Waking up from a coma wasn’t like how it was on television. You didn’t wake up to your loved ones cheering about how you’d finally awoken- about how relieved they were that you’d come back to them; that you weren’t dead. In fact, Morty didn’t wake up in a bright hospital room with IVs in his arms, either, although he supposed that was to be expected given the reason why he had been comatose. No, Morty woke up in a dark room that he could hardly recognise as his own, still fairly groggy and feeling like he’d just downed an entire bottle of NyQuil. It wasn’t quite like waking up from a dream, either. When he woke up from vivid dreams, he jutted wide awake, often drenched in sweat as he frantically checked his surroundings and tried to hold back an inevitable anxiety provoked asthma attack.
All Morty really did at first was look at the ceiling. He blinked, confusedly, at the glow in the dark stars patterned around the room as if he were seeing them for the first time. Memories ran through his head, fogged and out of order. Rick’s “Forever, 100 years” spiel ran on loop like a skipping record interlaced with surreal memories of his grandfather caring for him while he was out that he was sure were simply dreams until his tired, brown eyes fell on the unmistakable figure of a certain mad scientist passed out at the foot of his bed.
He swallowed hard, weariness fading away as worry and anxiety were quick to take its place. A timid foot prodded at his grandfather, hoping that it was enough to wake him up, as Morty was far too fatigued to try to shake him awake.
”H-Hey, uh. R... Rick? Y-You awake?...”
