So I finished Rick and Morty like 3 days ago and this is basically my descent into hiatus-hell. Glad to see all of you here.

If you get really queasy really easily, highly recommend that you don't really read. If you wanna skip over that part, just go to the first "-X-" symbol and read from there.

Also, it's supposed to take place anywhere between the realm of 1x05 and 1x08.

Semi-based on a piece of artwork from mmishee-art on Tumblr.

I own nothing. Enjoy.

It must've been about one-thirty when Morty jolted awake.

He didn't know what woke him; the thunder, the lightning, or the depressing dream that had plagued his head for the past week. It could have been any of them, really. But they kept coming, wave after wave of bad dreams that pounded through his mind like a tsunami. At first they started small, like the many times that he had to outrun the monster of the week with his grandfather bolting away from him, drunkenly telling him to make a break for it without seeing if his grandson was keeping up. But those were standard at this point, and if anything they no longer scared him. But they would always escalate into something bigger. Those events that were less common yet more terrifying. Some nights, Morty could still feel the stabbing pain in his legs when he had broken them falling off that cliff. There was one night where he recalled nearly dying to fucking e-coli inside the body of a naked homeless Santa.

The Cronenbergs were usually what finished the dreams off. Hideous renditions of his friends and neighbors slithering and wailing around on the ground as the world went to shit. He remembered sitting on top of the town hall with Rick trying to comfort him. He offered him a taste from his flask, which Morty turned down. Then they set to blaming each other for what had happened before his grandfather had declared that they had only one way to fix this mess. One way that Morty didn't realize how fucked up it would be until they got there.

How many times would he have to see his own body decaying on the ground, guts spattered everywhere? How many times would he remember washing the blood off the walls and ceiling of the garage? How many times would he see himself dragging his lifeless corpse to the backyard for a messy burial with Rick? How many times would he remember that his grandfather wasn't even fazed by burying his own dead self? Morty groaned and rolled over, trying to no avail to block out his bad thoughts.

There were times during the day where he would glance over his shoulder to see the two sloppy graves he and Rick had dug for themselves. He sat twenty yards from them at breakfast, and he could feel the ghosts of gazes down his back during his efforts to ignore them. It made him feel dirty when he looked at his mother and father and sister when he knew that they weren't really them. That in reality, in his reality, they were all probably dead. This house wasn't his, this town was his, this world wasn't his. The only thing that remained from his own dimension was his goddamn grandfather, who didn't seem to care that they had abandoned their friends and family to a life as mutations. Rick went about his days as usual, drinking and shutting himself in the newly cleaned garage to work on inventions that were and weren't his. Morty felt disconnected: trapped in a world that wasn't and was never going to belong to him again.

Morty sighed, a hopeless attempt to bury his dark memories once and for all, and fished around on his nightstand for his phone. He groped around for it but after a few useless slaps to the table he realized that it was missing. Great.

When he raised his head, Morty noticed that the door was cracked open a touch. That was strange- he usually closed it. It was like someone had snuck in and tried to close the door behind them but failed.

It didn't take a genius to put two and two together, and that was what sent Morty out of his bed, grumbling and rubbing his eyes. He felt around on the ground and threw on a yellow shirt and jeans from some previous endeavor. Acutely aware that he'd be in big trouble for being up so late (even if it was just a Saturday), Morty tiptoed out into the hallway. Mumbling practiced curses under his breath, Morty made for Rick's room.

"Lo-l-look Rick," he was already reprimanding him, his voice sagging with the effort to stay awake, "you can't just take-."

Morty stopped as the door swung open. His grandfather's cot was messily made but not looking slept in recently. He wasn't here, that much was obvious. The various papers that Rick had hanging all over his tiny room were lined up in some sort of erratic pattern, which made it more obvious when one of them was missing. Right there, in the corner of the room, was that blank spot. Was that the blueprints for the trans-dimensional microphone? No…Rick didn't have the materials for that yet. Morty narrowed his eyes in contemplation, his mind trying to work out where Rick was and which scheme he was trying to fulfill in the dead of night without him. In the end, whatever ideas that popped into his head were snuffed out. They always were.

Morty sniffed, disappointment overshadowing his annoyance. He thought of going back to his room and asking where Rick was in the morning, but the nagging curiosity in the back of his mind told him to try downstairs. Maybe Rick was just passed out at his workbench, face-deep in a bottle of some alien alcohol. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time.

And so, Morty crept down the stairs, making sure to avoid the parts he knew that creaked underfoot. He passed through the living room and the kitchen. As he walked by the kitchen table and the sliding glass doors to the backyard, he dared a glance across the lawn.

He couldn't see it—there was too much rain coming down tonight-but he knew it was there. Morty shivered, clenched his fists, and moved on. He could feel his dark thoughts resurfacing, hear them shift in the back of his mind.

Morty unconsciously picked up his pace as he made for the garage door and opened it. Inside was more of the same. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. Morty crossed the room, ignoring the chills bursting on the bottom of his uncovered feet, and opened the first drawer on the top right. When Rick didn't keep his portal gun in his room, he kept it in here, but opening it revealed nothing. Morty sighed bitterly.

Rick never had a problem with waking him up in the dead of night on a school night, nor putting him in mortal danger when he did so. What made this time any different?

That disappointment was ebbing away now; Morty could feel it turning into something else. He collapsed in the stool next to Rick's worktable and slammed his arms down on the top, no longer caring about discretion.

As he did so, a bottle of whatever liquid Rick last had to drink wobbled dangerously. Morty reached out and grabbed the neck of the bottle to steady it so it wouldn't fall and shatter, because that would definitely wake the rest of his family up.

As Morty sat there, clutching the neck of that bottle, something inside of him stirred. It growled deep in the pit of his stomach, angry and sour. Morty gripped the bottle of liquor tighter still, feeling the anger spread into his arms and head. An image of Rick appeared before him, burping and drinking, not caring.

He sat up and headed into the kitchen, grabbing several cans of soda from the fridge and a plastic cup that belonged to him or Summer when they were babies. Upon returning to the garage, Morty seized the bottle and inspected the label. Everclear, 190 proof. Morty had no idea what 190 proof meant, nor did he care.

He poured the cup halfway with soda and halfway with Everclear and downed the whole thing in a minute. The soda did nothing to temper the bitterness of the alcohol, and Morty thought he was going to cough the whole thing up. It scorched the back of his throat and made his eyes water. His mind, so apprehensive not so long ago, was now fading into some sort of slumber until it was peacefully resting, not thinking about Rick or the family or the graves.

Morty cracked open another can of soda and poured whatever remained of the Everclear into the cup and drank deeply again. When he finished, he reached for the cabinet where he knew his grandfather kept his drinks and threw it open. Inside were about three dozen bottles, most of them nearly full. Morty grabbed the first bottle he could get his hands on.

He sat on Rick's stool and drank as much as he could, as fast as he could. When the soda ran out, Morty simply started to drink start from the bottle. When the alcohol ran dry or if they tasted too gross, Morty abandoned it on the table and picked out another one from Rick's never-ending supply. He didn't know how long he sat there, bottles clutched in his hand as he downed one drink after another. He drank until his vision blurred and his stomach clenched and his mind went from pleasantly fuzzy to painfully pounding. He eventually just set his chin down on Rick's workbench and stared at the analog clock his grandfather kept on top of one of the shelves. He spent his time alternating with new and different types of alcohol that did nothing to quell his swirling guts. As time passed, Morty became more and more dazed and uncoordinated until he just sat there, unmoving, on Rick's stool. He wiped away some drool from the corner of his lips as he drank something unlabeled, eyes never leaving the florescent greens of the clock.

It happened when the clock struck three forty-eight. A familiar bright green portal opened against the garage door, and Morty winced and turned away from the sudden light. Out popped Rick from the portal, who wasted no time in fiddling with the portal gun so the big green circle closed behind him. Morty stared, unreactive, as Rick grumbled a few choice words under his breath and dug out his flask. His grandfather smelled terrible, arid, like he had been to some sort of wasteland planet. The edges of his lab coat were slightly singed, as was a decent chunk of his hair (at least, Morty thought so; he couldn't see very clearly anymore).

Morty groaned. That was what finally caught Rick's attention.

"Oh, ah, Morty," Rick spun around on his heels with excitement, sending the drink in his flask sloshing wildly. "Morty, oh shit, Morty, you'll never guess what the hell's been happening tonight. I…-" he paused, finally noticing the state of his grandson. The bottle in his hands. The glazed eyes. "Is…Morty, is that-?"

And just like that, Morty felt his anger come to a head. He clenched his fists, lifted his head up off the table, and stared his grandfather right dead in the eyes. He nearly fell to the ground, wobbling dangerously on top of that stool like that, and was forced to grab the edge of the workbench to steady himself.

"Wh-wh-w-what is it, Ri-rick?" Morty snapped. "Do you…do y-you have a fu-f-fucking problem wi –hic- wi-with me?"

Rick didn't answer him, but he did look astonished, to say the least. Slowly, carefully, Rick replaced his flask back into the inner pockets of his lab coat. He opened his mouth, but Morty quickly cut across him.

"It…it, it's hard, y'k…know?" his words were so slurred together that they were almost ineligible. It made his usual stutter all the worse, until he was tripping over words he could usually say with no difficulty. At this point, even Morty had a hard time trying to understand what was coming out of his mouth. He found, however, that he couldn't stop. Not anymore. "I ca-urrrp-ca-came down and I –hic- thought 'ya…ya…y'k-know what? Maybe R-rick woul-w-would –hic- want…he-he'd want to t-take me on his…his bi-b-big ol' ad–hic-adventure.' B-but no, al-a-all I get are st-st-stupid dreams and…and-hic-and thou-thoughts that won't…they…they won't go away."

Rick kept his stony silence, so Morty continued on, his rage giving him strength. "Y-you kno-you k-know-hic-what, Rick? I dunno how…l-l-like, I du-urrp-nno how ya-you do it. You can just…j-just go-hic-go on a-and you-you just…and y-you jus-ust don't gi…gi-give a damn. So…I-I just thought tha…that, 'hey? If-if Rick ca-hic-…ca-can use th-this,'" he swung the bottle of alcohol wildly across his body, spilling what little remained in it on the floor. "'then may…may-maybe I can for-for-forget ab-urrp-about it too.' You, y-y'know, Rick? I mea-I mean, d-do you re-hic-eally know? The, the things I've see-seen? Th-the thing's I'-I've done? Just ho-how…I-I mean, ju-st how-hic-how fucked up i-it all is?"

Morty, against the little judgment that remained in his foggy head, stumbled off the stool and wobbled in the direction of his grandfather. He started to laugh. Uncontrollably. "I-i-it's that, I kn-kno-hic-know that I wouldn't b-be shit-sitting here, havi-havin' so…much…f-fun i-if I were sti-st-urrp-still, still alive. But…but no. I-I'm, I'm ou-out in the ba-b-ackyard. W-with…with yo-you, huh? Hav-hav-having so muc-hic-h f-fun! 'Cause we…y-y'kn-know, we always ha-a-ave so much–hic-fun. Like, I-I mean, I-I-I'm su-sure my parents a-and my si-urrp-sister are ha-hav-ving a fuckin' bla-ast without us. Y'kn-hic-know, if they…i-if they ar-ar-aren't dead."

He could have sworn he saw Rick avert his eyes for the briefest of moments.

Tears pricked the corners of Morty's vision. "I-I…ho-how, how c-hic-could you? Y-you aband-d-don the-them, a-and then we…we…we ca-am-came here an-and al-all I see are th-the…are the m-mon-hic-sters and th-the…it,it's all because o-o-of y-you-urrp-you."

There was a sudden lurch in his intestines that made Morty stop his staggering. He made an attempt to swallow it down, but it kept forcing it's way back up. Morty coughed a bit, still trying to look Rick in the eyes.

"You're a fu...fuck-fucking-hic-d-douche and I…I…-," but Morty couldn't get any further than that. He collapsed to his knees and proceeded to vomit. It all came up, spattering the garage floor and Rick's old loafers. When the first wave had passed, Morty tried to speak again but was slammed by another rush of nausea so much stronger than the first. He retched again, and again and again and again. He was crying, burping, hiccupping, and vomiting all at the same time, supporting himself on his hands and knees as the violent sickness kept coming.

Morty didn't look to see where his grandfather had gone. Deep down, he knew that Rick was probably going to be angry that he had broken into the garage, stolen his alcohol, and then vomited all over the floor and his shoes. And Morty deserved it, lying here on the ground like the world's youngest and most pathetic alcoholic. He sniffed angrily as another surge of sickness overtook him. Morty barely registered that there was now a soothing hand running up and down his back. "C'mon Morty," Rick's voice sounded very far away, like it was being spoken across dimensions, but Morty could still hear it nevertheless.

It was a lot softer than Morty was used to, unnatural even. His grandfather was usually vulgar and his voice was sharpened like a sword. But in his drunken state, all Morty was focused on was not slipping on his own puke and falling face-first into it. He kept coughing and crying and hacking, Rick kneeling at his side and rubbing semi-comforting circles over his back.

"C'mon. That's it. Get it all up. You'll feel better when you do."

It took fifteen minutes, but eventually Morty felt as though he had run himself dry. He still felt disgusting, and there was a wide puddle of vomit that needed to be cleaned up, but at least he was no longer retching. Morty shamefully rubbed away his tears with the back of his hand and made several futile attempts to stand, each time stumbling and falling back to his knees. His pants were drenched in sweat, liquor, and vomit, and his entire body was trembling. He was seeing everything in sets of threes and Morty couldn't remember feeling so terrified. Not when he broke his legs. Not when he ditched his home. Not when he watched his friends mutate in front of him.

Two arms unexpectedly hooked him from under his armpits and hauled him up off the floor. Morty, in too far gone of a state, hardly noticed that he was now on his own two feet. He looked up; his vision swam, the door to the house still so far away. He felt Rick give him a light shove from behind that nearly sent him to the floor again, and despite slipping and stumbling over himself, Morty managed to keep his feet. He ambled over to the garage door, unfocused, and made several inane attempts to open it. Finally, his grandfather must've had enough of his uselessness, because suddenly the door was open and Rick was guiding Morty into the kitchen. Not shoving this time. Guiding, with a hand on one shoulder to keep his grandson on a general course. A spark of confusion burst through Morty's mind, but it was gone so fast that he couldn't ponder it.

Rick sat Morty down at the kitchen table and disappeared into the darkened room, only to reappear a minute later with a hand towel. He gripped Morty under the chin and proceeded to clean his face. Morty let him, watching idly as his grandfather wiped away everything from his mouth and chin, be it vomit, spit, or alcohol. He quickly realized that Rick was not the gentlest person to ever clean a face, and he cringed when it got too rough. Rick would always retract the towel when he did so, but always resumed after Morty recovered, never stopping.

Morty glanced up, trying to see Rick's face clearly in the darkness and through the kaleidoscope that had become of his vision. His grandfather wore a look of pure apathy, his face unnaturally blank considering what had gone down only a few moments ago. He held Morty's chin up, looking his face over before dabbing at a spot that he missed. Morty felt tears burn in his eyes again and blinked them away in disgrace, not wanting Rick to look at him so closely.

Eventually, Rick released him and headed back into the kitchen, and Morty laid his head down on the kitchen table. Now that the worst of the nausea had passed over, all he wanted to do was to go back to bed. Maybe let out a few private sobs without the fear of his family watching over him. He heard the sound of a sink being turned on, then water gushing, and Morty raised his head up slightly just as Rick slid back into the room with a glass. As his grandfather pushed the cup in front of him, Rick tossed an aspirin into it. For a moment, Morty watched in childlike amazement as the pill fizzed and dissolved. He returned his attention to his grandfather, but Rick had since turned away.

Weakly, Morty reached out for the glass and started to drink it. It was slow going, because the glass was shaking so heavily in his unsteady hands and Morty felt so bloated and unclean and so, so tired. He eventually got it all down, and only then did Rick turn his gaze back to Morty. He jerked his head to the stairs. Morty blinked blearily, the haze of his thoughts slowing down his mind, but he eventually made to stand.

The stairs were harder that he anticipated. Morty's first attempt had him tripping over the first one and he was too drunk to even shout as he started to fall face first into them. And he would have, too, if Rick's fast reflexes hadn't allowed him to catch Morty in time. Without complaint, Rick then picked Morty off the ground and cradled him in his arms like he was a baby.

"L-le…let me d-down," Morty tried to protest, but found that he didn't have the strength to muster a stronger plea. Instead of responding, his grandfather merely shifted his grip on him. Thus, Morty was carried up the stairs like a toddler, quietly complaining the entire way.

"Jeez, Ri-rick. C'mon. I…I'm not a little kid. I ca-…I can walk by mys…self, Rick. I'm not…I-I'm n-not, I mean, I'm not a lit-little kid an-a-anymore."

Rick didn't relent, however. Morty eventually gave in, curling up in his grandfather's arms as he held him. It was almost comforting, he thought groggily, eyes half open as they reached the top of the stairs.

Rick was still silent as he pushed his way into Morty's room. Mory could feel the aspirin doing its work, making him feel tired and weighed down and blocking out the feelings of being in a stupor like he was not so long ago. As his grandfather laid him back in his bed, Morty curled up tighter still. When he felt the familiar touch of blankets on his back and shoulders, Morty gripped them hard and buried his face into his pillow. He was already so far gone at this point, but he could've sworn he felt the ruffling of his hair as his grandfather silently exited the room. Morty exhaled, his mind still swimming but now miraculously calm. He fell asleep not long after, greeted by nothing but dreamless slumbers.

-X-

It was daytime, and someone was screaming his name. Morty groaned and tried to bury his head deeper into his pillows but it was futile. There was a sudden knock on the door, physically and mentally jarring.

"Wake up, dumbass! Do you want to sleep like a groundhog all day!?"

Summer. God, of course it would be her. Morty shifted himself around under his covers, longing to disappear into them.

There was more knocking at his door. This time, Summer raised her voice. "Get up, Morty! It's noon! Dad sent me to wake you up!"

Noon? How had time gone by so fast? Morty tried to remember what made him wake up and what happened last night, but the memories were avoiding him. All that he had as a memento to whatever went down was a pounding headache, and Morty rubbed his temples in agony. He vaguely recalled being in the garage last night. Maybe there were clues there? When he climbed out of bed, his jeans and shirt had a bunch of weird stains on them and smelled appalling. Now he was really concerned, because he never slept with his clothes on and he couldn't recall getting so filthy. Again he tried to dig up his memories from last night (how hard could that be? It was just few hours ago) and found that he still couldn't. Resigned, Morty stripped and went to change into something fresh.

Morty went downstairs in a daze, his head hurting worse than he would ever admit. The remaining four members of his family sat around the table, eating together. Summer had her nose buried in her phone, and looked up for a brief moment only to return her gaze back to whoever she was texting. His mother and father were discussing something over the paper, job offers most likely. Rick was slipping alcohol into his coffee, taking advantage of everyone's momentary distractions and knowing full well that Morty was never going to rat him out.

Beth and Jerry Smith both looked over to their son as he got down to the table, but then did a double-take. "Jeez, kid, you alright?" his father asked, concerned. "You look like, well, a mess."

"Jerry!"

"What? I'm just saying, Beth."

Morty shook his head to dismiss their fears, rubbing his temples as he did so. "No, I-I think I just ha-had some bad dreams, that's all," he groaned.

Jerry raised an eyebrow. "Well, what kind of dreams?"

Before Morty could come up with an excuse, his grandfather intervened. "A-plus parenting there, Jerry. Asking a kid who's been having bad dreams to recall whatever deep psychological pains they've been trying to shove down, then make them repeat it in front of his family in gratuitous detail."

His father looked slightly taken aback. "I was just thinking-."

"Ha," Rick snorted before burying his face back into his breakfast. "Wouldn't that be a first?"

Summer let out a single harsh laugh without taking her eyes off her phone, her only sign of attentiveness to the conversation. Jerry looked lost, yet instead of bringing the conversation back up decided to delve back into the newspaper. Beth went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a large plate of scrambled eggs and about four sausage links.

As she placed it in front of Morty, he gave her a confused look. "Why…why eggs?"

Beth shrugged. "It was your grandfather's choice of breakfast today. I was all set to make pancakes but he changed his mind this morning."

"It can happen on the turn of a dime, sweetie," Rick spoke up again. "Some days, you're in a pancake mood. Others, it's an egg mood. I'm like the fucking Anne Hathaway of breakfast foods, Morty."

"More like the hungover Anne Hathaway of breakfast foods," Summer mumbled next to Morty. If Rick heard her, he ignored her.

Morty sighed and started to pick through his eggs. They weren't too bad, but they were a touch on the greasy side. His mom always put too much butter in the pan when she made them. He ate listlessly, trying to keep his eyes downcast as his parents discussed employment options to his right and his sister clicked through her phone on his left.

After a while, he raised his head to look out into the backyard. It was still overcast, but the rain had finally run it's course. The two patches of dirt in the corner were beginning to sag with the weight of the water it absorbed. Morty could feel his hands begin to shake and tried to shove as many sausage links into his mouth as he could in an effort to distract himself. Perhaps choking on breakfast foods would be a good way to block out the resurfacing memories. He could feel his face reddening from the regret and humiliation.

"Morty. Hey,-urrrp- Morty. Come on. Don't ignore me, Morty."

Morty tore his gaze away from the graves to glance at his grandfather. Rick was standing and clearing his plate, a growing smile on his face. "Come on you du–urrrp- dummy. We're supposed to be going to get the parts for my trans-dimensional microphone today, remember?"

Not really. Rick hadn't mentioned it for a week at least. "I don…I don't know Rick. I mean, I'm pretty tired. I just kinda want to go back to bed."

"That's quitter talk, Morty," Rick retorted, seizing him by the forearm and nearly yanking him off the chair. "I think some fresh space air will do you some-urrrp- so…some good."

Getting the idea that his grandfather wasn't going to stop pulling on him until he agreed, Morty stood up, pushed his chair in, and reluctantly trailed after Rick to the garage.

Somewhere deep in his mind, Morty wondered why he was so on edge going into the garage, especially after his grandfather opened the door to reveal the normal room just the way it was. It wasn't particularly clean; hell, it never really was, but some nagging thought told him that it shouldn't be like this.

"Hey, hey, er-um, Rick," Morty stammered as Rick fiddled with the portal gun, "did, um…did something ha-happen last night?"

Rick shot him an annoyed look. "Why the hell would I k-urrp -know, Morty. What, Morty, do you think I just, like, I just look around in the dead of night and wonder 'jeez, I wonder what my family is doing at this hour'? No, Morty, you see, I've got-urrp-I've got better things to do with my time."

A pang disappointment echoed through Morty, who shoved his hands in his pockets as his grandfather rummaged around the garage in search of something. He could feel his skin crawl uneasily.

"Hey, oh, Morty, I almost forgot. Here."

Morty looked up just in time to see Rick toss something his way. He yelped childishly and stuck out his hands, bobbling the thing a little but still succeeding in catching it.

It was his phone.

"I made some improvements to it last night," Rick answered the questions before Morty could ask them. "Had to go to some other dimen-urrp-sions to find the parts. Thought, you know, I thought I'd surprise you."

Morty carefully flipped his phone over in his hands and turned it on. Where there should have been bars in the upper left, there was now just a small symbol he didn't recognize.

"It's not-urrp-it's not much, but I figured that, you know, if you ever get your sorry ass lost in space, then at least I don't have to worry about Verizon dropping my call."

"Jeez, Rick, I…thanks."

"Don't thank me," Rick snapped, perhaps less harshly than he usually did. "If I lost you in some other dimension, then I couldn't care less. Your, um… your mother gave me the idea, and she'd have me hanging up by my ears if I left you behind."

And with that, somehow, Morty found it in him to smile. It was a weary one, one that he found it took effort to hold, but it felt good to do it. Rick had never been a wordsmith, but there were times that he never really needed to be.

Rick and Morty, for a hundred years…

Rick finally finished with the portal gun and pulled the trigger so a bright green portal erupted on the garage door. "You ready to go, Morty?" he asked.

Morty nodded.

"Good, because I know some people from these parts who run pawn shops, and let's just say that they do not agree with the way your grandpa plays poker."

-X-

Rick took in one last glance of his sleeping grandson as the door closed behind him. He shook his head slightly, sighing soft enough that only he could hear, and went to stumble back to his room. He ran a hand through his hair, or what little remained from it. That bald spot was always going to persist, but his singed hair was going to be difficult to grow back, and Rick hated having the top of his head so exposed.

He paused halfway down the hall, thinking back to the garage. Beth'd kill him if she found any evidence of her son having a drunken episode at four in the morning. Plus, he was wide awake and less drunk than he usually was. Might as well make quick work of the thing.

Rick trudged back to the garage and threw the door back open to reveal his workspace. The shining pool of vomit was running slightly on the sloped garage floor. Nothing his particle beam wristwatch couldn't clean up. His cabinet of alcohol had been thrown open and at least ten bottles of liquor and soda were open and strewn about. For a moment, Rick felt the tiniest pricks of guilt in his gut, but it was quickly silenced when he opened his flask and drained the remainder of it's contents.

After five minutes of careful firing, the vomit was finally cleaned up. So much easier than getting on his hands and knees and mopping it up like he was in the Stone Age. With that out of the way, Rick wheeled over the recycling can and began to poke through the warzone that had become of his workspace.

He inspected the cabinet to see what had been hit the hardest. Of course, Morty couldn't have just grabbed the two buck Chuck he kept on the side for emergencies and gotten drunk off of bargain brand wine like a normal person. No, he had to go for the good shit. Oh well, Rick couldn't really fault him for having good taste, at the very least.

Rick picked up one of the first bottles he saw on his desk and felt a twinge of annoyance when he saw the label. Damnit. Morty had drained the last of his Everclear. Shame, really, because that shit wasn't cheap. Rick shook his head, tossed it into the recycling, and began to paw through what else Morty had gone through. Some 151 was missing, the Blue Label was sampled but hadn't suffered too big a hit, and then there was that one bottle that Squanchy had given him from some other planet that he hadn't visited yet. That was the one Morty had been clutching upon his return. It was also gone, to the last drop.

Against all his better judgment, Rick felt a brief rush of admiration for his grandson. He'd seen Jerry drink; the man couldn't handle a cup of raspberry schnapps, never mind a full bottle of literal alien liquor that not even Rick knew the ingredients to. Good to see that Morty had at least inherited the Sanchez cast-iron stomach, even if he did look frighteningly enough like his pussy of a father. Beth seemed to have it too; Rick had seen her chug so much wine it would put the entire nation of Italy to shame.

One by one, Rick chucked the bottles into the recycling can if he determined that they couldn't have been saved. It wasn't too bad, no worse than what he originally thought. I'm going to have to put a fucking child lock on that shelf, Rick reflected with a grimace, fiddling with the cap of his flask. Only too late did he remember that he had finished his drink a few minutes ago. He reached to open up the cabinet but stopped halfway there. That pang of guilt was back in the pit of his stomach, and Rick sighed. Slamming the flask back on his table, Rick headed for the door to go upstairs and get some well-deserved sleep.

Before he headed back to his own room, Rick decided to give Morty one last check-up. Opening the door a crack revealed his grandson curled up tight under his covers, already passed out, a somewhat peaceful look on his face. His breathing was relatively even, and it didn't look like he was vomiting anymore. Seemed like he had gotten the majority of the alcohol out of his system. He'd wake up with a wicked headache, but he was a tough kid. He'd probably mention it once and then suffer through it for the rest of the day without any more complaining. And the more normal he appeared, the less questions Beth and Jerry would ask. And the less responsible Rick would feel about all this.

Rick slowly trudged back to his own room, slightly ticked to find that someone had been rummaging through it. He strongly wished that he hadn't left his flask back in the garage so he could nurse that fucking guilt crawling through his stomach, but it was four-thirty at this point. He'd just get drunk when he woke up in three or four hours.

Before collapsing on his cot, Rick cracked the window open and stared down into the backyard. Through the rain pouring down, he could just barely make out the graves. So that was what this was all about? Rick gave a slightly resigned snort and closed the window again. Nonetheless, he still couldn't help but feel at fault for what had gone down tonight.

Was he wrong in what he did? Maybe he should have tried harder and found a universe where all the family had died. Maybe dragged Beth and Summer with him. (Rick still was trying to weigh his options about taking Jerry). But it was much easier to deal with one child's mental breakdown than to deal with two. Summer certainly wouldn't handle slipping into the place of her dead self any better than her brother has been. And he didn't even want to think about what it would do to his daughter. Beth had a family to raise; she didn't need the sort of nightmare fuel that dimension-hopping would offer. What was that phrase? Ignorance is bliss? Yeah, something like that.

Maybe all of this was a mistake. Just another bad choice on the highway of Rick Sanchez's poor life decisions. You care too much; you end up hurting the ones you care about.

Still, if he was to do it again, Rick knew he'd still rather have Morty with him. The kid didn't deserve to wander a world of monstrosities that he had created. No matter what he said or thought or did, his grandson was far better off in this world than in that one. At least, that was what Rick kept telling himself.

Perhaps he should try to make the kid feel a little better in the morning? Rick considered a possible morning meeting with apprehension. Morty probably won't remember what happened tonight anyway, so there was really no point to act any nicer to him. In the end, it's probably just best to treat Morty like he would any other day.

Rick laid back on his bed, arms folded on his chest, waiting for sleep to come. He was drained, and wanted nothing more than to slip into an alcohol-induced sleep, but he couldn't. He kept his ears pricked to see if maybe Morty woke up. If maybe he was having any more nightmares like he said he was having. It couldn't make him feel better—the only thing that would do that would be time—but perhaps he could just make him understand.

Rick fell asleep like that, trying to hear if his grandson was rising. The last thing he remembered before passing out was feeling that brief spark of pity.

Because Rick knew.

He really did.

I am never, ever, ever writing out a thousand words of drunk-speak again.

Maybe more to come. We'll see.