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Morty falls to the ground with a sharp wheeze; white-hot pain flares and spreads from his side. He wraps his opposing arm around his stomach and pushes down on the wound with a singular, jerky motion.
He rolls onto his back with the force of his elbow and shoots the turret clean in the center. The flying shrapnel misses his body and whips past him with uncanny force; a few bits dig into the trees by sharp corners or jagged ends.
He pushes up to kneel, subconsciously leaning into his injury. Squinting ahead, he sees the familiar whip of Rick’s stained labcoat, billowing and skirting through thick shrubbery and getting smaller, smaller, smaller. Morty groans, an annoyed, pained thing under his breath.
He pulls up to his feet, one arm wrapped tight around his stomach and the other holding his gun loose at his uninjured side.
“I’ll be in the ship, asshole!” He yells through the woods. He doesn’t get a response, but he didn’t expect one, anyway.
The glowing red trail of light from the turrets disappear alongside Rick, each snuffing of light bracketed by the familiar shiiick of laser pistol, and Morty knows that Rick will be fine. The old bastard is more than capable of handling Prime’s tech--a few booby turrets is nothing.
His trek back to the ship is uneventful, characterized only by the adrenaline bleeding out of his body and the growing ache of… everything. He knows Rick will want to check the turrets for anything of use, so he lazily kicks through the destroyed ones he passes. Nothing really stands out.
He slips into the backseat--Rick hadn’t bothered to lock the car, too fucking wasted to think with any sort of logic or anxiety--and digs under the passenger’s seat for the medkit. He finds it, shoved behind an overfilled garbage bag. It was only half-filled when Rick first made it, and the aspirin box is predictably empty, but it still has the basic supplies Morty will need, thank God.
His side burns as his arms pull through his shirt sleeves. He knows Rick will have his head for the blood that’s beginning to stain the seat, so he tries to direct his bleeding at his now discarded shirt, as much as he can. He twists his abdomen to hold a relatively clean rag against his side and digs around the kit for the rest of the shit he’ll need. Half-drained rubbing alcohol, a sewing needle, old surgical string…
That’s how Rick finds Morty. Morty hears him before he sees him; he’d rolled his window down to spit out globs of blood every few minutes, and Rick doesn’t bother with stealth or grace. Sticks crack under his feet, which stomp harsh against dead leaves. His annoyed grumbles and swears really just, tie the scene together, in a distinct Rick-esque bow.
He slips into the driver’s seat. Morty hears him scratch the stubble under his jaw, stifle a burp, and it seems that this is when he notices that the passengers seat is empty. His breath hitches, the world pauses, and then it starts again as Rick’s hand slams onto the armrest with a loud thwap . Morty looks up, amused, watching Rick twist around to assess every corner of the cars interior.
There’s a panicked quality to his gaze, something wild and manic and afraid--but then Rick stops, sees Morty, and recognition fills out his expression. What was once almost vulnerable is now irritated and curious, masked and familiar.
Rick cocks one side of his unibrow. His gaze flicks to his exposed wound, then back up to Morty’s face, questioning. Morty just shrugs with one shoulder and finishes the stitch he’d been putting off. He bites his tongue as the needle breaks skin, sharply inhaling through his nose.
“The fuck are you doing?” Rick bites.
“One o-of the turrets got me. I’m fixing it,” Morty mutters. He is in way too much pain to put up with Rick’s asshole-ness right now. “I-I’m not cleaning up the bloodstains until at least tomorrow, so don’t be a dick abou-about it.”
“B-bloodstain--” Rick looks down at the car seat. “Aw, jesus, dude, really? Y-you realize how annoying that’s gonna be t-t-to get out?”
“Y-you’re smart, y-y-you’ll be fine,” Morty snarks. “A little hydro--uh, hydrogen per… per… per-something, isn’t above y-your pay grade--”
“W-wow, fuck, okay then, Morty,” Rick sputters through a laugh, turning away to face the windshield and restart the car, “Hydrogen… Hydrogen per-something. I-I mean, I-I-I’ll have to see if I have that in--in the garage. W-what planet can I get that from, again?”
“Fuck you, Rick,” Morty says plainly.
The car spits and heaves as it lifts from the ground. It’s overdue on repairs; Rick’s been so preoccupied with hunting Prime that most of their upkeep has been neglected. Morty prays it doesn’t break down in the middle of space, or on a particularly dangerous planet, or who knows where else. With Morty’s luck, it’ll pick the worst moment to fail on them.
He cuts off the last stitch and sighs a shaky breath of relief. His teeth feel thick, coated with blood, but the windows are closed now, so he swishes saliva around in his mouth and spits a bloody loogie into an old vodka bottle that rolls from under the driver’s seat.
“D-did you treat the burns?”
“Nah,” Morty pops the medkit back open, “Ab-bout to, soon as I put the rest of this aw-w-way.”
“You fucking moron,” Rick grumbles, setting the car into auto-drive with a little click . “W-why didn’t you take care of the burns first? You--You’re going to fuck up your stitches--”
“--I didn’t w-want to bleed out --”
“--and then you’ll have to redo them--”
“--or get an o-open w-w-wound infected--”
“--and did you stitch through the fucking burns?--”
“Yeah, I did, Rick! I’m soooo sorry that I didn’t treat my injuries to y-your-- to your liking,” Morty yells the first bit, cutting through their argument, but he quiets as he goes on. His throat feels like gravel, all thick and heavy. He really wishes he had water.
It’s quiet for a few minutes.
“Scooch,” Rick eventually gruffs.
Morty looks up from the jar he’d been opening to see Rick climbing backseat. He has one knee hooked behind the driver’s seat, his opposing foot struggling to get over the center console.
Morty suppresses a bought of laughter, the mere idea igniting little pinpricks of pain from his side, and he leans forward to try and help--he can’t do much, but Rick is eventually able to slide behind the driver’s seat and face Morty, tucking his legs neat under himself.
He plucks the jar from Morty’s hand and finishes unscrewing it.
“W-what are you doing?” Morty asks, watching Rick scoop out a generous amount of petroleum jelly with guarded interest.
“Dealing with your burns so you don’t fuck up the stitches and waste my shit,” Rick starts, picking up his ‘bored but indulgent’ tone. “Finding human medicine like this is a lot more inconvenient than you’d think, Mo--” Rick burps, “--orty.”
“It’s inconvenient to spend five minutes at a pharmacy?”
“I-I’m banned from every pharmacy in Washington.”
“What?” Morty sputters, “How-- How the hell did you manage that?”
“Th-they kept--kept trying to keep my Adderall from me, Morty,” Rick leans forward, slapping the jelly onto Morty’s side. His breath is hot on Morty’s face and stinks like death, or vodka. “I-I had to do it. I needed… needed the Adderall, M-Morty, y-y-you don’t understand, o-okay? Grandpa needed his Ad-Adderall. I-I needed it, Morty, I-I fucking--”
“Jeez, okay!” Morty bites down a laugh, pushing Rick away by the chest. “Get out of my face, y-you’re gross.”
“That hurts, Morty,” Rick drones, leaning forward once more to spread the jelly along the ends of the wound. He doesn’t get as close, though, so Morty doesn’t push him back. “I-I’m hurt, I’m wounded. You think-- you think Grandpa’s gross?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck you,” Rick pinches Morty’s wounded side, which makes him hiss through his teeth. “F-fuck you, a-a-and fuck your stupid injuries.”
“I only have the one,” Morty says, curious and corrective all at once.
Rick doesn’t acknowledge that vocally, but after he finishes smearing the jelly along the wound he pulls his hand back and knocks a knuckle against a darkening bruise on the underside of Morty’s ribs. It’s only green, now, but it promises further coloration. The light touch makes Morty wince.
“That’s from y-yesterday,” Morty says. Rick pulls his hand back, and Morty has to stop himself from chasing after it and bringing it back. “Remember? W-w-when we fell dow-down that pit, on Bvorajk Six?”
“Yeah,” Rick mutters. “I remember.”
They sit together in a maybe-comfortable silence. Morty checks the condition of his shirt, but decides that it isn’t worth it after the blood makes it stick to the car seat. He’ll clean it up tomorrow, probably toss the shirt altogether.
Rick reaches behind the backseat, pulls the car blanket over the seat and shoves it into Morty’s arms. Morty silently pulls it over his shoulders. Tension eases from him at both the warmth and the coverage. He’s always hated being exposed; it’s his one discomfort that hasn’t eased up through their adventures.
“I can-- I can take care of that w-when we get home,” Rick leans against the door and kicks his feet out. Morty’s wearing a thick pair of jeans, so it doesn’t bother him when Rick props his shoes up onto his lap. “I’ve got-- well, y-you know. You have school tomorrow, r-r-right? Figured, figured you wouldn’t wanna be-- be limping around the halls all day.”
“That-- That w-would be good.” Morty lulls his head back so it leans atop the back of the seat, and he stares up at the car ceiling. “Maybe Mom w-w-would-- would let me stay ho-home.”
“You’ve already missed two days this week,” Rick chides. “Jerry won’t allow any more absences, even if-- if your mom was down.”
“Who-- Who’s fault is it that I’ve missed so many days, again?”
“Wow, I-I wonder,” Rick hums in a falsetto, “Is it… I don’t know, S-Summer?”
Rick puts away his flask--Morty didn’t even notice him pull it out--and tosses Morty the jelly, jar closed tight and waxy with residue. Morty makes a face as he shoves the kit away. He rubs the residual feeling off on his pants.
“So, uh, any leads?” Morty asks after awhile, when the thought comes to him. “You-- you know, o-on Prime?”
Rick scowls at nothing, though the effect is only half-effective due to how comfortably he’s stretched out, hands splayed down on his stomach. “What’d’ya think?”
“Sorry,” Morty mutters.
“We-- we have somewhere to check off the map. There wasn’t any-- any tech I could see a use for, it…” Rick draws a long, annoyed breath, and he opens his eyes, but he doesn’t look at or anywhere near Morty. “Fuck. I’m-- that bastard knows we’re after him. He’s trying to, to spite me.”
“Isn’t that expected?” Morty tries. “Anyone w-w-would try to get in the way o-of their potential killer, right?”
“Yeah, sure. B-but he’s never actually-- actually tried to stop me. He didn’t when I- when I first went after him. He was j-j-just-- just that impossible to reach, he didn’t have to-- to make an effort.”
“W-well, maybe y-you’ve gotten better at… uh, hunting him? S-so he has to up his game to make up for it?”
“Isn’t that the-- the fucking dream, Morty.”
When they get home, the sun’s almost finished setting. Rick climbs back into the driver’s seat to park the car, and Morty doesn’t want to get up, knowing that walking is going to be a bitch and a half. He stalls by looking at the horizon line; the protruding black of fir trees, sticking out like messy ink blots against the dusky blue-purple of the sky. There’s a few streaks of orange, but they’ll be gone within the minute, he’s sure.
The backdoor opens. Morty didn’t notice the car turn off, didn’t notice Rick getting out; but Rick stands there with the door open, stepping aside a bit and jerking his chin in a familiar get the fuck out gesture. Morty winces through the whole process, but he’s able to slide out the car successfully, abandoning the blanket. The sherpa has a fresh blood stain, which makes Morty wince, but Rick pays it no mind, slamming the door and leading Morty into the garage.
The needle sucks, unnecessarily long and painful, especially considering the pain he’s already in. Rick tells him to suck it up and offers him a sip of his flask as compensation. Morty turns it down, like he always does when Rick offers, so Rick shrugs and chugs however much is left in a few quick gulps.
Morty sits up on the counter, next to the sink, watching Rick set up his newest project in what Morty’s learnt is his ‘winding-down’ routine. It looks almost like a set of jackets, or parkas, or something of that nature, with complex wiring lining the interior. Morty doesn’t question it, but Rick must either feel like chatting or notice the brief glance Morty gives it, because he starts to explain how their next location for the ‘Prime-hunt’, as Morty calls it, will be on a particularly fucking freezing planet, and that these coats--Morty was right, they were coats--will be specially designed to keep them from turning into flesh-popsicles.
Morty hums a vague acknowledgement, watching his wound slowly close up like it was nothing. The dry blood is still there, which he’ll probably clean up in the morning, but he can feel the pain easing up, can see the bright red-pink of fresh injury get swallowed up by smooth, tan skin. Morty doesn’t think it’ll ever be not-surreal, watching his body heal itself in a way that Earth science hasn’t been able to achieve.
He’s been healed like this before, he knows. Broken bones, infected cuts, damaged organ tissue. He pokes a smoothed edge of the wound.
For all that Rick drags him around the universe, Morty thinks, he’s still just… Morty. Just some kid from Earth, an Earth in another dimension that he doesn’t even live in anymore, that doesn’t even exist anymore, not like it used to.
“Y-your stupid serum makes me all thinky.”
“‘All thinky’?” Rick says, slow, as if wanting Morty to really think about what he just said.
“Fuck y-you, man. It’s making me all depressing and-- and sentimental.”
“Maybe you’re just--” a burp, “--just a-aging.”
“Ugh,” Morty scrunches his nose. “Am I gonna look like y-you w-w-when I’m old? Am I getting gray hairs-- blue hairs?”
“Yup,” Rick hums. “B-better me than Leonard, right?”
“I don’t know,” Morty taps his chin and suppresses a smirk when Rick turns his head to give him an offended, deadpan stare. “W-what? I-I-I just don’t know if you or Papa is better looking.”
“Y-y-you’re a little, little twerp, y-you know that?” Rick turns back to his project. “A little asshole, you fucking… dick.”
Morty hums. He presses his palm onto his side, feeling around the skin for any remnants of injury. It’s still sore, but that’ll fade by the morning; aside from that, he feels fine.
“Y-you think I’m good?” Morty asks, hopping down from the counter and stretching his good arm up, twisting so his elbow cracks with a satisfying pop . Rick rests an arm on the back of his chair and looks Morty up and down. He shrugs with one shoulder and makes a vaguely approving expression.
“Don’t try and-- and get out of school in the morning. Your parents will blame that shit on me.”
“Is that deterrent or encour-- encouragement?”
“I hope you trip and break your jaw on the stairs,” Rick turns back in his seat. Morty smiles, knowing Rick won’t see it, and turns to head inside.
As he’s pulling the fire door open, Rick calls out, “Uh, hey, Mort?”
Morty looks back, meeting Rick’s gaze from over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Be…” Rick starts, pauses, and takes back. “Just, s-sleep well, kiddo.”
Morty’s smile falters a bit, but it comes back just as quick. He knows Rick has a hard time expressing affection. He has long learnt to take what he can get with him. There’s something unspoken there, he knows, but he’s honestly just too worn down from the days events to process it.
“You too, Rick,” he murmurs, “Try and get some sleep tonight.”
Rick turns away from Morty and grumbles something dismissive under his breath. Tension eases out of Morty at the familiarity of it.
He doesn’t have the energy to pick Rick apart, but maybe Rick doesn’t need as much deciphering as Morty thought. He knows his grandfather like the back of his hand.