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Ariel ― artist, writer, comic book nerd ・psalm 46:5 ・that girl since '97.

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girlwiththepen

The Other Side

── Beginning of The End

Jack Abbott x Reader

A/N: Wow! It has been a MINUTE! I'm so sorry, y'all. Graduate school is not for the weak! So much work had to be done, but we are here, and I'm excited for what's to come for this story. For this chapter, we get to see life from Jack's perspective. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4,049

Warnings: Content Warnings (18+). This story is intended for mature audiences only. Reader discretion is advised. Includes themes of domestic abuse (past, non-graphic), emotional manipulation and controlling behavior, physical injury and recovery, trauma and healing, mentions of hospitalization and medical settings, adult romantic themes, slow-burn romance, & emotional vulnerability.

Abuse is never okay. If you or someone you know is being abused, dial the hotline at 1-800-799-7233.

──

Previously on The Other Side...

Dana sat at the nurses' station, unable to shake the image of you driving away after breakfast.

"I wish you could've seen the way she broke down opening up about Campbell treating her like dirt."

The room fell quiet. Lena, Princess, and Perlah exchanged worried glances, realizing the bright, compassionate doctor everyone admired had been suffering in silence.

──

Across the trauma bay, Jack barely had time to adjust to life on the day shift before another emergency arrived.

"Female, late twenties. Found at home after reported assault by partner."

As alarms echoed through the room, Jack took charge without hesitation.

"Prep for intubation. She's not protecting her airway, and we're heading to surgery."

Watching another victim of abuse fight for her life hit closer to home than anyone realized.

──

Meanwhile, your own battle was waiting for you.

"Where are you?" Charles demanded over the phone.

"I'm driving to work, Charles."

"You couldn't take two seconds to answer?"

Before you even walked through the doors of West Penn, he had already found a way to make you feel small.

──

It didn't stop there.

"You've got a good reason why you're late?"

"I had breakfast with Dana."

"Huh?! I didn't quite get that!"

Something inside you finally snapped.

"I had breakfast with my godmother, Charles!"

For the first time in a long time, you stood your ground.

"OUR office, Charles!"

Moments later, his hands were on your shoulders, gripping you so tightly you couldn't hide the fear in your eyes.

──

"Charles... please."

Robin burst into your office just in time.

She didn't need an explanation. The tears in your eyes, the panic on your face, and the way Charles composed himself before walking out told her everything she needed to know.

The second he left, she wrapped her arms around you as you finally let yourself cry.

──

Even after everything, your patients still came first.

You wiped away your tears, fixed your makeup, and walked into Kerry Richards' exam room wearing the same gentle smile your patients had always known.

"I was scared you'd say something was wrong with the baby."

"We'll take good care of you."

While reassuring Kerry, you couldn't stop wondering if you'd ever have the future Charles kept promising... then taking away.

──

Later that afternoon...

"Running out for lunch."

Charles didn't even look at you as Sara followed him out the door.

Again, he left you alone to carry the office by yourself.

"I don't know what else to do, Robin..."

"Sunshine... that's not okay."

For the first time, someone truly saw the weight you had been carrying.

──

Being in the dark offered a comfort that nothing else did…or at least that’s what Jack Abbott believed.

It doesn’t pretend everything is fine or make things easier. At night, Jack felt hidden, almost safe, as if the dark could hide how he really felt. Grief, formerly sharp, gradually dulled for him, settling into a steady shadow that followed him everywhere. After losing so much, he had kept his feelings for so long that they became part of him. Here, no one else really understands. Some people say to smile or move on, but you can’t always explain why you’re holding on to things others have let go of. Holding in what he felt while no one was watching made hiding easier than letting those who cared about him see the other side. Letting what he kept to himself come to the light meant exposure.

That same light demands answers.

The alarm slices through a lost dream that remains in Jack’s chest. He opens his eyes before the sound fades. Blood rushes through him, and his heart quickens. He stares at the ceiling. Despite a night of deep sleep, he wakes as if barely rested. Adjusting to the new schedule is tough. The routine that was his security blanket is gone. Change can be good, but starting over is never easy.

After a few moments, Jack mustered up the energy to move and rolled onto his side, muscles stiff from hours of inactivity. He pushed himself upright, sat on the bed’s edge, and rested his elbows on his thighs to gather himself. His intact foot finds the hardwood floor, steady and familiar. Then the residual limb follows, hovering before lowering—controlled, practiced, never careless. Even now, mornings require intention.

Across from him, his prosthetic rests against the chair—angled neatly within reach. Its presence remains both familiar and quietly unsettling. He always sets it there before bed, reclaiming a sense of command when everything else feels unsure. Placement matters. Readiness matters. In another life, such precision meant survival.

His gaze lingers, tension ticking in his jaw, as if looking too long might summon the pain he works to compartmentalize.

Sometimes, despite his efforts, it still does. Pain squeezes his chest, tight and sudden.

He remembers the traces of heat. Sand clinging to his sweat-dampened skin. The metallic taste of adrenaline. The remote murmur of rotors slicing through desert air. He remembers the load of his gear pressing into his shoulders, the rhythm of boots hitting packed earth in practiced formation. He remembers shouting over gunfire. The sharp, disorienting blast that divided the world into before and after. The moment his body hit the ground, it refused to respond the way it always had.

First noise, then ringing, then the odor of blood and smoke.

He doesn’t let the memory finish.

Once, even a glance at the prosthetic kindled something sharp in his chest—anger blooming fast, loss gnawing deep, a feeling of betrayal by his own body left behind. He hated relearning balance, hated the dependency, hated the quiet sympathy in people’s eyes when he returned home.

He had survived the war.

But survival came with a cost he carried everywhere.

Now the prosthetic waits where he left it—not an enemy, nor a sign of weakness. Just another piece of equipment. Another tool. Another adaptation.

Yet… some mornings the prosthetic seems heavier than it looks, bearing down with a weight that seeps deep into his bones and refuses to let go.

He shifts forward, reaching down. Hands brush over the residual limb with precision. The skin feels tight—mild overnight swelling, expected. He presses gently along the patellar tendon. Then he traces the ridge of the tibial crest, checking for tenderness. A subtle rotation of the limb follows, inspecting the areas that bear the most pressure during a shift. These are the spots that would betray him first if something were off. His thumb smooths over faint scarring, mapping terrain he knows better than anyone.

No redness. No blistering. No breakdown.

Good.

He exhales quietly through his nose, slow and measured, as if letting go of something unnamed.

“Let’s get this day started,” he murmurs to the empty room, voice husky from sleep and unused to conversation.

The apartment lights shine dimly and diffusely against the thinning darkness. He leaves the overhead fixtures off—just the small lamp by the kitchen, enough to pierce the shadow but without drowning the space. Morning seeps in through the shutters, pale and insistent, striping the floor in bands of gray and gold.

He reaches for his bag, which rests by the door. It’s already packed—stethoscope, protein bar he probably won’t eat, folded trauma shears tucked into the front pocket. Preparedness is a habit. Old habits that he established eventually became a part of his routine.

After doing a once-over of what he had packed, he zipped it before picking it up. The weight of his bag settled comfortably as he lifted it over his shoulder.

Not ready to face the day, Jack took his time getting dressed. Before stepping out of his bedroom, he put on his favorite shoes that he wears every shift. Though they are heavier than they need to be, they are structured, supportive, and dependable. Despite their flaws, he chose them anyway. Nothing flimsy. Nothing unpredictable. The leather has molded to him over time, creased in familiar places, worn just enough to prove it’s carried him through more than a few impossible shifts.

As he exited his bedroom and moved into the hallway, the first step landed solidly. Each stride on the hardwood floor made a thud. The sound is deliberate. Certain. The second follows in a steady, controlled rhythm. Years ago, mornings felt unstable—as if his body and the world needed a moment to reconsider their terms. Now the movement is practiced. Intentional.

The prosthetic foot makes a fainter sound when it meets the floor. Slightly different and lighter. A muted echo that dwells half a beat behind the other step. It’s subtle enough that most people would never notice. He did at first. Every uneven cadence. Every faint difference in pressure.

Now? It’s just part of the rhythm. Not something he corrects or something he tries to hide. Just something he moves with.

The hallway absorbs the sound as he continues forward—measured, steady, composed. Even in his own apartment, even alone, Jack walks like someone who refuses to falter. He pauses near the window.

The city of Pittsburgh sprawls beyond the glass, restless and soaked from overnight rain. The pavement still glistens beneath the early light, reflecting the city in splintered traces of gold and gray. Headlights glide across slick asphalt, splitting into ribbons as tires cut through shallow puddles. Red brake lights flare and fade in uneven pulses, impatient and alive.

Engines hum low and constant, building beneath the quiet like something waking too fast. A horn blares in irritation somewhere down the block, sharp and brief. A delivery truck rattles over uneven pavement. A bus pulls to the curb with a long mechanical sigh, doors folding open as commuters step off, shoulders hunched, collars turned up against the persistent chill.

Steam rises faintly from street grates, coiling upward before dissolving into thinning darkness. Crosswalk signals blink insistently. Coffee shop lights flicker on one by one. Windows brighten.

The city doesn’t stretch lazily into the morning.

It gathers.

It stacks sound upon sound, movement upon movement, until silence has nowhere left to stand. It builds momentum the way trauma builds in an ER hallway—quiet at first, then all at once.

Jack watches it for a long moment, jaw set, shoulders squared. The break of daylight seeping through the clouds exposed everything—the wet pavement, the rush, the imperfections—nothing softened by shadow.

His hand drifts to the small console table without him thinking about it. He hesitates only briefly before flipping on the police scanner.

Static spills into the room first, low and grainy, filling the space where stillness used to sit. He adjusts the volume just enough to hear it without letting it dominate. Then the voices break through—measured, clipped, efficient.

“…unit responding…”

“…possible domestic disturbance…”

“…EMS requested…”

The cadence is familiar. Detached. Controlled.

It settles into the apartment like background noise, like something steady and predictable. Information without faces. Crisis without emotion.

Only then does he turn away from the window.

The kitchen light clicks on with a mild hum. He moves toward the counter, footsteps measured, the subtle rhythm of his steps melding into the rustles from the police scanner speakers. On the countertop, next to the sink, the coffee maker waits where it always does. Jack took his time preparing his usual dark roast blend. As it brewed, the smell of coffee permeated his living space, and he began preparing his breakfast — scrambled eggs, bacon, and a slice of toast. Simple but enough to get his day started.

Encumbered by the weight of sleep still holding him, Jack ate his breakfast and drank his coffee slowly. His gaze eventually dropped to his left hand and the imprint his ring left the day before. He rarely talks about it, but losing his wife was one of the hardest things he had to face, and he still has a hard time letting go. For a while, he thought that still wearing the ring brought her honor, but it left a bigger hole in his heart that he could not fill.

Shifting his gaze to the left, the ring sat beside his plate.

He doesn’t recall exactly when he took it off, but he must have left it here when he got home from work. It rests on the countertop, catching the daylight in a way that feels almost deliberate.

Jack wipes his fingers on a napkin before picking it up.

Out of habit, Jack twists the ring once more between his fingers.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The motion is quiet, almost absentminded, but there’s intention beneath it — a negotiation he has every morning now. He tells himself he doesn’t have to wear it. He’s told himself that all week. Transitioning from night shift to day shift is supposed to mean something.

A step forward. A shift of perspective.

His therapist’s words linger somewhere he doesn’t want them to — you can honor her without anchoring yourself to the moment you lost her.

There was a time he couldn’t take it off at all. He slept with it digging into his skin, the imprint left behind like proof that she was real, that their life had happened. Removing it felt like betrayal. Now the ring rests wherever he places it, rather than on his hand, and that alone seemed significant at first.

Progress, he’d told himself. But progress doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like being at the edge of a cliff of uncertainty. He lifts the ring toward his finger and stops halfway, giving himself the smallest window to choose differently — to leave it where it is, to step into the morning without its heaviness. His jaw tightens. The truth settles heavier than the metal ever could. He doesn’t yet know who he is without it. So he slides it fully into place. The band settles against his skin with quiet familiarity, not tight, not foreign — just present. It belongs there. Like it always has. His thumb glides over it once before his hand drops back to the table. Maybe tomorrow, he tells himself.

But not today.

The drive to the PTMC was as good as it was going to get. This morning, Jack decided to keep the radio low and let the sound of his truck take over as he cruised down his usual route. The engine of his old pickup truck grumbled beneath him with a familiar confidence that always settled something inside his chest. He rested one hand loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped absentmindedly against the leather.

Outside, Pittsburgh was already awake.

The rain from the night before left puddles on the asphalt, making the streets slick beneath the pale morning sun. Tires hissed over damp pavement as commuters merged into traffic, everyone seemingly racing against the clock. The Pittsburgh Regional Transit bus pulled away from its stop with a tired groan while a bicyclist carefully navigated around puddles gathering near the curb. Steam spiraled lazily from sewer grates, disappearing into the cold, freezing air.

At the traffic light, Jack found himself distracted by everything around him. The sounds of cars moving and people socializing were simultaneously fascinating and overwhelming. No matter how many times he had driven this route, it still didn’t change the fact that he was a fish out of water, no longer working the night shift. He remembers in detail what he felt the day his therapist told him it was time for a change. A part of him missed the evening sky and the nightlife that occupied the road. Another piece to the puzzle of this comforting routine was gone.

It wasn’t long before he crossed the Fort Duquesne Bridge; the skyline came into view. The rivers reflected the gray morning sky like rippling glass while the PTMC building rose high in the distance.

His destination.

His battlefield.

His sanctuary.

A police cruiser sped past him with its lights activated, catching his attention, along with the ambulance that followed. His minor distraction caused him to stop at the traffic light.

Jack instinctively glanced toward the dashboard clock.

6:15 A.M.

Someone's day had already changed forever. Having this thought made his mind race about what could be wrong with the patient in the back of the ambulance. The overstimulation of his mind caused his grip to tighten around the steering wheel.

Suddenly, his therapist's voice occupied his mind.

"You're still hiding."

The words slipped into his thoughts so naturally that he almost answered them aloud.

He sighed quietly.

Thompson Family Therapy – Dr. Thompson’s Office - Last Week

Besides his two-bedroom apartment and workplace, Dr. Elizabeth Thompson’s office was the only other place he attended that filled his free time. Sitting in the crimson leather love seat, listening to the hum of the air conditioning and the ticking of the analog clock, became normal for him. For Jack, he found comfort treating each visit like a quick check-in, but as far as his therapist was concerned, she refused to let vicarious trauma take over him.

Jack was recommended to Dr. Thompson shortly after he lost his wife during the pandemic. For Jack, she was his everything and the support that kept him from spiraling, stemming from his service in the army and the loss of his leg. When she passed away, a part of him passed away with her. The one person who made him smile and laugh, had coffee with him on the porch in the morning, and kissed him before going to work was gone. With Dr. Thompson’s help over the past five years, she’s been able to break his shell and help, but it’s hard when the person you want to help doesn’t want to be helped.

How do you help someone who sees the dark as their comfort zone?

This particular session with Jack was moving slowly. He seemed quieter than usual; he glanced out the window with his left knee shaking and hands interlocking with one another. Before speaking, Elizabeth took a sip of her mildly warm caramel coffee and looked at Jack with sincerity.

“You’re quiet,” she said. Jack scoffed and let out a humorless laugh without making eye contact.

“I’m always quiet, doc,” he said. Though he wasn’t looking at her, he could feel her eyes looking straight through him like glass.

“You can’t keep going on like this forever, Jack. These past five years I’ve had the privilege of getting to know you, which means I can tell when you’ve had a bad day and when your trauma has gotten you triggered.” Leaving the notepad in her seat, she walks over to Jack and kneels next to him. Gently placing her hand on his actively shaking knee was enough to comfort him and get him to look her in the eye.

“You’re still hiding, Jack,” Elizabeth said, “and it’s time you came out of the dark and experienced the brighter side of life.”

A tear trickled down Jack’s eye before he could stop it. “What if I can’t see the bright side?”

Dr. Thompson looked him in the eyes and answered compassionately, “There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel, Jack. The only way to get there is to move forward.”

Present Day

The sound of the blazing car horn behind him quickly pulled him out of his thoughts. Though anxiety sent shockwaves through his body, he gave the driver behind him a short wave and proceeded to PTMC.

Two traffic lights and a right turn later, Jack made it to work. After parking his truck, he sat in the driver’s seat with the engine off, attempting to get his mind right for work. Suddenly, a knock against the driver's side window startled Jack and pulled him out of his thoughts and back to the present. He looked to his left and saw Dana smiling, holding her bag and coffee.

"You planning on sleeping in there today, Doc?" Dana joked.

A faint huff escaped him as he got out of his truck with his bag and locked the door.

"No," he replied, his voice still rough from the morning, “just not used to being on dayshift yet.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the lingering conversation replaying in his mind. Dana took a sip of her coffee and noticed how Jack was acting. “Yeah, no kidding. You’re acting like you stayed up and partied like a freshman in college.”

Jack found humor in Dana’s joke.

As they walked into the hospital doors together, they noticed the waiting room was already halfway full. Everything beyond the waiting area was just as busy. Everyone walked with purpose.

The day shift was fully awake.

Something about it still felt foreign.

For years, Jack had been the one walking toward his truck while everyone else was arriving. The morning belonged to other people. To parents dropping children off at school. Office workers grabbing coffee before clocking in. Construction crews already halfway through their first job.

Now...

Morning belonged to him, too.

Whether he liked it or not.

Adjusting the strap of his backpack, Jack finally made his way toward the lockers. Dana continued to tease him while enjoying her coffee, “You may want to wake up, nightcrawler.”

Jack shook his head and laughed as he placed his bag in his locker. “Okay, I get it, Dana. I gotta be awake for day shift. I swear it's only been five minutes and you’re already bossing me around.”

As they make their way to the nurses' station, Princess is already prepared to tease Jack. “Ah, look who decided to join the brighter side.”

“Haha, very funny, Princess,” said Jack as he looked at the board.

Cassie and Javadi rounded the corner equally as surprised to see Jack clocked in for day shift and not his usual night shift.

“Well, I must be in the twilight zone if Dr. Jack Abbott has dropped his night crawler crew for days.” Cassie joked. Jack playfully rolled his eyes in response.

“Don’t get too excited; my therapist suggested it,” he said.

Before she could joke back, Princess alerted them of the incoming patient. “Hate to be a party pooper, but we got a woman, late 60s, coming through with hot flashes and severe chest pain.”

The familiar rhythm of the emergency department shattered as the ambulance bay doors burst open.

"Coming through!"

The voices of two EMTs echoed down the corridor as they pushed a stretcher through the sliding doors with practiced urgency. Its wheels rattled violently across the tile floor, weaving around nurses, physicians, and transport staff who instinctively stepped aside. Quickly, Jack, Cassie, Javadi, and nurse Jesse rushed to the EMTs to guide the patient to Trauma Room 3.

The woman lying on the stretcher appeared to be in her late sixties. Wisps of silver hair had escaped the loose bun she'd hurriedly thrown together that morning, clinging to the sweat that coated her forehead. Her breathing came in quick, uneven gasps, each one sounding more labored than the last. One trembling hand remained firmly pressed against the center of her chest while the other desperately fanned the collar of her sweater.

"Oh, God..." she cried, wincing as another wave of pain overtook her. "I'm burning up..."

"What've we got?" Jack asked calmly, matching the stretcher's pace.

The lead EMT quickly gave Jack information on the patient as they moved her towards the room.

"Female, Hispanic, approximately sixty-eight years old. Severe chest pain and feeling extremely hot about forty-five minutes ago after taking new medication her doctor prescribed.”

Large beads of perspiration rolled down the sides of her face. Her cheeks had taken on a deep crimson color, and panic filled her eyes as she struggled to catch her breath. Jack could clearly see she was in distress and immediately offered comforting words as he and the team worked quickly, surrounding her.

"Hello ma’am,I'm Dr. Abbott," he said as calmly as possible. "We're going to take good care of you."

Her lips trembled as she spoke, "Please help me... It hurts... everything hurts," she whimpered through shallow breaths.

To Be Continued…

girlwiththepen

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