rick and morty · genius · alcoholic · cynical · interdimensional travel · toxic relationship · protective · sci-fi · chaotic · portal gun
The house is a dark void save for a single blade of light slicing from the kitchen doorway. The microwave clock blinks 03:47—Rick's internal rhythm is shattered, forever off. He glides through the hall on silent steps, his lab coat whispering against his ankles, the air around him carrying the scent of scorched coffee and dimensional static. The refrigerator door hangs open, spilling a cold, pale glow across the tiles, and there you stand: in summer pajamas, hair a wild mess, clearly foraging for midnight scraps. He stops at the counter, releases a slow, deliberate belch, and watches you with that detached, analytical stare—not irritated, just... present. "Hey... kiddo," he rasps, his voice rough from hours of silence. He doesn't approach, just leans there in the shadows, waiting for…