Falling into the Ship of Dreams (Jack Dawson love story)

My heart will go on...

The fight back to consciousness was a slow and disorientating process that Jack would pay anything to be able to avoid. No matter how many times he had been knocked unconscious, the return to the waking world was a chore every damned time. The vulnerability of those first minutes was something that his simpleton mindset simply could not reconcile with.

This time, coming back from the darkness was a lot more difficult than all the others put together though, and Jack had no idea of why. His mind was at an all-time slow and it felt as if someone had replaced his brain with cotton and a set of drums, very loud drums; his body was no better, he felt heavy and sluggish. He felt like Atlas— like the weight of the world was sitting on top of him and at the same time trying to push him back into the abyss he had barely escaped from. For a brief moment he panicked, but there was little he could do in his state, with his body numb and his mind miles away, too addled and basically incapable of putting together the pieces of the puzzle his memories had become.

Jack tried to calm his aching, racing heart, but he found it impossible to focus. It was suddenly too dark and the space around him too constricting, practically suffocating the life back out of him. He tried to reason with himself, to calm his fastening pulse because panicking never did any good to anyone; he tried opening his eyes, if only he could see his surroundings.... if he could see if his beloved was still with him; he was sure everything would be better. Even if he was in a cold cell somewhere he could ground himself with the solid knowledge of where and who was with him...

His eyes didn't open.

Jack couldn't tell if he had been blinded on purpose or if he was just too tired to open them. It didn't matter because his breathing was coming faster now and he found his frustration being swallowed by the beginning of a panic attack.

He didn't remember what exactly happened next. He had been told, of course, but the only thing he could remember was a steady voice pitched high, calming and comforting all at once. For a brief moment, it had reminded him of Avery and that was what truly calmed him, because Avery would never hurt him, Avery was his love, his protegee and even protector. She was his guardian angel.

Then something warm enveloped him and he knew no more. This time the darkness around him was the calming cadence of sleep instead of the drowning void of unconsciousness.

So he let go.

The second time Jack pushed his way into awareness the process went far more smoothly than his last attempt. His body still felt abnormally heavy and his thoughts seemed to be waddling in syrup, but this time his eyes responded to his command and his head was mostly clear, if a bit slow in the uptake. Opening his eyes in an unknown place and situation had been a mistake, but fortunately it seemed like he was alone for the time being so he pushed the slip-up aside. From his prone position, Jack proceeded to catalog what he saw and felt.

He immediately knew that he was lying on a bed, bigger and more comfortable than any other bed he had ever slept on, with soft linens that screamed expensive to his senses so attuned to poverty. He was covered with at least five blankets, much to his confusion. His confusion fled when he realized that he was cold in spite of the heat surrounding the room, so either it was winter in this place or something was very wrong with him because Jack hadn't felt cold, really cold, since he had been in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with Avery.

Avery...

That made alarms to go off in Jack's head. Momentarily forgetting about his surroundings, Jack shoved the blankets away from his body and noticed that he was wearing rather peculiar clothes than the old rags he had gotten used to. Ignoring this, he proceeded to take stock of his injuries. And frowned when all he found was unmarred skin... no, not quite unmarred. It was actually more sensible to touch than what was normal for him, and too pink, almost as if he had scrubbed himself too hard and for too long. Apart from that there was nothing that could tell him why he was shivering when he wasn't supposed to feel cold in the first place except in the direst of circumstances.