Hi guys! "Unmortricken" unleashed a lot of emotions in me, and it got me thinking about both Rick and Morty's feelings towards Morty's relation to Prime. This does NOT follow canon and is just a 'what if' story. Triggers for depression and suicidal thoughts.

The silence in the garage was deafening. The only sound was an annoying buzzing in Morty's ears as he stood numbly, not knowing what to say or do. As if one wrong action could shatter this pretense of peacefulness, lighting the fuse of a bomb just waiting to go off.

Rubbing his arms, he tried to fight a chill that only he could feel in the warm night, each touch to his skin making painful vibrations go through his battered body. He continued to rub anyway; it helped him to feel something other than the crushing guilt he had felt since they arrived back home.

Was it really home? He was never too sure. This family he had…it was easy to pretend that they were really his, slip into the facade of not giving a damn about the small things that were different, that always felt off. It was only when he closed his eyes that he saw the graves in the backyard, or the destruction of his own dimension.

His real family was long gone, killed by his stupid mistake. It was almost prophetic, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, a parallel to the murders of innocent lives by Prime.

Prime.

It was a name that haunted Rick for so very long, and now began to creep into the darkest corners of Morty's mind and made him feel sick. His biological grandfather, a monster, making him one too as association. Did Rick ever see the signs in him? That he would become like his grandfather one day?

He hopes not. Besides, Prime was dead. Morty caught a glimpse of his mangled body, head bashed in by Rick's fist. It wasn't a pretty sight, and Morty was sure that image would forever be engraved in his mind. He should have been rejoicing, but instead he just felt tired and sick, and even lonelier than before.

Prime was dead, but nothing had changed. Perhaps, it had become even worse.

Rick hadn't said a word the whole time, instead sitting turned away from Morty, eyes glued to a spot on the wall, looking but not really seeing. Blue eyes that used to have so much spark, now shone dully, as if there was nothing left inside to keep the scientist going. He had yet to even change his clothes, still covered in both his and Prime's blood.

Morty shuddered, suddenly aware of the grime and filth that covered him. He needed to leave, get clean, erase every trace of the last few hours from his body.

"Um, Rick, I'm going to my room, okay? Do you-do you need anything?" No answer. Not that he was expecting one. Shifting from leg to leg, Morty watched as Rick grabbed his flask. The boy's shoulders slumped at the sight. Not again. He couldn't do it again.

"Rick." One word, a reprimand that came out more as a plea. A plea to snap out of it, to not spiral back into that black hole of no return. To break, to shatter, all for Morty to try to piece back together again. But what was the point of trying to fix something that's broken, when it only cuts you and bleeds poison into your veins.

Please look at me. I know you're scared and hurting, but so am I. I need my grandpa, please just say something.

It was beginning to become suffocating, the silence only being broken by the clink of Rick's flask, and Morty's hitched breathing. He needed to get out or he'd be crushed. Crushed by Rick's pain and the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to ease it. As useless as always.

Besides, why would Rick confide in him of all people? Who do you really see me as? Am I just part of a monster to you? Did you really care for me or was that just an illusion that both of us tricked ourselves into believing? It was too much, and he just couldn't handle it anymore. If he didn't get out of there, he was sure he would suffocate to death.

"I love you, grandpa."

The words escaped him before he could stop them. Because they were true, there was no denying it, there never was. No matter what, he could never really hate Rick. Not his best friend, his…family.

He could tell Rick heard by the way his shoulders tensed, but the sentiment wasn't returned. Morty sighed, giving up. It would do neither of them good just for him to stand around. With one last longing look at his grandfather, he left.

Morty collapsed in bed, hair still wet and clothes sticking to his body due to the lack of strength to even dry himself off. He must have been in the shower for over 45 minutes, scrubbing his skin harshly, confining even after all the dried blood had flaked off, replacing it with fresh blood that swirled down the drain in pinkish rivulets. There was skin under his nails by the time he finished, but he didn't really care.

He vaguely wondered what Rick was doing, what he was thinking. Now regretting his choice to leave his grandfather in such a vulnerable state. It felt like the right decision at the time, but he wasn't so sure anymore. It was all so very confusing.

What was right, what was wrong, did it even really matter in the end? No divine judgement waited for him at the end, only his own consciousness that screamed at him, an iron cage that closed around his heart until he was coughing blood and struggled for air. If Morty believed in souls, he was sure he had lost his long ago.

A poison that ran through his bloodstream, a legacy he couldn't possibly escape.

Would Rick be sad or happy he, did it? He wasn't sure. Not that he had ever been sure of anything from the start. Taking his own life. A thought he entertained many times before, but never thought to go through with. If he knew for certain how Rick would react, he was sure he would be able to make the right choice.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Rick stumbled in. Morty sighed at the strong stench of alcohol. Of course, the only reason Rick wanted to see him was because he was drunk. Rick unceremoniously flopped face down on the bed, patting Morty's knee awkwardly.

"A-A good kid, such a-a good kid, Morty," he mumbled into the sheets. Morty sighed, moving his leg away from the hand.

"Rick, you're drunk." A statement. Morty was too tired for this, too emotionally drained to have to comfort his drunk grandfather. He was a kid, why did he have to do this. It wasn't fair. "Go to bed, Rick. We'll talk when you're more sober."

Will you be though?

Rick grunted and pulled himself up, blinking at Morty in confusion. "You got her eyes, M-Morty. B-Bright and shiny, and they light up the same hers did when she was happy. F-Fucked up that they gotta- they gotta be a part of something that came from him," Morty flinched at the venom in his voice, "A r-real fucking shame."

What the hell was Morty supposed to say to that? Sorry I remind you of your dead wife and the guy who killed her, haha! He once heard the dead couldn't hurt the living, but he wasn't sure now. Especially with the way his head pounded, and his heart felt like it was being crushed.

Without warning, Rick shot up and grabbed Morty's face behind his hands in a bruising grip. The boy squeaked in fear, and tried to pull away, but Rick held tighter and didn't let go. He looked crazed at that moment, and at that moment Morty feared for his life.

"The best and worst parts of my life all wrapped up inside a whiny, dumb, useless piece of shit," Rick growled, no longer stuttering. "You stole her smile, her laugh, and you don't deserve it. You don't deserve to have any trace of her in you."

Rick's voice was growing louder, and Morty was worried that he would wake the rest of the family. He didn't exactly want them to see this scene being played out. It was getting harder to breathe, all the oxygen being stolen by Rick fueling his anger. He looked like he was ready to snap his grandson's neck, and Morty wasn't sure if he would try to stop him.

"Because I fucking see him in you too, I see his mannerisms in you every fucking day and it makes me sick. Y-You think you have so much moral high ground, but if only you knew how much you were like him, how inevitable it is to stop you from becoming like just like him."

"Rick, stop," Morty whimpered, trying to pull away, trying to put space between himself and the accusation. It was like he was being stabbed with a thousand knives. It was something he knew, something he knew Rick believed, but to hear it out loud broke him. It was the final piece put into place just to be ripped away, a truth that both of them tried to ignore.

Poison, monster, you deserve everything that's happened to you.

"Rick, stop," Rick mimicked, "Fuck you, Morty! Fuck you." Their eyes met at that moment; Rick's glazed but furious, Morty's scared but accepting. Rick was drunk but he meant every word. Morty was sure of it. He started to tremble, tears slipping silently down his cheeks.

Don't whine, don't sob, you're only looking for attention.

Rick released him, suddenly looking old and miserable and oh so tired. He collapsed onto Morty, burying his face in the boy's shirt. Morty didn't move, couldn't move. Maybe he was in shock, he didn't know. Instead, he just let his grandfather shake in his arms, let his tears soak into his pajamas.

The scientist let out a dry chuckle, but there was no humor in it, something else, something Morty couldn't place. An emotion Morty wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Sometimes I think about that time when I first saw you in your crib," Rick mumbled, words starting to slur again. "And wonder why I didn't pull the trigger. Saved us both the trouble. I-I really fucking hate you, M-Morty."

It was quiet after that. Morty leaned his head back against the wall in defeat, closing his eyes as tears slipped down his cheeks. There was nothing to say to that. Nothing to do about it.

How the truth hurts.

And then, barely audio, Morty heard him speak. "I hate you because of how much I love you."

Morty actually smiled at that. What a fucking lie. In fact, he was disappointed that Rick would try to remedy what he had said only before in his fucked-up way. But there was no remedy, they both knew the truth.

But Morty didn't say that. Instead, he ran his fingers through his grandfather's hair in a comforting gesture. As if he were the child. A damaged little boy and a broken old man. It was almost poetic.

"I know. It's okay to me, grandpa. I hate myself too."