Waking up feels like swimming through wet concrete. Every thought is slow, heavy, and distant. Jack drifts toward consciousness in pieces, aware first of the steady beeping of a monitor somewhere nearby, then the soft hiss of oxygen moving through the nasal cannula beneath his nose. His throat burns faintly from the breathing tube that had been there during surgery, and exhaustion sits so deep in his bones that even opening his eyes feels like work.
When he finally manages it, the room comes into focus gradually. The recovery room lights are dimmer than he expects, and for a moment he simply stares at the ceiling, trying to orient himself. The fever haze that had consumed the last twenty-four hours has retreated enough that he can actually think again. His skin no longer burns. The violent chills are gone. He's still pale, but not the alarming gray-white he'd been before surgery. The slightest bit of color has returned to his face, enough that anyone looking at him would immediately recognize that he's past the worst of it.
A careful swallow immediately reminds him of his sore throat, and he winces before letting his eyes wander around the room. Everything feels sluggish. His body feels impossibly heavy. He becomes vaguely aware of IV pumps, antibiotics still running, oxygen tubing against his cheeks. Recovery. Post-op. The details come together slowly, but one thing is immediately obvious: he's still here.
For a second, nothing else registers. Ally is still there. Still waiting.
Relief hits him so fast it almost hurts.
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly despite the exhaustion as his gaze settles on her. He tries to speak immediately and discovers his voice isn't interested in cooperating. What comes out is little more than a rough rasp. "Hey." It sounds terrible, and Jack knows it sounds terrible, but the faintest hint of amusement flickers through his tired expression anyway. His eyes remain fixed on her as if he's making sure she's actually real. That she didn't leave. That he didn't imagine her being there before surgery.
Slowly, he shifts one hand across the blanket, fingers weak but searching. "You stayed...again." The words come out quietly, worn thin by exhaustion and medication. It's a simple observation, but the gratitude behind it is impossible to miss. For the first time since this entire nightmare started, something in his shoulders finally relaxes. Whatever news the surgeons have waiting for him can wait another minute. Right now, Ally is here. And somehow, that makes the room feel a little less frightening.
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