"For Christ's sake, Morty, I asked you to do one thing!" Rick berated as they walked through the portal and into the family garage.

"Geez, Rick, I-I don't know how many times you want me to say I'm sorry!" Morty attempted to return with equal hostility, but it was mainly frustration. He'd tried to catch the weird pig-thing, he really had, but it was too slimy to hold onto. It wasn't his fault the darn thing decided it would rather run off a cliff into some deadly plasma lake than get caught. That was an annoying turn of events. He'd scraped his elbows up pretty bad when he slid in an attempt to grab it first, but he didn't manage to grasp it at all before the drop.

"Oh, I don't know, Morty, how-how about 3 million times? Because that's how many bloofles you lost me!" Rick set his portal gun on his desk with a clatter, spinning to look at Morty in irritation.

Morty was skeptical. "R-really, Rick, that sounds kinda made up. Like-like you just took a sound and decided it was money."

Rick rolled his eyes, pressing his hands against the edge of his desk and leaning forward. "Oh, re-uuuur-eal mature there, Morty. Th-the whole universe and you-you think you know all the words. English isn't really a universal language, Morty, not out there," he emphasized by vaguely gesturing at the ceiling with one hand.

Morty bit his lip, hands tightly fisted at his sides. Ok, fine, maybe he didn't know everything about the universe. Maybe he hadn't caught the thing, but this tongue lashing didn't seem fair. All the things Rick invented and he expected Morty to catch it with his bare hands? All the made up shit Rick joked about and he couldn't be a bit wary? He didn't have the energy to feel angry about it anymore, just...inadequate. He couldn't read situations well, especially when it came to his grandpa, and it bothered him that he couldn't tell his sincerity from a joke. It bothered him that Rick seemed really upset about this, even though he had to know he'd tried his best. It just wasn't good enough. Rick expected him to listen, to go along with everything without question, to succeed. As much as Morty told himself he didn't want to do whatever Rick said, which he didn't half the time, the fact was that he simply couldn't. Even when he tried, he rarely ever did it well.

I wish I wasn't such a fuck up, he thought miserably. He shook his head in an attempt to ward off a depressed mood, but it didn't do anything. Figured.

"Yeah, suck it," Rick gloated when there was no response, sitting at his desk and starting to tinker on something he'd left there. He hadn't noticed Morty's unhappy expression and his mood immediately seemed to improve when he won the argument. "Can you hand me the pliers?" he asked, extending a hand without looking up.

Every day had been like this recently. Rick asked Morty to do something, he royally messed up, and then he got yelled at. Rick made him feel incompetent, worthless, and then he slipped back into routine like nothing had happened. It was really starting to put a strain on him. Rick had always been rude to him, but before he would balance it out with small acts of kindness. He wasn't getting any of that anymore. Just constant abuse. Morty needed to see the sun sometimes, just like everyone else, but nothing bothered to shine through. It's hard to do anything if it's dark all the time. And still he'd been trying. He was scratched and bruised more than he ever had been in an attempt to succeed. He wanted to make his grandpa proud, for Rick to see him do well and just be there and be nice to him again instead of acting so aloof and cruel. The only way he thought he could change that was to win for once.

It seemed like he never would.

Telling Rick how he felt wouldn't help. Rick ignored his problems. He didn't care about the pills he took, chalking up his anxiety to teenage indecision. He'd probably laugh, tease him, give him another speech about how he was a piece of shit. Rick didn't worry about things like self-esteem. Morty was his little sidekick, his punching bag, the one he brought down to bring himself up.

Morty wasn't sure how much more of it he could take.

He grabbed the pliers and handed them to Rick, defeated.

"Thanks, Morty," he said, still without looking up, focusing on whatever his contraption was.

Morty felt himself perking up at the automatic politeness, that was how down he'd been lately. He was disgusted with himself because of it. "Y-yeah, whatever, I-I'm gonna go watch TV."

Rick looked up briefly as Morty retreated into the house. He'd been acting weird lately. Usually he liked to hang out in the garage with him, but now he always wanted to get away.

It was his fault. He'd been riding him hard lately, never letting up at any of his mistakes. Partly because he wanted Morty to step up to the challenge. To succeed and gloat. It wasn't like Rick was asking for insurmountable achievements here, they were all possible, Morty just had to get out of his coddled comfort zone where grandpa always came to help him.

The other part was harder to articulate. He felt like he'd been getting too close to Morty. Too caught up in helping him and praising him and being near him. It was getting uncomfortable. He wasn't used to enjoying someone's company that much and it couldn't be healthy. He knew it wasn't; a realization brought on when he'd leaned in to kiss him a few weeks ago after a particularly close run-in with the Galactic Federation. He'd caught himself in time to turn it into a hug, but it had been close. He'd been working to create some distance since, but now that Morty was returning the favor he regretted it.

The weird feelings he had were his own problem, not Morty's. Fact was fact, whatever excuses he tried to make, it was clear that he was being too hard on him. The kid needed a good kick in the pants every once in a while, but he'd been taking it too far.

He looked at the door to the kitchen. He'd let him have some space now, it would do him some good. Morty needed a break after adventuring and he had his own things to do. Rick turned back to the mini generator in his hand.

He'd make it up to him later.

Morty found Summer laying on the living room couch, not really watching a game show. He sat in his dad's armchair so he wouldn't disturb her. He debated asking for the remote or starting a conversation, but he didn't want to deal with any sass if she'd rather text in peace, so he remained silent. Things were always easier with Summer if she took the initiative. Today she didn't, so Morty watched the TV idly. He wanted to talk to someone right now, he'd noticed his anxiety creeping up on him before they'd portaled home and now it was surfacing with some bite, but he didn't want to talk to anyone for the same reason. Even the comfortable silence between the two siblings began to disturb him, to feel like an unsaid conflict waiting to happen. He had been mean to her the day before after a different failure. He'd taken it out on her. He wasn't much of a grandson or a brother.

He tried to suppress it, to focus on the TV, but anxiety began to pulse slowly through him. He wasn't good enough. God, would he ever be? His mind began to race and so did his heart. He attempted to ignore it, but that never helped. His hands began to tremble.

Fuck, that wasn't a good sign.

As quietly as he'd come in he left. Summer noticed him go, not thinking much of it. She was more interested in choosing between two tops that had come on sale at her favorite store. She'd been going to ask his opinion about them, she was so torn anything would help since she couldn't afford both, but she figured he wouldn't care. He never had an eye for fashion, it was why he always wore the same thing, but that was his loss.

She also didn't ask because she was still mad. Which sucked, since she wanted to know what he'd done today. She was jealous that he always got to go on adventures but they were still fun to hear about, even if Morty bumbled through the story. However, when she'd asked yesterday, Morty had given her attitude, the phrase she remembered best being "an annoying, nosey bitch" and she was still pissed at him, so he got the silent treatment.

With a shrug she went to get her dad's credit card. If she couldn't make a choice she wouldn't choose. Easier that way.

End of this chapter. Quick warning, there's going to be a descriptive panic attack at some point, probably next chapter, and suicide mention/maybe attempt/maybe success. We'll see, that's what the reading is for. So if that's not your bag, don't continue.