Work Text:
Jack Abbot had always had a hard time getting to sleep.
Ever since he was young. He averaged around 4 hours even when he wasn't working. His brain didn't like to stop. It didn't like to rest. And ever since he had been discharged, it had only gotten worse.
He had finally fallen to sleep when the dream came. It was always the same thing. The battlefield, the rough ground under his feet, sweating and gun shots and screams and blood. Blood on his shoes, blood on his hands.
Then the rough ground was under his head instead of his feet and the blood on his body was his own and the screams belonged to him. The pain came next. Hot, wet blood dripping down his pants. It melted with his sweat and turned his already high temperature to beyond. Medics and gauze and people and faces. The sweat became heavier, the pain more intense until he passed out.
Jack woke up sweating, just like the dream. His blanket had been pushed around and was barley hanging on him. He propped himself up in bed and wiped the sweat of his forehead.
He leaned back against the headboard and sighed, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He swatted it away but another one came. And another. And another. He didn't let himself cry too often but he knew it was healthy to do it sometimes. He looked down at his right leg, watching it as if it was going to grow horns and come out at him.
Jack remembered when he went back to work for the first time after it happened. Everyone could tell he was an amputee it so obvious. It was harder to tell now, he was used to the prosthetic and amputees were much less recognised and accepted back then. He remembered that one patient who yelled, practically begging for another doctor. And why? Because how could a disabled person ever actually be smart or have knowledge.
He sat up on the side of his bed and rubbed his eyes. He grabbed the prosthetic and hitched it on before walking to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror.
His hair was messed up, all over the place. The bags under his eyes were more noticeable under the harsh coldness of the bathroom light. He was still sweating and you could notice the dried tears on his cheeks and just below his chin, where they had fallen.
Jack leaned down and splashed water on his face, spreading it around. He kept his head down, arms stabilising his body. He sighed again. He hated looking at himself in the mirror.
The first few months that followed it, he tried to convince himself he looked the same as before. Like nothing had happened. He acted like his demeanour, his personality or even his appearance was exactly the same.
But as the months passed and slowly turned into years, he noticed the change more. There was a look in his eye, the way he flinched whenever a loud noise occurred, he kept his hands close to his body at all times, just in case.
Jack stood back up again, straight arms by his side. He took one last look in the mirror before turning off the light and heading back to bed. He didn't bother to make his blanket straight again or even lie down. He took off his prosthetic and grabbed his phone from the bedside.
He had found that when these things occurred, flashbacks, dreams, nightmares, the easiest way to feel better was to talk to people. And of course he could've clicked on any of the other night shift contacts in his phone but they would be working or asleep. So he pressed the only other person he knew who wasn't working and most likely wasn't asleep.
Talking to Robby helped. He never saw Jack in a different way, even after it all. Jack was still his best friend and would always be, no matter what happened. Eventually, Jack fell tired again and managed to get in 2 more hours before morning.