Ricky first loss

Drop some comments man it took effort to write these

Don't forget the stones

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The metallic clink of the scalpel echoed sharper than it should have as Morty laid it on the steel tray. His fingers moved with slow, methodical precision, wiping the thin smear of blood from its edge with a white cloth that stayed white for exactly two strokes before pink bled through. Rick stood a few feet away, watching with a hollow stare, the hum of the garage drowning under the thud of his heart.

"Morty…" Rick's voice cracked as he took a half-step forward. "You… you don't have to—"

But Morty didn't stop.

He lifted another tool, the curved bone saw, and pressed the cloth against its teeth, twisting it carefully, the motion calm, practiced. His eyes never once flicked to Rick. There was no satisfaction in his face, no malice, not even detachment. Just… a quiet, clinical focus.

Rick took another step, hands twitching at his sides. "I said you don't have to clean them."

Morty finally glanced at him. One slow, unreadable look. Then he went back to wiping.

Rick's gut twisted. He swallowed hard, words sticking in his throat like jagged glass. "Morty… just stop. Please."

Morty placed the saw down with a soft, metallic tap.

"Why?" he asked, voice quiet, almost curious.

Rick opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Morty lifted the neuro-scanner, delicate fingers tracing its edge before folding the cloth over it. He wiped in long, even strokes.

Rick felt something inside him crack.

Without thinking, he turned, crossing to the cabinet by the far wall. His hand shot out, yanking open the drawer, fumbling past gadgets and loose wires until his fingers closed around the cool glass of the alien liquor bottle. He pulled it free, uncorked it with a savage twist, and took a long, burning swallow.

The liquor hit his gut like acid, spreading heat through his veins, setting fire to the panic clawing at his insides.

He drank again. And again.

Behind him, the soft sound of cloth on steel continued, rhythmic and slow.

Rick's hand trembled as he lowered the bottle. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose.

"You know this won't drown it," Morty said quietly.

Rick spun around, the bottle nearly slipping from his grip.

Morty stood by the tray, the last tool gleaming clean in his hand. His expression was calm. Flat.

Rick stared at him, something sour rising in his throat.

"You think I don't know that?" Rick rasped. "You think I—"

A soft knock on the garage door cut him off.

Rick's stomach dropped.

The door creaked open a second later.

Beth.

She stepped in, eyes scanning the garage with that sharp, clinical gaze she'd inherited from him. Her arms were crossed, posture tense.

"Dinner's getting cold," she said.

Her eyes flicked to the tray. The tools. The faint smears of blood on the cloth.

Her gaze snapped to Rick.

Rick's mouth opened. "It's not—"

Beth's eyes narrowed. Her jaw tightened.

Morty turned slightly, laying the last tool down with a soft clink.

Rick forced a laugh, brittle and sharp. "Just a… prototype dissection. Nothing weird."

Beth's gaze didn't soften.

Morty picked up the stained cloth, folding it neatly, his movements smooth and deliberate.

Beth's eyes darted to him. "Morty…?"

Morty met her gaze with that same unreadable calm. "Everything's fine, Mom."

The silence stretched.

Rick felt every second scrape against his skin.

Beth gave a slow, clipped nod. "Right."

She turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft thud.

Rick let out a long, shaky breath.

Morty finished folding the cloth and set it down beside the tray.

Rick stared at him.

"What the hell are you doing, Morty?" he whispered.

Morty met his eyes again.

"Cleaning up," he said simply.

And with that, he walked past Rick, the faint scent of antiseptic trailing in his wake.

Rick stood alone, the bottle heavy in his hand, the silence pressing in from every side.

The tools gleamed on the tray.

And the weight of it all crushed down on him like a vice.

He staggered back toward the workbench, setting the half-empty bottle down with a soft thud, staring at the faint ring of moisture it left on the metal. His hands braced against the edge, knuckles white, shoulders tight with a pressure he couldn't shake. The taste of liquor coated his tongue like poison, sharp and bitter.

He stared at the tools. Clean. Ordered. Lifeless.

Just like Morty had been when he cleaned them.

Rick rubbed his face hard with both hands, dragging them down slowly as if peeling off a mask he couldn't get rid of. "What the fuck am I doing," he muttered to the empty room.

The door to the house stayed shut. No Beth. No Morty.

Only him.

He dropped into the chair by the monitor, the hum of the machines a faint drone in his ears. His eyes flicked to the bloodstained cloth folded neatly on the tray. For a long moment, he just stared, heart thudding in his chest like a fist against bone.

Then his hand reached out almost on its own and swept the cloth into the trash.

It didn't feel like victory.

It felt like hiding the evidence of something he couldn't take back.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the weight in his chest pressing harder.

"I made him," Rick whispered to the garage. "I made him like this."

The words felt foreign in his mouth, like they belonged to someone else.

But the truth of them settled over him like a shroud.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years…

He felt afraid.