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Jack learned early that pain was negotiable.
It was something you could talk down, compartmentalize, postpone. Pain could be acknowledged later, when there was time. When other people were safe. When the noise stopped.
Phantom limb pain was different.
You couldn’t ice it.
You couldn’t reposition it.
You couldn’t prove it was happening.
You could only live with it.
Jack woke before dawn with the familiar wrongness already blooming—an electrical ache radiating from a leg that no longer existed, sharp and twisting, like something had grabbed his ankle and refused to let go.
He didn’t move.
Moving made it worse.
He lay still beside Robby, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The pain wasn’t loud yet, just insistent—a deep, burning pressure that felt like his foot was being crushed slowly, deliberately.
It’s not real, he told himself.
It can’t hurt you.
His nervous system disagreed.
Jack breathed carefully through it, counting, the way his therapist had taught him during panic attacks. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. He focused on the quiet of the apartment, the steady sound of Robby’s breathing beside him.
Don’t wake him.
Don’t make it a thing.
By the time the pain sharpened into something hotter—stabbing, lightning-bright—Jack was already drenched in sweat.
He swallowed hard and reached for the edge of the bed, levering himself upright slowly, careful not to jostle Robby. His prosthetic waited by the nightstand like a patient sentinel.
Jack didn’t put it on.
He didn’t trust himself to stand.
Instead, he sat there, shoulders hunched, breathing through waves of pain that crawled up his nonexistent calf and wrapped around his knee like barbed wire.
It’ll pass, he told himself.
It always does.
By the time Robby woke, Jack had showered.
He’d braced himself against the tile while hot water streamed uselessly over a leg that wasn’t there, grounding himself in sensation he could feel. The steam had helped loosen the pain just enough to make him functional.
Functional was good enough.
Robby padded into the kitchen half an hour later, hair still sleep-tousled, wearing one of Jack’s old t-shirts.
“Morning,” Robby said, voice rough with sleep.
Jack smiled easily, already holding a mug of coffee he hadn’t touched.
“Hey.”
Robby squinted at him.
Jack kept his posture loose, casual, weight shifted slightly to protect his balance. He’d perfected the stance over years—nothing that looked like guarding, just a subtle distribution of effort.
“You’re up early,” Robby said.
Jack shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Robby accepted that without comment but stayed where he was, watching. He always watched. Jack could feel it like pressure on his skin.
They sat together at the table. Robby drank his coffee. Jack pretended to.
The pain surged again, sudden and sharp, like a blade driven straight through the arch of his foot. Jack’s fingers tightened involuntarily around the mug.
Robby noticed immediately.
“Jack-”
“I’m fine,” Jack said too quickly.
Robby raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t let me finish the sentence.”
Jack faked a laugh. “Force of habit.”
Robby leaned back in his chair, studying him with the same careful attention he gave patients who insisted they were fine while bleeding internally.
“You’re pale,” Robby said.
Jack waved a hand. “Didn’t sleep well.”
“And you’re sweating.”
“Hot shower.”
“And you haven’t taken a sip of that coffee.”
Jack looked down at the mug like it had betrayed him.
Robby’s voice softened. “What’s hurting?”
Jack hesitated.
That was the problem. There was no good answer.
“My leg,” he said finally.
Robby nodded once. No surprise. Just acknowledgment.
“Phantom pain?”
Jack exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
Jack shrugged again. “Couple hours.”
Robby’s jaw tightened. “Jack.”
“It’s manageable,” Jack said quickly. “I didn’t want to—”
“Shhh,” Robby said gently, standing and crossing the space between them. “Hey. I’m not mad.”
Jack’s shoulders sagged slightly despite himself.
“I just didn’t want to start the day like this,” Jack admitted. “Didn’t want you worrying.”
Robby rested his hands on Jack’s shoulders, thumbs warm and grounding.
“I worry because I love you,” he said quietly. “Not because you’re inconvenient.”
Jack swallowed hard.
The pain didn’t fade.
It grew teeth.
By late morning, Jack’s hands shook when he reached for the remote. The sensation in his missing leg had twisted into something sharp and electric, bolts of pain shooting from ankle to knee in unpredictable bursts. Sometimes, he thought, the leg hurt worse after the amputation than before when it was still a mangled mess.
He paced the living room carefully, prosthetic on now, jaw tight, trying to outrun something that lived entirely inside him.
Robby watched from the couch, concern deepening.
“You’re guarding,” Robby said.
Jack stopped pacing. “I always guard.”
“You’re guarding more.”
Jack turned away, frustrated. “I can’t just—turn it off.”
“I know,” Robby said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Another surge hit, strong enough to steal Jack’s breath. He sucked in sharply, hand flying to the back of the couch for balance.
“Okay,” Robby said immediately, rising. “Sit. Now.”
Jack resisted for half a second out of stubborn pride, then sank down hard, breath coming fast and uneven.
“It feels like it’s on fire,” Jack said hoarsely. “Like someone poured boiling water down my leg.”
Robby knelt in front of him without hesitation, hands warm and sure as he rested them on Jack’s thighs—solid, real sensation to counter the pain screaming from nerves that no longer had a body.
“I know,” Robby murmured. “I know it does.”
Jack pressed his forehead into his hands, shaking.
“I hate that it’s not real,” he said. “I hate that I can’t point to it and say here.”
Robby gently lifted Jack’s chin.
“It’s real because you feel it,” he said. “Your brain doesn’t care about anatomy.”
Jack’s eyes were glassy now, tears threatening but not falling.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered.
Robby’s expression softened even more.
“Then let me take care of you.”
Robby moved methodically, the way he did in the ED—grounded, calm, unhurried.
“Meds first,” he said. “You skipped your gabapentin this morning.”
Jack grimaced. “I didn’t want to be groggy.”
Robby met his eyes. “You don’t get bonus points for suffering.”
Jack huffed weakly. “You married a masochist.”
“I married a stubborn idiot,” Robby replied fondly.
He handed Jack water, waited while he swallowed the medication, then guided him gently onto the couch, arranging pillows with quiet competence.
“Prosthetic off,” Robby said.
Jack obeyed without argument this time, the relief of not having to perform already easing some of the tension.
Robby draped a blanket over him, tucking it around his hips and thighs, then sat beside him, close enough that Jack could feel his warmth.
“Tell me what it feels like,” Robby said softly.
Jack closed his eyes. “Like my foot is clenched. Like the muscles are locked and won’t release.”
Robby nodded. “Okay. We’re going to trick your brain.”
He guided Jack’s hands.
“Mirror therapy,” Robby said. “We’ll start simple.”
They positioned a mirror so Jack could see his intact leg reflected, the illusion of two legs aligning in his brain’s stubborn circuitry.
“Move your right foot,” Robby instructed gently. “Slowly.”
Jack did, watching the reflection.
“Now imagine the other one doing the same thing,” Robby said. “Loosening.”
Jack swallowed, breath hitching.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—subtly—the pain shifted.
Not gone. But less sharp.
Jack let out a shaky breath. “It’s… different.”
“That’s good,” Robby said. “Different means it’s listening.”
They stayed like that for a long time, Robby guiding, grounding, never rushing. When the pain flared again, Robby didn’t panic. He adjusted, changed tactics, stayed present.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook Jack.
He slumped against Robby’s shoulder, eyes closed, body heavy with the effort of enduring.
“I hate that this still has power over me,” Jack murmured.
Robby wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer.
“It doesn’t own you,” Robby corrected. “It just visits.”
Jack laughed weakly. “Uninvited.”
“Always,” Robby agreed.
Jack’s voice grew quieter. “Sometimes it feels like I never actually left the desert. Like my body’s still there, waiting for something bad to happen.”
Robby’s hand stilled on his arm.
“That makes sense,” he said gently. “Your nervous system learned survival very well out there. Unfortunately, it doesn’t translate all that well to a one-bedroom apartment in Pittsburgh.”
Jack nodded against his shoulder. “I don’t want you to think I’m broken.”
Robby turned slightly so Jack had to look at him.
“I think you’re human,” Robby said. “And brave. And allowed to hurt.”
Jack’s eyes burned.
“I don’t want to be taken care of all the time.”
Robby smiled softly. “Good. Because this isn’t all the time.”
He pressed a kiss to Jack’s temple.
“This is today.”
The pain ebbed in waves as the medication took effect, leaving Jack drained but calmer, body finally loosening its grip.
Robby stayed close, reading quietly, one hand resting on Jack’s arm like a promise.
By evening, Jack could sit up without grimacing.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Robby looked up. “For what?”
“For seeing it,” Jack said. “Even when I didn’t want you to.”
Robby closed the book and leaned in, forehead touching Jack’s.
“You don’t have to be strong with me,” he said. “You never did.”
Jack exhaled slowly, the last of the tension leaving him.
“I know,” he said. “I’m still learning to believe it.”
Robby smiled. “That’s okay. We’ve got time.”
They stayed there, wrapped in quiet and shared understanding, the pain not gone but no longer controlling the room.
And for Jack, that mattered almost as much as relief.