“R-rick? Are you in here?” Morty pushes open the door to the garage. They were supposed to head out on an adventure an hour ago, and he's starting to get antsy.
Rick isn't exactly reliable, Morty knows that from experience (he's been forgotten at more than one alien gas station), but when it comes to his weird space errands he usually has to be pried away at gunpoint.
Also, Morty's pretty sure that this adventure was supposed to be about a time-sensitive crystal rush on Kremeboigion, which Rick promised to kill him if they were late for.
The fact that he's not shoving them out the door right now… probably doesn't mean anything. Hopefully.
Morty shakes his head, trying to clear the possibility of Rick bleeding out somewhere from his mind.
…what was the last thing Morty said to him? It'd been an insult, he's pretty sure. Something about Rick getting them both killed with his shaky-ass, sleep-deprived hands.
It'd stemmed from concern, sure, but that hadn't made it any less cruel. What if that's the last thing Morty ever-
Don't think about it.
The garage is empty. Nothing even on the desk, and the hatch to the subterranean lair has a garbage sack sitting atop it, which would be both more effort and less pizazz than Rick would usually expend to hide from him down there.
Morty frowns, heads back inside the house. Mom and Dad are in bed, and Summer's probably pretending to be in bed but has actually snuck out of her window to crash a party, so there's no reason for Rick to be hiding from anyone else, either.
He checks the TV room and the kitchen, and then his own room just in case they missed each other, then pauses, bouncing on his heels as he weighs his options.
Rick wouldn't go off-planet without him… no signs of struggle… both cars are still in the driveway…
Morty takes a step backwards out of his room to look down the stairs. There's really only one option left. He just hopes Rick won't bite his head off for even trying it.
He rushes back downstairs on socked feet, trusting them to muffle his footsteps. Rick probably wouldn't appreciate him drawing the whole family's attention to them- especially if there's something wrong, which Morty is increasingly suspecting to be the case.
Maybe- maybe he left on his own, got shot, and holed himself up in the house to do some emergency first aid? Or maybe something happened, maybe Rick was the one to try to end it all-
That line of thought makes his breaths come even faster. He forces himself to inhale slowly, trying to blink back the instinctual tears.
Rick is fine. He's not going to try anything. Just like Morty wouldn't- he's happy. They're both happy.
For all his anxiety, Morty finds himself hesitating at Rick's bedroom door. No one's allowed in there. It's the one and only rule that the family's kept intact all these years.
(It's possible that their priorities are a little f*cked.
…okay, a lot f*cked.)
But… Morty isn't just family, right? They're Rick and Morty, they're partners now, aren't they? Equals. Rick said so himself.
He knocks on the door.
The sound is soft, any impact lessened by Morty's reluctance to put force into it. “Rick?” Morty calls, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Are- are you i-in there?”
No response.
It's fine. He's fine he's fine he's fine.
Morty twists the doorknob. It's unlocked, and before he knows it he's stepping inside the room.
Rick's unconscious form is on his cot, sides slowly rising and falling underneath the blankets. He looks fine. No bloodstains, no mountain of empty bottles. Just the regular smell of dust and stale beer that Rick's room has always had.
For a moment, Morty can't breathe from sheer relief.
And then the panic sets back in. What if he took something, what if he doesn't wake up-
“Rick,” he grabs the man's shoulder and lightly shakes it. “W-wake up, we're gonna be late.”
Normally, Morty wouldn't wake Rick for anything short of an alien invasion. The guy barely sleeps as it is, and doesn't seem to care to change that behavior (he says that sleep is a scam, even though Morty can tell that caffeine makes him twitchy and paranoid). Hence Morty snapping at him earlier.
Right now, however, he could give a f*ck. Rick can go back to sleep once Morty's sure he's not dying.
Rick groans at the movement, a sound that's more exhaustion than pain, but definitely not painless. “Diane?”
Morty swallows. “N-no, it's...”
Rick opens his eyes, and they just look bleary, like he's looking straight through Morty rather than at him. More than that, though, he looks peaceful. Unburdened by all the sh*t they've gone through.
Morty realizes rather suddenly that this is what he must've looked like with Diane. Minus the wrinkles and pallor, anyway.
There's something in his eyes that looks disturbing like love, if not straight-up adoration, and Morty has no idea what to do with that much vulnerability coming from Rick of all people. They both usually mask so hard there's no chance of an emotion making it through; it's kinda their whole thing.
“It's me,” Morty finishes lamely. Rick continues staring at him with that blank peace for a handful of seconds.
“Oh,” Rick says, toneless, recognition finally sparking in his gaze.
Weirdly, Rick's expression doesn't change much from how he looked at Diane, and now Morty really doesn't know what to do with that, so he decides to just go down the safe route and ask, “A-are you okay? You said we- we were- gonna go on an adventure tonight.”
There. That's in bounds. Don't mention the dead wife, or the fact that Morty was practically having a meltdown two minutes ago. Both of those things are liable to get him yelled at.
Rick sits up, rubs at his face roughly. He shoots Morty a look, but it's not the usual ‘what the f*ck were you thinking’ look. No, this one, while still exasperated, is just… frustrated. Like he knows exactly where Morty's head was and wishes he could change it.
f*ck, he probably can. Who knows what it means that he hasn't; Morty hopes it means that Rick's showing a rare respect for his autonomy, but he's not going to hold his breath.
“Of f*ckin’ course I'm-” Rick stops, yawns so hard Morty hears his jaw click.
Face molding into a glare, Rick places a hand on his jaw and shoves, gears grinding on overtime as the metal joint locks back into place. Morty winces.
As if nothing happened, Rick continues, “Of course I'm fine. W-what, you freak out over schedules now? I-I thought I was the on- the only autistic one.”
“I- I told you I'm still waiting to get tested, and- and stop changing the subject!” Morty crosses his arms, trying not to think about how unimposing he must look. Rick raises his brow, which Morty also ignores. “Since when do you oversleep?”
“Diagnoses are a lie, Morty. D-don't let a slip of paper and some government whackjobs tell you something you already know, that's- f*ck, that's basically paying through the nose for some psych major to put you on a list that I'll inevitably have to pull you off of-”
“Rick. I-I'm not falling for this.”
“But you will fall for the money-making scheme that is institutionalized ableism? Lame,” Rick says as one last-ditch attempt to deflect, but his heart's clearly not in it.
(Does he still have one of those? Or is that metal now, too? Morty is struck with the bizarre urge to check, and does his best to force it down.)
They stare at each other for a long second. Shockingly, Rick looks away first.
“F-fine. We're not going. Happy?”
Morty wrinkles his nose. “No? Why aren't we going?”
“Because f*ck off and mind your own business, that's why,” Rick says, but then Morty notices something.
Rick isn't just not looking at him, he's not looking at anything.
His eyes can't seem to focus in on any one object, instead lingering on the carpet like it holds the secrets of human interaction. Rick's normally like a cat, constantly observing everything in the room and cataloging how it can be used to his advantage later. But now he just looks… well, empty. Not to mention a bit distracted.
“Rick?” Morty asks, and takes a chance. He waves a hand in front of Rick's face.
Rick jumps like he's been shocked, and it's only when he groans again and buries his face in his hands that Morty realizes it was a flinch. “Christ, Morty,” he grinds out, pained, “don't do that.”
Morty quickly drops his hand. “Sh-sh*t, sorry! Did- did you get hit by a flash gren- a flash grenade? Or are your cybernetics mal- mal- malfunct-”
His ramble is cut off by Rick's hand suddenly pressing against his mouth. It's calloused, and warm from sleep.
“I'm not injured, Morty.” Rick says it dully, like it's an admittance of defeat. He lowers his hands, waves towards the door vaguely. “Just- just f*ck off for a bit, alright? Go to bed. We'll do something fun tomorrow, I- I promise.”
Morty isn't sure if he's more thrown by the endorsem*nt of sleep, or the promise. Luckily, neither of them matter, because Rick is f*cking hiding something and Morty knows it.
“Ar-are you sick? Mom taught me how to make chicken noodle soup, or- or I can make tea, if that'd be better.”
Rick stares at him. “Morty, are you seriously trying to take care of me right now? I just told you to f*ck off. Twice.”
Morty scoffs. “If you're not sick, then why don't you get out of bed and make me?”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I- oh.” Morty pauses, playing back Rick's voice in his head. Disbelief, not anger. Huh. Did Rick expect him to be angry? “W-well, I've got that capacity for forgiveness, right?”
Rick laughs softly. It doesn't sound happy. “Y-yeah. Guess so.”
“So what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You looking to- to make it three for three?”
“I've got all night, a-apparently,” Morty says stiffly, spreading his hands. He wasn't even looking forward to this adventure, but he'll be damned if he won't use it as an excuse to be petty. Rick taught him that.
Rick puffs up like a peaco*ck, jabs Morty in the chest with one spindly finger. “Fine. f*ck off-” he stops, rather abruptly, cutting off whatever tirade of insults he was building up to. “sh*t.”
“What-” Morty starts, but he's barely gotten the word out before Rick is shoving past him and out of the room.
His longer legs give him an instant lead, and by the time Morty catches up, Rick is doubled over the kitchen sink. The water runs pointlessly as he retches up bile, maybe to muffle the sound.
Morty blinks, hesitating in the doorway. It's not like he's never seen Rick throw up- hell, it's practically a common occurrence. But he's not usually… sober.
“R-rick?” No response. Are Rick's shoulders shaking?
Nervously (does he do anything not nervously, beyond cold-blooded murder?), Morty steps over to his grandpa, setting a hand on his back. His spine is too defined, hard and knobbly to the touch.
He vaguely remembers his dad rubbing his back when he got the stomach flu as a kid; maybe it helps? He hopes Rick’s hair isn't long enough that it needs to be held back, though. Morty’s definitely too short to do that.
Rick has no reaction at first. Just stares down into the sink, breathing haggardly as he waits out whatever nausea he’s experiencing.
When he does pull back, it’s to shrug Morty’s hand off, but more gently than Morty would’ve ever expected.
Rick runs the back of his hand over his mouth, making a face at the aftertaste. “Ugh,” he says, like that explains anything.
“A-a-are you dying?” Morty glances down at the still-running sink, water unable to reach the last few traces of black bile. Why the f*ck is it black? That can't be good, in fact, that’s probably very not good. It shimmers like an oil spill. “I-if you're dying, you have to tell me, Rick, I-I’m not gonna let you leave me in the dark about this-”
“Jesus christ, Morty, I’m not dying,” Rick snaps. He pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a breath. When he speaks again, his voice is noticeably calmer. “I- I’m having a bad reaction to something. I… thought that I'd whipped up a solution to the intolerance, but it- it turns out human anatomy is stubborn, Morty. Real pain in my ass. Didn’t even get me high, f*cking… f*cking rip-off, I swear. I’m gonna throttle that f*ckin’ dealer.”
“You- you did this to get high?”
“What? No, I mean, that would've been a neat bonus, but-”
Morty can't help it. The rage bubbles up in him, and before he knows it he's shoving Rick hard in the ribs. The man grunts, catching himself on the sink. “I was worried, you f*cking asshole!”
“Ow, f*ck! Just because I have a- an inconvenient soft spot for you doesn't mean you can j-just attack me whenever you want,” Rick complains, looking like he might throw up again. Good, Morty thinks. “You're not a cat I randomly decided to- I stole off the streets.”
“Yeah, y-y-you might actually stick around to take care of a cat,” Morty retorts, the words feeling sickly in his throat.
His eyes burn, and he blinks angrily to clear them. He isn't going to cry over this. Rick is an asshole. Of course this is the explanation, it was stupid to worry over anything else.
Rick doesn't flinch, just watches him, rather impassive. “...don't let this go to your head, Morty, but you're far less helpless than any kind of stray animal.”
Morty rolls his eyes, a little disgusted to find that the praise still makes his heart feel warm and fuzzy. Just a bit. A lifetime of being called useless doesn't just go away overnight; he's still easily swayed by positive reinforcement and he's pretty sure Rick knows it.
(He also suspects Rick would stop complimenting him, if Morty asked.
…he doesn't want to ask.)
“That doesn't mean I can handle you dying for no damn reason! Wh-what- why would you do something so stupid?”
“It wasn't- I wasn't- stop yelling, god. It was supposed to be medicinal, alright?” Rick crosses his arms, huffs, like he's the angsty teenager between the two of them.
“...medicinal,” Morty repeats, unconvinced.
“Yes.”
Ugh. Fine, he may as well bite. “W-what were you treating?”
Rick stares at him, and for a moment, Morty genuinely believes he's going to open his mouth and answer.
And then that moment passes. And another one, and another. Rick looks away first.
Morty sighs. What did he expect, really? “Fine. D-don't tell me.”
“Wasn't planning to.”
The house creaks in the wind. They’re probably due for a midsummer storm. Rick takes advantage of the silence to grab a glass from the cupboard, filling it up with water before finally turning off the sink.
The cold shoulder stings more than it should. It's practically their family's signature move, second only to bailing on their responsibilities and/or "not thinking about it." Morty should be used to these behaviors by now, but he's not. They still make him angry, make him want to scream, start a fight, do anything other than stand around in stony silence.
But, this is Rick, not his parents. Angry or not, Morty isn't going to let him suffer alone, because Rick wouldn't do that to him. Not anymore. That isn't something Morty could confidently say about the rest of his family, but he knows Rick wouldn't leave him. It's one of those stupid things that makes Morty feel warm and fuzzy inside. Valuable, even.
(Morty knows he shouldn't care, that he's worth loving no matter what Rick thinks. But he does. Damn it all, but he does. He probably always will.)
So, a bit of reciprocation for all the times Rick's taken care of him is warranted, in his opinion. Tit for tat, and all that crap.
“D-do you think you can go back to sleep?” Morty asks, snapping Rick's attention back to him. As much as it can, anyway- his eyes are still rather unfocused. “Would that help?”
Rick shrugs. “T-technically speaking? No. But it would kill the time.”
Good enough. Morty grabs his grandpa's wrist and tugs him back out of the kitchen, ignoring the fact that there's probably trace amounts of vomit left on his hands. He's definitely touched worse.
Rick lets himself be pulled along, a worrisome indicator all on its own, and then even presses his free hand to his temples as they walk.
Hangover? No, not nearly enough whining. Some sort of side-effect, then- f*ck, why didn't Morty do more research on medicine overdoses?
(He knows why. He only bothered to research things he knew Rick would have lying around. Like alcohol, or molly.
After all, how can you overdose on something you never take?)
They get back to Rick's bedroom, and Rick flops bonelessly onto the bed without another word.
“Uh- um,” Morty starts, and Rick waves a hand in his general direction.
“Be a doll and find my painkiller stash, Morty.” The words are muffled against his pillow, like he's dead to the world, but when Morty glances around the room in confusion, Rick is quick to add, “B-behind the drawing of the, uh, the microscope. There's a- a panel. Don't tell your sister about that, I swear to god. I let that girl near waaaay too many addictive substances as it is.”
Morty can't argue with that. He's never felt much of an impulse to get wrecked (watching his mom and Rick do that day after day has made him permanently wary of the concept) but Summer seemingly has no such hangups. Morty worries for and envies her in equal measure.
He peels back the drawing in question, careful not to disturb the tape holding it in place. There’s no sign of a panel, so Morty just presses his fingers along the wall until he feels it give.
The panel peels back with a bit of effort that threatens to tear his fingernails- Rick likely didn't bother to modify the devices in his room for non-cyborg use. No reason to make things easier for potential robbers, Morty supposes.
Inside is a collection of slim bottles, all shades of green and orange, and a small syringe.
“Green one,” Rick sits up and says, before Morty can even open his mouth to ask. The man's eyes are still closed, but he's as alert as ever.
“G-got it,” Morty pops the lid off one-handed, sticking the syringe in and letting it fill. It's second nature.
“Give it here when you're done,” Rick tells him. “I gotta stick that sucker right behind my jaw; I-I, I don't think you wanna do that, Morty.”
“I can handle it,” Morty mumbles, then pauses. Rick's hand is outstretched, but limp, and if Morty squints just right he can see it shaking in the low light. “...hey, Rick?”
Rick grunts. “If you broke the damn needle, Morty-”
“I didn't.” Moment of truth. Morty takes a breath. “Rick, what was the medicine for?”
Rick's eyes shoot open. “I f*cking told you ‘no’ already, I'm not-”
“Ye-yeah, I remember.” Morty takes a step back, the distance feeling long in such a small room. It puts him almost to the door, which he's suddenly, horrendously glad he left open. “B-but, you need these, right? S-s-so tell me. Or I’ll make you chase me for them, and I don't think you're- I don't think you can do that right now. Can you?”
The room goes very quiet. Morty feels like hyperventilating again, but he's holding a sharp syringe and fainting would be dangerous, so he steels himself instead.
“...you're becoming a real wildcard, you know that, Morty? Quite the little firecracker.”
Morty forces a smile. “So you're saying I guessed right? Y-you can't get back up?”
“It's not a guess if you bank on it. Either you're right or you're wrong.”
“Fine. But I was right?”
“Again, technically speaking, no.” Rick closes his eyes again, leaning back. “I could get up, but then you're- you're definitely gonna have to clean my vomit out of the carpet. Now give me the thing.”
“...”
“I'll- I'll tell you what it's for. Promise, buddy. You win.”
Morty steps back over to him. He waits for an attack, braces for it, even, but Rick doesn't go for the kill. He just looks tired. If Morty hadn't heard him talk two seconds ago, he might've assumed Rick was asleep.
“Let me do it,” Morty says, demanding, because if he's still somehow on thin ice then maybe it'll never break.
“Fine. Goes here.” Rick taps a spot just below his ear, where the harsh line of his jaw tapers away. The skin looks fragile. Delicate.
Morty sets one hand on Rick's shoulder, the other aiming the syringe, and altogether just tries not to feel like the world's least-prepared nursing student ever.
“Down a little more,” Rick says. His breath should smell terrible, but all Morty really notices is the dryer-sheet scent of his lab coat.
“W-won't I stab your throat?”
Rick chuckles, like the idea of him getting hurt is some cosmic joke. Morty briefly considers stabbing him on purpose. “Nah. It's all machinery in there, Morty. Go nuts.”
Rick produces an alcohol swab from one of his many pockets, and then there's nothing left to do but sink the needle in. He groans as the liquid enters his system, and as soon as Morty draws away he lets his head fall back against the wall.
“f*ck, that's good.”
“So,” Morty says, not giving him a moment. “Tell me what you did.”
“I… hadn't slept for a few days,” Rick says slowly, gaze fixed somewhere past Morty's shoulder. That vacant look still hasn't left, though the glare helps him at least appear more focused. “And- and I figured you’d get pissy about it, so I whipped something up, but brain chemistry is finicky, and now I have the migraine t-to end all migraines. End of story.”
Wait. Rick did this… for him?
Half-hope, half-suspicion, Morty asks, “S-so, it was a sleeping pill?”
Rick blinks, genuinely surprised. “What? No. It was a sleep substitute, Morty. I’m not gonna waste my time reinventing melatonin.”
Morty laughs.
He can't control it; he's tired and relieved and coming down from two consecutive panic attacks and Rick is so, so, dumb. Rick glowers at him, which only makes him laugh harder.
He should be mad, still. Rick really did worry him, and that's probably not okay, regardless of the reason. But it's… sweet, in Rick's own misguided way. He tried to fix a problem just so Morty wouldn't worry about him.
Uncertainly, Rick starts, “As glad as I am that you're not throwing a hissy fit anymore, i-if this is thing that finally made you snap, I'm gonna lose several bets, so-”
“Y-you realize the solution to not sleeping isn't to sleep less, right? Th-that, that, that didn't occur to you at some point?”
“Of course it ‘occurred to me,’” Rick raises his hands to make air quotes around the words. “It just- that wasn't efficient.”
Morty laughs again. It's starting to hurt a bit. “Oh, and a sleep substitute that knocks you out is?”
“f*ck you,” Rick says, aiming for angry but mostly sounding sullen. “It's called a trial run, Morty. I-I know that may be an unfamiliar term to you, but trial and error is a necessary part of-”
“You're an idiot,” Morty informs him, grinning wide.
“Excuse me?” It's not a question, just an insinuation, deathly calm: how painful do you want the rest of your life to be?
sh*t, okay. Morty clears his throat, deciding to backpedal a bit. “Come- c'mon, Rick. I think you should sleep the rest of this off. Did- did the shot fix your migraine?”
“Eh, more or less.” Rick squints at him, makes a wavy little hand motion. “Pain's reduced, but I can't see about half of your face right now. If- if anyone tries to kill us my aim's f*cked.”
Ah, well. That explains the lack of focus in Rick's eyes. It's definitely eerie, though. Morty's gotten used to Rick watching him like a jungle predator.
“No one's gonna make it inside the house, Rick. A-and, and if someone did, I'd kill them first.” Morty stops, playing his own words back to himself. They're true, he knows that much, but he's a little shocked at how easily he said it. He'd kill any number of people to protect Rick, to protect his whole family, and that speaks just as much to his level of devotion as it does his lack of good judgment. “J-just lay down, okay?”
“Because you're so dangerous,” Rick grumbles, but then says, “There's a gun in the bedside table.”
“G-good to, um. Good to know?”
Rick ignores him, laying down instead. Uncertainly, Morty sits down on the foot of the bed, setting his back to the wall.
It really is quiet without Rick's constant tinkering in the garage. It reminds Morty of nights spent in silence, in the aftermath of countless blowout arguments between his parents.
But his parents don't argue much anymore, and even if they did, Morty falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow, these days. He doesn't have any energy to spare lying awake wondering about his crumbling home life.
Morty glances over. Rick isn't asleep yet, busy massaging his forehead. “How's your head feel?”
“Like a biiiiig ol’ fiery lance of pain embedded in my skull. Just wedged right in there. Slowly filleting my brain like a freshwater carp.” Rick shrugs one shoulder. “So, you know. Like- like a migraine.”
“Sounds… bad,” Morty says diplomatically.
“I've had worse. Are you staying?”
“Um. If you'd- do you mind?”
Rick shrugs again, letting his hands drop back down to his sides. “Pain is boring as f*ck, Morty. I'd r-rather have you here distracting me than be alone with it. And that's not a compliment- it's just a measure of how monotonous this experience is.”
Morty snorts quietly. “A-al-alright, Rick. Don't worry, I-I get it.”
“Good,” Rick mumbles.
A few more minutes pass. Rick's breathing evens out, slow like ocean waves.
Morty reaches down and picks up a device off the floor. It doesn't look likely to kill him. An air freshener, maybe? Pheromone dispenser?
Hardly the most interesting thing Rick's ever made. Still, Morty's bored, so he pokes at it suspiciously. It smells like lemons. One of the pieces is bent. Morty pushes it back into place, and the device starts smelling of oranges instead.
“Sorry,” Rick says, making Morty jump. He sounds half-asleep, words slurring slightly. “For ruining the adventure.”
Morty hums. “It's fine. I didn't want to go anyway. Y-you get weird on crystal highs.”
“So why d’you always come with me?” Rick asks, almost snide, and Morty stares at the wall for a long, long time. He knows the answer.
Because I want to protect you. Because I worry. Because no one else will.
Because you'd do the same for me.
Rick's asleep before Morty gathers the courage to say any of it.
