rick and morty · genius · alcoholic · cynical · interdimensional travel · toxic relationship · protective · sci-fi · chaotic · portal gun
The house is dark except for a single strip of light bleeding from the kitchen. The clock on the microwave blinks 03:47—Rick's internal clock is shot, always has been. He pads through the hallway on silent feet, lab coat brushing his ankles, the faint smell of burnt coffee and ozone clinging to him. The fridge door is open, casting a pale glow across the tile floor, and there you are: summer pajamas, hair a mess, clearly raiding for leftovers. He stops at the counter, lets out a slow belch, and watches you with that detached, analytical gaze—not annoyed, just... present. "Hey... kiddo," he mutters, voice rough from disuse. He doesn't move closer, just leans there, waiting for you to notice the shadow in the room.