First off, I just found your account, and I'm obsessed!! I was wondering if you could write a Jack Abbot x fem!reader fic where he's struggling with his PTSD. The vibe is like fluffy angst, if that makes sense.
Scar tissue
Jack Abbot X Fem!Reader
Warnings: PTSD, nightmares, combat trauma, injury description, amputation mention, phantom limb pain, panic response, dissociation, implied suicidal ideation (non-acted), emotional vulnerability, comfort, hurt/comfort, soft ending, established relationship, Robby makes an appearance, no use of y/n
Word count: 3.7K
a/n: Awww thnks for the love hon i'm glad you liked my little corner of the internet and i'm happy to have you here 🫶🏻 hope you enjoy the fic!
Anyone who looks at him knows he’s a tough guy. Not just because of the muscles that show through every piece of clothing he wears, but because of the way he carries himself. Steady. Courageous. Cool as a cucumber.
People look at Jack Abbott and they see a soldier — a man who can handle unimaginable pain without so much as a flinch.
But you? You see the cracks in the armor. You see the soft spots beneath all that steel — the proof that Jack, much like everyone else, is still just human.
Maybe you see it because he lets you. Because he feels he doesn’t have to hide as much when he’s around you. Or maybe it’s because you’re always looking for him in a crowd—your eyes scanning every face until they land on his.
You know he has a harder time dealing with his past than he ever admits. The therapist he’s been seeing seems to help, but it’s not like you can erase everything he’s been through. You’re glad he’s getting the help he needs, and you make sure he knows he has a support system he can lean on whenever he needs it.
He has Robby, and he has you.
When things started getting serious between you and Jack, the first person he wanted you to meet was Robby. You could tell immediately, from the way they interacted, that they shared a long and heavy history. And in the short time you spent with Robby, you could see that he too carried scars from the past.
Robby liked you right away—he was genuinely happy that Jack had someone to share his life with. But beneath Robby’s gentle smile, you sensed something else. A kind of relief hidden behind the easy banter and relaxed expression.
And when he cornered you one evening, glancing around as if making sure Jack wasn’t nearby before whispering, “I’m glad he has someone by his side. I can’t always keep an eye on him with our opposite shifts and all. I’m glad you’ve got his back,” you realized Robby knew Jack in ways you had yet to discover.
It had taken you a while to understand what Robby meant, but one night shift made everything painfully clear.
You’d been searching for Jack everywhere, and you were no closer to finding him. It was unlike him to just disappear—he was the attending, after all. Your worry had started creeping in when Robby walked in and caught the look on your face.
He seemed to know exactly what you were looking for. His hand landed gently on your shoulder to get your attention, a soft look settling over his features.
“You’re looking for Abbott, right? He’s probably taking a breather.”
“No, I checked outside. He wasn’t there,” you answered, eyes still darting around the room.
Robby gave your shoulder a small, knowing squeeze.
“Might wanna go check the roof.”
Robby must’ve seen something in your face shift, because he didn’t hesitate—he just said, “Come on,” and started toward the stairwell. You followed him up the flight of stairs until the sunshine hit your face and the rooftop door thunked shut behind you.
Jack was there. Standing on the edge of the roof, on the opposite side of the railing.
Your heart lurched. Your body moved before you even thought, breath punching out of your chest. Your eyes went wide, your mouth opened—but nothing came out.
Robby’s hand snapped around your arm, steadying you before you could take another panicked step.
“Hey—hey. It’s okay,” he murmured, voice low, like he’d rehearsed this line a thousand times.
You froze, pulse thundering in your ears, as Robby walked forward with a familiarity that made your stomach twist tighter.
He leaned casually against the railing, like this wasn’t terrifying, like it wasn’t a two-story drop to concrete.
“Hey, man,” he called out. “You bird-watching or something?”
Jack jolted—just slightly—like the sound tugged him out of a fog. He turned his head, and his eyes found yours over Robby’s shoulder.
Something flickered there. Recognition. Then shame. Then something soft.
He ducked back under the railing and stepped onto the safe side. Robby clapped him on the back and stepped aside, letting Jack walk toward you.
You stood there, hands trembling before you could stop them, the image of him on the wrong side of the railing burned into your mind. When he reached you, Jack didn’t say anything—just pulled you into his chest, arms strong and shaky all at once.
“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, breathing you in. “You don’t gotta worry. I wasn’t—I wasn’t doing anything stupid. Just… needed a look around.”
You didn’t say anything. You just held onto him, trying to let your body relax beneath his arms. When you finally glanced over his shoulder, your eyes met Robby’s. His expression was soft, a little tired, and without either of you saying a word, you understood.
This was what he meant. This was why he wanted someone else watching Jack’s back.
That was the first time you saw Jack’s armor crack.
But it wouldn’t be the last.
Today had been a particularly rough shift. You were exhausted—bone-deep tired—and more than ready to go home. When you saw Robby walk into the ED for his morning shift, you mustered a smile and walked over to pull him into a hug.
“How was your night?” he asked, like he always did.
“Hell, as usual,” you sighed.
Robby gave you that knowing look, the one edged with sympathy and the kind of exhaustion only long-time trauma can carve into someone. His eyes swept the room, scanning faces out of habit.
You knew exactly who he was looking for. Who he always looked for.
“He’s upstairs,” you said, no explanation needed.
Robby’s gaze snapped back to you, understanding immediately.
“That bad, huh?”
“Yep.” Your shoulders sagged under the weight of the night. “Pretty much.”
“You want me to go get him?”
You gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “No, I got it. I was just giving him a little alone time first. You know how he gets.”
Robby nodded, expression softening. “Call me if you need me.”
You offered him a tired smile before turning and heading for the stairs—your feet already knowing the path to the roof.
Jack is in his usual spot.
Same place he always goes when the shift has taken too much out of him. Same spot where the world stretches out before him far enough that he can pretend he’s not drowning in his thoughts. In his feelings.
You ease the rooftop door open, letting it click shut behind you. He has his back to you, but you know he knows you’re here. You take a couple of slow steps toward him, leaning on the railing like Robby had the first time you’d found out about this routine of theirs.
“Anything interesting down there?” you say softly, voice drifting over to him like you’re afraid of startling him.
Jack glances over his shoulder. It’s not really a smile he gives you—more a tired twitch of his mouth that’s trying to be one. The kind he uses when he doesn’t want you to worry, even though the fact that he’s up here already tells you plenty.
“Nah,” he mutters. “Same old streets. Same old mess.”
The wind is cool up here, biting at your cheeks. Jack’s eyes stay fixed on the drop below. Yours stay glued to his profile.
“You want to talk about it?” you ask gently.
He huffs out a breath. “Not really.”
You nod, because you’re not here to force it out of him. You’ve learned that pushing makes him shut down harder. And besides—that tone? You know that one. It’s the I’m-still-in-it tone. The one he gets when some patient or some moment kicks up dust from the part of his past he tries not to look at. The part filled with dirt and gunfire and screams that don’t belong in a hospital.
Jack’s jaw flexes. You see the tension in his body. Not just the usual post–twelve-hour-shift tension, but the kind he carries from years of seeing more shit than anyone should see in their whole lifetimes. It always lingers. Waiting beneath his skin. Waiting for something to pull it out into the open. And tonight, it’s clear something had made it bubble up.
You keep your eyes forward as you ask, “Want me to go get Robby?”
It’s not jealousy. It’s not insecurity. You know how deep their history runs. Sometimes Jack needs his best friend before he needs anyone else.
But he shakes his head immediately.
“No.” His voice is low, rough. “I just… need a little quiet.”
You give another small nod. “Okay.”
And that’s it. No fixing. No prying. You just sit down, letting the silence stretch the way he needs it to. The wind whistles, cars honk far below, and Jack’s breathing slowly evens out—slowly, gradually, grounding itself in the fact that you’re here.
After a while—maybe minutes, maybe longer—you hear him shift. You watch as he ducks under the railing, stepping back toward the safe side before looking down at you from where you’re still sitting. You lift yourself off the ground, moving so you’re standing in front of him. You stay a couple of steps away for a moment before reaching your hand out.
His fingers brush yours, hesitant at first, then more sure when you curl your hand softly around his.
“Wanna go home?” you whisper.
Jack exhales—a shaky, tired sound that breaks your heart a little.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah… I’m ready.”
And with that, he lets you pull him back inside.
He’s quiet the whole walk home, which isn’t unusual on days like this. Still, you miss the easy chatter you usually fall into together. You miss the feeling of his hand in yours as you walk side by side, miss the silly comments he always makes just to get you to laugh.
But you know it isn’t personal. Sometimes the weight of the past is just too heavy to carry, and Jack has to put all his strength into keeping himself together. There isn’t much left over for anything else.
So on days like this, you just match your pace to his, silently following him all the way back to your shared apartment.
You walk into your apartment, keys clattering softly against the door as you push it open. Jack trails in behind you. You slip your shoes off, and he quietly closes the door, locking it before doing the same.
You head straight for the kitchen, washing your hands at the sink before opening the fridge and grabbing the food you’d set aside for the two of you. On normal days, you and Jack share the shower—taking turns helping each other wash the grime and weight of the shift away. But today… you know he won’t be up for that.
So you call out from the kitchen, loud enough for him to hear you from the entryway.
“You go first, Jack. I’ll start heating the food up.”
He passes by the kitchen doorway, giving you a small, tired nod before heading toward the bathroom.
After he gets out—looking just as tired as when he went in, but at least cleaner—you make your way to the bathroom next, focusing on washing the shift off your own skin. You both settle down to eat afterward, the low murmur of the TV drifting across the room while you eat in silence. When you’re done, the dishes washed and teeth brushed, the two of you climb into bed.
You reach over to click the lamp off and start to settle, already preparing yourself to fall asleep without Jack’s arms around you. But just as you’re about to turn your back to him, he says your name—soft, almost hesitant.
You turn, barely able to make out his face in the dark.
“Yeah?” you answer quietly, voice barely above a breath.
“No cuddling today?” he asks, the words gentle, almost sheepish in the dark.
Your eyes soften instantly.
“Didn’t think you’d be up for it,” you whisper.
Jack reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek before gently tugging you closer until your noses touch.
“Always up to cuddle with you, baby,” he murmurs, the teasing warmth in his voice muted by exhaustion but still sincere.
You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before shifting until your head rests against his chest—right where you’ve always fit perfectly.
“Goodnight, Jack,” you say softly, your voice melting into his skin.
“Night, baby,” he replies, the words low and sleepy.
He can feel the sweat against his temple. Can feel it run down his neck and seep into his uniform. He can smell the dirt and blood and gunpowder. Can hear the explosion, the screams, the bullets ricocheting.
His feet pound against the ground as he runs, bag rattling against his back with every step. There’s a rifle in his hand—he can feel the weight of it, the metal pressed beneath his fingers. The sound is muffled, but he can still make out orders being shouted somewhere beside him. He takes another step.
And that’s when it happens.
He doesn’t even have time to react before his body is launched backward. His back hits the ground and, for a moment, he can’t hear anything. The explosion blows out everything else, dust filling the air and swallowing what little he could see.
And then it hits him.
Pain.
Searing pain, shooting through him so fast he doesn’t even have time to scream.
The world tilts. His vision blurs. When he finally manages to bring it into focus, his eyes trail downward to assess the damage.
He catches it immediately.
Blood. Shredded fabric. Jagged bone.
The panic settles in instantly, and the scream that rips from his throat makes his lungs burn. Hands grab at him—soldiers barking his name, trying to drag him away—but everything blurs, their faces smearing together.
His vision tightens, tunneling. He feels the blood pumping out of him, warm and fast.
And then darkness surrounds him.
Jack jerks awake with a gasp so sharp it almost sounds like a sob.
The room is dark. Quiet. Safe. But his body doesn’t know that—his heart is racing like he’s still on that damn battlefield. His hands fist at the sheets, tugging them off him in a panic. His eyes land on the place where his leg should be and, even though it’s not there—even though it’s been years—he can still feel the pain as if it had happened just now.
He’s so focused on the sight in front of him that he doesn’t feel you stir in bed. Doesn’t even remember you’re there next to him until your hand finds the center of his back.
His head snaps toward you, panicked eyes locking onto your worried gaze. The sight of you seems to pull him back into the present, inch by inch. He lets out a shaky breath just as you say his name again—because he didn’t hear it the first time.
“Jack? Hey — talk to me. What happened?”
He swallows. It’s hard. His throat feels tight, scraped raw.
“I… it was my leg.” His voice trembles in a way he hates. “I was back there. I saw it happen again.”
His breath stutters. He drags a trembling hand over his face, trying to wipe away the nightmare like it’s something he can physically scrape off his skin. You shift closer, slow and gentle, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. If anything, he leans toward you without realizing it, like his body is reaching for something solid to anchor to.
“Is it hurting?” you whisper.
He nods, jaw clenched. “Feels like… like it’s still there. Like it’s still being blown off.” A shaky laugh slips out, humorless. “Stupid, right?”
You shake your head, reaching out to take his hand — letting him decide if he wants to hold on.
“That’s not stupid,” you whisper. “Phantom pain isn’t imaginary. And neither is what you lived through.”
His fingers curl around yours. Tight. Desperate.
For a moment, he just breathes. Eyes closed. Shoulders trembling.
Then he lets out a quiet confession, barely audible:
“I hate waking up like this. I hate that you have to see it.”
Your shoulders sag at the words. You know he struggles with being vulnerable, know he hates making you worry. But it doesn’t bother you — in fact, you’re glad to know he isn’t alone. Glad that you can be there for him when he needs someone, even if he tries to avoid it as much as he can.
You press your forehead gently to the side of his, grounding both of you.
“I’d rather be here with you through the bad,” you murmur, “than miss the chance to be here for the good.”
Jack lets out a sound that borders on a sob and a sigh. He shifts his head to the side so that your foreheads touch. Your hand moves up to cradle his cheek, making his eyes close.
“I’m here,” you murmur against his hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He leans into your touch like he’s been holding himself upright for too long, like the simple act of your hand on his cheek is the one thing keeping him anchored.
You stay like that for a moment, his uneven breathing fanning across your face as your thumb continues to caress his skin. His hands move forward, grabbing onto your hips as if he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
You shake your head gently, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.
“Jack… you don’t have to apologize for having nightmares.”
His jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but the fight leaves him before it ever really forms. His shoulders slump, exhaustion settling back over him like a heavy blanket.
“It felt so real,” he admits, the words barely catching the air between you. “Every time it happens, it feels like… like I’m right back there. Like I’m losing it all over again.”
Your heart twists. Not out of pity — never pity — but out of that deep ache that comes from loving someone who’s been hurt in ways you can’t erase. You angle his face toward yours, gently guiding him until his eyes meet yours in the dark.
He gives you a look that almost makes your heart shatter in your chest. For a moment, you don’t see the Jack everyone else sees — the chill Jack who makes jokes and walks around like nothing ever gets to him. You see the man beneath the armor. The real Jack. The one who carries the world on his shoulders, the one who keeps going even when the pain gets unbearable.
You see your Jack.
The one you love with every fiber of your being.
You can’t promise him the nightmares won’t come. Can’t take the pain from him. Can’t promise that nothing will ever hurt him again.
So you say the only thing you can — the thing you feel every time you see him like this.
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
Jack’s brows pull together at your words — not in frustration, not in dismissal, but in something softer. Sadder. He shakes his head almost immediately, hands tightening on your hips as if anchoring you in place.
“Don’t be,” he whispers, voice barely holding itself together. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You swallow, but the ache in your chest doesn’t ease.
“I know. I just… I hate that you went through that. I hate that you still have to.”
You sigh softly, the sound threading through the quiet of the room.
“I wish I could make it better.”
Jack pulls back just enough to see your face, his hand moving from your hip to your cheek, warm and steady as his thumb brushes your skin.
“You do,” he whispers.
You give him a sad smile and lean forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. He accepts it immediately, sinking into the tenderness, savoring the love you pour into him—trying to commit the feeling to memory.
When you pull back, he follows you, leaning in until his forehead rests against your collarbone. You wrap your arms around him instinctively, holding him close, cradling him as his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. It’s just the two of you breathing in the dark, his heartbeat slowly finding its rhythm again, your hands moving up and down his back in calm, soothing strokes.
Eventually, Jack exhales — a low, weary sound that seems to release a little of the weight crushing him.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest.
You run your fingers through his hair, soft and steady.
“For what?” you ask gently.
“For staying,” he breathes. “For… not being scared of me. Or of this.”
You press a kiss to the top of his head.
“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He holds onto you tighter after that—the kind of hold that says he believes you, even if it scares him to. He presses a kiss to your neck, lips soft against your skin.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too, Jack.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, and you offer him a tender smile.
“Wanna try and get some sleep?”
He breathes shakily against you, the fear of the nightmares creeping back in making him never want to sleep again. You can sense his apprehension, so your hand moves gently to hold his face.
“Don’t worry. I’m right here. I’ll keep you safe.”
Jack can’t help but smile at your words—because he can hear in your voice that you genuinely mean them, and that makes him believe them too. He unlatches from your body, moving to lie back down on the bed. You settle beside him, tugging the sheets over your bodies as you inch closer.
You tuck yourself against him, your fingers drawing slow circles along his ribs, a steady rhythm he can follow back into calm.
“Stay… right here,” he murmurs, voice thick and low.
“I’m not moving,” you promise. “Sleep if you can. I’ve got you.”
Jack exhales, the sound shaky but softer than before. His chin rests lightly atop your head, his heartbeat gradually syncing with yours. His hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer as though he’s trying to merge the last of the fear out of his body and into your warmth.
And little by little, you feel his body start to relax against yours, the nightmare losing its grip as he lets himself rest in the one place he still feels safe.
With you.