"Um… hello?" Morty called out uncertainly, his knuckles tapping quietly at the wood of the door. His eyes flashed back to the spaceship, where Rick was passed out atop a small mountain of bottles.

Why had the autopilot brought them here? Morty shivered in the cold as he waited, possibly in vain, for someone to answer. He rubbed at the gooseflesh covering his bare arms. 'Mystery Shack,' he read again. The letter S had fallen from the roof, leaving the sign to display a rather less impressive 'Mystery hack.'

"Whaddya want?" a grizzled voice growled from inside. A light flickered on in the window after a quick, static protest.

"Oh! You're home. Um… h-hello," Morty said to the door. He wondered what time it was in this universe. Three in the morning? Four?

"Yeah," the voice yawned disinterestedly. The door opened a crack, revealing a large, dark silhouette of a man. "This better be important."

"Yeah, well, you see, um, the thing is-" Morty stammered.

"I haven't got all night, kid."

"S-sorry. It's just…" He might as well just say it, he reasoned. "Can we park our spaceship here tonight?"

There was a pause. "Your what?"

"Oh, well, m-my grandpa Rick and I were going, well, somewhere, and he… er, he fell asleep. So, I put it on autopilot and-"

"Whoa, back up. What?" The man opened the door fully, exposing himself to the cool night air. He was old.

"Heh, yeah," Morty said nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's a real spaceship, it's right over there-"

"No, no, who did you say you were with?" the man asked. His face was deadly serious.

"Um… my grandpa?"

"Your grandpa who?"

"My grandpa R-rick."

The old man was silent for a long time. He seemed to be thinking hard about something. The woods breathed quietly. Morty shivered.

"Does your last name happen to be Sanchez?"

Rick Sanchez woke up with a hangover. That wasn't new.

What was new was the couch. And the wood cabin walls. And the ancient cable television across the room, and the – oh god, he was going to be sick. He threw off the blanket that covered him – when had that gotten there? – and stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom.

When he had finished throwing up, he pillowed his head on his arms and curled up against the cool porcelain of the toilet. A large, warm hand hesitantly patted his shoulders. Somehow, he wasn't surprised.

"Stan Pines," he rasped.

"Rick," Stan's voice acknowledged.

"B-been a while," Rick mumbled into the toilet.

"You haven't changed a bit."

Rick choked out a painful, raw laugh. He spat into the toilet once more for good measure, and leaned back against the wall. "I got old. Speak for yourself."

Stan wrung his hands for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Look, I'm sure we need to have a talk, but uh, there's coffee in the kitchen. If you want it."

"Thanks," Rick muttered. Something tugged at the back of his mind. "Hey, uh… have you seen my ki- my grandson?"

Stan's hands curled into fists, then flexed. "Morty? He's running around with my great, ah, my niece and nephew."

Rick looked up at the other man. For a long time, the two simply stared at each other, taking in new wrinkles and folds. Then Stan sighed, flushed the toilet, and offered Rick a hand up.

"Come on," he said. "Coffee, then talk."

"And THEN we escaped in a golf cart!" Mabel Pines exclaimed, making a wide motion with her hands. "I'm telling you Morty, twins are the way to go."

Morty laughed as Mabel pulled her brother Dipper into an aggressive hug.

"I do have a sister," he said, "but she's too old for this kind of stuff."

"Sisters are the worst," Dipper agreed amiably as he skillfully evaded Mabel's noogie.

"Hey!" Mabel laughed. "Get back here."

Morty smiled and leaned his elbows on the gift shop counter. "So h-have you two lived here your whole lives?"

"In the Mystery Shack? Ha!" Mabel scoffed.

"Our parents sent us here for the summer," Dipper explained.

"Whoa," Morty said. "I wish m-my parents had sent me somewhere cool for a whole summer."

"You mean you never went on vacation? That's lame," Mabel said.

"Mabel!" Dipper frowned.

"It's all right," Morty shrugged. "Besides, my grandpa takes me on some pretty cool adventures."

"You mean the weird old guy passed out on the couch?" Mabel asked.

Morty scratched the back of his neck. "Um-"

"Mabel!" Dipper exclaimed again, punching her lightly on the arm. "Sorry, she doesn't have much tact."

She stuck her tongue out at her brother.

"No, no, i-it's fine," Morty hastily reassured the twins. "In fact, he has been acting pretty weird lately. I mean, w-weirder than normal." He frowned.

"Do you think he's been possessed by aliens?" Mabel asked with a grin.

"I don't think aliens possess people," Morty said with a shake of his head.

"Dude, you took that question way too seriously," stated the shopkeeper from the corner of the room. Morty startled – he hadn't realized anyone was there. "I'm Soos," the boy – he was almost a man – announced, after a long, somewhat awkward pause.

"Soos actually has a point." Dipper raised an eyebrow. "You, uh, believe in aliens?"

"W-well, uh," Morty said, suddenly self-conscious. "Aliens? I mean – c-come on, right?" He tried to laugh off the question.

Dipper grabbed him by the arm and looked him in the eye, expression suddenly fierce. His voice dropped a few notches. "Do you believe in aliens?"

"Ow," Morty mumbled, more out of shock than actual pain. "Geez, um, I guess so? Why?"

"Are you here to spy on us?" Dipper accused. His grip on Morty's arm tightened.

"Hey!"

"Dipper, cut it out," Mabel said. "If they were here to hurt us, they'd have done it last night."

"She's got a point, dude," Soos interjected, munching on a chip – though Morty didn't remember him having food a second ago. "Plus their spaceship is a wreck."

Dipper released Morty's arm. "Yeah, I guess Mabel does have – wait, their what?"

"Um…" Morty rubbed at his skin and took a step or two back.

"You have a spaceship?" Mabel gushed, a huge grin breaking out across her face.

"Heh, yeah, well – d-do you want to see? I-I'm sure Rick won't mind, much."

"So what brings you to my neck of the woods?" Stan asked warily, watching Rick over the rim of his coffee mug. Rick ran his fingers over the ceramic of his own glass for a few seconds, grateful for the warmth. Should he tell him the truth?

Better not.

"Just reliving the good- the glory days, Lee." He put on his best fake smile. "I miss my favorite groupie."

Stan's face was stoic. Rick's charm slid off him like water from an oiled duck. "Is that all I was to you? A groupie?"

Rick frowned, realizing his error. He backtracked. "No, no, of course not. Stanley, I-"

"No, you listen up." Stan's voice was deadly serious. His eyes shifted around the room, making sure there were no prying eyes or ears. "I don't know why you're here, Sanchez. If you want money, just take it. But I can't let you stay here."

"What?" Rick's brow furrowed into a sharp 'V.' He shook his head. "I don't want your money." He scoffed. "You'd never give it to me anyway."

"Then you'd better have a darn good reason for showing up passed out on my doorstep."

Rick took a breath. "L-look, it's hard to explain, exactly-"

"I've got all morning."

Rick fidgeted in his seat. "Two days. That's all I need, just two days to fix up my ship, then I'll – we'll leave you alone, I swear-"

"You left me already, Rick."

Rick shut his eyes. "Yeah. About that. I'm… sorry."

Stan waited a second or two for the other man to continue. When no response appeared to be forthcoming, he asked, "Is that it? A half-assed apology and you expect me to just let you crash here, no questions asked?" He crossed his arms across his chest.

Rick sighed. "Look, I know you're angry with me, and I can't- I don't blame you. But… please. I-I'm begging you. Just two days to sort things out."

Stan raised an eyebrow. "Was that a 'please?'"

Rick leaned back self-consciously in his chair. "Yeah. So what?"

There was a long, pregnant pause.

"What's the real reason you're here, Rick?"

The grey-haired man sighed. The truth, then. Better get on with it.

"Beth is dead," he said in a flat voice.

The shack was quiet in the way only a cabin in the woods can be. Pine needles rustled against a window upstairs. The sound of laughter could be heard very faintly from somewhere just beyond the driveway.

"Little Beth?" Stan sucked in a breath.

Rick looked at the ceiling. "Yeah. Little Beth."

"Geez, I'm… I'm sorry." He shifted his arms, feeling a bit guilty about his earlier accusations.

"I don't know how to tell Morty," Rick confessed into his coffee. "I-I ran because I couldn't – it was too horrible."

Stan's expression was unreadable. He adjusted his glasses. He was quiet for a long time.

"Well, get- come on," Rick hissed, annoyed. "Tell me I'm wrong. T-tell me I did a bad thing here."

Stan sighed, scratching his nose. "I dunno. It seems to me you just didn't want the kid to feel the same thing you felt."

"That's stupid," the scientist said, shaking his head. "My feelings are irrelevant. It just didn't- I didn't want- look, it wasn't something a kid should see, okay?" Rick sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "God. Screw this." He put down his coffee and reached for his hip flask.

"Hey!" Stan jumped up, lumbering toward Rick and snatching the flask from his fingers. "Drinking won't help."

Rick sniffed again. A drop of salt water snuck down his cheek. "You think I care? Drinking numbs me."

Stan observed him for a long moment. He was thinner than Stan remembered. "You- you gotta stop that," the con artist said after a moment, "because you're breaking my heart, Rick."

The kitchen was quiet for a long, uncomfortable minute.

"Give me my flask," Rick said in a low voice, without even a hint of his usual stutter.

"No," Stan replied in a flat voice.

"Give. Me. My. Flask."

"No, Rick. It's not even noon."

Rick wiped the moisture from his cheeks and stood. He walked threateningly toward Stan, hands curling into fists.

"Really?" Stanley scoffed. "Do you really want to go there?" Nevertheless, he stood to meet him, flexing his fingers.

"Not if you give my flask back to me."

"Then I guess you're going to have to fight me. Because I won't let- oof!" Stan stumbled back a step, Rick's punch to the chest catching him off guard. "Now, that wasn't very fair."

"Life isn't fair," Rick stated, throwing another quick jab at his chin. Stan ducked it skillfully. The punches weren't hard enough to do much damage, but Rick was the sort of person who won fistfights through sheer force of will.

Stan tucked the flask deep into his pocket. "Can we at least do this outside?" he huffed, acutely aware of the number of breakable objects around them. In response, Rick grabbed his mug of coffee, flinging the now-lukewarm liquid into the other man's face.

"Still not fair," Stan sputtered. "Oh, no you don't!"

Rick was reaching for Stan's pocket. Stan smacked his hand away, but otherwise kept his own hands locked in a defensive stance. He deflected the scientists' blows easily.

Rick threw the coffee mug at him. Stan ducked that too, and the heavy glass went flying through the closed window behind him, sending shards of glass flying into the front yard.

"You're paying for that," the shopkeeper said without missing a beat.

"All right!" Soos's voice yelled from outside. "Old dudes fighting!"

"Aw geez, Rick!" Morty yelled, tripping as he ran back across the gravel driveway toward the shack. "Rick, s-s-stop!" The broken glass of the window crunched under his shoes as he approached the kitchen.

Rick continued assaulting Stan. "No way, M-Morty. He's a thief!" He punctuated the word with a swift kick.

Stan sidestepped the attack and rolled his eyes. He deflected a few more punches. "Don't worry, kiddo. I'd beat this old man in a fight any day."

Rick laughed breathlessly. "Yeah, right. He hasn't even… tried to punch me. He's afraid that… I'd really hurt him."

"Terrified," Stan agreed amiably. He expertly blocked a punch to his face with the back of his arm.

Morty's gaze shifted between the two of them, confusion scrawled all over his face. "W-w-why is he a thief, Rick?"

"He's a…" Rick gulped in a breath before throwing his weight into another kick. "He's a con artist, Morty. And he… stole my flask."

Stan evaded the kick easily, and Rick stumbled across the room, knocking his hip against the edge of the sink. "Fuck," he hissed, before limping angrily back across the kitchen. He chased the kick with a fierce left uppercut.

Stan caught his wrist in a steel grip just millimeters from his chin. "That's more than enough fighting, don't you think?" he growled.

Rick's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His shoulders slumped downward. "Lee," he whispered. Without warning, his body convulsed in a vicious sob.

"Yep," Stan muttered, pulling Rick into a hug. "Yep. I've gotcha." He smoothed his hands up the other man's back and neck, fingers burrowing into surprisingly soft grey hair.

"Rick?!" Morty shouted, alarmed. "Oh man oh man oh man." He oscillated on the driveway for a moment before running inside through the front door. In a few seconds he had found his way into the kitchen, slamming the door open against the wall with a loud bang.

Morty's grandfather slouched over, burying his face between Stan's neck and shoulder. His arms snaked around the other man.

"Rick!" the boy yelled, jogging over and touching his back. "I-is he okay? What happened?" he asked Stan frantically.

"N-nothing," Rick groaned with a loud sniff. He straightened his back and made a show of wiping his right eye. "Except…" With his left eye, he winked subtly at Morty. "I got my flask back! Run for your life!"

"Huh?" Morty suddenly found a heavy piece of cold metal thrust into his hands. "Rick," he complained. "W-what's going on?"

"C'mon, Mort," Rick cajoled from the other end of the room. "How's about a game of keep-away?"

Stan sighed, making no move to take the flask from Morty. "How do you put up with him?" he asked the kid. Shaking his head, he walked into the hallway, returning a few moments later with a broom and dustpan. "Make sure no one comes in here barefoot for a few minutes, would you?" He began to sweep up the remains of the broken window.

"What even… ah, geez," Morty sighed, putting the flask down firmly on the counter. "Can I, y'know, help clean up or something?"

Stan ruffled his hair affectionately. "It's not your mess, kiddo."

When Morty turned around to give the flask back to his grandpa, it had vanished.