Morty took a hesitant step toward his grandfather.

"R-rick," he said. Through eyes blurred with tears, Rick could sense Morty's hand hovering just over his shoulder. Would he touch him? He inhaled deeply, preemptively relaxing.

He would forgive him. Of course he would - Morty always forgave him.

Morty didn't forgive him.

Morty slapped him.

Not hard, of course. He was undoubtedly still feeling guilty over the shooting and the black eye. But he slapped him nonetheless. Rick imagined he could feel each unique digit forming an indelible imprint upon his face. The slap was a mark of shame.

Rick hiccupped in shock.

"You can't make someone choose between you and their parent!" Morty shrieked. "Th-that's just fucked!"

The teen shuffled awkwardly for a moment before walking uncomfortably back into the kitchen. Rick listened to the sounds of a chair being pulled forward and Morty's helpless comforting murmurs. An involuntary sob escaped Rick's throat. He hung his head as low as his neck would allow, and proceeded to feel sorry for himself. He sulked for a minute. Maybe more.

No, he decided after listening to Beth's inconsolate cry. He wouldn't stoop to this level - at the very least, he wouldn't do it on the floor. Feeling weaker than usual, he pushed himself slowly up and shambled down the hallway. For good measure, he slammed the door to the garage behind him. He didn't lock it, but nobody came.

He approached the grimy shelves, his hard-won prize after so many years of being locked away. His fingers traced the cardboard box labeled "TIME TRAVEL STUFF." A thin film of dust coated his skin. He wiped it off on his pants.

Despite her alcoholism, Beth wasn't a bad person. She was just unlucky. She was born at a time in Rick's life when he simply wasn't ready to commit to being a father. Rick didn't particularly feel like a bad person either. But prison had hardened Rick Sanchez in all the ways that counted. His priorities had dwindled until only one goal remained within his sights: he had to get his family back.

He sighed. He wondered when Morty had become a son to him.

He wondered if Morty would come to the garage any time soon.

Rick knelt beside his desk, rummaging underneath for the handle to his emergency mini-fridge. It opened after a few tugs, coughing a fetid plume of fog into the air. Unbothered, he reached in and cracked open a can of Slurm. He wasn't quite ready to give up this brief, clarifying sobriety just yet. The soda was warm but he gulped it down regardless. The simple muscle memory of raising drink to mouth and drowning himself from the inside out was enough.

He wiped a few stray drops from his chin when he had finished, feeling somewhat stronger. He leaned back against the leg of the desk.

"Grandpa Rick?" asked a voice.

Rick banged his head against the lip of the table when he jumped.

"Summer?" he grouched, rubbing his sore scalp. "How did you get in here?"

She stared. "The garage door is open."

Rick looked. It was.

"Are you okay?" his granddaughter asked. "You look like you were in a boxing match."

"Did I win?"

"Hell no." She offered him a hand and pulled him up. "Besides, your new body never had a training partner."

"You better have kept in shape while I was in prison," he warned. "Otherwise I'm gonna beat you a-at sparring."

"You wish, old man."

Despite himself, Rick grinned. "How long were you out?" he asked.

"Not long. Just drove home."

"You have a car?"

"Duh."

He looked outside again. A small red sedan was parallel parked under a street light in front of the yard.

"I guess I've been gone a while," he admitted.

"Yeah." Summer rubbed her arm uncomfortably. There was a long pause. "Hey, can I have some of that Slurm?"

"That stuff will rot your brains," Rick replied with a belch and a shake of the head. He leaned over and grabbed a brown bottle from the mini-fridge, popping the lid off on the edge of the workbench. "Drink beer instead."

Summer shrugged and took a long sip. Her nose wrinkled.

"Yuck. This is warm."

"Well, the fridge has been unplugged for two years."

"Yeah..."

"Yep."

"So..."

"So," Rick replied sagely. "You came back. I thought you'd gone to find y-your father."

"Ew," Summer said. "Dad? No way. I watched the alien dismemberments in the school courtyard until I got bored, then I came home."

"Oh." Rick was surprised. "You mean... you're not upset that he's gone?"

"Nah. He honestly started being kind of a dick during that whole insect regime thing."

"So y-you don't miss him?"

"Not really. I mean, maybe I will later. But right now? Not so much."

"I see."

Summer sipped her beer.

"Did you and Morty make up yet?" she asked. He winced.

"Uh, define 'making up.'"

"He's still mad at you?"

"Yeah." Rick's shoulders slumped. "I don't blame him."

"He'll come around," Summer encouraged, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. "He loves you, grandpa Rick."

His throat tightened uncomfortably. "Hm," he replied noncommittally.

"Serious. He was devastated when you left."

"He didn't seem too devastated when I came back."

Summer appraised him thoughtfully.

"You want to know the truth?" she asked. Rick wasn't sure he did. Summer gave it to him anyway. "I think he's a lot like you. Maybe more than anyone thinks. When you left, he started to hide his true feelings under all this anger. But I think deep down, he really misses you."

Rick turned his face away. God, not again.

"Yo, grandpa Rick?"

He shook his head. His shoulders hitched.

"Grandpa Rick, are you crying?"

"No!" he huffed, in a tone that told her he was definitely crying.

"Oh. My god."

"Just... just fuck off," he mumbled halfheartedly.

"Grandpa..."

"Just go, Summer!"

Summer took one more long look at him and went without another word. The suburban stars twinkled icily outside, muted by street lamps. Rick sank to his knees for the second time that night, weeping hot tears into his cold hands.

Alone.

Then Summer came back.

"You see this shit?" she yelled. Rick was in too much of a state to acknowledge her. His face remained buried in his palms. "You fucking see what you did?"

"I-I-I-I'm sorry," he sobbed hoarsely.

"You see how much you hurt him?!"

Rick wrapped one arm around his chest and squeezed his ribs.

"I... I didn't... I'm s-"

"You're a fucking moron, Morty," Summer concluded.

A soft, "oh geez" sounded from the back of the garage. Rick's heart stopped.

"M-Morty," he gasped.

"Rick," Morty whispered uncomfortably from the doorway. "I didn't know."

Rick fell forward until his forehead kissed the cold concrete floor. "Don't... don't look at me," he pleaded.

"Oh, Rick," Morty repeated. He knelt on the floor beside his grandfather and placed his hand upon a stiff, skeletal spine. "Rick, I didn't know."

Summer sat quietly at his other side, placing her own hand upon his opposite shoulder. "Told you so," she murmured, lightly squeezing his collarbone.

Together, Morty and Summer lifted their broken grandfather back up to sitting. He kept a hand tightly clamped over his eyes, determined to maintain some semblance of control - and in the process, demonstrating his weakness instead. With a glance and a nod at each other, Summer and Morty hugged him tightly from either side.

"Morty?" Beth's voice queried from the doorway. "Summer? Are you in here?"

All of them froze, save Rick, whose muscles spasmed periodically as he cried.

"Dad?" she asked in a broken, tearstained voice of her own.

"Fuck," Rick whimpered.

And then the small broken family was finally whole, holding tightly to each other on the floor of Rick's - their - garage. The night was cold, but the embrace was warm, and if anyone saw the four of them through the wide-open carport door, they at least had the good grace not to comment on the scene.

Beth clung tightly to her father, vowing to never let him go again (though she had doubts she would remember this drunken promise in the morning).

Morty never stopped apologizing, though of course he was forgiven.

Summer laid her head on her grandfather's warm, bony shoulder, a silent and bonding agreement flowing between her skin and his.

And Rick?

Rick had his kids back.

I kind of feel bad for this story? But not really at all?

(Sorry Rick)

Ten points if you caught the Futurama reference, twenty if you caught the Undertale (it's subtle shit, baby)

Anyway, that's all she wrote. Wubbalubbadubdub bitches, I'm out