Work Text:
Morty had been hiding his self harm from his family for a long time now. He had gotten used to it, comfortable. Maybe that was why he slipped up; why Rick got suspicious.
It was another night of cutting himself with a pocket knife, half hidden behind his bunched up bed spread. As he finished up, he placed the knife back in its spot at the back of a drawer in his bedside table and stood, gingerly pulling up his boxers and pajama shorts. He grimaced at the feeling of the fabric brushing against the fresh cuts and days old scabs. He had started buying only black boxers.
He slipped out of his room and across the hall to the bathroom, not really bothering to police his slight limp or the mild grimace on the face. He couldn’t really bring himself to care. That probably wasn’t a good sign.
He made it to the bathroom without incident and took a seat on the cold tile, digging out his stash of first aid supplies from under the sink. He knew what to do.
—-
The next morning was just like any other. Morty awoke to his alarm in his ear and his thighs throbbing. He shut off the alarm and stared at the wall for a while, trying to muster the energy to get out of bed. He considered just rolling over and going back to sleep; Rick would likely pull him out of school for something or other anyway, he argued to himself. Still, with a sigh he forced himself up and out of bed.
He went through his morning routine not all there, putting on clothes and brushing his teeth on autopilot. Distantly, he thought about the pills in the bathroom cabinet. Not there, not aware of himself, he didn’t put in much effort to hide the echoes of a limp. Not that it mattered anyway, no one ever noticed him. No one would question or care.
He made his way downstairs at a slower pace, suppressing a face at the way his jeans scuffed against his thighs. Mindlessly, he pressed a finger into one of the cuts, biting his lip at the small shock of pain.
He didn’t even notice Rick standing at the bottom of the stairs until he nearly ran into him.
“R-Rick! Jesus!” Rick’s unibrow furrowed.
“W-what’s up with you? You get a bruise on our last adventure or something?” Morty blinked at him a few times, not really aware of his previous actions and how strange— suspicious —they probably looked.
“H-huh?” He fumbled, brain catching up with the situation and how dangerously close he was to being caught. “Oh, y-yeah. Uh, tripped and landed weird- landed on my hip, that’s all.” Rick nodded, but something in his eyes looked unconvinced.
“Go get ready for school or what- whatever.” Rick lightly shoved his shoulder and started past him up the stairs.
—-
Morty was like a zombie through the school day, but that wasn’t really unusual. He got through math, science, and english, paying just enough attention so he wouldn’t fail. On his way to world history, he was yanked through a portal by his sleeve. He had experienced this treatment enough times to not be all that surprised. Hopefully Rick at least had something entertaining planned.
On the other side of the portal, however, there wasn’t an alien planet, but rather the garage. Morty glanced around for any sort of emergency or strangeness that would require his being here, but saw only his grandpa, leaning against a work bench.
“W-what, Rick? Why am I here?”
“Catch.” Rick pulled something from his pocket and tossed it up into the air towards Morty. He caught it, almost fumbling, and held it up to see what it was.
His heart stopped as he recognized his pocket knife. The one he kept in his nightstand. The one he used at least once a week.
He schooled his expression. Maybe Rick didn’t know. He could save this.
“A.. pocket knife? W-what am I su- supposed to do with this?” Rick stayed leaning casually, face carefully expressionless.
“You tell me.” Morty swallowed.
“What- what does that even m-mean?” Fuck this stupid stutter giving away his nervousness.
“You never tripped yesterday.” The sudden subject change made his head spin.
“H-huh?”
“You barely left the car y-yesterday, and when you did you were by my side. When would you have tripped, Morty?” Morty didn’t answer. “So what happened to your thighs?” It felt like the world was moving in slow motion. Morty’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to think of a lie, something believable, something plausible. Think, goddamnit think.
“I- I-“ he took a step back, away from Rick.
“Door’s locked, buddy.” He hadn’t even consciously been thinking of that, but the idea of escaping, running away, sounded incredible right about now.
He didn’t know what to say. What words could he come up with to make this go away? He couldn’t be caught like this, here and now; out of his control, not on his terms, with fresh cuts still stinging his skin. It had been so long, this couldn’t be how he went down.
Who was he kidding, there was no deceiving Rick.
He hadn’t even noticed his breaths beginning to speed up. It felt like his heart was leaping up his throat. What was he going to say? What was he going to say?
“I-“ he couldn’t get anything out. Rick’s expression of controlled indifference turned to one of worry. Rick took a step towards him.
“H-hey,” Morty’s back hit the wall. When had he started walking backward? “I-i-it’s okay, Morty.” Morty couldn’t catch his breath. His knuckles turned white against the closed pocket knife still in his hand. He slid down against the wall until he was sitting on the concrete floor, knees to his chest. It felt like he was dying. A part of himself whispered good.
He vaguely registered Rick kneeling in front of him. He knew that he would make him stop. He couldn’t handle that. He didn’t know what he was without this. Rick’s lips were moving but the words were too far away. Morty’s fingers were being gently pried away from the knife and he fought for a moment, running on instinct, before he gave it up. He watched as it was kicked across the room where it couldn’t hurt him. He was still gasping for air, unable to get in a full breath.
“M-Morty,” Rick’s voice started to break through the fog. Morty’s teary eyes found his. “It’s okay, Morty. Breathe.” Morty gasped for air. Rick’s hand brushed his arm, seeming hesitant, unsure if he should touch him. Morty latched onto it and held it there. Suddenly, he was scooped up in Rick’s arms.
“I-It’ll be okay, junebug.” A sob escaped Morty. He clutched onto his lab coat. Rick guided him through deeper breaths. He started to become aware of himself again, pulse finally lowering and mind slowing to a slow whirl. He rested his forehead against Rick’s shoulder and sucked in breath after breath. Rick rubbed a hand up and down his spine.
“Okay.” It wasn’t really a question, but Morty nodded. Rick shifted beneath him and picked him up, carrying him for a just a moment before depositing him on the edge of a work table. Rick took a seat on a bench across from him with a sigh, leaning down to grab the knife from the floor and pocketing it. Rick met his eyes and Morty looked away. He thought silently over recent events.
“H-how-“ his voice was rough and unsteady from crying and hyperventilating, “How did you k-know that it was um.. th-that it wasn’t some- something else.” It retrospect, it seemed like a wild conclusion to jump to. Rick ran a hand through his own hair.
“I’m not stupid, Morty. I k-know what it looks like.” Morty got the sense that Rick knew more than he said. It was still for a moment. Rick pulled off his lab coat and reached up to wrap it around his grandson’s shoulders. There was a little bud of warmth in Morty’s chest and he smiled— a genuine smile was a rare occurrence from him these days.
He watched with rapt attention as Rick pulled up the sleeves of his green-blue shirt. Beneath the fabric lay dozens upon dozens of scars, straight lines intersecting. Some were white and shiny, like the ones Morty bore beneath his jeans, while others were dark and puckered or raised, clearly having been very deep when they were made. Morty stared silently, unsure of what to say. What was there to say?
“I know what it looks like.” Rick said again, quietly. Morty nodded, swallowing and looking away as Rick pulled his sleeves back down, though he didn’t take back his coat. Morty pulled it tight around his shoulders. “How long?”
“I-I-um.. I’m not sure. A few years?” Rick sucked in a breath.
“How bad?” Morty shrugged, not knowing how to answer. “How deep?” He clarified.
“Um. Not that deep? Never to m-muscle. Never- they’ve never gotten in-infected either.” Rick nodded.
“Good. Well, not good. This doesn’t- doesn’t help you, Morty. Trust me.” Through the doubt and depression, Morty was inclined to believe him. This was all Morty had, his only way of keeping himself sane; of maintaining control. Yet, he knew he made it worse. He could feel the dip in his mood and energy everytime. Even if he thought it made him feel better, he knew the joy he felt was much more of a manic, unsteady variety than real happiness. He nodded very slightly.
“I-“ he started, then doubted himself, looking at the floor.
“W-what, Morty?”
“I-I don’t know what else to do,” he said quietly. Rick nodded.
“I didn’t either. But I figured it out. An-and you have me to help you figure it out.” Morty smiled. Rick stood and wrapped his arms around his grandson loosely. ”Come talk to me n-next time, I don’t wanna see you get h-hurt. It’ll be okay, I-I promise, junebug.”