Work Text:
Rick slumps against the cluttered workbench, the half-empty flask dangling from his fingers. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, and his voice cracks as he mutters, almost to himself, “If all my days are numbered, why do I keep counting?”
Morty stands in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’s heard this routine too many times—the slurred, self-deprecating speeches, the endless spirals of Rick’s mental stability…
His tolerance for leaving Rick to his own self-sabotaging habits is gone.
“Does this help you?” Morty snaps, his tone sharp, fed up with Rick’s bullshit. “Like, seriously, Rick—does wallowing in this crap actually make anything better? Has it ever?”
Rick blinks at him, slow and heavy, as if the words have to swim through the haze just to reach him.
For a moment, silence hangs between them before Rick lets out a bitter laugh, the kind that sounds more like a cough. He tips the flask back, but nothing comes out. His hand trembles as he sets it down, staring at the metal like it has betrayed him.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than nag my ear off, Morty?” he mutters, voice harsh and rough from drinking.
Morty’s face twists into a scowl, frustration boiling over. “God, now me caring about you is ‘nagging’? Rick, you think saying stuff like this will hurt me? Think it’ll make me go away? It won’t. It just makes you… Pathetic. You’re sitting here drowning yourself, and I’m supposed to what—pat you on the back? Tell you it’s fine? Would that be fucking better for you?”
Rick’s eyes flick up, sharp for a moment, then soften, and, for once, the arrogance is gone. Just a man, broken and needy, stripped of all the armor he usually wears. “Why do you still bother with me?”
Morty swallows hard, his anger faltering. He wants to scream at him, to storm out, but the weight of Rick’s words pins him in place, Rick’s just staring at him, eyes wet, waiting for something—anything—that might anchor him.
“Rick…” Morty sighs, shoulders slumping. “Because I love you. And yeah, you make it impossible sometimes, and there’s a lot of bullshit. But that doesn’t make me leave.” He steps closer, resting a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “I’m here. Even when it hurts, even when you try to push me away—I’m still here...”
Rick lets out a shaky breath, leaning into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You should,” he whispers. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yeah, well,” Morty mutters, his voice softer now, “you don’t get to decide that for me.”
For a moment, Rick just stares at him, eyes wet and searching. Then, with a sudden, fragile motion, he pulls Morty into a hug—awkward, desperate, trembling. Morty stiffens, his first instinct to shove him away, but the weight of Rick’s arms around him is heavy, almost childlike in its need.
Morty sighs, his chest tight, and lets himself stay there. He can feel Rick’s breath hitch against his shoulder, uneven and raw, like every wall he’s built is crumbling all at once. Morty hates that it hurts to care, hates that he still… Still wants to protect him.
Rick clings tighter, his fingers curling into Morty’s shirt as if afraid he’ll vanish. “You shouldn’t waste yourself on me,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “But I don’t… I don’t know how to let you go.”
Morty closes his eyes, tears beading at the corners, swallowing over the hard lump forming in his throat. “Then don’t,” he whispers back, almost against his own will. “Not tonight.”
Morty’s words hang in the air, fragile and sincere. Rick doesn’t answer—he just holds on, his grip softening into something less desperate, nodding against his shoulder.
And for once, that has to be enough.