"Hey Mister Sanchez," a voice crooned in Rick's ear. "Are you awake? Mister Sanchez?"

Rick cracked open one eye. It was Soos.

"Hng... ah!" He tried to sit up and hit his forehead on the deck above him. "What the hell?" he hissed.

"Mister Sanchez, forgive my saying this, but you don't look so good."

The handyman lay on his stomach, head and shoulders pressed underneath the tiny opening Rick had wormed through last night. The rest of his frame was too bulky to fit into the crawlspace. It was day now, and muted sunlight filtered through the gaps between the planks.

It was freezing.

"Go away." Rick tried for menacing, but his voice was a whistling rasp in the cold. He cleared his throat a few times. God, his hip hurt.

Soos considered for a long second.

"Did you sleep out here, Mister Sanchez?"

"W-w-what's it to you?"

"I think you should come inside."

"F-f-free country. Think w-whatever you w-want."

"Will you come inside, Mister Sanchez?"

"Does S-Stan know I'm out h-h-here?"

"Hey Stan!" Soos yelled. "Stan!"

"What?" Rick hissed. "No! Shut up!"

"Huh?"

"He doesn't kn-know I'm out h-h-here, right?"

Realization dawned upon Soos's face. "Ohhh! I get it! You're hiding!"

"Y-yeah, real, real good observation."

"Nice!" Soos exclaimed in a loud whisper. Rick rolled his eyes. "I love hide and seek. Uh... who are you hiding from, Mister Sanchez?"

Rick sighed, a long rattling breath that tapered off into a wheeze. "It w-won't m-m-matter if he finds me, w-will it?"

"Right, right. I gotcha, Mister Sanchez. One hundred percent." Soos backed out of the crawlspace, giving him a thumbs-up as he went. After a few seconds, he popped his head in again. "But aren't you cold?"

"Soos, please g-go away."

"Do you want me to bring you a jacket?"

"N-n-n-no, Soos."

"Hm," Soos said with a frown. "Okey dokey. Just come inside when you're finished playing. I think Stan's worried about you."

"Heh," Rick coughed. "Sure."

"All righty. Good luck!" Soos gave another thumbs up and backed out of the crawlspace again. Rick heard the front door close a few seconds later.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, using his arms to pull himself forward a few inches. He scanned the front yard, blinking a few times to readjust his eyes to daylight. It was empty.

He couldn't stay here. His reputation was beyond tarnished. His daughter was dead. He had physically attacked both his grandson and his lover. He had threatened Dipper. Rick weighed his options.

His spaceship was only a few yards from his hiding place. If he could make it that far, he could fly to a real bolthole and hunker down for a few days. His portal gun was still inside the Mystery Shack, so that was a non-starter. He could just stay under the deck, but with the weather turning, there was no telling how long it would take for him to die of hypothermia. Or starvation. Or the black widows that lived in the woodwork. And anyway, he had made a promise to Stanley.

It would be a real shame, he thought, if he were to die under that deck. Gravity Falls was about to freeze over, and his body would be preserved until the spring. And then what? He'd start to decay, and they'd find him once his organs started to reek. When would that be? March? April? No, he decided. Suicide, no matter how pathetic, was no longer an option.

Rick set his jaw and shimmied out into the sunlight. His body was stiff, but otherwise in working order - or so he thought, until he tried to stand. After his fall last night, his left hip wouldn't support any weight. He collapsed into the frozen mud.

"Fuck," he whispered, biting down on one fist. "O-of course."

Face pale, he pulled himself forward on his wrists and right knee. His left leg trailed behind him. Crawling would leave tracks, especially on the frozen ground, but Rick didn't have time to care about that. He scooted forward as fast as his arms would carry him. It was only a matter of time before Stan looked out the front window and saw him - or worse, Morty. He had to make it to the ship.

Damn, but his leg hurt. Every drag against the gravel made him want to sob. But he kept going. He owed it to Morty.

The rusty old ship loomed ahead. Rick's fingers brushed one of its legs and he could have laughed with joy. He was home free. He was going to make it.

He shakily pulled himself up, standing beside the door. The keys were inside the shack - with his portal gun no doubt. He cursed and started to feel around for the secondary emergency latch underneath the windshield. There it was.

The latch clicked and the door opened, creaking in protest after weeks of disuse. Rick started to pull himself inside.

Something hit the back of his head, hard.

"Not today, Sanchez," Stanley's voice growled.

Rick's vision went black.

"You know, I think I resented you because you were always better than me." Stanley's voice swirled around Rick as he slowly regained consciousness. The room was dark, illuminated by one yellowing lamp in one corner.

Rick groaned. He tilted his head to one side, squinting in the direction the voice was coming from. Stanley was sitting at the end of the bed - Stan's bedroom. The curtains were drawn. Rick had no idea what time it was.

"Lee," he moaned.

"You were always smarter than me," Stan continued relentlessly. "Smarter than everyone. Talented. Athletic. Beautiful." His voice broke slightly on the last word. He cleared his throat.

"We gotta do this now Lee-"

"And when you had Beth, I was jealous. I was happy for you, don't get me wrong. But I was jealous."

"Lee please, we already had this talk-"

"You had every opportunity to be there for her. And for Morty. And you squandered it, Rick."

"Damn it Lee-"

"I spent a third of my life in prison. A third. Just shut up and listen, okay? I only wanted a family. Or even just a constant friend, you know? Someone to count on. And there was no one. Even when I thought I found someone..." Stan scrubbed his face with a hand. "Anyway, I haven't been afforded the same privilege as you. Even with the Shack, and the twins - I only get to see them once a year. You can see Morty any time you want. I mean, you practically get to raise the kid. And you go and hit him? You run away because you don't want to take responsibility?"

Rick shivered.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Stan whispered.

Rick said nothing. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

"You're not the person I thought you were." Stan's weight left the bed as he stood. Rick felt as though the ground had been torn out from under him. "Your hip's bruised pretty bad, but not broken. I'd give it a few days before putting any weight on it."

"Lee-"

"There's a pair of crutches by the bedpost. Do whatever you want."

"Lee please-"

Stanley closed the door quietly behind him as he left. Somehow that hurt Rick more than anything else. He wished for Stan's anger - he knew how to deal with an angry Stan. He had no idea what to do with this cold, apathetic man who had taken his place.

"Lee!" he yelled once, futilely.

He sat up slowly and painfully. He prodded his hip experimentally - Stan was right. It was bruised, and when he pulled the fabric of his shirts and pants away from the wound to examine it, the skin was an angry mottled shade of navy. But it was not broken.

He shakily pushed himself to the edge of the bed, grasping the crutches that leaned against the bedpost. With a wince, he stood and went to the window. The crutches were awkward and slightly too short, but they would do.

When he pulled the shades back from the window, he was a little surprised to discover that it was still day. It couldn't have been too long since Stan had decked him. He hobbled to the door and went into the hallway, stopping to lean against the grandfather clock for a few seconds. It was going to take him a while to get used to the crutches.

"Lee?" he called out hoarsely. "M-Morty?"

No answer. He frowned.

He crutched himself into the living room. "Morty?" he asked the empty room.

Voices drifted in from outside. He awkwardly hobbled to the front window, leaning forward to look. Morty stood in the driveway beside Stan, shoulders hunched slightly forward, hands in pockets to ward off the cold. Stan was collecting pieces of metal into a garbage bag. Metal? The window had fogged up a little with Rick's face right next to it. Rick wiped the condensation off with his sleeve and peered out again. He frowned.

His ship was wrecked.

A crowbar lay discarded to one side. The windshield was shattered, a thousand diamonds glittering in the gravel. The door was ripped from its casing, and the chassis was badly dented.

"Hell," Rick breathed. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened.

Morty's shoulders shook lightly. Was he crying?

Rick limped out the front door. It took a moment to negotiate the stairs, but he eventually made it to the driveway. Glass and rock crunched under his heels.

Stan didn't greet him.

"Morty," Rick said.

"Geez Rick, I-I-I'm sorry," the kid sobbed, throwing his arms around the old man.

"What?" Rick's brow furrowed.

"I wrecked y-y-your ship... I thought... you were gonna leave a-a-and I just-"

"Morty," Rick breathed. He put his arms around his grandson's shoulders. The crutches fell to either side of him. He wobbled unsteadily, leaning on the boy for support.

Morty clutched his lab coat tightly. "Please don't leave, Rick," he wept.

"Morty, Morty," Rick murmured, lips brushing the boy's hair. Stan watched him wordlessly, arms crossed. The garbage bag lay forgotten at his feet.

"You wrecked the ship?" he asked.

Morty nodded, his grip tightening slightly on Rick's coat.

"Damn kid," Rick breathed. He brought one hand to the back of Morty's neck, stroking his hair twice. "We gotta, gotta get you some baseball lessons."

Morty laughed wetly. He pulled back slightly.

"Y-you're not m-mad at me?"

Rick shook his head mutely.

"Kid's got a killer swing, huh?" Stan offered mildly. His eyes remained hardened, but Rick met his gaze, nodding slowly. Stanley inclined his head, then returned to picking up the larger shards from the driveway.

"Killer," Rick agreed quietly. He squeezed the boy close to him.

"Ah, Rick..." Morty mumbled into his chest.

"I think it's time we ought to start t-talk, uh, communicating better. What do you say, kiddo?"

"Yeah Rick," Morty sniffed.

Rick stroked his hair a few more times.

"Cool," Rick whispered hoarsely.

"Cool," Morty agreed between shaky breaths.

"Cool," Rick parroted awkwardly, squeezing Morty tightly.

"Uh... yeah. Y-you can let go of me now Rick, I'm okay..."

"Um-"

Morty pulled back from him with a sniff, detaching Rick's arms from his shoulders.

"Whoa Morty, I-" Rick lost his footing and crumpled over his bad hip. Or at least he would have, if Stan hadn't caught him by the shoulder.

The burly man leaned down, picking up Rick's crutches for him. "Careful with these," he muttered, handing them back to the scientist with a light scowl. "I won't always be around to catch you."

Rick shivered.

"W-what happened to you?" Morty asked quietly as Stan returned to bagging garbage.

"Uh. Slipped and fell on some ice last night."

"Did you sleep outside?"

"In the ship," Rick lied. Stan raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Oh," Morty said, looking ashamed. "I... didn't see you in there. When I looked."

"I went for a walk first. Needed to, to clear my head."

"O-okay, Rick," Morty said, ready to let the matter drop. "Just as long as you aren't going anywhere."

"I'm not, buddy." His eyes found Stan's. "I'm staying right here."