Disclaimer: I don't own "Rick and Morty".
Author's Note: Suspend your disbelief. Please. For my sake. And Rick's.
"Sir, wake up, sir-you're home."
Rick jerked awake, finding himself in practically dangling out of the backseat of the police car, gazing blankly up into the male officer's face-the same rotten bastard that had taken him to that godforsaken morgue. Officer Jackson regarded him with moderate disdain, looking him over with a mixture of incredulous disgust and painstaking sympathy. It was a look that turned his stomach, but he couldn't have vomited again; there was nothing in his stomach left. Rick refused the officer's oustretched hand and, wordlessly, followed him up the walkway to the Smith family home.
"We have some resources for you, phone numbers to local funeral homes, and we'll be calling you when the hospital is ready for those….services." Officer Jackson kept prattling incessantly on as they went through the door. "I suggest you contact any, uh...relatives to let them know of the….situation."
Rick took the piece of paper and stared down at it with feigned interest. Any other time he would have given back a sarcastically witty reply, but his mind was soaked in alcohol, he reeked of vomit, and all he wanted to do was retire to his bedroom and attempt to sleep it off. His head was killing him, and he wanted nothing more than to just be in a dark room with nobody else around to bother him about stupid redundant and petty useless things. "Got it," was all he said, standing squarely in the doorway so that Officer Jackson couldn't come through. "Your woUGhrk is done. Goodnight."
"Ahem?" Rick swung around at the coughing from behind him. Officer O'Shea had stood up from her post in the den/living room couch, advancing cautiously towards him.
Great, Rick thought with a roll of the eyes, It's the lame old "good cop, bad cop" routine.
"Mr...um...Sanchez, is it?" Officer O'Shea made an obvious effort not to bring her hands anywhere near him. Rick narrowed his eyes at her approach, taking into account her pathetic attempt to suppress her nervous demeanor. "I spoke with your um...grandkids-"
Shit. The kids-he'd completely forgotten. "OH shit, right, wh-wheaaare are the whacky li, little runts, anyway?" Rick demanded as his eyes scanned the empty room, "I was gonna, you know, take them out for some ice cream," he added with a half-hearted explanation to the waiting cop. "Kids, they, they've gotta get their ice cream, ya know?"
"They're asleep, Mr. Sanchez." Officer O'Shea was frowning with confusion, "it's really, really late-they're exhausted beyond reason. They couldn't go anywhere right now!" Officer O'Shea sounded more than a little upset as she added haltingly, "Those poor kids just gotten the worst news of their lives-"
"TheyUGH're gonna be just fine," Rick interrupted flatly, "trust me. They're kids. And that's nowhere near 'the worst news of their lives'; the 'worst' is realizing you've married yourself a prisUGHn, your life is a joke and the universe is an illusion, and you're just a fucking pawn in this horrible excuse of a tv show. THAT would be the worst-"
"Mr. Sanchez," Officer Jackson said, taking a quietly fuming O'Shea by the arm and handing Rick a card, "that's my number. We'll….keep in touch."
"Can't wait," Rick replied darkly as he watched the cops leave without a response. They didn't look back.
As soon as they were out of sight, Rick flicked the card into the nearest trash can, and grabbed himself another beer, and headed upstairs for his bedroom. On the way there, he noticed a crack of light filtering in from Morty's bedroom. Rick winced at the light; his heart pounded, and all he wanted was to take a shower and go to bed, but for some reason, he crept towards the doorway, and, against his better judgment, took a peek inside.
Only the lamp was still turned on, casting a soft glow on Morty and Summer, who were fast asleep cuddled next to each other under the sheet. From where Rick stood, they suddenly seemed much younger, maybe five and seven instead of fifteen and seventeen. For some reason, he found himself drawn towards the bed, and he stood there, looking down at them.
They looked (how else could he describe it?) peaceful, as they slept. Morty twiched a bit, but otherwise, lay still. Summer's arm was draped around his shoulder and (Rick shook his head in dismay) a thumb was in her mouth, making her look even younger. Sometime during the night, Morty had kicked the sheets off. Rick shook his head in disdain at his grandkids, looking so pathetic as they lay together in bed. He couldn't help it; he felt sorry for the kid, so he took the sheet and dragged it up over them, careful, so as not to wake the 'rugrats'. Summer mumbled something and started sucking her thumb (Rick recoiled in disgust) and she turned over. That's when Rick saw it: the elephant, that pink elephant. Lying right in the middle of them. Winston.
His Winston. The one that he'd thought had been lost forever. The one that nobody else was ever supposed to ever see. Rick's fingers clenched and unclenched involuntarily, his throat seizing and his stomach coiled itself into knots. He'd completely forgotten about Wintson. Now here he was. In Morty's bed. With Summer of all people, who would never know what his significance was to begin with. Summer would only see pink stuffed animal elephant. His purpose erased, his importance discarded, reduced to a mere toy that a little girl played with.
Rick was about to lunge for the stuffed animal when, suddenly, Summer moaned and turned over in her sleep. His hand halted in its tracks, and he had to bit his lip from screaming. So fucking close. Rick couldn't wake them up so he shut his eyes and screamed silently all the profanities of the universe in his head.
Then he quickly switched off the light, closed the door and headed straight for his own bed, exhausted beyond thought, the stench of his lab coat and the day's events blissfully cast aside, the mark they'd left discarded and forgotten.