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Rick holds back the tiniest smile when he notices his grandson flapping his hands. It hadn’t even taken him a full day to diagnose the boy. Autism likes to skip a generation sometimes— Beth didn’t get it, seems like Summer didn’t either, but Morty did. He’s almost glad; dumbass neurotypical-focused human society needs more people like them, and it sure makes it easier for the two of them to understand one another.
So, again, when they’re out on an adventure and Rick is methodically breaking some alien computer and he notices Morty behind him flapping his hands up and down as they talk, he has to hold back the smile. Unfortunately, that means Morty only sees the glance, which he takes as a sign to stop. His hands meet in front of his chest, his thumbs twiddle, and he looks away with a mumbled “Sorry…” and Rick’s chest bubbles with rage. Who taught this kid not to stim?
“Morty, I’m only gonna say this once,” —that’s a blatant lie, he’ll say it as many times as he needs, and he’ll be patient about it too— “I don’t give a shit what you do with your hands. Fidget, flap, wave ‘em in the air, whatever. You got that?”
Morty looks up for a moment and Rick pretends not to watch for the relieved smile,
“Thanks, Rick.”
“Shut up and help me with this.”
Another time, they make it back to the ship at the end of a mediocre adventure with a particularly loud and raucous crowd around.
“Boy, that was a drag, ey Morty?”
Rick looks over and the boy is curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth on the seat. Ah, sensory overload. Meltdown? Maybe not yet. With no words and a fake sigh, Rick reaches into a pocket and pulls out earplugs— his OWN earplugs! The sacrifices he makes for this kid!— and offers them in an open palm. It takes Morty a second to figure out what’s going on and what he’s being given, but as soon as he does, he scrambles to accept.
Rick takes off as Morty puts in the earplugs, his rocking and shaking calming down. There’s some intentional whining-humming-speaking sound that Rick magically understands is supposed to convey gratitude, which there’s no real way to reply to so he just ignores it.
When they get home, Morty seems to be recovering, but he’s angrily pulling on his tee shirt. Rick tilts in to get a closer look— yep, he’s trying to pull out the tag. Classic. This is one of the many reasons Rick always wears the same outfit, cause he’s already gotten the tags off. Of course, he can also cleanly remove those insufferable tags whenever he wants with a specially designed tool, which he yanks out of the bottom of a box and brings to Morty.
Morty doesn’t notice or look up until Rick’s practically on top of him. Rick leans in, grabs a fistful of shirt, waves Morty’s hands away, and gets his little machine in there to clamp down on the tag. Four seconds later it beeps, he steps back with it, and the tag is gone as though it never existed.
Morty looks up at him with those classic starry eyes he gets whenever Rick does anything half-sentimental and it always melts Rick’s heart. He takes the earplugs out.
“Thanks.”
“Do it yourself next time.” Rick leaves the de-tagger on the shelf in easy eye-line of the boy. It’s clearly disturbed many times over the next few days. Neither mentions it.
“—so now all we need to find is a third-level E-cell battery, and we— Morty? Where the fuck did you go?”
The briefest flutter of panic passes through Rick as he looks around for the boy holding the basket of goods he’s planning to purchase in what is essentially a space general store, the only difference being the maroon and navy hues instead of earth’s clinical white. He stomps back an aisle and a half until he spots the yellow shirt.
“Morty! Wh-What do you think you’re doing, Morty?! We’ve, we’ve got a shopping trip to finish and you’re, you’re just, you’re over here wandering around, and, are you even listening to me?”
Morty’s head snaps up as Rick gets closer, and his head shrinks into his shoulders sheepishly, but his body doesn’t turn.
“Sorry, Rick. I got distracted…” he looks right back at the shelf he was staring at. A plush of some kind of reptile— similar to an earth lizard— sat innocently on the shelf before him. Rick squints, trying to think for a moment, remembering some posters the kid had in his room, and the incident with the snakes… and Rick grabs the plush toy and throws it in the basket.
“Let’s keep moving.”
It would probably be good for the kid to cultivate a special interest besides him and his science. Or maybe they could be combined in some way. In any case, if it was that distracting, he needs it. Or something. It’s not sentimental.
“Wh—geez, Rick, you don’t have to— aw, thanks!”
“Shut up before I change my mind.”
The next time Rick barges into Morty’s room, he ignores that the plush is living lovingly on his nightstand.
Then they’re watching interdimensional cable and a familiar commercial comes on. Morty bounces slightly in his place on the couch.
“That’s right, it’s Cham Clowder! The industry leader in both industry and professionalism…”
And Morty not only quietly says the whole thing in perfect time with the commercial narrator, but when the narrator stops, Morty says the opening line again in the exact same way,
“That’s right, it’s Cham Clowder!”
He hums with satisfaction as the tv returns to House Hunters, and Rick considers teasing him for it, but the kid was so quiet about it. Besides, he doesn’t need to get teased back when he does the same— which he does, later, in the garage.
“And that’s the waaaaaay it goes!”
Morty laughs along with the silly catchphrase and gesture as he always does.
“Hey, why do you always say that anyways, Rick? You, y’know, you’ve got all these cool catchphrases, but where did they come from.”
Rick belches and leans against the desk. Morty probably doesn’t know the word ‘echolalia,’ so he’ll just give him the gist of it,
“Morty, I just say whatever feels good in my mouth, y’know? Whatever feels good in the mouth, that’s what I say. Like, wubba-lubba-dub-dub? Ricky-ticky-tack? It’s just nonsense, Morty! It’s just nonsense sounds my mouth likes to make!”
“Whoa! And people don’t find that weird?”
Rick rolls his eyes at the kid’s projecting insecurity,
“Kid, everything about me is weird. People just roll with it. And if they don’t? Fuck ‘em, Morty. If someone makes fun of you for just makin’ sounds when you wanna, just remember Morty, fuck ‘em, who needs ‘em?”
Morty laughs, a new tension leaving his shoulders,
“You know, you’re right, Rick. Who needs ‘em? I like that. Who needs ‘em? Hey, I think maybe I like to say that. Who needs ‘em? Yea!”
Usually Rick isn’t so encouraging with the kid, finding it difficult and defaulting back to his grouchy mask, but this? No, Rick has noticed by now he needs to encourage the autistic shit. Nobody else will. That’s his grandson.
“You say it as much as you want, Morty, and don’t let anybody stop you. Wubba-lubba-dub-dub!”
“Who needs ‘em!”
So Morty grows slowly more and more comfortable unmasking around Rick. Rick rarely bothered to mask around Morty in the first place, but revels in the kid’s growing comfort. Then, Morty’s comfort starts to extend beyond the garage, and
“Morty, put your hands away.”
Beth says it casually, like it’s a common chide for them. Morty responds similarly, tucking his flapping hands under his thighs with a mumbled “sorry.” Morty and Beth turn back to the TV like it’s normal, while Rick’s head becomes a swivel, looking back and forth between the two incredulously. Eventually, Beth notices and stares at him, but before she can get a word out,
“Why?”
Morty looks up at him now as well, and Beth cocks her head,
“What?”
“Why’d you tell him to stop? What, is the kid not allowed to fidget? Seems kinda stupid to me, and I know you’re not stupid, so I’m asking. Why?”
Jerry’s frowning as he reenters the room with cans of soda, handing them out,
“Well, it’s a bit weird, Rick. It’s not normal behavior, y’know? We try to—“
“Don’t tell me you want him to be… normal?!” Rick makes exaggerated gagging sounds, committing so hard that anyone else would think he was actually about to puke over the couch. Morty dissolves into giggles. Jerry’s arms cross.
“We want him to have a normal life, Rick. We’re trying to help him, teach him how to behave normally!”
But Rick is having none of it, and can no longer fight the grin from his face as he furthers the bit,
“It’s okay Morty,” he grabs the giggling boy by the shoulders, “I won’t let them turn you normal! Not on my life! I’ll save you!” He dramatically turns and throws an arm to the side as though shielding Morty, pointing the other hand at Jerry, “Begone, foul beast of, you… fuckin’ normie!”
By this point, Beth has joined the laughter and Morty is completely doubled over, almost falling to the ground. Rick smiles with satisfaction knowing that he’s protected his autistic grandson one more day. He makes mental note to keep an eye out for any more discouraging comments from the parents, and maybe to talk to Beth.
Another day, Rick and Morty and Summer are in the living room, the house to themselves, and the siblings have been arguing all day.
“Summer, you’re such a bully!”
“At least I’m not as much of a weirdo as you— I mean, look at you, what are you doing with your hands?” Rick glances over unhappily to gauge the situation as she speaks. “And at least I can look people in the eyes!”
He throws a piece of popcorn at the back of Summer’s head,
“You’re not the pinnacle of social grace yourself, Sum-Sum. Quit making fun of your brother’s autism.”
“His what?”
“My what?”
Rick jolts a bit and squints. Part of him didn’t mean to say that, but part of him was still holding onto the hope that these people were at least aware, that Morty at least had the comfort of a diagnosis and maybe some accommodations at school or something. He hides it, plays it cool, turning immediately back to the TV— this conversation is not for right now, he has to think first.
“Now both of you shut up, I’m trying to watch the show.”
Rick is on his way to Morty’s room a few days later when, before he can burst in or knock or anything, he recognizes a distinct sound from inside. Crying.
The fuck does he do? Rick’s not equipped to handle this, he can’t even handle his own emotions right! But he can’t exactly leave it to someone else, either, since they clearly don’t understand. He can’t risk letting Morty get discouraged even more, he still hasn’t talked to Beth about all this, shit, what’s going on with the kid anyway, they haven’t been on any traumatizing adventures, it’s gotta be something else—
Rick discovers himself gently knocking on the door. He hears the signature recovery sniffle from inside, then a broken voice,
“Come in.”
Morty’s in the dark, sitting up in the center of his bed with his knees to his chest. When the door is open enough for Morty to spot that it’s Rick, his head falls onto his knees and he faces away from the door.
“You, uh, doin’ ok in here Morty?”
“Y-yea.” Sniffle. “I’m okay.”
“That’s weird, cause it kinda sounded like you were crying or something.”
“Nope. No crying here. Crazy.”
Rick sighs and walks in, shutting the door behind him and making his way over to the bed, plopping down just far enough from Morty that they aren’t touching.
“C’mon, talk to me, Morty. Tell grandpa what’s wrong.”
Morty looks up at Rick with stars in his eyes, then sniffles again and trains his eyes onto the middle of the floor,
“It’s my grades, Rick. They’re bad, Rick, real bad. They said if I can’t fix it, I might have to go to summer school. It’s not even because I’m missing school. I just do bad on the tests. I’m just stupid, Rick.”
“I-I-I wouldn’t say you’re stupid, Morty. You’re just different. You see stuff differently, Morty. It’s like I said, school’s not a place for smart people.”
“Is there something wrong with me, Rick?”
“What, you want me to make a list?”
“I mean, like, do I really have some kind of learning disability or something? Is that why I’m stupid, Rick?”
Rick rubs his face with his hands. Man, he really should’ve done this sooner, huh?
“I already said, Morty, you’re not stupid, you gotta listen to me, here. But yea, you, what you have is, it’s classified as a disability, Morty.”
“What?!”
“You have autism, Morty. Honestly I’m shocked nobody’s ever told you that before. Really somebody should’ve figured it out by now. I’m gonna have to have a serious talk with Beth, and I hate having serious talks, Morty, I hate it—“
“Are you serious, Rick? I actually have autism?”
“Yea, Morty, you’re super fucking autistic. You’re just like grandpa, Morty, congratulations.”
“Wait. You…?”
“For fuck’s sake, how do people not know this? I’m not exactly subtle about it! Yes, Morty, I have fucking autism. I have so much autism, Morty, it’s pretty, pretty crazy.”
Morty chuckles, lightening up with the tone and starting to unfurl from his tense ball. Rick allows a hint of a smile to take his face and continues,
“I mean, I’m the smartest guy in the universe, Morty, and I’ve got autism. It doesn’t make you stupid, Morty. It makes you different. It makes you cool. Trust me, Morty, you do not want to be one of those neurotypical freaks. You know they make eye contact with people all the time? Constantly, Morty. And they small talk! Like, they talk about the weather and they like it, Morty, what the fuck is that?” Morty further unfurls, letting his legs dangle off the side of the bed as he laughs. “I invented teleportation, Morty. I turned myself into a pickle in an afternoon, you think a neurotypical could do that? What, you’d rather be more like Jerry? No, Morty, that would be ridiculous.”
“Wait, wait, so am I just autistic and also stupid? I’m still bad at school, Rick—“
“Schools are designed for neurotypicals, Morty!” It’s a strain to keep his rage about this topic in check, but he does it, “I told you, they’re not a place for smart people, they’re not a place for people like us, Morty. You can do lots of things, Morty, but school isn’t meant for you. I’m glad you’re bad at school, it’s meant to push people towards the middle, to make everyone average, Morty, and I don’t want that to happen to you.” He grabs Morty by the shoulders and looks into his face, “Don’t let anyone put you down for the autism shit, Morty. Just remember I’ve got it too. We’ve got the same shit. I’m autistic and I’m basically god. If anyone thinks they’re better than you because you have autism, point them out to me and I’ll beat their ass, Morty, I’ll show ‘em what autism can do, you understand me?”
Rick ignores the new tears falling slowly down his grandson’s cheeks as the boy nods.
“Thanks, Rick.”
“Sure, whatever, Morty. Now, you wanna go buy some cool fidget toys?”
“Really?!”
“Yea, I know the best place, come on, I’ll show you! They’ve got all kinds of stuff, and weighted blankets too, all kinds of weighted and all kinds of textures, whatever texture you like, Morty, you’ll love it!”
With no more questions, he grabs Morty by the wrist and drags him downstairs to get the ship and the portal gun, and he launches into their favorite monologue,
“Rick and Morty, a hundred years! Crazy adventures!”
And Morty joins,
“Rick and Morty, autistic adventurers! Doing crazy things, cool, crazy, going wherever we want, a hundred years,”
“Crazy adventures, just Rick and Morty, having autism, autistic, gonna autism all over the universe, be autistic all over the place, fuckin’ neurodivergent adventures, me and you, hundred years, autism,”
And they laugh and ramble and completely ignore the looks from the rest of the family as they pass the living room. It doesn’t matter. It’s not ‘the whole idiotic Smith family,’ is it?
No, it’s Rick and Morty. A hundred years.
And obviously, they have autism.