Later, when you get home, Rick says he needs to sit down—he never says that, not sincerely, not with heavy breath and a tiredness he has to fight to hide. You turn around, pretending to check your phone, knowing he'll fake invincibility until you're not looking, and then watch him out of the corner of your eye as he falls to seat at his workbench with a shuddering exhale.

You toy around with your phone for a few more seconds—no new messages except for a few pissy ones from Summer asking why you left without her—and then pocket it slowly, turning around on tiptoe. You step closer to Rick with caution.

"Y—you okay?" you ask, the words spilling out before you meant them to.

He just rolls his eyes, opens the first aid drawer and starts rifling through it. He's bleeding, you realise, beneath the lab coat at his shoulder. How long has he—?

"Rick?"

"Yeah, M-morty, I'm not a—not a pussy, alright?"

"I—I-I know that. But you just, you seem really—" You frown, already reaching for the mini fridge at the end of the row cabinets. "You need a beer or something?"

"No," he says sharply.

You quickly retract your fingers from the refrigerator handle. "Jeez, okay, just—just asking."

You lean on the counter beside him, watch him shed his coat and his shirt and set the roll of Ace bandages between his teeth.

The wound is nearly black, now, clogged up with dark blood. It's starting to get infected, too—pus oozes from the center of the cut while red trickles thinly down the rest of his arm. He reaches for the yellow syringe on the counter and moves to stick it in at his wrist, but his hands are shaking.

Sighing, you take the syringe from him, placing it further along the bench, just out of his reach. He tries to stand but you push him back down with a firm hand to his good shoulder while you remove the bandages from his mouth with the other. "Relax, Rick. I got it."

"Fuck you," he mumbles, but he doesn't resist. His chest rises, falls, rises: too quickly, too clearly. You hate that you can see his ribs on every outtake.

You lean over and open the drawer again, pull out an alcohol swab and the iodine. What was he gonna do, stab himself and wrap it up without cleaning anything? Well, probably. "Y-y-y-you really gotta be more careful, y'know?"

"I am careful," he spits. "I—I-I-I'm the carefulest—most careful man in the universe. Got uh, got a—plaque, and everything."

"Sure, Rick," you murmur, swabbing his good arm and then sticking him fast with the syringe. He winces, but the infection is already clearing up; the wound should heal now, too, but it must have been deep, because a shallower cut remains against a mottled purple bruise. He doesn't have a better serum on hand right now.

You swab this arm with the iodine. This time he sucks in a breath through his teeth, mutters, "Shit," and you wonder if he couldn't have used the beer after all.

"Are you really getting sober?" you ask, quietly, because you know he'll probably ignore you now and laugh at you for the question later, and you'd like to act like you have no idea what he's talking about when he does.

The look he gives you is so hurt, so honestly and openly betrayed that you actually take a half-step back.

"Oh jeez," you say. "O-o-of course you are, shit, I mean, it seemed like it, that's why I asked. It's just…" You shrug as you start unravelling the roll of bandages. "I dunno, I was thinking, m-m-maybe it's a prank, or something... I don't know."

He snorts. "That would be a real—real shitty prank, Morty."

Gently, you lift his arm and start bandaging his shoulder. "I-it was just hard to believe, i guess."

He stares past you, at the garage floor, at the cabinets, at nothing in particular. You continue your ministrations carefully, making sure the bandages aren't wrapped too tight.

"I get that," he says. "It's been a long—been a loooong fuckin' time."

"Mom says you've—y-y-you've had that flask in your pocket since she was born." You finish wrapping him up and tape the bandage down, glancing up at him. "Good?"

He rolls his shoulder once and grimaces, but nods. "Yeah, alright. Didn't need the help, obviously, but—"

You fix him with a glare and he sighs as if his next words are going to age him another decade: "But it was... nice. Good."

"You're welcome, Rick."

"Stop looking so fucking pleased with yourself, asshat."

"You're welcome, Rick."

He turns around in his chair. "Ugh."

You just smile, lean back against the counter with a satisfied nod. He starts the familiar process of mixing more portal fluid, and the sound of the test tubes as they clink together is almost calming.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" you say after a few minutes.

"No."

"Y-y-you don't even know what I was gonna—"

"The sobriety thing, Morty, obviously. Like anything else has fucking changed around here."

"Well, I-I mean, Mom and Dad are—"

"In the same goddamn miserable spot they've always been in, Morty."

"Okay, fine, this—" You motion vaguely towards him. "This, th-this—sober thing."

"Tell me, M-morty, have I ever been interested in telling you anything about my life outside of what we do together? Ever?"

"W-w-w-well, jeez, if you're gonna be a dick about it—"

"No, whatever, who gives a shit. What do you wanna hear, Morty? Wanna hear about all the sad shit I tell people at AA meetings that justifies my addiction and abusive behaviour? That every time I think about taking a shot I look at a picture of you I keep in my wallet instead and it gets me through the night? O-o-o-or would you rather hear about all the nights I spent puking my fucking guts out as retribution for my sins? Because let me tell you, Morty, none of that is true, but I got a whoooooole bunch—just a real good shitton of ways to lie here, buddy, tell me what you wanna hear."

You stare at him, unenthused. He sticks his tongue out at you like a fucking five-year-old and goes back to work.

"W-why you always gotta be like this, huh, Rick? I just thought—you might be having a hard time, and I—I-I-I dunno if you have anyone to talk about it with, and I wanna know, like, how you've been doing, and stuff, but you just—gotta shut me down like that. You're always shuttin' me down, like—l-like I'm not the only one who might actually give a shit."

He actually meets your eye, then—critically, but nonetheless. You keep your gaze steady and your head held high. He watches you for a minute before giving a little huff of laughter that does not fit anywhere into your catalogued understanding of Rick's emotions: It is not a mocking laugh, nor is it trying to hide something; it does not sound smug, or bittersweet. There is no air of superiority or discomfort. He isn't even sad—and he's usually sad.

"Yeah," he says. "It's been hard, Morty. It's been real fuckin' hard. And no—" You clamp your mouth shut. "—I am not actually going to AA meetings, Morty. The fuck do you take me for?"

He turns back to the bench, pours something blue into something orange; improbably, it turns green, and he refills the gun with practiced ease. Then he spins around and leans his back against the counter—he's still tired, you think—and folds his arms: Apparently, for once, waiting for you to speak.

"S—s-so," you say finally. "You getting totally wasted during—during V—V-V-V—" You grimace. You don't even want to say it. "Last time."

Now he tenses a little, seems to regret facing you. He casts his eyes downwards for just a second. "That was… a step back."

You let that sink in, let the knowledge settle with a dull buzz in your mind that Rick broke a hard-won streak just because he thought you might leave him. You're an egotistical piece of shit, you decide, because you almost start smiling.

"I'm sorry, Rick."

He scoffs, but it's fond, familiar. You feel a hand card through your hair. "No you aren't, you egotistical piece of shit."

You catch his hand before it falls away completely, decide to let yourself smile. "Aw, screw—screw you."

He smiles back, briefly, and then shakes his head with a sigh. "Alright, bud, you're gonna need to help me up here. Grandpa's getting ooooold."

Your grin falters a little. Knowing that he's starting to wear thin is one thing, hearing him confess it is another. Maybe you do prefer it when he fakes invincibility.

"Sure, Rick," is all you say, and pull him to his feet. "Let's get you—g-g-get you to bed."

He leans his weight against you on the way to the door. "Bed. Nice. Yes. Sounds good. You're a smart kid, Morty."

"Learned from the best."

He just shakes his head.

You leave him at his bedroom door, noticing with worry that his hand still trembles ever so slightly until it finds the knob. "Hey, Morty."

You look up. "Yeah, Rick?"

He avoids your gaze, this time. "Thanks."

You just smile. "Good night, Rick."

"G'night, Morty."

He ruffles his hand through your hair one more time, and the next time you blink the door is slamming shut.

You suddenly realise just how tired you are: muscles sore, lids heavy. You feel an ache in joints you hadn't known existed. You're still wondering why it took you so long to notice when you collapse onto bed fully dressed, already halfway to sleep.