"M-mom?" Morty asked tentatively, staring at the lump of charred wood that might have once been a house. "Dad? S-summer?"

He picked his way across the rubble to what used to be the front door. It should have been quiet, but it wasn't. Cars passed carefully along the potholed street. Birds sang. The wind continued to blow. In fact, the rest of the neighborhood seemed blissfully unaware of the crater which had once housed the Smith family.

"Mom?" Morty called out again, a touch of desperation lacing his voice. Rick couldn't have been right. Beth couldn't be dead.

Then again, Rick was always right. It was one of the problems of being a genius. Morty set his jaw and shook his head, willing his blurry vision to clear. No, he would prove his grandfather wrong. He had to. He touched the frame of the blackened door, which puffed into a cloud of ash under his fingers.

Without another word, Mortimer Smith determinedly set the dial of Rick's portal gun as far as it would go.

Rick blinked, eyelids tender and crusted with remnants of sleep. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair.

"Stanley?" he croaked. His voice was crusty, too.

No response. Rick groaned, sat up, and tossed the blanket aside. He immediately missed its warmth. With a grimace, he steeled himself and stood, exiting the bedroom and making his way slowly toward the kitchen. His body felt hungover, though he hadn't consumed as much alcohol as usual yesterday. This was due to his crying spell last night, he knew. He hated himself for it.

"Stanley?" he asked again at the door, rubbing at his eyelid.

"Rickster," Stan greeted him brightly, bedecked in a bright blue apron and matching oven mitt. "Up for some Stancakes?"

Rick stared at him blankly. "No."

"Coffee?"

"No."

"Orange juice?"

"No, Stanley." Rick blinked a few times against the too-bright sun streaming through the broken window.

Stan sighed, setting his hot pan back down on the stove. He approached the other man. "I'm sure he'll come back," he offered.

Rick laughed bitterly. "Oh, y-you think?"

"Yeah. Where else can he possibly go?"

"I hid his own family's deaths from him," Rick muttered, throat feeling tight again. "There's no w-way he's coming back."

Stan shed his oven mitt, tossing it onto the countertop. "Logically, though," he countered, "there's nowhere else for him to go. Right?"

Rick said nothing.

"Look," Stan said. "The kid loves you. He loves you a lot. He's just, y'know, sad. Confused."

"He was angry."

"He's grieving. Grief happens in a lot of ways." Stan looked at him meaningfully.

"Like jumping into a bottomless pit?" Rick groaned.

Stan flexed his fingers and silently counted to ten. "Yeah," he agreed. "Although some of us might prefer... other ways."

"Look," Rick said. "It's been two days. I asked for two days. I'll be gone this evening, one way or another."

"That's fine," Stan said. His shoulders deflated for a moment, and he reached forward to clasp Rick's hand. His large fingers engulfed the scientists'. "Just remember... I can always fix a broken window. But please... don't make me clean your brains off my wall, Rick. I can't do that."

"Lee," Rick groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

"Please, Rick," Stan implored. "No brains?"

"No brains," Rick reluctantly agreed. He squeezed Stan's fingers lightly, then headed over to the kitchen table. "Stancakes?" he asked.

Stan cleared his throat. There was a long moment before he could face his companion again. "Yeah. Uh. Stancakes."

Notes: Another nice short one for you all (for Valentine's Day?). I've been trying to explore the subject of "being suicidal" more and more, and there are so many facets to it. I hope I have not misrepresented the subject in any way, and I hope you will forgive me for any mistakes I have committed.

Cheers,

B