Title: Observational
Author: Daisy
Fandom: Rick And Morty
Setting: Morty's Bedroom, The Garage
Pairing: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Characters: Rick Sanchez, Morty Smith, Beth Smith, Jerry Smith, Summer Smith
Genre: Drama/Romance
Rating: T
Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 836
Type of Work: One-Shot, Part of the Fanfiction-Friends' Weekly Writing Prompts
Status: Complete
Warnings: Implied Incest, C137cest, Gay, Slash, Yaoi, Grandfather/Grandson Incest, Depression, Anxiety, Journaling, Morty POV, Third Person POV, Alcoholism, Unbeta'd
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: Morty is observational enough to see that Rick is hurting, but not enough to notice that his own healing is being read almost every time he puts it down.
AN: So, this is another piece for the Fanfiction-Friends' Weekly Writing Prompts! I almost missed it this week, but I'm happy to say that I finally sat down to do it! This week's prompt was mad lib, and I could only really fit two of the three in, but I tried. xD I hope that this is as fun to read as it was to write!
Observational ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
April 12 I don't know how much of my time over the years I spent just watching Rick. I was no expert, but it seemed that to be a professional scientist, you sort of had to be able to hate to yourself. It soon became clear that Rick felt about as enthusiastic about that as anything else. Hating himself. Sometimes, I'd glance over at him when we would be working on something, and he'd think I wasn't paying attention. He'd sniffle a little, look away, and stare longingly out the window. Whatever he'd be thinking of would club him on the head seconds later and he'd go into a tirade to himself that I didn't always hears. Other times, he'd be sitting at the table with us, eating dinner, and turn his head towards my mom. His eyes seemed to lose focus and he'd just stare for a while, before shaking his head and going to the garage without a word. He thinks nobody notices when he takes a longer pull from his flask, or when he goes quiet and somber for long periods of time. There was one day he just stood in front of the fridge for twenty minutes, then paced back into the garage. He didn't come back out that day. There are days I've labeled as his 'off days'. Days when he acts less like a Rick, to me. I've met a lot of Ricks and a lot of Mortys, and, according to Mortybook, this isn't uncommon. Each Rick, while being the same as the next, is still infinitely different in his choices. Some Ricks deal with loss and depression by drinking themselves to death. Some prefer to just off themselves. And others press forward, ever onward, even if they don't know why. He's told me on a hundred occasions in a thousand galaxies that life is meaningless. There's no point in keeping going. 'Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.' Jean-Paul Sartre said that, and I think Rick has taught me its truth. It used to scare me, that the universe was so big, that life was meaningless. Sometimes, I think it still does. And sometimes, I think it still scares him. How many realities, how many Beths and Summers and Jerrys and Mortys, did Rick abandon? I don't think I really want to know the answer. But I know that I don't want to be the cause of it ever again. He won't talk about it, but I know, deep down, that it bothers him. That he has regrets, even if he says there's no time for them. I can't be the only one that stays up at night, thinking about how everything could have gone differently. Maybe he won't admit it, but I know he cares. He refuses to show that he does have feelings. Especially for a dumb kid like me. One of these days, though, he's going to mess up again in his drunken haze, and I'm going to cling to that shred of kindness like I do every other one. Who knows, Journal, maybe I'll write it down in you, or the next one. I just hope he continues to ignore you. That way, I don't have to worry about him ever finding out about anything I can't tell him.
Morty yawned, feeling an odd heaviness in his eyelids he usually got from pouring his heart out to his journal. He'd started keeping them after the school counselor had suggested it might help with his outbursts, and they always made him feel weightless. In the same way a good, hard cry could make him relax and, eventually, fall asleep, the journal was like a way to purge his mind of its racing thoughts and settle him in for sleep. Setting his yellow, leather-bound notebook down, slotted between the last one and the next, he yawned again, before sitting on his bed. Turning out his lamp, he closed his heavy eyes and drifted off into a dreamless, short sleep.
What he didn't notice was the soft blue portal opening up beneath the three notebooks, sucking them into the garage. Rick had a lot of reading to do to catch up on the last few days' worth of Morty's listless rambling, so he adjusted his glasses low on his nose and sipped at the wine he'd taken from the fridge. It was always better to digest Morty's chicken scratch with a lighter buzz than usual. Otherwise, he could make out weird words and sentences that made it sound like the kid was in love with him or something.
He hoped against hope that it would be hero worship, but a part of him was recognizing the signs. He sighed, taking in another deep breath for delving into April sixth's entry.
April 6 Journal, sometimes I wonder what's wrong with me. Sometimes I'm too tired to care. Is this what Rick feels?
Ouch, Morty.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ AN: