had taken Morty to explore a new place, one that even Rick hadn’t visited. That had been his near fatal mistake. Unlike Planets 1-46 of the Straturnia system, all of which Rick had seen, Straturnia 47 was different. At first glance, the planet seemed borderline inhabitable. Breathable atmosphere, trees, water, friendly inhabitants, and it was far outside of the Galactic Federation’s sphere of influence. In fact, this planet seemed downright picturesque. Until the ground had split beneath Morty’s feet, swallowing him whole in an instant. The aliens who lived on Planet 47 had never had this happen and were unsure of what to even do in this case. Something about the components making up the planet had constricted Rick’s ability to track and monitor Morty’s vitals. Either that or he was dead.
After about half an hour of searching, Rick had finally had enough. Jerryrigging an admittedly impressive device out of what little he could find, Rick managed to bust open the planet’s top layer, effectively killing all life there, and from there, layer by layer, had blasted away at the core until Morty made himself visible. His skin and hair had been melted away from his body by the intense heat near the center of the planet and the gravitational force had crushed most of his bones and organs. Rick had been forced to take Morty to a nearby alien hospital to save his grandson, which was thankfully possible. Even though Rick knew that Mortys weren’t special and he could pick out another one with ease, the thought ate away at him until the old man had retreated from Morty’s bedside, compelled to pilot himself to the nearest dive bar and get shit faced. It was a miracle he had even made it to today's appointment.
“Good afternoon Rick,” Diana, the receptionist, flirts, sending him a saucy wink. They’d fucked once, after Rick’s first appointment. Yet another shameful encounter to add to a very long list. Diana was hot, that couldn’t be denied, but she was much too young for him and resembled his ex wife just a little bit too closely. This is why he usually stuck to fucking aliens…or men.
“H-h-hey Diana.” Rick saunters over to the front desk, taking a swig of mystery liquid from the flask within his lab coat.
“Wanna have a little fun after your appointment?” Diana asks, leaning forward to thrust her cleavage closer to Rick.
“Would love to, Doll-Face, but I have to, I have to admit, therapy doesn’t really put me in the mood to do all the things I wanna d-do to you,” Rick says, straightening up. “Maybe some oth-oth-other time darling.”
“Okay Rick! No problem. Just…let me know, ya know?”
Dr. Wong seems almost subdued today, her greys and blues matching Rick’s mood. Her hair is down again, but in an odd change of events, she’s not wearing glasses. Or makeup for that matter, not that Rick really cares for the stuff anyways. Why guild an eventual corpse is his way of thinking.
“Welcome Rick. Take a seat and we’ll begin shortly. Would you like anything to drink today”
“Yeah, but I brought my own,” he proclaims, waving his flask a little. Quicker than Rick can even conceive of, Doctor Wong is out of her chair, his alcohol confiscated in her tight grip.
“Please refrain from drinking in our sessions from now on. I’d also appreciate it if you wouldn’t drink before showing up here. I’ve let it slide the past two times, but if it happens again, you will not be allowed in my office, and you’ll have to return home to an even more disappointed daughter.”
“D-d-da-damn Doctor Wong. You’re already eating into my masturbation time and now you wanna deprive me of the one thing that keeps me from going insane? Are you psychotic or just a massive bitch?” Rick asks, raising his voice. He makes little grabby hands for the flask, but ultimately decides that it’s not worth the conflict. “I’ll take some tea then, if you’re determined to take away my joy.”
It takes an ungodly amount of time for the water to boil and for Rick to have a kitschy mug held between his palms. It’s too hot, damn near burning, but he holds on tight regardless.
“Okay Rick, if it’s still okay to call you that. I’ve been wracking my brain to come up with therapy styles that are more suited for your particular personality. Trial and error are essential, just as in any kind of scientific process, I’m sure you’re aware. Today I want to put you in an environment you feel comfortable in. If it’s okay, I’d like to take a little trip to your garage and continue our session there,” Doctor Wong proposes. She looks almost nervous but just as quickly as Rick entertains that possibility, the uncertainty vanishes, leaving behind a cold and calculating atmosphere.
“I-I-I’m not too inclined to let random people poke around my lab. For all-for all I know you could be a complete i-d-d-i–dumbass and set the whole place ablaze,” Rick says, immediately defensive at the idea of anyone else getting close to his personal space.
“I don’t intend to invade or touch anything you doing give me permission to touch. I’ve just been getting the sense that you’re wildly uncomfortable here, and I think a good step towards getting you to open up to me is to put you in a place where you have the high ground,” Doctor Wong explains easily, the information oddly forthcoming.
“You’re a fu-f-fucking idiot if you don’t think I have the high gr-gr-gro-ground no matter where I am. Doesn’t matter if I’m in your shitty, tiny, freezing office or if I’m in a pent-pent-penthouse on Codetera 69,” Rick insists, grasping at his boiling hot drink. He takes a sip, trying to hide his perpetual shaking. It’s been mere minutes and he already misses his flask.
“You’re mistaken Mr. Sanchez. My mind doesn’t hold a candle to yours, that much is true, but this place is still very much my territory. It’s decorated with things that make me happy and comfortable, and while yes, it’s designed to put others at ease as well, that doesn’t mean my space is perfect for everyone. So, I’m leaving you the option–we can stay here, stuck in an infinite back and forth, both of us refusing to step out of our comfort zones, or we can move somewhere where you feel safe and at ease. But if we do move, you’ll have to return the favour in the form of a little bit of communication. I understand that you lack those skills, but that’s what I’m here for. I’ll say it until you’re tired of hearing it–therapy is a tool. It works for you, but only if you let it. A screwdriver will still be a screwdriver, even if you never use it, but if you never use it, who knows what you could be creating with it.”
“FURPine. But if you touch my s-s-shit I’ll toss you into an alternate universe where you’ll be stuck communicating solely through a shamisen except it’ll be made of human skin,” Rick threatens. Without sparing another moment, he takes his portal gun from out of another hidden pocket and opens up a swirling green vortex. Doctor Wong surprises him yet again, stepping through the portal without hesitation. Rick almost smiles. His therapist certainly is interesting, isn’t she?
Day Thirteen
There’s an element about his new routine that Rick finds oddly comforting. After moving into his garage for the session, Rick has to admit that therapy has become more bearable. He know longer feels as though A Million Ants has found a way under his skin, and the commute is certainly better. His progress has been slow going, but it’s going, no matter how reluctant he is to mention. It’s almost disturbing to admit that it’s begun the bleed into his normal life as well. He finds an untapped well of patience for his family, treating them with at least a modicum of kindness (all except Jerry, who barely counts as family anyways). Even his adventures are more reasonable. He searches out details about places he’s never been before diving in head first, and for the first time he finds he can sit down in the living room without a slideshow of Interdimensional Cable flashing before his eyes and a bottle of Glabdimshlime in hand.
As he’s been improving, Doctor Wong has been doubling down. She’s less reserved, asking hard questions about his past, his future, his personality, his experiences. Rick doesn’t answer most of her questions, keeping firm boundaries when it comes to anything that happened before he showed up on Beth’s doorstep. Until his thirteenth session that is.
They’re almost ¾ of the way done, the clock above Doctor Wong’s head ticking steadily towards his release time. Although he finds therapy tolerable now, that certainly doesn’t mean he enjoys it by any means.
“So, Rick. This is a difficult question for anyone to answer, but I know you don’t appreciate trepidation, so I’ll be blunt. Do you consider your lifestyle to be a form of self harm?” Doctor Wong asks, delicately twirling a pen round her fingers. As Rick has become less fidgety, Doctor Wong seems to have gained more energy, tapping her toes or constantly having her hands in her hair. It’s usually something Rick ignores with ease, but it seems more prevalent than normal today.
“No, of course not. It’s science. Every injury I’ve gotten has been unintentional, in the pursuit of knowledge. Why would I, the smartest man alive, a possibly immortal, practically god-like being, bog myself down with useless self inflicted pain?” Rick argues, defensive.
“That’s what I’m asking. If you’re as good as you claim, you’d have no need for scars or really any kind of injury. Your grandson, despite his wide array of injuries, is unmarked. He says you have a well-rounded stock of poultices, creams, and alien equipment that could end any suffering without wounds, a stash that you use quite frequently on members of your family. Yet you stand before me, cut and pockmarked all to hell, and I have to ask if this is a form of atonement.”
Rick pauses. Doctor Wong does this from time to time, dropping pieces of information about Rick and his situation that should be obvious and yet have been either unconscious or ignored entirely by the older man. To say they leave him stunned every time is an overstatement. Often he’s quick with a retort, something witty and cutting, but today his words seem to have deserted him.
“I think your adventures are self-harm, although I doubt you’d ever admit it. It’s like…like people who get tattoos consistently. Permanent shifts to the appearance with the assurance of pain. It’s not as destructive as cutting or burning or whatever you get yourself into, but you are, in a way, intent on harming yourself. Am I wrong?”
The silence stretches on for an uncomfortable amount of time. Rick longs to reach beneath the felt couch for some relief in the form of a drink or a drag of a cigarette. She’s right, but the realisation means very little to him. He knew, of course, that he had some less than stellar habits and that they might be construed as self harm, but it had only ever been a fleeting thought. Having it vocalised was disturbing, as though he’s being seen for the first time, as weak and vulnerable as a newborn calf.
“I-I-I tried to um, k-k-kill myself once. I didn’t go through with it, obviously, but I had an encounter with my ex, an alien who could assimilate other species to be a part of her, kind of like slavery, but more moral I guess. Her name was Unity, I don’t think it matters too much but um…I went on a bender with her in front of the kids. They wanted me to come home with them, but I refused because I was having a good time, fucking and fighting and drinking and ruining a person I cared about and then…it was over. She left. Said I hadn’t changed as much as I thought I had and that I was bad for her ‘recovery’.” He throws up a pair of mocking air quotes. “I loved her in my own twisted, fucked up way, and I wasn’t enough for her. I hate that feeling, the not being good enough. Every scar, every cyber-enhancement is a reminder to myself that I’m less than perfect, that there’s always room for improvement. I mean, d-d-d-don't get me wrong, I’m pretty damn close to being a god but I’m still flesh and blood and I hate it.”
Somewhere in the background, Doctor Wong’s watch was beeping away tinnily. The fear creeped in again, that she was going to pack up and leave, like Unity, like Diane, like Beth and Morty would whenever they wised up.
“Thank you for telling me that Rick. You’re not perfect, not by any shot. You’re toxic, an asshole, and emotionally unavailable to those who need you most. But more importantly, you’re here with me right now. You could’ve jumped ship at any moment, secluded yourself away content to be scorned by your daughter and grandson, but you stuck it out. You’re not stagnant Rick, as much as you like to think you’re above changing and assimilating. You’ve put in the work, and I’m thankful that I’ve been able to call myself your therapist. I hope you’ll continue to allow me to act as such.”
Day Fourteen
Diana looks good today. Her eyes are a little red and her cheeks are flushed, but she’s wearing some cute all black ensemble that makes her blonde hair stand out even more. Rick’s been feeling good since his last session, almost light with the weight of his reveal off his shoulders and the assurance given to him by Doctor Wong.
He ambles over towards the thick oak desk, using his tall stature to loom over the receptionist who looks at him with wobbling lips and damp eyes.
“Afternoon gorgeous. Here for my 2:00pm.”
“H-have you not heard from Doctor Wong about your appointments?”
“W-w-what? No, I haven’t heard anything. Has the doc-therapist finally decided to t-t-t-take a much needURPed vacation? Coul-could’ve taken the time to at least send me an email,” Rick complains.
“No, that’s not it, Rick. Doctor Wong has decided to cancel your appointment today and all those after. She’s given me a list of referrals if you want to continue on the track of self help, but she no longer feels equipped to work with you. She wishes you a good day and asks that you don’t stop by anymore.”
Just like that Rick’s heart sinks down to his feet. He quirks an irritated smirk. Just as he’d guessed, Rick Sanchez proves to be too much for yet another person. Whatever, smart people don’t need therapy anyways, especially not Rick motherfucking Sanchez. He’s going to be fine. He has his brain, his gadgets, his alcohol, and his annoying family. He'll just have to be content with that.