1992, November
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The darkness enclosed Jack, broken only by the faint glow of his cigarette. He watched as the it burned down, almost to the filter, the orange tip casting a dim, wavering light across his fingers. A soft breeze touched his skin, though he barely noticed it. He just sat there, his hands finally steady as the warmth inched closer to his fingertips, giving him a small focus amid the thoughts pressing in from all sides.
He debated whether to light another. What did it matter? Smoking wasn't his worst habit, not by far. Compared to everything else he'd put his body through, a cigarette felt almost harmless.
He shifted a little, feeling the stab of pain radiate from his left side. The wounds from the shrapnel of the grenade still ached. The bullet that had torn through the crook of his neck had missed his spine by a mere two inches. Any closer to the center, and he'd have been paralyzed, trapped in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He forced himself to stop. The "what ifs" were relentless, whispering in the back of his mind, pointing out each time he'd come close to death and that it was mere luck why he was still here. And his comrades. They had pulled him out.
The truth was, if he'd worn a bulletproof vest, the game would have been over before it even started. In that world, trust—or the illusion of it—was everything. He'd taken the risk knowing what it could cost him, heading straight into a shootout, wearing no gear at all, except for a small caliber gun and plain clothes.
At last, he reached for another cigarette, his fingers moving without thought. He didn't crave the taste, but the familiar ritual gave his hands something to do, kept his mind from spiraling back to darker places. The cigarette flared to life, and he inhaled, the smoke curling into the silence around him.
He thought back to the first cigarette he'd had after his extraction. He was still in the hospital near Ramstein, barely able to breathe, let alone speak, through the oxygen mask. He'd woken in a daze, pain blurring every corner of his senses, and soon after, one of his comrades – Carl – had visited him there, his own arm and leg wrapped in bandages. Carl had taken shrapnel too, but he'd had the protection of a vest, like the rest of the team. And that was the difference why Carl could still walk while he had been confined to a sickbed, after they'd operated pieces of shrapnel out of his left lung, milt and abdomen.
Yet Jack couldn't shake the suspicion that it had been Carl who'd dragged him out, given the similarities of their shrapnel wounds, that it had been his hands gripping his collar and pulling him away from the gunfire and chaos. They'd never talked about it, of course. None of them did. Instead, Carl had shoved a pack of cigarettes at him with a grin, fully aware that Jack could barely rasp a word through the oxygen mask. It wasn't a serious offer; they both knew it was just Carl's way of poking fun at the situation.
"Want one?" Carl had said, his grin widening, his tone mocking the ridiculousness of offering a cigarette to someone who'd just come off life support. Jack's weak laugh had been all he could manage at the time, but the memory brought a fuller chuckle now, breaking the quiet.
It was typical Carl—breaking the rules, taunting fate, as if to remind Jack that they could still laugh, that they were still alive. They'd always had this way of coping, a shared humor dark enough to deflect the weight of what they'd seen and done.
Jack could still see Carl's face as he'd wheeled himself into his hospital room two days, a wicked grin on his face, like he was pulling off the prank of the century. At first, Jack's stomach had dropped. Something happened? Complications? Was Carl suddenly in a wheelchair? But then Carl shut the door behind him, gave a conspiratorial glance, and, with a mock grimace, lifted himself carefully out of the chair, balancing on his good leg. He'd stood the wheelchair beside Jack's bed with that same mischievous smirk, looking as daring as ever.
Jack hadn't laughed that hard since he could remember. But it was too tempting to resist. He knew the hospital hallways were crawling with staff, but none of them knew his face and none of them would ever consider the possibility that he'd leave his bed. And crazy Carl wouldn't take no for an answer, so Jack had made the slow, excruciating journey to the wheelchair, every one of the two steps hurting like hell. And a guy sitting in a wheelchair was something so ordinary around here that no-one cared that the one pushing it needed the chair as well for support, instead of crutches.
They'd rolled quietly down the hall, suppressing laughter, until the ward's doors lay behind them. Out of their rooms, out of that sterile ward, and out into the cool evening air. It was autumn, cold and crisp. The fire escape door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly, for the first time in a while, life felt almost bearable. Every inhale stung, his ribs protesting with each pull on the cigarette, but he savored that first drag anyway, letting it burn through him until he couldn't help but cough, a spasm of pain radiating from his wounds.
"Not bad for a guy fresh off oxygen, huh?" Carl had laughed, the sound bright against the dull ache of their shared scars.
"Reckless as hell, you mean," Jack had shot back, feeling a lightness that defied everything he'd been through. They'd sit there quietly, looking through the iron rails, mocking each other's injuries, making up stories of how they'd survived, and then just letting the silence fill the empty spaces where the memories pressed in too close.
For that moment, life felt simple. Ridiculous, but perfect. They were there, alive, bruised, but still standing—figuratively, at least. And that was all that mattered.
Now, as Jack sat alone in the cold darkness, he chuckled softly, remembering Carl's smirk and his reckless spirit, wishing he knew where he was now. They hadn't kept in touch since then. They'd been through hell together, saved each other's lives more times than he could count. It was just the job, he knew that. But that day, on the fire escape, he'd been reminded there was something more to it too—a loyalty he couldn't have found anywhere else.
Jack stilled, his mind drifting back to Kim's words, how she'd described his job. The clarity in her voice, the simple honesty that had cut deeper than anything else could have. Killing people, she'd said. What had he turned into?
Jack stubbed out the cigarette, taking a deep breath of the cold November night. The air was sharp, grounding. He stood, wincing as he rose and limped over to the edge of the porch. He crouched, digging a small hole in the garden soil beside the bush, and buried the stubs of the two cigarettes there, like he always did when he sneaked out for a smoke. Teri hated it. "Not in front of Kim, not in the house," she'd always say, and she was right, of course. But some days, he'd wake up with the memories sharp and intrusive, and a smoke or two felt like a small price to push them back down.
And now, finally, he was home. Against all odds, Teri had chosen to give him that last chance. He'd begged her, empty-handed, because he had nothing left to offer but the promise that he'd leave that life behind. He was here, back with the woman he loved, grateful beyond words that she'd made the decision to let him return home, though she was probably just as disgusted as he was himself: of the man whose job was 'killing people'.
He thought back to those weeks in Ramstein, the near-constant agony of not knowing just how bad the injuries were, just how much of himself he'd be left with. Each day of coming off the morphine had come with more aches, until the certainty set in: he'd live, but it hadn't been by much. The shrapnel embedded in his side, the severe bleeding, the bullet wound that had missed his spine by less than an inch—all of it had worn him down. And with every painful step toward recovery, he'd faced the dread of returning to Teri in this condition.
Then there had been Major Walsh. Walsh had come a week into his recovery, his face sober, the air between them heavy as they debriefed the mission's outcome. Jack learned that Mislav had been caught, his men either captured or killed. And under interrogation, Mislav had spilled everything, naming his contacts and detailing the militia's supply routes. In the end, the mission had been a success, not a single man lost in the shootout at the warehouse in Pristina.
But as Walsh finished, his face had changed, taking on a gravity Jack hadn't expected. There was one more thing to discuss, Walsh had said, and the air turned cold between them. A medical discharge. The Special Forces command knew his enlistment still had a year remaining, but the extent of his injuries had changed things. Six months, maybe more, to fully recover, plus the time needed to retrain—by then, he'd have little time left in active service. They'd offered him a way out. A medical discharge. The notion had struck him like a second blow, one he hadn't prepared for.
As Walsh had finished, the words "medical discharge" echoed in his brain, like a verdict, dull and heavy. It felt like a slap—a sudden end to everything he'd been. Jack knew he should've felt relief, maybe even gratitude for a way out, a chance to stop to risking his life over and over again.
But all he felt was the sting of rejection, of being discarded now that the US Department of Defense thought he was too broken to be of use. He was just another item on their lists, a soldier they'd patch up but then decide the cost center wasn't worth the risk of reinvestment. Special Forces had given him three months to decide if he wanted to take the medical discharge or stay. They'd keep paying him for now, including all his bonuses. But the fact remained: his career was done, whether he made the choice or not.
Jack stood on the porch of his home, feeling the weight of it all. He took in the familiar, quiet dark of the yard, and considered his options. Six months, maybe more, for a full recovery. He didn't know what kind of work he'd even want to look for afterward. The thought of drifting into some half-baked job, maybe as mall security or in some mind-numbing government office, made his stomach turn. He'd seen enough veterans take that route—guys who'd gone from high-stakes missions to monitoring retail aisles, broken down by the transition to civilian life, lost in their own country.
The Montgomery GI Bill had surfaced in his mind during the long hours spent lying in that hospital bed. He could go back to college and they'd pay for it, maybe get a master's in something. The idea had a strange appeal, especially since he'd been away from that world so long it felt like it belonged to another lifetime. But part of him clung to the memory of Teri saying, almost in passing, how much she wanted life to feel like it used to. There'd been a softness in her voice he hadn't heard in years, and it was then he'd realized how much he missed those days too.
Maybe he needed to rewind, to turn back to a time when life had felt simpler, back to when he and Teri were just two college kids with their lives unscarred by war and untouched by the heavy silences that had settled between them in the past years. Their early days at UCLA had been some of his best, filled with late-night talks, easy laughter, and a bond with Teri that had felt unbreakable at the time—not yet complicated by the realities he'd carried back after each deployment. Maybe the bond was really unbreakable. Maybe that was why after so many bad years, he was still standing here, at the porch of a house where they lived together.
The night air was cool, bracing, and Jack took a deep breath. He didn't have to decide tonight. This idea of returning to college was still raw and new; he needed time to sit with it, to see if it was what he truly wanted—or if it was just another attempt to grasp at the past.
He hadn't yet brought this idea up with Teri, but he could imagine her relief if he did. She'd probably say it was a good change, even if she'd never voice it first. That was just her way, always waiting for him to decide on his own. And as much as he wanted that easier life with her, back when it was just the two of them, he couldn't ignore the part of himself still rooted in the past—the part that couldn't shake the feeling he was abandoning Carl and the others. They'd all be returning to Yugoslavia, picking up where they'd left off, while he tried to start over.
He stood in the cold November air, his thoughts drifting to Carl, to the way his friend had looked at him when he'd shared the news of the medical discharge. Jack hadn't been able to read his reaction—whether Carl had felt happy for him, sad, or maybe even a twinge of envy. Unlike Jack, Carl hadn't been offered an out, even though he'd been injured, too. Thanks to the vest he'd worn, all he had were a few pieces of shrapnel in his arm and leg—serious but hardly enough to release him from service.
Carl had never mentioned family, a girlfriend, or a life waiting for him back home. Jack didn't even know where he was from, only that Carl had spent a lot of time in England, earning him the nickname Charles. Carl had always been one for keeping the past in the past—no talk of where they'd come from, just where they were going next.
Jack sat down again and lit a third cigarette. As he exhaled into the cold, he felt a twist of guilt. He took another drag, glancing down at the faint glow of his cigarette.
They all, the whole team, would be going back to that life. They had always had his back. He would be the one left behind. But right now, he felt like he was abandoning them.
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What Jack didn't realize was that Teri knew all about his late-night ritual. She'd always been a light sleeper—a fact he hadn't fully registered over the years, probably because of all the time he'd spent away. Even before his deployments, they hadn't shared every night together, both of them caught up in their own worlds, walking night shifts or trying to arrange their time together somehow, to scrape together the money to barely survive.
When he'd returned from the hospital two weeks ago, their life together felt both beautifully fresh and strangely fragile. She wanted to take care of him, to be there for him in ways she hadn't been able to for so long. But he kept himself closed off, always slipping away to the bathroom to change the dressings on his wounds alone, as if he could spare her the sight of it. It hurt to be kept at arm's length. She'd only glimpsed the damage beneath his shirt once or twice—a brief flash of the white patches of gauze that covered parts of his left side, parts of his leg. The only place where he couldn't hide it were the bandages around his arm.
So she focused on the small ways she could make things feel normal again, like cooking dinner, spending evenings together at the couch. And since he'd come home, there was always someone around for Kim. For the first time in years, she didn't have to worry about getting her to school or hurrying home from work. It was a strange relief, but also a quiet ache, watching Jack and Kim rebuild their bond so naturally, with an ease she wished she could have with him as well.
Kim had reconnected with him effortlessly, her openness a contrast to the hesitation she felt herself. It struck her how openly he laughed when Kim was around, as if making up for the years he'd missed. Three times a week, he drove her to the stables so she could ride the pony she adored. Teri would watch them return, the two of them smiling, telling her stories about their small adventures, each ride bringing a lightness to Jack she hadn't seen in years.
She loved the way he smiled around Kim, loved seeing him at peace for those moments—but it reminded her of a distance between them she couldn't bridge just yet.
Even if he didn't show her, she knew that he wasn't okay. She'd noticed him slipping out of bed at night, not just for a trip to the bathroom as she'd first thought, but for something more. He'd taken to sitting on the porch in the quiet hours, seeking solace in a cigarette or two. She understood instinctively that these were moments he needed for himself, times to sit with whatever weighed on him, and she respected that. She wanted to be there for him, but she knew these were things he wasn't ready to share.
But curiosity, and love, had a way of drawing her in. She soon discovered where he kept his pack of cigarettes, hidden high up on the living room cupboard, far out of Kim's reach. Not that she'd ever take them away or confront him. It was just one of those small, secret pieces of him she let be, recognizing it was part of what he needed.
Sometimes, she'd watch from a distance, noticing how he'd sit alone in the cold, burying his face in his hands or simply staring out into the night. And when he'd return, he'd slip into the bathroom, brushing his teeth and rinsing with mouthwash before easing back into bed, thinking no one noticed his absence.
And on a few nights, he didn't come back to bed at all. She'd find him in Kim's room, having dozed off in that rocking chair or, more often than not, curled up with her, fast asleep, in that tiny bed of hers, his arms draped protectively around her small frame. It was just three nights ago that she'd found them that way.
She had stood there quietly, watching as he held their daughter close, his arm wrapped around her in a fierce embrace, as though he could shield her from every sorrow and hardship in the world. It was a sight that nearly broke her heart but filled it too, reminding her of how deeply he loved Kim, how utterly devoted he was to this family. She knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn't care about his own life for a second, to protect her, that he would cross any line to keep her safe.
And standing there in the dark, watching the scene, Teri had felt a rush of love for him that she hadn't let herself feel in years. Despite everything—the distance, the pain, the many nights spent alone—she still loved him, every bit as much as she had in the beginning. She was flooded with memories of the man she'd fallen for, the one who'd stolen her heart with his unshakable sense of right and wrong. She thought back to that day, eight years ago, when he'd taken her protest sign, crossed the street, and planted it in defiance in front of his father's office, his eyes full of fire and a determinedness she'd never seen in anyone else. Even now, with all their problems and the complications, he was still that man.
He was still Jack. The best man she'd ever known. Watching him there, three days ago, holding Kim as if she were his whole world, Teri had realized that no matter how much time and hardship had changed him, she would never let him go.
Tonight, Jack didn't slip into Kim's room as he sometimes did; instead, Teri heard the light in the bathroom being switched off, followed by his quiet steps toward their room. She lay there, pretending to sleep, but was already turned on her side to face him, one eye squinted open just enough to catch his silhouette as he entered.
He crossed the room slowly, careful not to disturb her, though she saw the sharp wince that crossed his face as he settled onto the bed. He pressed a hand to his left side, his brow knit against the pain. Every shift, every muscle that tensed, seemed to cost him. She closed her eye again, hoping he hadn't noticed, but every part of her wanted to reach out and just help him sit down.
Jack lay back, moving with the same cautious restraint, and, after a moment, turned toward her. She lay still, her eyes closed, waiting. She strained to hear the signs of sleep, his breath evening out, but instead, she felt his gaze on her. He wasn't sleeping, but watching her. She could almost sense the questions in his stare, his quiet wish to reach out, to re-connect through the silence that had grown between them in recent years.
At last, she opened her eyes, only to find him there, lying on his uninjured side, studying her in the dim light, surprised to see her awake.
"Sorry for waking you up," he whispered, his voice barely breaking the quiet.
"Don't be," she replied softly, letting the lie rest, not admitting that she'd been awake long before. Slowly, she reached out from beneath the blanket and rested her hand lightly on his arm, careful not to brush against any sore spot. She slipped a little closer, feeling him do the same.
This close, she could see the tension start to melt from his face, his tired eyes softening as he met her gaze. They hadn't been this close since he'd come back, and she felt the months, maybe even years, of distance slipping away as she moved nearer to him. The early weeks of his return he had spent at UCLA Medical Center. Even at home, she'd sensed his reluctance to let her help him, and she'd respected his need for space. She knew he wanted to hide the extent of his injuries, and so she'd kept her distance, letting him come to her on his own terms.
But tonight, the silent tug between them was stronger, and she let herself lean in, feeling a warmth in her that drowned out her concerns. She kissed him gently, sensing him draw her close, feeling the longing they'd both held back. She noticed the faint traces of smoke on his breath despite his efforts to mask it, but she didn't care; she just knew he was the man she loved, as he kissed her back.
As their kiss deepened, his hand slipped to her waist, his touch careful, his fingers almost reverent as he pulled her closer. Between the kisses, she heard him whisper her name, and that he loved her. He kissed her neck, finding the soft skin she offered to him, and she pressed her hands to his cheeks, framing his face, drawing him even closer.
"I love you, too," she breathed. She needed him to understand how deeply she meant it, how her love had always endured, despite the pain, despite everything they'd been through. She searched his eyes, silently asking if he was ready to take this step, to be close despite the gauze that covered the wounds beneath his clothes. She felt his answer in his gaze, his silent story that he told her, that he didn't want to show her but that he wanted this as much as she did, that he was ready to lay himself bare before her as long as she was careful with him.
Gently, she lifted his shirt over his head, slipping the fabric away, revealing his skin. She saw the patches of gauze across his left side, reminders of the shrapnel wounds that hadn't yet healed. Teri met his eyes, making sure he saw only love in her face and not disgust, worry or anything else, as she reached to pull her own shirt over her head, feeling his hand already reach behind to unclasp her bra with gentle precision, his fingers lingering a moment, feeling her warmth.
She kissed him again, feeling his trust, his need to let go, as they moved slowly, each touch deliberate, unclothing each other further. They moved carefully, finding a position that let them be together despite his injuries. They moved with a tenderness neither had felt in years, each touch slow and aware, bringing them closer, until their breaths fell into a shared rhythm. She'd never felt such intensity, such an awareness of him, of every look, every caress, every inch of him. The unspoken understanding between them filled every silence, and the world beyond that room faded until it was just them, two souls sharing a love they slowly rekindled. And nothing else mattered then.
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Written to two covers of a most beautiful song:
"Nothing Else Matters" - Metallica (Cover by First to Eleven) and a piano cover: Metallica - Nothing Else Matters. Piano cover and arrangement by Gamazda.