"H-hey, um," Morty stammered. His grandfather sat in the dim sunset shadows adorning the garage, attention fixed upon his workbench. It seemed things had finally quieted down.

"What?" Rick's voice was free of its usual stutter. His flask, despite his earlier thirst for vodka, was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm, y'know. Sorry," the boy offered quietly.

"Sorry for what?"

"That I..." Morty blushed a deep crimson. "Oh, geez. I'm sorry that I shot you."

"Don't worry about it," Rick said, waving away the apology without even looking at his grandson. He poured a drop of something into a beaker full of something else.

"Y-y-you're not angry?"

"No," Rick said. And it was true. He did feel... something. But it wasn't anger.

"But-"

"Look, Morty," Rick cut in exasperatedly. "If I didn't want you to shoot me I wouldn't have given you the gun."

Morty shuffled in place, wanting to say something but not quite feeling brave enough to give it a voice. Rick was having none of it.

"My god, what?" He turned to give Morty a vicious glare.

"Oh, I-I-I, um, well you see, I-"

"Spit it out."

Morty blanched. "I didn't read the note," he squeaked. "On the gun. I didn't read it."

Rick was quiet for some time. He faced his workstation.

"I know," he finally muttered.

"You... knew? This whole time?"

"What do you take me for, some kind of... some kind of... average-minded person?" Morty raised an eyebrow. It was a weak comeback and both of them knew it. The scientist brought his sleeve to his face, wiping away what might have been spit, or perhaps was something else entirely. When he turned to face his grandson again, his eyes were tinged the faintest shade of pink, though his face was stoic.

"I left the note for Summer. Not you."

"So... wait, what?" Morty's brain shifted up another gear. He looked hurt. "You knew I would shoot you? R-regardless of the note?"

Rick unconsciously rubbed his forehead. "Yeah."

The sound of Beth rummaging through the kitchen for another drink could be heard through the thin garage walls. A few cars passed by outside.

Morty's eyes stung. "Why would you let me do that to you?"

Rick's shoulder's slumped forward just a fraction, barely enough to be noticeable. He looked strangely sober.

"You know why."

Morty choked on a sob. Then, without warning, he flung a fist. His knuckles connected sloppily with Rick's cheekbone, eliciting a sharp thud. Morty's grandfather probed the injury with a forefinger, then turned to face his grandson with a curiously blank expression.

"Is that it?" he asked, opening his arms in an invitation to continue.

Morty made a horrible noise. "Oh god, R-r-r-"

"Come on," Rick egged him on. "Is that all you got?" The skin around his eye was already beginning to blacken. It hurt.

"Rick, I'm, I'm sorry Rick," Morty cried.

"No," Rick pronounced slowly. "You want me dead. Out of the picture." It wasn't an accusation; simply a statement of truth.

"No! No, never. I-"

"You shot me, M-Morty."

If he was being fair with himself, the punch had hurt more than the actual (fake) gunshot. But it was the principle of the thing that counted, and his own grandson had actively tried to kill him.

His eye was beginning to water. He told himself it was just the pain from the bruise.

"R-Rick," Morty hiccupped. The teenager's face was coated in salt tears. Rick stood stiffly, watching him snivel. He turned his gaze to the concrete, feeling hollow.

"I'd let you shoot me a hundred times," he croaked. It wasn't the kind of statement that could be made easily, and he turned his back to the boy, focusing his attention once more on the experiment sprawled along the workstation.

"Rick, no," Morty sobbed. "I would- I would never-"

The old man ignored him.

"C'mon, Rick... Rick, please..."

When Rick moved the beaker from one end of the workbench to the other, his hand shook. Morty brushed his knuckles with his fingertips.

"Please t-talk to me," he begged.

Rick shook his head, not trusting his voice. His eyes remained downcast. Morty bit back another sob.

"We don't have to a-actually talk," he suggested brokenly.

"You're contradicting yourself, M-Mort-"

Morty threw his arms around his grandfather.

"Morty," Rick finished in a whisper, his voice cracking. He didn't dare reach up to wipe his eyes. He shivered involuntarily.

"I'm sorry," Morty wailed against his back, voice muffled by the thick white fabric of his lab coat. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm-"

"Holy shit, would you shut up already?" Rick squirmed out of his grasp, leaving his grandson gasping and clutching at air. He stood and, a bit more gently, wrapped his arms around Morty. The boy burrowed into his sternum.

"I'm s-so sorry," Morty wept.

"Fucking broken record," Rick remarked hoarsely. He cleared his throat, squeezing the kid a bit tighter.

Morty cried until he couldn't anymore. The sun gradually disappeared, leaving the garage dark and cool. Rick pulled his grandson even closer, grateful for the warmth of his smaller body.

"What was prison like?" Morty eventually asked in a tiny voice. The brush of his lips against Rick's blue polyester shirt elicited a shiver from the older man.

Rick thought for a moment. "Lonely," he decided.

"Did they... do anything to you?"

Rick chuckled drily. "Nothing I wasn't prepared for."

There was an awkward pause.

"Are, uh, are you okay?" Morty whispered.

No answer.

"Rick..." he sighed.

"Does it matter?" Rick bristled.

"Yes!" Morty squeaked angrily. "Yes it matters." He pulled away and looked up at his grandfather. Rick looked old. His eye - the one that wasn't blackened and swollen - was ringed with purple, tired skin. His mouth was taut at the corners.

And he was crying.

He didn't hide his face. He was tired of hiding, tired of running. But he averted his gaze all the same, vision blurring as he looked toward the floor, toward the ceiling, in every direction but Morty's.

"Fuck," Morty whispered, feeling guilty. He brought a hand up to Rick's face, brushing the wet trail aside with his thumb. Rick reflexively reached up, catching the boy's fingers in his own.

"What have you done to me?" the old man asked in a broken whisper, not expecting an answer.

"I'm sorry," Morty mumbled again, ashamed.

Rick inhaled shakily. "It's okay."

"No, it isn't."

Rick's eyes squeezed tightly shut. He whimpered. His body ached, his eye hurt, and he was so, so tired. For a blessed moment, Morty wove his fingers through his own. Then the boy was crying again. Rick bit back his own discomfort like he always did, and pulled his grandson close.

"Shh," he whispered, trying to soothe Morty as well as himself. "God damn, kid," he breathed.

"I don't know w-w-what else to say."

"Don't say anything," Rick murmured, rocking them forward and back. His arms snaked around the teen's shoulders, and Morty snuggled closer.

"Why don't you hate me?"

"Why would I?" Rick asked, surprisingly tender.

"Even after I tried to..."

"To kill me?"
"Yeah," Morty answered rather obviously. "And for what? For saying something annoying? I felt so much... so much loathing that I just... I couldn't help it."

"Yeah," Rick sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"You tried to make me hate you... on purpose?"

Rick searched his eyes. His grandson was so vulnerable.

"Don't worry about it, kiddo."

"I don't... I don't hate you, Rick."

Rick sniffed, and waited a long time to speak again. "I know."

Morty worked up some courage. "Do you hate me?"

"Morty."

"Just answer the question." He hid his face in the fabric of Rick's lab coat again.

"I..." Rick's voice broke. "No," he admitted. "No, I don't hate you."

Morty sighed. "Good," he breathed with relief.

Rick pressed his lips to the crown of Morty's head.

"You're a good kid, Morty."