Disclaimer: I don't own "Rick and Morty".

Author's Note: If morgues make you queasy, I'm not too graphic, but you might want to skip this chapter. However, it is significant, so you might want to read it anyway. That being said, you have been warned, so don't say I didn't warn you….after all, it's the writer's job to keep things real...right?

"A time to cast away stones; a time to gather stones together."

-"Turn Turn Turn" (Pete Seeger)

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Rick was no stranger to death. (Hell, he'd literally been through a war; several, in fact.) He'd had comrades die right in front of him, many times; he'd trodden over their bones; he'd buried their bodies; he'd blown the heads off of enemies and slept straight through the night without a second thought of the incident.

Going to visit the county morgue shouldn't have been any different. Especially since everything had already acquired a nice soft glow, and he found himself chuckling at the strangely surreal circumstances he'd found himself in, the cop giving him curious sideways glances all the way there, but what the hell did he care. He laughed at that, too.

Things got very quiet when they entered the cold sterile room. On two metal tables were two bodies covered by sheets. The cop spoke in whispered, hushed tones to the medical examiner. The medical examiner left quickly after. Rick waited in the doorway, staring dully at the medical equipment that was set up on a metal tray, just waiting to be used. There was something hypnotic about the way the scalpel and enterotome glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights. It seemed to be way too bright for a morgue.

"Mr. Sanchez?"

Rick turned towards a man wearing official looking clothes. Must be the coroner's officer. The man held his hand out for Rick to shake. Rick blinked down at it. "Rick," he allowed slowly, still staring down at the foreign object in front of him, as though it were a grenade that might detinate at any given second.

"Sir...my name is Mr. Cromwell. I'm the Coroner's Officer. Please accept my condolences-"

"Look," Rick muttered, "I'm here, allllright? I get it. You're 'sorry for my loss'. Hate to break it to you, but 'Sorrys' are waaaaay overrated. SO now all that the fun stuff is over with, let's crash this grim reaper's party and get it over with STAT before all his drunken buddies show up cuz trust me that's when the real trouble begins, bitch! Ya dig?"

Mr. Cromwell stared blankly at the strange old man in the stained lab coat (that looks curiously a lot like the coroner's) and his bizarrely blue hair for a moment before holding out a sheet of paper, "Uh Sir...would you please sign your name right there? Your signature and ID is required to ensure your authenticity."

Rick waved his wallet and ship license, complete with mug shot (Rick wore it like a badge), quickly in front of the man's face, just long enough so that it wouldn't linger.

Mr. Cromwell nodded curtly with acceptance. "Thank you. Now….I'd like you to take a seat over here with me for a minute, if you would, Sir?"

Rick watched as the Officer pointed at a nearby swivel chair. He pushed his legs in that direction and sank into the chair with unexpected relief. Whatever made this process go quicker.

"We have Mr. Smith's wallet and his...uh...wedding ring with his name on it. Your daughter's, uh, ring, too." The coroner held up a plastic baggy with the items in it. There was his daughter's ring, with the words "Beth Smith" engraved in gold, and Jerry's was presented soon after. One minute right in front of him and the blink and they next gone, tucked away in some drawer somewhere. "We have some pictures for you to identify," the Officer said briskly, after a quick clear of the throat. "It's not like in the movies. You won't have to see them if-"

The officer stopped at once as, without announcement, Rick had stood up abruptly and was already walking towards the two tables. "Mr. Sanchez? You, um, uh, you really don't have to do that-"

"Iiiii- it's URP fine, just, just: back off. I got this." Rick stood looking down at the two body-sized sheets.

"Mr. Sanchez," the officer said, his voice so close now that Rick nearly jumped, "you really don't have to-when-they were-found, uh, we weren't exactly sure right away who they-"

But Rick had already pulled the sheet off. There, lying naked on the table, was Jerry-or, what was left of him-his face so discolored and badly disfigured, beyond recognition in fact, that he could have been anybody besides his dead son-in-law.

In that moment, the Coroner's Officer was gone. It was just him and Jerry, and Rick hadn't ever wanted to kill a man so damn much, except that he couldn't even do it, because the man was already dead. His hands wanted to move, to lunge forward and wrap around the man's swollen neck, but for some dumb useless reason they stayed glued to his side. He had to swallow back the uesless words that threatened to erupt from within him, his hand slowly recovering the sheet, turning quickly away. You useless pathetic excuse of a homsapian's ass. Should have left you at that fucking Jerryboree with the fucking other useless lumps of flesh. Fucking piece of worthless two-legged scum.

The Coroner's officer was strangely quiet now. "Sir, should I-are you-"

"Back-off," Rick hissed with warning, and the officer did at once as he was told, watching silently as Rick pivoted abruptly towards the table sitting perpendicular. The one that she was lying on. He tore the sheet off in one fell swoop (like a band-aid, just like a band-aid). There was Beth, her face swollen, disfigured and bruised, strangely devoid of blood, and staring blankly up at him. Rick reached a hand out and, without a word, turned down her useless eyelids. Just go to sleep now Beth. It's all over now. Your work is done. He pulled the sheet back up to her chin, gently as possible, as he had once at bedtime, when she was but a child. He turned towards the officer standing silently beside him.

"YeeeeEUP it, it's them, right, right there. M-my pathetically thoughtless and shallow daughter, and….and my e-even more pathetic and brainless son in law that for some mind-numbingly stupid reason she decided to marry. YoUGh've got my sig on your pad, Officer, soooo, 'ts been fun and all, but looks like you've got all you need soooo we're done here. Excuse me. Iiii-I've got, got a, a thing." Without another word Rick turned and broke into run, and didn't stop running until he'd burst through the nearest exit doors, found the nearest bush, and emptied the entire contents of his stomach into it with abandon.

Goddamn idiots.

All of them.

Fuck them all.

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Summer knocked softly on Morty's door. "Morty?"

He was asleep, and how could she blame him? They'd been through hell that day, and Rick wasn't back from wherever the cop had taken him yet. She might as well go to sleep herself.

She watched him for a moment, wondering if she should wake him to tell him she would be right across the hall if he needed her-then she stopped and wondered who she would really be doing that for. The last thing Summer wanted was to deal with the stranger who was down in the den. Even though Officer O'Shea was nice, she asked far too many questions. "How long has your grandfather been living with you?" and "Does he drink a lot? How many times a day? Is it normal for him to act like this?"

Summer had tried to avoid answering as many quetions as possible. Morty had been the true star tonight, answering all the cop's questions, being as vague as possible. She wondered what the cop would think if they told her that Grandpa had a spaceship in the garage. Or that he knew how to travel to different dimensions. Or show her the intergalactic cable box. She would have plenty more questions where that came from.

There was always a risk of someone finding out about their grandfather's crazy habits, but that was the last of Summer's worries. She couldn't stop asking herself What would Mom do in this situation? Her mother-save for her occasional drinking (in that regard, the fruit hadn't fallen too far from the tree) was the most level-headed one in the family. Summer couldn't imagine what her mother would have done, if it was only her father who had died.

Only…..

Tears sprung unbidden to Summer's eyes, and Morty quickly became a blur. Suddenly, she didn't want to be anywhere else but cuddled up next to her younger brother. He was tossing and turning a little and mumbling something undecipherable in his sleep, and normally that might have bothered her (Summer was a light sleeper) but right now she didn't care. She knew that if she left him alone, she would go down and drink herself into oblivion, or possibly worse (if that could even be a possibility) and she didn't want to turn into Rick.

Morty rolled over in bed, snoring gently, and she watched as something pink fell from his hand to the floor. It was her pink elephant stuffed animal, the one her mother had always given her when she was sick to hold onto, as something comforting in the dark.

Summer bent and picked up the stuffed animal and, with shaking fingers, replaced it back besides her sleeping brother. She climbed into bed next to both of them, and felt the soft tufts of the elephant's fuzzy fur against her face. Winston had lost some fur, but that was from being well-loved. It didn't matter; she was just glad for her company. "Don't leave me Winston," she whispered. "Just...don't go anywhere, okay?" Summer pressed her face into him and hugged Winston tight, trying hard not to cry. She had to be strong now, for her brother; he needed her now more than ever. Summer forced her eyes shut against the tears and slipped into a restless, dreamless sleep.