Rick fault?

Stone me too death l dare you

---

The chip sat cold and silent on the bench, its metallic surface gleaming under the cracked bulb overhead. Rick stared at it a long, hard stare that didn't blink, didn't waver as though if he looked long enough, it might flinch first.

It didn't.

It just sat there.

A dead piece of alien tech.

A ghost.

A reflection.

Rick leaned forward, elbows pressed hard against the metal bench, hands steepled tight enough his knuckles whitened. His eyes bored into the polished curves of the device traced every groove, every faint etching, every minuscule circuit line that caught the light.

And staring back at him… was himself.

His warped reflection curved across the chip's mirrored surface the lines of his face twisted, stretched, his mouth thin and set, his eyes dark and sunken, the white shock of his hair flaring like the jagged edge of a scar.

Is this it?

Is this what it's come to?

The smartest man in the universe… sitting in a garage, terrified of a kid he dragged across dimensions like a bad habit.

Rick swallowed hard, a dry, biting taste crawling up the back of his throat.

Didn't I want this?

Didn't I spend years dragging that kid through every hellhole in the cosmos, hoping… begging… he'd stop shaking, stop crying, stop needing me?

Didn't l want him to stand on his own?

Didn't l want him to stop looking up to me like some goddamn hero and start acting like a Sanchez?

Isn't this what I fucking wanted?

His hands started to shake.

Not a twitch. Not a tremble.

A full, bone-deep shake that rattled the breath in his chest.

He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding hard. His eyes stayed locked on the chip as his fingers twitched open and the metal slipped from his grip.

It hit the bench with a sharp, metallic clink.

Rick shot to his feet.

"FUCK!"

The word tore out of him raw, loud, stripped of everything but fury and fear.

He spun, hands clawing at the nearest cabinet, yanked it open so hard the hinge cracked against the frame. Bottles clattered inside glowing, humming, swirling with liquids no human liver could survive.

Rick's hand darted in, closed around the thick neck of a jagged, black-glass bottle filled with a syrupy blue that shimmered like a dying star.

He ripped the cork out with his teeth and tilted it back pouring half the bottle down his throat in one long, burning pull.

The liquid hit his gut like a bomb, tore through his veins with a heat that scorched every nerve raw but it didn't stop his hands from shaking.

Didn't stop the chip from gleaming cold on the bench.

Didn't stop the echo of that thought ripping circles through his mind.

I'm afraid of him.

I'm afraid of a prepubescent boy.

I'm afraid of a kid I broke into a soldier and never once stopped to fix.

Rick slammed the bottle down hard enough the glass cracked under his grip. He sucked in a breath sharp, hard and pressed both palms flat against the bench.

This is me.

This is who I am.

The man who builds monsters and calls them grandsons.

The man who wanted a legacy… and forgot that legacies bite back.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breath ragged, chest heaving with something sharp and thick lodged in his throat.

This is what you wanted.

This is what you fucking made.

The door creaked.

Rick's eyes snapped open.

Morty stood in the doorway.

Casual. Calm. Like he'd just wandered in looking for a screwdriver.

His eyes flicked once to the chip lying dead on the bench… then slid up to Rick's face.

No shock.

No questions.

No hesitation.

Morty gave a small nod voice even, almost soft.

"Dinner's ready."

Then he turned… and walked out.

Like nothing happened.

Rick stood frozen.

The words hung in the air like a hook through his gut.

Dinner's ready.

He watched the empty doorway for a full ten seconds before his breath caught in a sharp, broken sound.

Oh, fuck.

He spun back to the bench eyes locking on the chip heart slamming against his ribs.

Does he know?

Does he know what this is?

Does he know what I'm doing?

Does he know I'm afraid of him?

Rick ran a hand over his face, pushing his palm hard against his eyes until the dark flashed with stars.

You're Sanchez.

You don't panic.

You don't break.

But his legs felt like wet cement as he forced himself toward the door, every step dragging under the weight of that one burning thought:

Please don't know.

Please don't know.

Please…

---

The dining room was too quiet.

Beth sat at the table hands folded, eyes shadowed her face unreadable.

Summer picked at her plate, fork scratching faintly against ceramic.

Jerry wasn't there.

And Morty… sat at the head of the table.

Fork in hand.

Cutting into his food with slow, precise strokes.

Like he'd always belonged there.

Like nothing about this night was wrong.

Rick stepped into the room each footfall sounding too loud on the hardwood.

Four pairs of eyes lifted toward him.

Beth.

Summer.

Morty.

Morty's gaze met his steady, calm, unreadable.

Rick forced a grin. Crooked. Loose.

"Did I miss the blessing?"

Summer snorted softly, but nobody laughed.

Beth gave a small, tight smile the kind that didn't reach her eyes.

Rick slid into his seat his usual spot, the one he'd always dropped into like a thrown gauntlet.

He picked up his fork fingers stiff.

Morty kept eating. Calm. Measured. Like the world wasn't spinning just slightly off its axis.

Rick chewed slowly.

Swallowed hard.

Every bite tasted like cardboard.

Beth passed him a dish without a word.

Summer stared at her plate.

Morty lifted his glass water, no ice and took a slow sip.

Rick's hands felt too tight around the fork.

Don't say anything.

Don't look at him.

Don't break.

But Morty's eyes flicked up caught his and held.

A glance.

Nothing more.

But it landed in Rick's chest like a spike.

He forced his mouth into a curve a lazy, mocking grin.

"What? We having a staring contest now, Morty?"

Morty's lips lifted faint, polite.

"No, Rick."

He took another bite. Calm. Smooth.

Rick stabbed his fork into his food harder than necessary.

The tension coiled tighter around the table, thick as a wire drawn taut.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody breathed.

Beth cleared her throat soft, sharp like she wanted to cut through the air hanging over them.

"So… good day?"

Summer let out a weak, awkward laugh.

"Totally. Great. Fantastic."

Morty didn't look away.

Rick's mouth went dry.

He dropped his fork onto the plate with a sharp clatter and leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest.

His eyes locked on Morty's the silent, steady pulse of challenge hanging between them like a loaded gun laid flat on the table.

And Morty… smiled.

Small.

Sharp.

Knowing.

Rick's gut twisted.

Oh… fuck.

---

How you like it.

we are approaching end of this charade pretty soon

Regardless love ya ❤️