Work Text:
‘Dr Wong suggested poetry as a form of self expression therapy.’
Rick hated every word in that sentence. Every single syllable. Unfortunately, being a father had certain obligations. One such obligation was going to therapy with your grandson at the request of your daughter. Whatever. Rick was slouched in the cushy sofa, staring at the three by five notecard in his hands. Completely blank. What was he supposed to put here? Rick wasn’t a poet for Christ’s sake. He was a scientist. A god. Icey blue orbs quickly darted to the left.
Morty’s face was scrunched up in concentration, his tongue poking out ever so slightly as he worked. Rick could practically hear the gears in his little pea brain trying to think. ‘Dumbass’ he thought to himself.
“Okay boys, time’s up,” Dr. Wong announced. Her voice was firm, yet gentle, exuding artificial feelings of calm. It wouldn’t work on Rick though. He was too smart for mind games.
“Rick, would you like to share first?” The woman asked, gesturing to him.
He sighed. “Whatever.” Rick stood, clearing his throat as he quickly mumbled over the contents of his note card. “Okay…” a sharp inhale and… “A dumbass. A dumbass. A d-u-m-b-a-s-s. Dumbass!” Rick sang to the infamous tune of hollaback girl, his tone flat and clearly bored.
“Rick!” Morty scolded. He jumped from the sofa, hands bunching together into tight fists. “Are you serious? We’re supposed to be doing therapy. That’s just you t-thinking out loud,” he complained.
Rick let out a snippy scoff. “Uh, yeah. It’s a form of self-expression, dumbass,” the scientist retorted.
Morty’s face twisted even further, bitter and full of ire. “Yeah? Well, fine. M-Maybe I don’t wanna share my poetry with you then,” he huffed. The brunet crumpled up his little notecard in his fist, turning away from his grandfather… and something about Morty withholding information from Rick just didn’t feel good.
The scientist’s hand shot out to grab the paper, which kept darting around in a poor attempt to get away. “G-Give me the paper, Morty!” He hollered, crawling on top of the boy.
“No! Rick, get off, y-you crazy old man!” The brunet felt himself being physically cornered. With little else to do, his hand darted to his mouth, stuffing the paper inside. He revealed his open palms to Rick with a smug grin, a sense of proud victory washing over him. This only further determined Rick. He was going to see what was on that notecard, one way or another.
“Don’t think I won’t reach in there and grab that paper, M-Morty,” he warned, sitting up further. “We can do this the fast way, or the wait-thirty-six-hours way.”
Green eyes blew wide. Morty scooted back desperately, but it was too late. Rick had the entirety of his hand in the boy’s mouth, and was digging to find that tiny notecard.
“Gentleman, please!” Dr. Wong finally intervened, her features firm and agitated. Everything stopped.
Rick’s hand pulled out from Morty’s mouth, dripping saliva and still without that damn notecard
Both boys lips formed into little sagging three’s, sheepish and awkward, before the latter shoved the former away and sat back up.
Dr Wong sighed. “Rick, if you would like to try again, that would be very helpful,” she hinted, gesturing to the discarded three by five on the sofa.
“Yeah, I’m good, thanks.”
“Then Morty, you should really consider reading your poetry,” Wong tried.
Morty wrung his wrists, as if to consider this foul notion. Then with a huff, he reached to his mouth and pulled out the piece of paper. “Just… d-don’t laugh,” the brunet pleaded, cheeks reddening as his eyes looked over the poem. Morty cleared his throat. “Uh, ‘R’ is for raconteur,” he started, but was quickly interrupted by his grandfather.
“Morty, do you even know how to spell raconteur?” The man teased.
Morty scowled. “Yes, I actually do, so t-thanks for asking!” He huffed, but tried again after recollecting himself. “My grandfather is a raconteur. His stories are endless and full of w-wisdom.” Anyone with eyes could see the way Morty was nervous, embarrassed to expose his emotions to his brash grandfather. His face heated up and his voice wavered awkwardly. The boy took another breath. “‘I’ is for intelligent. My grandfather is intelligent. No one can contest his wit.” This was so embarrassing. Oh jeez. Another breath.
“‘C’ is for Crazy. My grandfather is a little crazy. B-But between shooting aliens up in space and doing weird crystal drugs, I don’t really blame him, so… uhm.” One more deep breath. “…‘K’ is for Kin. My grandfather is one of my kin. No matter how mean, or heartless, or just plain terrible he can be-”
‘Jesus, way to butter me up, Morty,’ Rick snipped in his head.
“…He’ll always be part of my family, and I’ll always look up to him.”
Dr Wong smiled. “That’s very good, Morty Good job, Morty,” she praised.
Rick was silent. The two locked eyes. “Wow,” the scientist said quietly, in awe. “Morty… do your old man a favor,” he started, leaning down to the boy’s level. He placed a firm hand on Morty’s shoulder and looked earnestly into his eyes. “…and never become a poet.”
“That’s it!” The brunet crumpled up his wet paper, tossing it at the wall, before storming towards the door. “Dr wong, I’m leaving. H-He’s your problem now.” The door slam shut. It was deathly silent.
“Welp, that’s my cue to leave. See ya.” Rick pulled out his portal gun, stepping through a hole in the wall and leaving Wong to her own machinations. She sighed…
“I don’t get paid enough for this.”
…
Morty walked himself home from the therapist, only to find that Rick had gotten there first. Of course. Could he go anywhere without running into this old psychopath? The boy made sure to sneak right past his grandfather in the living room, avoiding him like the plague as he trudged up to his room and slammed the door. Morty sagged into his bed, lips twisted like oak roots into a gnarled frown. Why did Rick have to be such a jackass all the time? He wrapped himself in his sheets like a depressed burrito, stuck on his side and facing his nightstand…
That’s when he saw a little paper that he was sure wasn’t there before. Nobody in the smith household even owned three by fives… except maybe Rick, of course. The boy quirked an eyebrow. Did he even want to look at whatever was on there? Honestly, no. but his curiosity had been piqued, and it was only going to get worse the longer he waited. With a huff, Morty sat up, untangling himself from the sheets. He gently picked up the notecard, eyes darting over the words written in red pen…
‘‘M’ is for mirthful. My grandson is mirthful. Despite the total ass of a life he deals with, it doesn’t change.
“What the…?” Morty was stunned. Did… did Rick write this? For him? Without being forced?
‘‘O’ is for obnoxious(ly optimistic). My grandson is obnoxious(ly optimistic). His attitude breaks the goddamn decibel system with how loud it is. R is for reassuring. My grandson is reassuring. Even though his head is a box of rocks, I irrationally feel better when Morty has my back. ‘T’ is for timid. My grandson is timid. Yeah, I got tired of kissing your ass so I put this one in here for some variety.’
Yeah, this was definitely Rick’s doing.
‘‘I’ is for irreplaceable. My grandson is irreplaceable. There’s no one who can fill his shoes, no matter how many times I insist on it. ‘M’ is for my best friend. My grandson is my best friend. Wow. That sounds really fucking lame when you write it. Maybe I need more friends. ‘E’ is for embittered. My grandson is embittered. I treat him like shit, but even he’s smart enough to know he’s worth more, and he makes sure to remind me every goddamn time. ‘R’ is for resilient. My grandson is resilient. A nicer way of saying ‘stubborn as shit.’
Morty allowed himself to smile down at the paper through hazy vision, wiping away the oncoming tears. He turned the paper over.
‘P.S. if you tell anyone about this, expect the mind blower to show up sometime in the night.’
Yep. That’s Rick.