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It was with a muffled cry and a sick squelch, Morty fell to the ground. Dust and small rocks clinging to the denim of his jeans as he dropped to his knees. Blood poured out of the wound like a leaky faucet as his clumsy, convulsing hands weakly grasped at the torn flesh, trying in vain to stop the stream. Soft, gasping breaths of agony dripping from his breath.
And for just that second, Rick Sanchez saw red.
He skidded to a stop, the wrinkles on his face deepening to trenches as stood protectively over the boy; profanities ripped from his mouth as he opened fire. The cerulean crystal shards shattered from the gunfire, falling like raindrops as they scattered in the wind.
His crisp white lab-coat was splattered, like someone had dropped a vial of crimson ink, but he looked on distantly. Blood on his face. Blood on the ground. Blood on the large blue crystals that jutted out of the earth. It painted the sky and his vision red.
“F-fuck, Morty, kid, Morty holy hell-“
Turning, he looked over the boy, whose crimson blood was pooling around him at an alarming rate. Tears misted his eyes as he let out shuddering, hitching sobs that made his whole body twitch; arms now curled (pathetically) protectively around himself.
Rick hastily dropped down, face hardened, but his pale hands shaking as he reached up towards his grandson’s arms. His knees stained with Morty’s blood. It’s okay though, he could fix this. Well, of course he could. He was Rick Sanchez, the Rick Sanchez. He wasn’t afraid that his-
“Rick, i-i-it hurts, oh my god Ri-“
“Shut up, M-MoOuRtyyy, let, l-let me see”
Morty continued to shake and shudder as Rick gently, but firmly, peeled Morty’s arms away from his body. He was painted red- hands and body covered in the liquid, but his face beginning to turn a sickly shade of white. The once bright yellow t-shirt was now soaked crimson, clinging to his body uselessly. The gaping bullet wound in his side seemingly taunting him, as Morty heaved in pain.
-his Morty, his grandson would die.
He looked up at Rick, whose face was schooled into its usual practised expression of detachment, only betrayed by his dilated eyes, and the way his lips were slightly parted. The only sound that could be heard were Morty’s hitching sobs as Rick openly stared at the wound. His hands clasped around Morty’s shaking wrists, tremors running along both their arms.
“I’m s-s-sorry, Rick. I dropped t-the-the bag of crystals w-we-we were supposed to collect when the fight broke out.” Morty choked out, the tears in his eyes beginning to spill over.
Slumping, he dropped his gaze, fingers twitching with the remnants of adrenaline that still coursed through his veins, as he began to feel light-headed. He reached to pull his hands back-
Only for Rick to pull him closely into his chest.
One arm around his back, pulling him against his bony clavicle, blood staining the dirty lapels of his lab coat; the other carefully placing pressure on the open wound. Rick’s frantically beating heart reverberating around his skull.
“Y-y-ou, you piece of shit, Morty, you’re supposed to put p-p-pressure on-n on an open wound”.
Were those tears Morty could feel falling into his hair?
He let out a hollow hum, grasping loosely at Rick’s lab coat, leaving small, red Morty-shaped fingerprints down the side. His voice beginning to fade in an out of his consciousness.
“Morty, mOrty, you brain-dead turd. Stay with me.” Rick said sharply, fear spiking. His arms curling tighter around him.
He groaned, trying in vain to keep his quickly closing eyes open, the world twisting and blurring before him. Latching onto the broken parts of Rick’s train of thought that escaped from under his breath.
“Losing so much blood. J-jesus Christ Morty, w-what did they do to…”
Rick effortlessly picked Morty up, bundling the small boy in his arms; his lab coat used to stanch the bleeding, looking every part the fragile fourteen year old the boy was. He grimaced; Rick was no doctor, and he was nihilistic at worst, and pessimistic at best.
“Y-y-ou can’t die here Morty, you h-heAr me? You fuUckin’ p-pr-promised you asshole. Rick and Morty for a hundred years.” He said, almost whispering to the unconscious boy. A sobering feeling of determination washing over him.
His bones seemingly creaked under the weight, but every step had purpose now. He pulled out his portal gun; lime-green hues of light spilling out across his face. Light reflecting up in the crystal shards around them.
Morty, although breathing; was unresponsive in his arms. Shame and anger rolled over him like waves.
“D-don’t, don’t forgive me, Morty."