This is based on the film "Warrior" which belongs to director Gavin O'Connor. If you haven't seen it, watch it before reading any further. Dead serious. Don't read a spoiler, either. I really wish I could add a third category onto this because, in my mind, this isn't just Drama/Romance. It's Drama/Romance/Family. It's not family-friendly any more than the movie is, but it is family.

I'm pretty sure I'm not the only person who's thought about writing a Tommy/OC story, but here's mine. The story starts almost immediately following the film, and, for the purposes of this story, omits the segment of the film in which Tommy's exposed for going AWOL, because he'd most certainly be held in a facility for several years leading up to a trial, leading to an entirely different story. And there will be a mix of past and present tense from time to time. Second, this chapter focuses pretty much entirely on Tommy's initial healing and rehabilitation, because a dislocated shoulder is a nightmare to deal with, especially for an athlete having to rest and build himself back up.

Chapter One: Physical Healing (Part One)

There were so many things wrong with this: seeing his younger brother in lying unconscious in a hospital bed, being the reason his younger brother was in the hospital in the first place, reporters barging in on things that shouldn't be shown, couldn't be shown as entertainment to people who had no idea…

Brendan entered the hospital room and winced at the horrors he saw, but took a seat despite himself and stayed there as long as would be necessary. Tommy was unconscious, under sedation and lying in bed with his arm reset and in a sling, and all at his brother's doing. His little brother wasn't little anymore, that much was damn certain. And he'd been given enough painkillers to kill a small horse, or at least it seemed that way.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a knock at the door. "Come in," he said, groggy and disoriented enough as though he'd been the one on heavy painkillers instead of the two tablets of naproxen he'd taken as a courtesy, ignoring his own pain as long as he could. It didn't feel right at the moment to admit that he was in anything beyond mild discomfort.

Dad was the last person he wanted to see poke his head in. "How is he?" he asked in a tone of voice that really meant, Just how much pain is he in?

"Out like a light," Brendan said, not interested in playing into a father-son relationship they never really had beyond a biological level. "Listen, Paddy, I want to talk to him alone when he wakes up."

Paddy didn't push it this time. He understood. Didn't even wince at being called 'Paddy' instead of some variation of 'Dad.' He looked like hell. "I know. I didn't come here to tell you otherwise. I just came by to tell you to tell him that he's going to need some serious physical therapy after this. And please let me know how he's doing after he wakes up."

They could both hear a little reluctance in his voice as he said, "Yeah, I will." And once again it was just the two Conlon boys.

For someone waking up heavily medicated after a physically traumatizing experience, waking up is not like in TV or movies. The patient's eyelids don't flutter open all of a sudden and even when the eyes are open the vision is too blurry to see anything clearly. It took a few minutes before he could talk, and even then, it was mostly slurred vowel sounds.

"I…I heard the old man say something about fizz'cal ther'py…" was the first thing Brendan could understand.

"Apparently," Brendan told him, and shifted his chair closer to the bed. "Do you want any water or…?"

Tommy shook his head. "I'd probably drop the fuckin cup anyway," he said. He had the faintest lopsided smile. It was probably there only because of the painkillers.

Brendan looked at the ghost of a smile and realized he almost never saw his younger brother smile, not even as a young child. No, especially not as a young child. He had had so little to smile about as a young child.

"How're you feeling, aside from the obvious?"

Tommy's eyes shifted from his brother to his arm, which he apparently only just realized was in a sling, and back. "I can't feel a thing."

Now was not the time for heartfelt moments, not really, but he tried. Tried to give some meaning, sound reason to the chaos that had overtaken them both. Like trying to reason with a hurricane, take the strength of the wind and make the rest of it disappear. Life just doesn't work that way. "Listen, Tommy, I'm sorry…"

"It's fine." It's not. " I am way too tired to talk about it anyway." And he was out again. He faded in and out for a while. It must have been infectious. Brendan didn't even realize that he'd dozed off until he heard as if from a great distance, the sound of his brother's voice seeping through: "I was going to give the money to a family."

Brendan blinked several times. "What family?"

"My best friend in the Marines. His name was Manny. He was like…" he didn't say 'a brother.' He didn't need to. "First weekend pass we got, I couldn't go home. He invited me and I went with him to where he lived. He married really young, man. He, his wife and kids became kind of like a foster family. I know that's not what you want to hear right now. But they were."

"What happened?"

Tommy looked down and back. "He was killed. So now it was his widow trying to raise three kids on her own and work all the time. I owed my life to Manny and I wanted to do something to help. I didn't need the money like she did. Still does."

As had been the case recently, Brendan didn't know quite what to say. He was pretty sure it would come out wrong anyway. "Oh," was all he could come up with for the moment. "I'd wondered why you'd entered the competition."

"Why did you?" Tommy asked.

"The bank was going to take the house," Brendan said. "I didn't want to let my family down." He heard a snort of laughter. "I meant this time around."

"I know. Different kind of family.

"You started teaching high school physics." His brother's tone brightened a little. It sounded kind of amazed, kind of questioning. Kind of way better than the seething anger with which he'd been greeted after sixteen years.

He nodded. "That's right. Until I was suspended without pay when the superintendent found out I was fighting again."

"You're a physics teacher who became the toughest guy in the world." They both kind of laughed. Only kind of, though. He was pretty sure his brother was laughing only because of the medication. "I wouldn't have believed it."

"I can't believe anything about tonight." It wasn't much but it was a start. How close could two people really feel after all this? Brendan hoped in time he could get his brother back. But a dislocated shoulder was serious business. He wouldn't have been surprised if Tommy stopped speaking to him after this, once his meds wore off and the pain did not. For a while, anyway. And after a while his brother faded out and he figured he should, should, give him his rest.

"The thing with a dislocated shoulder is that it's much easier after the first time to dislocate it again. It's not like a broken bone. And you'll still sometimes feel pain for up to a year, well after you're fully recovered." Tommy's being released soon, and his doctor who has all the gentle bedside manners of an executioner is telling him just how stupid he was to allow himself to get hurt. Like it was actually his—or anyone else's—intention.

He sighs and tilts his head back. "Shit." It's several moments before he says, "How long do you think it will take to fully heal?"

"It will be at least two weeks, if you're talking being able to do anything without that sling."

"What." Just getting changed into his normal clothes was one of the more annoying, trickier things he has done. He's ready to have it taken off as soon as possible.

The doctor shrugs, focused intently on his clipboard. "The normal length of recovery is two to three weeks. And might I say, it was unwise to say the least to try to use that arm after dislocating the shoulder, especially in trying to fight. You're lucky you have youth and your level of fitness, or it would be longer."

"You expect me to not do anything for two weeks, after training for Sparta?" He's used to physical demands that go beyond rigorous. Wrestling as an adolescent, twelve years in the Marines, and mixed martial arts have given him a need to be active. He doesn't want to imagine how his body's going to react to it all.

"You need to heal. MMA fighting is a dangerous sport. You must have been aware of the risks when you took it up." This guy is way too fucking cold to work with the injured. "The only exercise you can really do in whatever increments you want is walking. If there are leg or core exercises you can do without disturbing that arm, you can give it a try, but don't push it. Come back in two weeks and we'll see if your arm is ready to be taken out of that sling. I'll write out a prescription for you for some good pain medication…"

He can barely hear it. Exercise, fighting, what kept him at least close to sane, is being taken away from him.

F

The next two weeks are excruciating, regardless of the painkillers he takes whether he's hurting or not, because really, there's not much else to do. His appetite wanes. He spends hours a day walking, because, as the asshole doctor has said, it's the only thing he can do as much as he wants of. His body craves what it was used to, and more than anything, as the days blend together into one monotonous period of feeling crippled, he feels anger. No, he feels rage. And he can't work out or fight to vent that rage like he's been able to do in the past. To top it all off, he's never been good at sitting still.

He knows he'll forgive his brother for this. He knows he doesn't hate him, isn't angry with Brendan in particular, just at the world. That said, right now he can't see or talk to the man who's done this. It goes without saying he's not in any mood to talk to his dad, who it seems swears back off drinking the moment they get out of Atlantic City, but if he starts again Tommy doesn't really give a shit about that either right now, as long as the old man keeps it to himself.

Time doesn't crawl by. It doesn't seem to go at all. It's all this muddled period he feels like he's drowning in.

E

By the end of the two weeks, Tommy is trying very hard at all times not to tear off and burn the stupid fucking sling. He doesn't want to think about the "at least" part when he was told he'd need it for "two weeks at least." As far as he's concerned, he's waited more than long enough. When it's removed though, he's stunned at how weak and heavy his arm feels. Moving it is practically unfamiliar. He isn't prepared to feel pain simply from lifting his arm.

His doctor in Pittsburgh has the same bedside manner as the doctor in Atlantic City; he doesn't like hearing about his frustration and sends him to his first meeting with a physical therapist.

A

His physical therapist is a tall, athletic-looking Black man in his early forties, who, after introducing himself as David and shaking his hand (how the hell that would feel strenuous, he doesn't understand) tells him, "As an athlete, you probably want to go back to your old routine immediately."

Tommy shrugs. "I'd be lying if I said that wasn't my hope."

David glances at the X-rays taken during Tommy's hospital stay two weeks ago, and at the one taken earlier today. "My brother-in-law is a huge fan of MMA. He had me watch that fight with him when I was visiting. I didn't think anyone could make it through two rounds of a cage fight with a dislocated shoulder, let alone make it through the initial healing process within two weeks."

"You thought it was going to be longer?"

David nods emphatically, still sorting through the reports, as he says, "To be honest, yes. I thought it would require another week in that sling, given that you put additional stress on that joint just after dislocating it, but it looks as though you're ready to start rehabilitating that arm and shoulder." He looks Tommy dead in the eye. "Thing is, you won't be able to go back to the same exercise routine you'd been doing to train. You'll be doing specialized exercises during therapy sessions, but in terms of outside fitness, boxing, wrestling, martial arts, those are out for now."

He'd argue, but he's already made that guess. The only question is, "If I'm allowed to start working out again, what is it that I can do?"

"A little running would be fine, although the repetitive movements of the arms isn't the best thing. I personally think the only exercises you should be doing right now are the ones you learn here. For the time being, it will be hard learning how to turn a doorknob again."

Tommy doesn't feel the need to dignify that with a spoken response. He just sits back and raises his eyebrows.

David narrows his eyes. "I think I've said this before but I need to make this very clear to you: just because your arm is out of that sling does not mean you're ready to go through 'what you've been able to do.' Just, just humor me. See that pen?"

Another nod.

"Pretend to write your name. Don't force it if it really starts to hurt. Just try the movement."

And he does. He gives an involuntary hiss as he can't quite do it correctly. "Shit." He tries again through the pain.

"No, that's enough. Don't strain it right now. The next two weeks I just want you to come in for physical therapy. That's all. No swimming, no running, definitely no weight-lifting or fighting. Listen, I understand this is hard. You're an athlete. Not being able to move like you're used to can feel horrible. But you can't go back to your old routine for a while. Starting off slow and letting yourself heal is the only way you'll be able to get anywhere close to your old routine."

"How long?" he demands.

"Before going back to working out normally or fighting? Because the second is going to take quite a bit longer."

"Both."

David exhales and winces a little bit in empathy. The news gets worse and worse as he goes on. "Like I said, another two weeks before incorporating outside fitness or exercise, except walking and maybe core- or leg-work that doesn't put any strain on your right arm or shoulder. Six weeks before you can punch so much as a twenty-pound bag. Going back to your previous fitness level will be at least three, probably four months at best, if you really work for it, which I'm guessing from the look you're giving me right now, you will. Going back into the ring professionally really isn't something to think about right now. Now is what you gotta think about now."

So that's it. Part of him, that part that recognizes the pain in his shoulder for what it's worth, accepts that relearning the simple, everyday things, using a fork, using a pen, turning a key, is going to be as hard as some of the nastiest workouts he's had. "Does that mean we can start now?"

"Absolutely."

R

First thing he does when he leaves the session is call his brother from a payphone near the hospital. His father gave him the number he's not allowed to call anymore.

He hears a woman's voice on the other end. "Hello?" It's Tess.

"Hi, could I talk to Brendan?"

"Who is this?"

He almost laughs into the receiver, but hey, it has been sixteen years. "This is Tommy Riordan."

There's a gap of silence that stretches on a little longer than he thinks it should. "He's here. I'll get him for you."

He hears in the background shouting and after a much shorter time he hears Brendan's voice. "Tommy, is that really you?"

"Yeah, it's really me. I just got the sling off and my first taste of physical therapy."

"How is it?"

"Well, I'm talking to you, aren't I?" He hopes Brendan hears the hint of a smile he has. "It sucks. It's not really painful. Well, yeah, it is, but it's the little things that get weird, like turning a handle or writing." He's not on the phone to guilt-trip his brother, so he quits his moaning. "But the arm's out of the sling and I'm using it again."

"I'd been hoping to talk to you too. Listen, Tommy, we were able to pay off the mortgage and everything. Took care of the house, the car, were able to put into both our girls's college funds fifteen years in advance with a lot left over so the thing is…we don't need it all."

Tommy winces. And just like that he's pissed off again. No, scratch that. He's fucking angry. He thought his brother was beyond this pity crap. "I don't want your money," he says. "That's not why I called you."

"You wanted to send money to your friend's family, and from what you've said, they need it. I just want to help."

He leans against the edge of the payphone. "You're not the one who owes it to them. You don't know them. I do."

"Maybe not, but I owe a hell of a lot to you, and if you let me, I'd like to help you help them out."