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Side aching, dizzy and feeling utterly nauseous, Morty sat bunched up in a well hidden alcove, trying to stay quiet and determine a course of action. It wasn’t the first time that he’d been bullied, wasn’t even the first time he’d gotten his ass kicked in a fight, in fact, but with every breath he took, the brunet became more and more convinced that something was broken.
Dark splotches of blood stained the collar of Morty’s shirt, standing out in startling contrast against the bright yellow fabric. It was all the more noticeable in combination with the drying crimson liquid still smeared across his cheek and the swollen curve of his bottom lip. The teen’s face was hot from the swelling. His nose was most likely broken, cracked at the very least if the throbbing was anything to go on. Clothes torn from where he’d been jerked down to the ground, covered in dirt and most likely unsalvageable, Morty curled up tighter into himself, gasping at the additional pressure on his ribs.
As the boy reached up and gently brushed his fingers over the bridge of his nose, he winced, realizing with a soft groan that there was no way he could avoid calling somebody.
This wasn’t like the times where he could just throw on a different shirt, comb his fingers through his hair and pretend that nothing happened. It wasn’t like the time where he simply lied and told his mom that they’d played football in gym and he got tackled a bit too hard, wasn’t like the time when he came home with bruises on his arm and said that somebody grabbed him and pulled him out of the way when he wasn’t paying attention and stepped out in front of a car. It wasn’t like the times he could pretend to be less of a loser than he really was.
Morty frowned and pulled his cellphone out of his pocket with a wince, squinting against the bright screen as he scrolled through his contacts. Summer was always a good option, she knew how to keep a secret and didn’t look at him with eyes full of sympathetic pity when she saw how bad he looked, but she couldn’t fix him and, most likely, it would be bad enough that she’d feel compelled to tell their parents. Jerry would just make it worse, insisting that he talk to the school and maybe even call the other boy’s parents and have a talk with them. Same with Beth, only with his mom he’d get the added bonus of her crying over being a failure as a parent and not being able to protect him.
His fingers hovered over Rick’s contact, but Morty hesitated.
Rick would be the best option. Rick would be able to come pick him up without having to go through the office at a mere moment's notice if the scientist wasn’t completely and utterly hammered, and the older man would be able to patch him up without Beth or Jerry being the wiser. However, with Rick came a certain amount of risk.
Unlike Beth and Jerry, with Rick there was always the chance that he’d laugh, that he’d make mean jokes and snarky comments and continue to tease the teen about it long after the incident was over.
Rick was always a bit of a wild card.
Without thinking, Morty took a deep breath and almost cried out from the intensity of it, his eyes watering as echoes of pain washed over his nerves like waves lapping at the shore. He couldn’t wait any longer, he’d just have to hope that Rick was feeling generous.
Fingers flying over the keyboard, Morty typed out a message and hesitated a single second more before sending it.
I’m in the alcove on the second floor by the library. Hurt. Please come get me, Rick.
After Morty sent the text, he leaned back and shoved his phone back into his pocket, thinking with a wry grin that, at the very least, when he was typing he didn’t stutter. There were small mercies after all.
After what seemed like an eternity, an eerie green portal appeared on the wall across from him, swirling ominously for a moment longer before Rick stepped out from the center, looking as annoyed as ever, “I swear to -- swear to Christ, Morty , if y-you got the tip of your dick stuck in your zipper again I’m not --”
But the older man’s callus statement was cut off the moment he laid eyes on Morty.
The boy was curled in on himself, knees to his chest as far as they seemed able to go, and the side of his face was swelling, mouth stained with blood and, by the raccoon bruise mask circling his eyes, the boy’s nose was in pretty bad shape.
“J-jesus, Morty, what the -- what the f- eeeuuurp -fuck happened to you?”
Morty smiled bitterly, and though he didn’t show it, Rick felt his heart clench, “Doesn’t matter.”
Rick’s eyes narrowed but he ignored the lack of answer for the moment, reaching down to help Morty up. As Rick wrapped an arm around his waist though, the brunet gasped, his face screwing up with absolute agony, and in an instant the vibrant haired scientist knew that it did matter, that whatever had happened wasn't just something that should be brushed aside without notice.
But, true to his nature and not willing to make his grandson feel like more of a victim than he already did, Rick pasted an exasperated look on his face, “C-c’mon Morty, don’t be such a -- such a pussy. I’ve had way worse and walked it off.”
The teen said nothing, and that above all else told the genius what sort of shape his grandson was in.
After stepping through the portal and depositing the roughed up teen into Rick’s favored swivel chair, the blue haired scientist wandered around the garage, picking up little things here and there, stuffing them in his pockets and musing to himself while Morty watched on with a vague sense of detachment.
“Can y-you raise your arms, Morty?”
He wanted to lie, wanted to just say yes to avoid the oncoming humiliation, until he remembered that he was with Rick, and that, no matter how much taunting would follow, the man would fix him up and be at least fairly gentle about it, but only if he knew what was actually wrong, “I-I-I don’t think so, Rick.”
With a worried frown that appeared totally misplaced on his features, Rick grabbed a pair of scissors and moved to stand in front of the teen, opening his mouth to say the very thing that Morty had been dreading all along, “Before I do anything, you gotta -- I need y-you to tell me what happened, Mort.”
A bolt of panic raced through the younger man. Brad calling Morty a faggot, and a pussy because he said hi to Jessica in the hall. Brad telling Morty to go home and fuck his nasty old grandpa before the old man keeled over and died. Brad taunting him about having no friends and being absolutely worthless and that all his so called adventures were the desperate lies of a freak with a fucked up imagination. Brad calling Rick a loser and a fraud. Morty not thinking about the potential consequences of his actions and lashing out with all his strength to clock the older boy in the face. Brad looking up at him from the floor with a split lip and murder in his eyes. Morty running for all he was worth, trying to get away before the boy could catch up. Brad gaining the slightest edge when Morty almost slipped on a partially wet patch of floor. Brad grabbing the collar of his shirt and and using it as leverage to slam him down to the ground, not caring about the way the brunet cried out in shock or the way he grasped helplessly at his throat. Brad above him, smiling maliciously, telling Morty that nobody would save him this time. Brad calling him a weakling as he pounded his fist into the boy’s face. Brad telling him that Rick was going to die, that Morty was going to be alone and he’d never have another friend again as the weaker boy’s nose snapped under the force of the basketball player’s fist. Brad spitting in his face as he stood up. Brad kicking him repeatedly in the ribs before walking away with a sneer. Morty standing on shaky legs and using the last of his strength to find a place to hide. Morty collapsing into the alcove and crying for almost twenty minutes before finally drying his eyes and trying to figure out what to do.
Unaware of his ribs or any of his other injuries, completely immersed in his memories, Morty started to hyperventilate, his eyes wide and glazed over with hysteria. He didn’t want to tell Rick, didn’t want to admit defeat or weakness, didn’t want to be unworthy, didn’t want to even speak of Rick dying, didn’t want to see Brad’s face above him, didn’t want to hear the sick snap of his nose, didn’t want to taste the blood, didn’t --
Morty’s growing alarm, his terror and his anxiety suddenly melted away as two spidery arms wrapped around the boy’s frame and held him close to another warm body. It was so unnatural, so unlike Rick’s callused attitude that it took him by complete surprise, startled him even.
Rick’s fingers were in his hair, gently cradling the back of his skull, holding his face against the older man’s thin chest while his other hand slid back and forth across his shoulder blades in slow, repetitive movements. He smelled like grease, like hard work and crystal fragments from another planet, smelled like laundry soap and the ever present scent of alcohol. He smelled like safety, and Morty couldn’t remember the last time he’d been soothed in such a way, couldn’t remember the last time somebody was this gentle with him, and though he tried to bury the swell of emotion, Morty could feel hot tears start to brim in his eyes before spilling over and making a mark on Rick’s crisp off-white lab coat.
And Rick just stood there.
He didn’t mock him or try to get him to stop crying, didn’t tell him that everything was alright or that things would get better. He just stood there, holding the boy to his chest, petting his hair and stroking his back, letting Morty cry about the injustice of it all, letting him stain the older man’s coat with saltwater and hurt emotions.
It was more than anybody else had ever done for him and for a brief moment that only made Morty cry harder. It was a cycle of hurt and relief, but eventually, the teen finally got ahold of himself and pulled back a little bit, his stomach rolling uncomfortably at the sight of the mess he’d made of Rick’s shirt. He almost dreaded looking up and meeting the eyes of his grandfather, but as he did so, Morty nearly felt his heart stop.
The older man’s face was lined with a gentle and worried expression. It was soft, alarmingly so,compared to the harsh and often angry expression that Rick usually wore and it made him look years younger but it was the genuine nature of it all that startled the teen. He’d seen Rick manipulate those around him with soft smiles and words of encouragement, he’d seen the scientist do it to his mother just to spite Jerry often enough, but this was different. He looked worried, looked sad and supportive, almost far away in his thoughts.
The heavy hearted brunet could have lost himself in that gentle and comforting gaze had it not been for the return of the throbbing ache in his face, but at the first sign of pain, Rick’s expression turned serious once more.
“L-listen Morty, y-y-you don’t have to -- don’t gotta tell me what happened if you don’t want to b- eeeuuurp -but if you want grandpa to fix you, then I need to know what hurts and where. Capiche?”
Morty nodded, oddly silent as Rick brandished his scissors like a weapon before grabbing the hem of the teen’s shirt and started to cut it open. If he didn’t have so many of the exact same shirt the younger man might have felt more inclined to protest but seeing as how he couldn’t raise his arms and Rick needed to see what he was working with, Morty said nothing. He merely shivered when the vibrant haired elder snipped through the collar and pulled the cotton away. A scatter of goosebumps peppered his skin, making the teen tremble but when he glanced over towards Rick to make a quip, he caught the intense look of barely contained fury present on his grandfather’s face.
“Jesus, Morty, what -- what the fuck did they do to you?”
It was a near echo of the words that he’d spoken when he portaled in to pick up Morty and the repetition caught the teen by surprise, making the youth look down in confusion, about to ask what he was talking about only for the words to fall silent as he stared down at the darkening bruises with horror. It’d been less than an hour since he’d gotten attacked but already his torso was marked by splashes of ugly color. It was like a misplaced Rorschach, like a series of hideous ink blots had been pressed savagely into his flesh, like somebody had carelessly swept their ink stained fingers over a sheet of crisp white parchment and the longer Morty stared at the mess, the sicker he felt.
“I-I-I --” Morty looked down at his hands in shame, “I got into a-a fight with Brad. He said,” The teen stopped, swallowing with a bit of difficulty before moving on and trying to forget what the older boy had said, “I punched him i-in the face a-a-and he, y’know, got me back.”
Remembering what Rick said earlier, the brunet continued, “I think m-my nose is broken, a-and he kicked me in the ribs pretty hard, Rick.”
As Rick ran a hand down over his face, the youthful look Morty had glimpsed disappeared, leaving the scientist looking much older than he actually was, “You gotta -- gotta quit getting yourself into these situations, Morty. Christ.”
The older man turned away, dropping down to one knee to rummage through the drawers, tossing things out carelessly and mumbling in frustration when he didn’t immediately find whatever it was he was searching for but the brunet merely watched him with a stunned expression. Part of him was surprised that Rick had known about the bullying, but on the other hand, it was pretty obvious to anybody that actually cared enough to look. He wanted to be angry that the older man hadn’t said anything to him about it, but that anger was eclipsed almost immediately by a wave of sheer gratefulness that Rick had never sought to tease him about it. He’d never made Morty feel like a weakling or a victim about what happened while he was at school and that meant more to the shaky teen than just about anything else.
Without really thinking about it, forgetting that he was trying to avoid specifics, the boy spoke up, displaying a rare moment of strong, confident speech, “I won’t ever let anybody get away with calling you a fraud, Rick.”
The older man’s movements paused when it was revealed that Morty brought this down on himself by defending the scientist, and the world around them seemed almost as if it were holding its breath before the stillness was broken and the genius was grabbing an unmarked jar, moving to stand and face the teen, “Listen Morty, you don’t have to --”
The brunet cut him off, “No, Rick. I-it doesn’t matter what they do to me, I-I-I won’t let anybody say shit about you to me. That’s where I draw t-the line, Rick.”
Rick’s face was blank and though many would automatically label that as disapproval, Morty saw nothing but a war of emotions that Rick tried valiantly to hide from his grandson. There was pride there, deep in his eyes, there was frustration in the boy’s stubbornness, and a hesitance to speak before Rick looked down at the jar, pointedly unscrewing the cap, “Listen, Morty.”
“There’s gonna come a time when -- when you’re gonna hear some pretty nasty shit being said about your grandpa.” The teen made a move to cut him off again but Rick shut him up with a sharp and narrow eyed glare before continuing, “I-I’ve done some bad shit, Morty. Done some -- some real fucked up shit, Morty, and that won’t stay buried forever. People will talk, kid, that will happen eventually, and you need to be prepared for that day to come.”
Rick scooped up a large glob of the shimmering silver substance and reached forward to glide his splayed fingers along the swollen curve of Morty’s ribcage. It was agonizing, even the lightest touch felt like a punch to the chest, but Morty knew that Rick was being as careful as he could possibly be. His fingers were warm, callused from long hours spent tinkering away at various inventions, and chilled only by the alien cream being smeared across his bruised flesh. The older man’s touch was delicate, ghosting over his muscles with care, only applying pressure to the darker and more expansive bruising.
For the briefest moment, Morty was ensnared by the sight, watching as Rick switched between rubbing thick layers of the sticky stuff over his skin and dipping his lengthy fingers back into the jar for more. It was so simple, such a meaningless series of events but they were burned into the boy’s mind. The gentle nature of it, the careful consideration and the warm touch of affection. It was intoxicating, thrilling and addictive like a deep breath of opium and Morty couldn’t help but to sigh contently.
Within another moment though, Rick was standing and the teen had to look up at him, staring at the well hidden sadness in his grandfather’s eyes before the elder’s previous words finally caught up with him, “Well, I-I’ll defend you to them too, Rick.”
Morty could see that the vibrant haired genius wanted to protest but he merely smirked, “Guess I’ll have to pick up more Andarion jelly then, huh Morty? Might as well if I’mma have to keep fixing your wimpy little ass up.”
The smile that captured the brunet’s features was absolutely radiant.
It lit up his entire face, making the bruises appear like an afterthought, as though they weren’t even really there, a trick of the light perhaps with how happy he appeared and Rick couldn’t help but to return it with a genuine smile of his own, raising a gentle hand to brush his fingers over Morty’s face. With extreme care, the blue haired man glided the cream slick pads of his thumbs under and around the teen’s eyes, making sure to cover every single inch darkened by the bruises before trailing them carefully on either side of his nose and then along the bridge.
“Well, t-the good news is that your nose isn’t broken, Mort.” Rick grinned and smoothed a large amount of the silvery cream along the bridge of the teen’s nose, “Just a -- a mild fracture. This stuff will heal it up.”
The older man screwed the lid back on to the empty jar and tossed it over his shoulder without a care, wiping his soiled hands over the already stained expanse of his lab coat with a grunt, “Avoid getting punched in the face and you should be fine.”
A wry laugh tugged itself free of Morty’s lips, his expression less than amused but not angry, “Very funny, Rick. Any more good advice?”
Rick snorted, obviously having something in mind but he kept it to himself, reaching past the boy to grab a thick and lengthy roll of cloth that Morty hadn’t even noticed from the workbench, “Y-yeah, take a deep breath.”
Morty appeared skeptical but when Rick said nothing to contradict his order, the teen complied, inhaling deeply and trying to keep the tears that swam in his eyes contained.
The scientist watched on with a look that borderlined sympathetic, “I know, it hurts like a -- like a bitch, Mort, but ya gotta hold it for a sec.”
Working quickly, Rick laid the edge of the wide bandage along the teen’s side and began wrapping it around his body with a rapid grace that could only have been due to years of practice. Morty idly wondered how many times Rick had done this for himself, let alone other people but the thought was quickly cast away when the fabric became tight and slightly constricting.
They remained in a bubble of silence, Morty still and quiet aside from the occasional gasp or flinch of discomfort as Rick patched him up, wrapping the cloth around and around his body before, finally, reaching the end of the roll and stepping back with an appraising gaze.
“That shit works pretty fast, y-you should be good to go by -- by tomorrow but I’d leave the wrap on for a few days. No sense accidentally risking a-a punctured lung because you got lazy. Got it, Morty?”
The teen nodded and carefully stepped down from Rick’s chair, smiling gratefully at the elder as the other man moved away, throwing excess supplies back where they belonged and getting rid of the trash, “Thanks for, y’know, comin’ and gettin’ me, Rick.”
The elder dropped heavily into his newly freed chair, returning to his previous project, “Yeah, yeah, Morty. We all get it, y-y-you’re grateful. Now go jerk off or find somethin’ useless to do since we can’t go on any adventures while you’re all fuckered up.”
The words seemed harsh but they were said with an air of affection. Without even having to ask, Morty knew that Rick was glad to have helped him, that the scientist was always willing to come bail him out of trouble and as the teen turned his back to his grandfather and began making his way from the garage, he felt pleased with his decision to text Rick for help.
“Oh, by the way.”
Morty stopped, peering curiously over his shoulder and waiting for the blue haired scientist to continue.
“Once y-you’re back in -- in tip top shape, grandpa is gonna teach you how to fight. N-none of that pussy fighting shit, Morty. I mean the real stuff, the bloody stuff. You’re gonna learn the Sanchez way and nobody will ever beat you down again unless you let them.”
Rick looked up from his work and turned his chair to look at his grandson, their eyes meeting in a heated vow that left Morty feeling better and more at ease than anything else, “I promise.”