"Talk," Stan commanded, thrusting the cell phone into Rick's hand once they were settled in the living room. The scientist was captive, bound by his injured hip to the couch. "Dipper. Apologize."

Rick warily raised the phone to his ear.

"Uh... hello?"

"Hey," Dipper's voice crackled on the other end. The reception in the forest was poor.

"Hey," Rick acknowledged. He cleared his throat.

"Rick I'm sorry-"

"No, stop, stop. Dipper."

"I honestly didn't mean-"

"Dipper, I'm sorry." He glanced up.

Stanley's eyes softened, just a little. He nodded once at Rick and left the room.

"What? Why are you sorry?" Dipper asked. "I'm the one who said all those things."

"I didn't realize m-my grandson had put you up to it. It, uh, wasn't fair. To you."

Rick dragged a hand across his chin, brushing stubble. These tough conversations were getting old. He could feel Stan listening, ear pressed against the opposite side of the living room wall.

"I'm still sorry," Dipper mumbled. Rick tried to picture the kid's face. "I was wrong to ask if you killed... if you did those things."

"No... you were just curious. I mean. If I was in y-y-your position I'd have wanted to know the truth. Heh," he moved the receiver to his other hand, "I'd want to know if I was sharing a house with a murderer."

"God," Dipper moaned.

"No, seriously. You're probably the sanest person in this family."

It took both of them a second to realize what Rick had implied.

"Family?" Dipper asked. "So you're staying?"

"Oh, I, uh, I-I-I didn't mean-"

"No, I think it's good. I mean... you really do love Grunkle Stan?"

A splinter pierced Rick's heart. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, yeah," he rasped, glancing at the wall he knew Stanley was hiding behind. "I do."

"And you're not actually a murderer?"

"No. Well, not really."

"Not really?"

"Clones. And some aliens. Not real people, so it doesn't count."

"Oh." Rick could practically hear the boy thinking. "Is that why you went to prison?"

"No," Rick said, shaking his head. "That was for stealing. Stan and I tried a heist. Got caught."

"In Colombia."

"Yep."

"Wow."

"Yep."

"But you're sure it wasn't for murder?"

"What do you mean am I sure?" Christ, the kid was daft. "It happened to me. What, you w-want me to go back and check or something?"

"Okay, okay," Dipper conceded. "So you're not a murderer."

"No, Dipper."

"Cool. Just making sure."

"I will one hundred percent not murder anyone in this household."

"That's good." Dipper laughed with relief. Rick felt his own face ease into a smile. Maybe this call wasn't such a bad idea after all. "Hey, um... Morty's not mad at me, is he?"

"Morty? Why would he be mad at you?" Rick sat up a little straighter.

"I got the feeling he wanted a different answer. When I told him you didn't do it, he seemed... disappointed? Or just like... unsatisfied."

"Hm," Rick sighed. "Morty and I have a, a mutually destructive relationship," he explained wearily.

"What does that mean?"

"Uh... doesn't matter. Point is, he isn't mad at you. Come to think of it, he should probably be apologizing to you, too. But h-he isn't mad." Through the door, Rick could just make out the kitchen window. It had been replaced since his fight with Stan, and the new glass shone incongruously to the timeless wooden walls of the Mystery Shack. A light snow was beginning to fall outside. "Don't worry about it."

"Thanks," Dipper said uncertainly. "I think."

"No problem. I'll see you next summer?"

"Definitely."

"Awesome. Enjoy th-that California sunshine."

"Will do, Grunkle Rick."

The line went silent. Rick hit the end button.

Grunkle Rick. He wondered how he felt about that. Even his own grandson called him by his first name. Beth had been the only person to ever use family honorifics with him, and now that she was gone, he had resigned himself to being just Rick.

"Grunkle," he whispered to himself, tasting the feel of it on his tongue. He made a face. What an ugly word. Stan probably found it hilarious.

"You get everything out in the open?" Stan asked, entering the room casually, as if he hadn't been eavesdropping the entire time.

"You gotta tell him about Colombia sometime," Rick remarked, handing over the phone and reclining back on the cushion. "He's chomping at the bit for some, some gossip."

"That's our Dipper for you."

Stan sat on the couch, maintaining a respectable couple of inches between himself and Rick.

"Hey," Rick said, shoulders curled inward.

"Hey yourself," Stan replied gruffly. He picked up the remote control, fidgeting with it for a couple of seconds before placing it down next to him.

"Stan-"

"Rick-"

They cut each other off, smiling small smiles.

"Sorry I knocked you unconscious," Stanley offered.

"Sorry for running away," Rick countered.

Stanley sucked in a long breath. He looked tired.

"I want to make this work," he declared. "I really love you, Rick."

"I r-really love you too," Rick replied, almost shyly.

"But we need to set some ground rules."

"Agreed."

"No running away. No fistfights."

"Sure."

"No suicide. No blackout drinking."

"Well-"

"No suicide."

"No suicide." Rick thought for a second. "I'm still going to drink."

"Fine. Just... not around me."

Rick scrutinized him. For the first time, he registered Stan's sunken eyes and red nose, monuments to a lifetime of drinking.

"Oh," Rick said, a belated realization.

"I quit before Dipper and Mabel came to visit," Stan said with forced carelessness. No big deal. "I won't drink around them."

"Okay. No drinking around you or the twins. That's, that's fine," Rick acquiesced.

"And," Stan continued, "I want you to marry me."

Rick stared stupidly. "You want what?"

"Marry me." Stan removed his glasses. "Please."

"Fuck," Rick breathed. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

"You, uh, you got a ring?"

"Probably have some in the shop. Mood rings, tourist stuff."

"You want to marry me with a mood ring."

"Why not?"

Rick stared at him. He blinked several times. He sniffed.

"Fuck," he muttered into the sleeve of his lab coat.

"'Fuck' is usually not the correct answer when someone proposes," Stan observed, reaching up to smooth a few flyaway strands of Rick's hair.

"Damn it, Stanley," Rick whispered. He leaned forward, burying his face in the collar of Stan's worn suit. "You fucking piece of shit."

"The worst person you know," Stan said with a smile. He stroked his lover's hair, letting the weight of his arms rest on Rick's back.

"The fucking worst," Rick agreed with a sob. "L-let's get married, asshole."

Stan's body shook with silent jolly laughter.

"That's the first intelligent thing you've ever said."

Rick cried with relief, letting Stan hold him like a child. His gangly limbs spilled over the side of the couch.

"Um... hello? Rick?" Morty asked warily, tapping the side of the living room door as he entered the room from the kitchen. "I thought I heard fighting, are you... ah, geez.."

"Hey, kiddo," Stan said. Rick could practically feel his grin radiating across the room.

"Is he okay?" Morty asked tiredly. He didn't want to do this again.

Rick sniffed, sat up, and wiped his eyes.

"I-I'm okay, Mort." He gave Stanley a small smile. "I'm getting married."

"O-okay?"

Stanley laughed. "We're getting married. It's a two-way transaction."

"Okay," Morty agreed, a small grin working its way onto his face as well. "That's great, Rick! Really great."

"Come here, kiddo," Rick said, patting the seat next to him.

Morty obligingly sat, giving his grandfather a hug. It felt good. For the first time in a long time, the two of them weren't motivated by grief, or guilt. Rick let it linger, this feeling of family and wholeness.

"Have you told Dipper and Mabel yet?" Morty asked.

"I only just asked him," Stan explained gently. "We'll get to it."

"Okay. Cool! I'm, I'm really happy for you guys." Morty's smile was genuine.

Rick's heart ached, but it was a different kind of ache - a pleasant ache. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"You like Gravity Falls?" Rick asked.

"I do," Morty said with a nod. "I could definitely get used to it."

"And the Mystery Shack?"

"Yep."

"That's good," Rick said. He curled up against Stanley's side, wiping the corners of his eyes. Stanley obligingly draped an arm over Rick's shoulders. He reached for the remote control with his other hand. Morty smiled and settled into the space beside his grandfather. The old television flickered to life. Despite the snow, the living room was warm.

"I think we're going to be here for a long time."

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

I tell you what, this one has been a fucking journey, guys