#mortysmith

Summary: Rick had a long day and, everybody knew, if his day was bad, he will do everything, that yours will be too. But making fun of your body was just too much.

I am back again on track guys!So send me things I can write, COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN AGAIN!!!

"Walk faster fatty, I don't want to look at you that long"

Rick paid you as much as a senior doctor in Switzerland, but despite the high salary, it wasn't enough to compensate for his constant insults. You put up with them, day after day, but today you were more sensitive than usual.

You didn't know why yourself, maybe it was the weather. Every time something wasn't right, you blamed it on the weather, Rick didn't like that at all, he would explain to you for hours how the weather couldn't affect people's emotions.

“Rick?” you ask, looking at him. He's sitting on the sofa, both his arms wide open and his upper body pressed into the couch. “Yessss…” he groans when he hears your voice.

He lets his head fall back. “I'm done with the brain cell decelerator, can you take a look at it?” you ask him. His head bobs up. Sometimes you ask me why you took the job in the first place. But the five-digit number that appeared on your bank account at the end of each month told me why.

“You can see I'm busy right now, can't you?” he asks me. You look at him and then at the TV, which is enjoying his full attention. “Please Rick, I've been watching it all day…” I try to explain. “Get away from the tv, now. You're getting on my nerves!” says Rick, annoyed.

I look out of the window and see nothing but darkness, I try to distract myself with something so I don't shout at him. “It would be really nice if you could just find two minutes for me to finish my…”; before I can finish my sentence, he interrupts me.

“Walk faster fatty, I don't want to look at you that long,” he says.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you think you must have misheard him. But there he is, sprawled out on the couch, that arrogant smirk on his face, not even sparing you a glance as his eyes stay glued to the damned TV. His words echo in your head, heavy as lead, and you feel the familiar wave of insecurity crashing over you.

You’ve always felt uncomfortable in your body. You’d learned to fake the smiles, to use humor as armor, to brush off the small stings of insensitive remarks like they didn’t bother you. But this… this wasn’t small. This was Rick, the man you spent countless hours working for, tolerating his abuse, trying to impress despite knowing it was probably futile. And now, he’d said the one thing he knew would cut the deepest.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat burning. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, but your voice comes out quiet, trembling. “You didn’t need to say that.”

Rick finally looks at you, tilting his head as if you’re some fascinating, irritating puzzle he can’t quite figure out. “Oh, what? Did I hurt your feelings? Geez, I thought you science types were supposed to have thick skin.” He chuckles at his own awful pun, his lack of self-awareness somehow making it worse.

The ache in your chest twists into something sharper—anger. “You knew exactly what you were doing, Rick,” you say, louder this time, your voice firm despite the sting in your eyes. “You know how I feel about my body, and you said it anyway. Why? Just get me off your view?”

He scoffs, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, come on, don’t be so dramatic. I’m not your therapist, alright? I’m your boss. You think I have time to tiptoe around your feelings when we’re dealing with the universe here? Get over it.”

You stare at him, your heart sinking further with every word. His dismissive tone, his refusal to acknowledge how much his comment hurt—it’s like a punch to the gut. Without another word, you turn on your heel and head out of the living room. Rick doesn’t stop you, doesn’t call after you. It’s like you don’t even exist to him unless you’re useful.

The garage is cold, cluttered, and familiar. It’s where you’ve spent countless hours working on Rick’s insane inventions, deciphering his erratic notes, and trying to prove your worth to someone who never seems to care. You sit at the workbench and stare at the brain cell decelerator, your vision blurring with tears you refuse to let fall.

Why do you stay? You know the answer. The money, sure—but it’s not just that. There’s something about Rick, some spark of brilliance buried beneath the insults and the chaos, that makes you want to stick around. Maybe you’re a fool for thinking he sees anything in you beyond a tool to get his work done. Maybe that’s all you’ll ever be.

As you tighten a loose wire on the device, you hear the creak of the garage door opening behind you. You don’t look up. The last thing you want is to see his smug face.

“Hey,” Rick says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

You don’t answer. Instead, you focus on the decelerator, twisting a screw into place with more force than necessary.

He sighs, a long, exaggerated sound like this is somehow hard for him. “Look, I didn’t mean to—ugh, shit—hurt your feelings or whatever.”

You pause, your hand stilling over the screwdriver. That’s the closest thing to an apology you’ve ever gotten from him. Slowly, you turn to face him. “You think that’s enough, Rick? After what you said?”

He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “No, it’s not enough. But, uh... I’m not great at this whole ‘feelings’ thing, alright? I say dumb crap sometimes. Most of the time.” His gaze darts to the floor, then back to you, and for once, there’s no smugness, no condescension. Just... Rick.

“You’re not just some—you know—assistant or whatever to me,” he continues, his words halting and awkward. “You’re... important. To me. And not just ‘cause you’re good at fixing my shit. I mean, you are, but that’s not the point.”

Your heart twists painfully at his stumbling attempt to make things right. “Then why did you say it? You know how I feel about... me.”

He steps closer, his hands shoved deep into his lab coat pockets. “Because I’m an asshole, alright? That’s my default setting. But I didn’t mean it. I don’t see you like that. Hell, if anything, you’re—you’re better than me. Smarter, kinder, less of a jackass. I don’t deserve you hanging around me all the time.”

You blink at him, stunned. Rick Sanchez, the self-proclaimed smartest man in the universe, admitting he’s wrong? Saying he doesn’t deserve you?

Rick shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering from the floor to your eyes. There's an edge of vulnerability in his voice, something that doesn't quite fit with the persona he usually wears so proudly. “And, uh... I guess I don’t always know how to say the right thing, but, you know... your body—” He hesitates, as if the words are foreign to him, like they don’t quite belong in his vocabulary.

You raise an eyebrow, unsure of where this is going, but curious nonetheless. “What about it?” you ask, trying to mask the uncertainty in your voice.

He bites his lip, running a hand through his hair in frustration before continuing. “I’ve—look, I’ve noticed, alright? You’ve got this... this perfect, goddamn body. Every time I look at you, it’s like... I don’t know, it’s like I can’t even concentrate. But I mess it up, I know. I always do. I just... don’t always know how to... handle it.”

You can’t help the surprise that flashes across your face, his words so unlike the insults he’s always thrown your way. The way he speaks now, almost like he's struggling with some unfamiliar emotion, it catches you off guard.

"Rick, you're... you're not serious," you murmur, still processing what he’s said. "You’ve always... always put me down."

Rick looks at you, frustration mixed with something deeper flickering in his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m trying to fix that, alright? It’s just... I can’t keep pretending like you’re not... perfect. I don’t know why I keep doing it, but I guess it’s because I don’t know what to do with someone like you.” His words are laced with an honesty that makes your heart race, something raw that you’ve never heard from him before.

You take a step closer, suddenly feeling the air between you crackle with tension. It’s so strange, this shift in him, this softness you never expected from someone like Rick Sanchez.

He exhales sharply, his voice growing quieter. “You’re everything I could ever want, you know? But you’re also the last person I’d expect to be interested in someone like me. So, I get defensive... I act like an idiot. I try to keep you at arm's length.”

Before you can respond, Rick moves toward you, closing the distance in a few short steps. His hands, trembling slightly, reach out to gently cup your face, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I think you deserve to know that... you’re perfect. Your body... the way you move, the way you look at me... it drives me crazy. But in a good way. It always has.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and vulnerable, and for the first time, you see him—really see him—as someone who’s just as imperfect, just as flawed, as you are.

Without thinking, you lean into him, your lips brushing against his in a soft, tentative kiss. The world fades around you, and in that moment, it’s just the two of you—finally connecting in a way that feels honest, without the layers of sarcasm, without the walls he’s always built around himself.

Rick pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged, as he looks into your eyes with something almost tender in his gaze. His lips curl into something resembling a smile, but it's filled with an emotion you’ve never seen before. “Yeah... that’s what I wanted to say,” he mutters, his voice low and husky.

By: Clone Bakery Ria. [For employees only.]

You're not gonna tell if a cake is edible and good enough to sell by the cooking point or the time spent in the oven, but by the behavior of the cake and if it's appearance is matching the flavor it's supposed to be. Also, by it's health state, dumbass.