Summary: it’s been a week since the surgery, and Jack can finally come home. (This is about, 2 weeks after the amputation)
(Potential) Warnings: literally the tiniest bit of fluff lol, angst, talk of depression, PTSD, phantom pain, non-sexual intimacy, a little allusion to sex/masturbating but nothing explicit, mention of antidepressants, very brief mention of vomit, Jack is in a wheelchair for the first few weeks after the amputation, this is a long fic but i think i like how they’re long for the series i guess,
I struggled to finish this one only because i didn’t want to make it drag on or anything but i feel like this stage for Jack would feel like never ending existing and that he couldn’t do anything but sit there, as well as reader, so that’s how i tried to make it feel.
@thehockeynerd30 @llovekats @girl-so-gay @croissant31 @peariesque @fangirl-dot-com @secretcloudpepperonipizza @akiramaxine @toxiccfrog @dancing-writes @p1stach-io @nyxmoretti
Jack has been stuck in that chair for days.
In all fairness, he couldn’t get around any other way, but the problem was that he wasn’t going anywhere. He just migrated between the kitchen and the living room.
The mattress was now located in the centre of the living room at night - because you couldn’t get Jack upstairs to your bedroom until the stairlift was installed. He also declared that you weren’t sleeping on the floor with him, and has exiled you to sleep in your shared room upstairs. And because you didn’t want to upset him, you abide.
Of course, he much prefers sleeping next to you, but he already has a shit time sleeping, he doesn’t need to do the same to you. Even worse after the ‘Incident’. He couldn’t sleep without the nightmares, his brain reliving the moment. He woke up every night with a cold sheen of sweat over him, hairs stood on end, all of his senses in overload. Some nights he just didn’t sleep, and he didn’t talk all day.
It was all as sad as it seemed.
He’d been sat in that wheelchair for 3 days, just watching shit on tv, his face completely blank.
It was midday, a beautiful day, that is; the sun was shining, a fresh green on the grass in the garden, and despite the crisp January air, the sun was warm and inviting. But Jack was already in a pissy mood, so that meant the whole day would be pissy.
That morning, you went downstairs and were met with Jack sat in the wheelchair, in the downstairs bathroom, in his boxers, struggling to reach to turn the shower on.
Using your initiative, you walk around him and turn the shower on. “Do you need help?”
“I’m fine.” Jack replied, though it was more like a grunt. He knew it was still early, that you’d have to help him shower, you’d have to help him into the fucking shower chair, you’d have to help him wash and lean on you. Physically, and emotionally.
You stayed quiet and exited to grab a pair of crutches as he struggled to take his boxers off — but he did it. He let you help him into the shower chair, not without a grimace. “Water okay?” “Fine.” He had clipped, avoiding your gaze and shutting the glass shower door.
You hung around, passing him his body and hair wash. “You don’t have to stay, I can wash myself.” Jack called out from the shower, frustration evident in his tone.
“..I know,” He hadn’t shouted at you, thankfully, but somehow it was worse. It was more painful because he couldn’t stand you being there with him, having to assist him with something as simple as showering and washing himself, he felt like he’d lost all of his progress, all of his masculinity, all of his charisma and energy. He was drained, and was draining the life out of you, too. What was the point if he couldn’t keep you happy?
Jack only glanced at you when you entered the living room, collecting mugs and glasses to wash up, along with the plates from lunch. “You got any ideas for dinner?”
He shook his head, eyes still dead on the tv screen.
“Lasagna? Seafood mix? Buffalo wings?” You list, mostly all of his favourites. He just shrugged. “..Any inspiration at all? You’re eating it too.”
“I don’t care,” He retorted, a bit frustrated.
“Do you wanna come to the shop with me? The fridge looking a bit empty anyway.”
Was there any point in talking to him at all?
“Okay, then, i’m gonna go book us first class flights to Australia.” Jack turned back to you with a confused expression. “Just seeing if you’re listening.” You returned with a painted-on smile.
While he stayed silent and turned back to ‘watch’ tv, there was a slight tilt to the corner of his lips. Very close to a smile.
Physio seemed to be the only thing Jack was optimistic about, even if he was sore and got more pity out of you than usual. He put his all in, sometimes doing too much. He just wanted to walk again. He wanted to be ‘normal’ again. He just didn’t want you to see him as he saw himself; a fumbling cripple who needs help to go to the bathroom, who needs to learn how to walk again like he was 2 years old. Much to Jack’s embarrassment — the only person who seemed embarrassed out of me and his physiotherapist, Rick — the days of you being absent for his physio or making you wait in a separate room were over. Why couldn’t you watch your husband getting stronger? Because he found it embarrassing? You’ve seen him sleep in a pile of his own vomit absolutely bladdered, the aftermath of half a bottle of whiskey and 7 beers, you couldn’t understand how he thought this was more embarrassing.
Jack was struggling slightly with a few sit ups: something he was definitely overdoing by the look on Rick’s face. Before the incident, Jack used to be able to fall on the floor into a push up, he could carry you effortlessly and swing you around like a ragdoll, now he couldn’t even do a fucking sit up. It was obviously bothering him.
“That’s good, the balancing is paying off,” Rick encouraged, grabbing Jack’s water bottle and trying to tell him to stop. Only after 5 more, he did. “You been doing the prone lying at home?”
Jack nodded, taking a gulp of water and glancing over at you, feeling a churning guilt in his chest because he was irritated by you just sat on the sidelines all perfect with that caring look on your face. He shook his head briefly, huffing. “Hip abduction as well,”
He saw you nod in the corner of his eyes, clasping your hands together in habit, like when you’re about to awkwardly butt in. “I have a yoga mat at home, so he uses that..”
Rick nodded, “That’s helpful. Yoga can help as well, stretch out the muscles and all, but I wouldn’t overdo anything at this stage,”
“Well, there’s no other way to get better,” Jack commented quietly, hand briefly scratching at his stump.
“Yeah, but, you can’t expect to get better quicker if you’re hurting yourself in the process by overdoing it,” You replied simply, earning another flare of irritation in Jacks chest. “And what would you know?”
You stilled and fell silent, staring back at him with that hurt expression. Biting your lip and getting smaller in the chair. Fuck, you idiot. Why snap at her, it’s not her fault you stepped on a fucking bomb.
“..I’m just gonna go to the toilet,” You muttered politely, exiting the rehabilitation gym. Jack watched you leave, exhaling deeply and scratching at his sweaty forehead.
“I know it’s not my place to say, Jack, but she is trying to help. I’ve dealt with nastier vets, and some of them just lose themselves after they’re hurt, or paralysed, or amputated.” Rick started off, hands on his hips. “Some of them guys have no one, some of them tear their relationships and families apart because they’re angry.”
“So what are you tryna say?” Jack exhaled, “That I can’t be pissed off?”
“Yeah, cause I can guess why you’re angry. Because she has two working legs and she has no idea how it feels? You can’t be pissed off with her because of that, she’s giving her all to caring for you.”
“I shouldn’t need my wife to take care of me! It should be the other fucking way around, i’m not some fucking 2 year old learning to walk, I feel- I feel so fucking—” Jack cleared his throat, feeling tears burning behind his eyes. Fucking useless, why are you crying? Talk about emasculating yourself. “..I’m fucking useless and I can’t walk. Every second of every day is fucking humiliating, how am I meant to live my life like this? I’m making my wife miserable, and I bet kids are out of the fucking question.”
Rick gave him a moment, waiting to see if he would rant more or if he’d finished. Jack took a breath.
“It’s not the end of your life. I’ve seen men with no legs go on to have a happy family. I’ll tell you now, because you already know, these next few months will feel long as hell, it’ll drag on until you get a prosthetic fitted, until you can walk independently, but you can’t let it take over your life. How can you expect to get to the other side if you don’t want to wait to get there?” Rick sighed softly. “Tell you what, you try not to overdo it this week, i’ll have some early walking aids ready for next weeks sessions, the wound seems to be healing really well.”
“Early walking aids?” Jack perked up.
“Basically a temporary inflatable device, Pneumatic Post-Amputation Mobility aid, or a PPAM, between parallel bars to help you practice standing and early weight-bearing. You should be good with it, your upper body strength is brilliant,” Rick elaborated, nodding.
Jack nodded, wiping at his wet eyes roughly and sitting up straighter, “Thank you. So much, that’s- I can’t even begin to—”
“It’s good. S’my job, ain’t it?” Rick returned with a soft smile.
Jack knew he did overdo it a bit at physio, because now he was tired and hurting.
He was sat on the sofa this time, finally out of the chair. The tv was off, and he seemed to be in his own little world. Which worried you a bit. “Jackie?” You called from the doorway, tone all soft and careful.
Stepping closer, and blocking the view of the window. “Jack.”
He blinked, looking up at you. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, humming and clearing his throat.
He sat there for a few minutes, waiting for his dinner. He called your name. And again, and again. Soon enough, he got himself into the chair and rolled into the kitchen. He saw you stood by the back door. “Where’s dinner?”
“Out here.” Jack stared at you like you had just slapped him. “We’re eating in the garden.”
He sighed, rubbing his face. “Angel, I’d really rather not.”
“Why? It’s warm, the sun’s out-”
“The step.” He cut in quickly, pointing to the glass door, and the step out to the back garden. Then he saw you holding out his crutches.
“I know you just had physio—”
“Yeah, and i’m fuckin’ hurting, angel.”
“—but, this is good for you. You can’t keep sitting in front of the tv all day, your eyes will go square. And I wanna eat out here with my husband.” You continued, pleading. “Or i’ll get a ramp, we have loads of shitty pieces of wood in the shed.” Jack let out another huff, staring back at his wife.
…He got outside in the end, sitting beside you on the outdoor chairs, shoving a few fries into his mouth.
“You’re in a better mood than this morning.” You started, a bit hesitant for his reaction.
“..Physio was good.” He shrugged simply, scratching his chin, the scruffy coarse dark hairs lining his lower face beginning to irritate him.
“You did really good.” You agreed softly. “I got some ice cream as well. They were on sale,”
“You don’t want any? It’s chocolate fudge brownie. Super sweet and sickly,” You continue, trying to lighten his mood.
“Maybe,” He squints from the golden hour sun, looking over the green of the garden, the shrubs and flowers. His hand twitches at his thigh, feeling the same electric shock going down from his knee, the maddening itch like his foot was still there.
You look over your water, seeing the grimace on his face. “You okay?”
Jack avoided looking in your direction, your gaze. He didn’t want to admit it hurt, what was the point? No pain killers could help, he was just fucking crazy. His brain makes him believe his leg is still there when it’s not. It’s never gonna be how it used to, he’s not gonna walk the same, everyone will know he’s a fucking cripple even when he has his prosthetic. It’s fucking cruel.
He only looked down when he felt a warmth on his forearm, spotting your hand sat there. Thumb gently stroking along his skin, but you weren’t looking at him with pity. You just looked content — as content as you could be in this situation — just holding the company of your husband.
You couldn’t sleep. Maybe you had a coffee a little too late in the afternoon, or you were watching the tv too late, maybe your head was hurting from the little cry you had before getting into bed, or maybe it was because you were alone in your bed that Jack usually slept in. It had been hard.
Sometimes you think maybe it would help. You would get some release other than crying and screaming into your pillow, but you couldn’t ask Jack. You couldn’t expect him to want to even think about sex with what he’s going through. And you can’t help the guilt that eats you up inside out when you grab a toy from the bedside table, because you just end up thinking about Jack, how much pain he’s in, how it would hurt his feelings more to know you’d been getting yourself off because he can’t do it right now. It’s just a cycle: you cry, you want release, you want your husband, you feel guilty, you cry.
You decided to go downstairs. You told yourself it was just to get some nice cold water, but you really just wanted to see Jack. To see if he was sleeping.
Halfway down the stairs, you heard shuffling and quiet grunts, then a brief shout. When you got to the living room doorway, you saw him sat up on the mattress, rocking slightly and dripping with sweat.
He’d had nightmares before the Incident; he was a soldier as well as an army medic, he’d seen the most violent and gruesome things, he’d had to heal and hurt people just to protect his men, his unit. It wouldn’t stop now, if anything, Jack’s nightmares would just get worse. You knew the best way to deal with it.
You turned the hallway light on, seeing his head whip around and finally exhale when he saw your familiar outline in the doorway. He almost let out a whimper.
You stepped forward, sitting on the mattress opposite him. “Hey Jackie..”
He didn’t reply, just held his head in his hand, wiping off the sweat onto his pyjama shorts. “You’re okay, you’re at home, lovely..” He exhaled deeply when he felt your hands on his arms, his eyes squeezed shut tightly and forcing in deep breaths. “You’re safe, Jack.”
You crept closer, slowly wrapping your arms around him so he had every chance to pull away. On the contrary, he melted into you, resting his head on your shoulder and pulling you into his lap, fixing his arms around your middle so tight you almost lost your breath. He needed to feel grounded, to feel you. You slipped one of your hands into his hair, gently scratching his scalp and playing with his hair as the other stroked up and down the expanse of his back. Anything to calm or distract him, really.
He held you like that for what felt like ages. He used to hug you a lot. He would pull you in for a cuddle anytime you were on the sofa, in bed, anywhere. Now, after losing his foot, it was sporadic. He didn’t want to feel, and he was sick of feeling depressed and futile, Jack didn’t want to put this all on you since you already had to deal with having a disabled and useless husband, but the only thing that really helped was being wrapped around you.
He felt you shuffling, and pulled back slightly. Fuck, he’s messed it up, you’re pulling away—
You gently hold his shoulders and climb over him, settling yourself beside him on the mattress, still holding onto his arms. “Come on,”
“..You’re sleepin’ down ‘ere?” He uttered, his breath stuttering, seeing the tears he was holding back.
“Mhm. I can’t sleep up there,” You whisper, stroking up and down his arms and urging him to lie back down. “..Can’t sleep without you.”
He exhaled, lying back with you and feeling the weight of your arm around him.
You stay cuddled together under the duvet, where for a moment, everything was quiet and the minutes felt like hours. Jack was very much convinced it was because you were with him. Sure, he was still embarrassed of his leg and worried that his life would never be the same again, but right now it didn’t matter. He could be the richest man in the world with 100% of himself or completely paralysed, he’d still be happy because he had you. God, why was he such a dick to you?
“I’m sorry for being so horrible to you.” Jack croaked out quietly, he knew that if he tried to whisper nothing would come out. “..I do…love you. I just— I can’t think of anything else—”
If your heart wasn’t bleeding before..
“Oh, Jackie,” He covered his face with his hand, pinching his eyes shut and holding down sobs. “I know you love me, I know,” You reassure, almost cooing at him, and gently taking his wrists to pull his hands away. “Come on, look at me, baby..”
He opened his eyes, teary and red. He just looked so exhausted. Lord knows the anti-depressants have barely made it into his system, they weren’t doing anything right now. “..I’m so fuckin’ tired of this,” He managed, huffing out a breath and taking in a sudden, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
That same feeling thudded in your chest. The same outrageous, impending doom and despair shot straight to your heart, because your husband just said he doesn’t want to live anymore. He’s said it multiple times. He didn’t want to be in this world with you. Something he promised he’d do until death do us part.
You swallowed back a hurt sob, stroking his cheek with a gentle knuckles. “It’ll pass, baby…You’re gonna get better, gonna feel better.” Jack shook his head, staring up at you as he continued to cry. “Just cry, okay? I’m here…I love you, and i’m not going anywhere. Okay? I’m staying here with you.”
He calms after a few moments, his face stuffed in your neck and feeling the weight of your head on his, your hands stroking his back as if he was made of glass.
He was never one to be taken care of, but it was nice sometimes.
Two weeks had passed, Jack and yourself were in the same position, though instead of moonlight peeking through the curtains, it was the morning sun. Birdsong overlapping on repeat, interrupted by the slam of the mail flap on the front door. Jack groaned in annoyance, barely opening his eyes and pulling you closer in the bed. He sighed into your hair. His wife, his home. It was just a little thing that woke them both up at 7AM, too early to process anything.
However, just as you were finishing breakfast later that morning, you grabbed the mail and handed Jack a letter from the hospital as you went though the other bits.
Dear Mr Jack Abbot..yaddayadda…an appointment scheduled on the 16th February at 10:00AM with your doctor and a prosthetist to measure and cast his leg for a temporary interim prosthetic.
Life seemed to be turning up for Jack again.
