"Hey Rick." A finger tapped his shoulder.
Rick turned, expecting to see Stanley. He looked down. Dipper returned his gaze, jaw set with determination. Rick's unibrow curled delicately upward.
"Uh, yeah. What's up?"
"I have to ask you something."
"Sure, kid." The twins' bags were packed and the living room echoed with a sense of preemptive vacancy, as though they had already returned to California. "What's up?"
"Do you love him?" No preamble. Dipper's face, serious as ever, radiated concern.
Rick thought about it for a long minute. "Yeah. I guess I do."
"I mean... do you really love him?"
"Yeah. I don't need you questioning the, the validity of my emotions."
Dipper scratched the side of his nose. "Yeah, I... sorry. I guess I just wanted to be sure."
"You're worried I'll hurt him."
Dipper changed tactic.
"You left. Right? I haven't been able to dig up all the details, but... you and Grunkle Stan spent time together. In... prison." The second half of the word raised in pitch like a question. As if in Dipper's world, prison was something that simply didn't happen to people, and the very notion sounded strange to his ears.
"Yeah. Colombia."
"Right. But... you left him."
Rick closed his eyes. "I came back, didn't I?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
The autumn sun was setting, much earlier in the day than Rick was prepared for. He shivered as the warming light slowly vanished below the windowsill.
"Then what are you worried about?"
Dipper's eyes cast furtively around the shack. Morty was nowhere to be seen.
"Please don't hate me for this," the teen implored.
"For what?"
"I have to ask."
"Yes?"
"Um. I mean I know I won't see you again for a long time, and I don't want your last memory of me to be negative, but-"
"I've only known you a couple months. I have very little o-opinion of you." This wasn't true. But Rick was a man of very little patience when it came to dancing around a topic, and it was easier to insult than to encourage.
Dipper looked hurt, but masked it well.
"Did you do it?" Dipper whispered.
"Did I," Rick raised his fingers in air quotes, "'do' what?"
"Did you kill them? Morty's parents?"
Rick could hear his own breathing, ragged through his nostrils. His hands froze on their way down, not quite resting at his sides. He counted silently to ten.
"Sorry," Dipper amended, beating a hasty retreat. "I know it's a sensitive subject."
"Let's get these bags i-into the car," Rick announced to the room. He lifted a suitcase, unsure if it was Dipper's or Mabel's. He couldn't care less. It was heavy.
"Hey!" Dipper jogged after him as he exited the shack and hefted the suitcase into the trunk of Stan's old red convertible. "Are you gonna answer me?"
Rick lowered his voice, towering menacingly over Stan's great-nephew. "I'm gonna help load your bags into the car. I'm gonna get, uh, a-accompany you to the bus station. I am gonna sit in the passenger seat, m-maybe hold Stanley's hand the whole way there. I'm gonna get your things on the bus. And I'm gonna wave as you and your sister go to California. If you come back next summer, I'm gonna make sure you have a great time and a comfortable place to stay. And I'm gonna forget you ever asked me if I killed my own daughter." He straightened up, smiling like a piranha. "Got it?"
"Got it." Dipper shivered.
Rick doubled back to grab another bag from the pile in the living room. This time, Dipper did not follow.
"You're quiet today," Stan murmured, tracing the paper veins on the back of Rick's hand with his thumb. The twins had been sent off, with a promise that they would call as soon as they arrived safely in Piedmont.
Rick shrugged. The car was otherwise empty. Morty had chosen to stay home at the Shack, and Rick didn't blame him. Pine trees melted away at thirty miles an hour in the rearview as the convertible cruised back along the outskirts of town.
"¿Qué pasa?"
Rick's eyes remained stoically on the road ahead of them.
"Me preguntó si los h-había matado," he mumbled. It was easier to say such things when it was just the two of them.
Stan sighed heavily. "Dipper?"
"Mm."
Stan squeezed his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Rick saw his other hand tighten on the steering wheel. "That kid asks too many questions."
"Lo dijo de labios para fuera."
"Esas preguntas lo matarán algún día."
"That's why he has you, Stanley."
"Hm," Stan said. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him I was going to forget he ever asked."
Stan shook his head. "You know something?" he asked after a long moment.
"What?"
"You know how I said you aren't Morty's parent?"
Rick said nothing, waiting for the other man to continue.
"I think maybe you're a better parent than anyone I know."
Rick withdrew his hand from Stan's grasp. Stan returned his grip to the steering wheel. "Then por qué dijiste eso?"
"I was upset." He said it calmly.
"You didn't seem upset."
Stan smiled wistfully. "I can put on as brave a face as you, Ricardo."
Rick crossed his arms. "I'm not putting on anything."
"Sure," Stan conceded gently.
Rick stared grumpily out the passenger window for a few minutes. A thick white line painted on the side of the highway dripped by, giving the illusion that they weren't really moving at all. "Why were you upset?" he asked again when he couldn't keep curiosity at bay any longer.
Stan sighed. He squeezed the wheel tightly, turning his knuckles white. "You know I always wanted kids."
"Yeah," Rick agreed uncertainly.
"I was jealous. Of you with Beth."
Even the mention of her name cut deep. Rick shifted in his seat, trying to mask the blow it dealt him. "Why," he rasped, clearing his throat, "were you jealous?"
"You got a life after prison. You were able to take her, go wherever you wanted, with your fancy portal toy. You vanished."
"And?"
"And... I kept going to jail. Three more times. I couldn't escape the cycle, Rickster." His eyes remained locked on the road, not yet able to face his lover. "I didn't have the ability to run like you did. I... wasn't smart enough."
"Stanley-"
"No, listen. I never wanted anything more than to have a life like you did, a daughter I could raise. And you went and threw it away."
Rick was speechless. His shoulders tensed. He coughed.
"I heard about you from time to time," Stan continued, either oblivious to Rick's pain or not ready to acknowledge it. "Squanchy sent me postcards. Sometimes. I heard you were still drinking. I heard that you had gone off on your own, and I heard about it when your grandkids were born. You always had this tendency to run from responsibility. It's one of the things I liked about you when we met. Now... I'm not so sure."
"You really want to go down this road, L-Lee?" Rick asked, monotone.
"No," Stan admitted. "I want to go home. I want to, christ, I want to pin you down and make love to you, and pretend we're still in our twenties and Colombian currency is still at a low exchange rate."
"Those days are l-long gone." Rick hid his disappointment in his flask.
"I love you, Sanchez. But god damn if you haven't done some stupid shit."
"It wasn't my fault!" Rick nearly screamed. The flask dropped to the floor of the convertible. He hicupped, surprising himself. "It wasn't my fault," he repeated, slightly calmer.
"Well, that hit a nerve."
Rick collected his thoughts for a long second. "My daughter," he breathed, "was the greatest thing to ever happen to me."
"And that's why you left her?"
Rick shook his head.
"Don't," Stan warned, "pit me against Dipper."
"I'm not 'pitting' you against anyone! I'm just telling you what he sai-"
"He's as close to a son as I'm gonna get," Stan interjected authoritatively. "I love him."
"Fine. You know what. Fine."
"I love you too. But I won't let you fuck this up for me."
"M-morty?"
"Yeah, Rick?"
Rick stepped into the darkened guest bedroom, shoulders bent. The Shack was night-quiet. He shuffled forward to his grandson. Wordlessly, he coiled his arms around the teens' shoulders, squeezing him once.
"Oh..." Morty said, confused.
"Don't worry about it," Rick whispered, squeezing him once more for good measure.
"Thanks?" Morty asked.
Rick managed to make it back to the hallway before the first tear hit the ground.