Coming Home

-Meeting Tommy Conlon-

"Thomas Conlon?"

Ada didn't bother looking up as she read the name in passing. There were so many of these guys a day that she had the tendency to lose track without much effort. And by 'these guys' she meant those obligated to show up to therapy via a court order or a mental hygiene warrant. Most of them head straight to the nearest psychiatric office, don't bother to learn the doctor's name, try to score some prescription drugs, and then they're out the door without a single check-up after their allotted number of ordered sessions. And she was more than glad to just check them off, too, because more often than not it wasn't worth wasting her energy on anyone who isn't committed to their recovery. There are the stubborn patients, and then there are the uncommitted. It's damn near impossible to get anywhere with someone who isn't committed.

Conlon was a little different, she saw as she skimmed over his file on the way back to her office. A marine, recently arrested and faced AWOL charges in military court. Disappeared after an incident of friendly fire, in which he was the only survivor of his unit. His verdict was a dishonorable discharge, with court-ordered therapy for evident post-traumatic stress disorder. He will be arrested and tried in a civilian court should he not complete his sixteen sessions of therapy over a span of eight weeks.

Her practice didn't get many soldiers. Most of the time, they had their own military doctors specially trained in war-related conditions. Ex-soldiers with cases of PTSD were far and few, but she did have them. She suspected this would be no different. Sit him down twice a week, ask him about his experiences. He won't talk. He might throw a few rages. She'd get him on some sort of SSRI like Zoloft, sign off on his sessions for his eight weeks, and then send him on his merry way.

She could hear him walking behind her, so she said over her shoulder, "How are you today?" in an attempt seem like the kind, easy going therapist. He didn't answer and that didn't bother her. She opened the door to her office, heading inside, and immediately placed herself behind her desk. As she spread her paperwork over the surface of her desk, Ada heard the door close shut with a click, and finally she looked up at her patient.

Thomas Conlon had the potential to be handsome, but his features were understated behind an oversized black sweatshirt and matching stocking cap. As he took a seat in front of her, she could see remarkably full lips set to a natural purse, and though his cap shielded his eyes, she could tell they were gray. Maybe even a little blue. He settled back into his chair and immediately began to fidget, bringing his hand to his mouth to bite at his thumbnail. He stared in her direction, but his eyes were not on her.

"Hat's off," she said simply, and his eyes quickly moved to her face. "I have a rule about hats in my office, and I like them off. I want to see the person I'm talking to."

Silently, he reached up and tugged the cap from his head with a look that said 'happy?' Underneath was a head of brown hair that was slowly growing out from a buzz cut. He ran his hand through it to ruffle up any flatness from the hat.

"So, Thomas-," she stopped speaking when he mumbled something inaudible. "Pardon?" she asked, encouraging him to speak up.

"Just Tommy, ma'am," he said quietly.

"All right, Tommy," she agreed with a smile and a nod. "My name is Dr. DuPrae, I will be your therapist for the next eight weeks." When he didn't say anything, she chose another approach. "Would you like something to drink, Tommy? Coffee, water, soda? I think I have some Dr. Pepper in here-," she reached down to the miniature fridge underneath her desk.

"Just water, please," he said, leaning forward slightly. When she retrieved a bottle from her fridge, he took it with a "thank you", immediately opening it for a sip.

"Are you nervous, Tommy?" she asked as she settled back into her own chair, bringing her cup of coffee to her lips. After swallowing a gulp of the warm liquid, she said, "You don't want to be here. And that's okay, most people don't. But the majority of your military career was during wartime. Your file goes into more detail, but you know what happened over there – I don't need to repeat it. But what I am suggesting that you take advantage of these eight weeks. They're only going to help you if you let them. While you're here…why not try to heal a little?"

"What makes you think you can heal me?" his words came out slowly, and his eyes narrowed into a glare.

"I can't," Ada said simply, with a shrug. "That's on you. But I can guide you through it. That much I know how to do."

"You don't know anything about me."

His resistance made her smile. Tommy wouldn't be a talker. And when he did have something to say, it would be to question her motives, her intelligence, and her ability to do her job. She made a mental note to check if SSRIs were covered by his health insurance.

"I'm not supposed to," she said, and his eyebrows furrowed slightly. "I'm the outside opinion that's supposed to interpret your reactions to the information you give me. I ask questions, you answer them. Then based on your answers, I attempt to determine the source of your problems."

"I ain't got any problems." His features coiled as though the very suggestion disgusted him, and he shifted in his chair, looking away impassively.

"The court seems to suggest otherwise," Ada responded coolly, glancing down at the papers in front of her. "Why do you think you're here, Tommy?"

He sniffed, and shifted again. "They're trying to clean up their mess," he said with a shrug, and looked squarely at her. Anger burned in those gray eyes.

"Who are 'they'?"

With another shrug, he averted his gaze once more. "The Corp; the government. Shoot down your own men, you can't lock up the one that got away. People – people know. So they let him go. Order him to therapy, get him on some meds. He'll be too fucked up to talk."

A pang of guilt struck Ada at these words, for her initial desire to get him a prescription and get him out of her office. And the fact that this plan registered with him intrigued her. This, and his theory that the government was attempting to cover up an unpopular incident by setting up the only survivor with the opportunity to become a jaded addict. "You don't think they're just looking out for your well-being?" she asked, out of curiosity.

His unconvinced expression said enough.

"All right," she said, with another smile, and dropped the subject. She picked up her coffee cup, and gestured a small toast in his direction. "Let's actually begin, shall we?" She sifted through the papers until she produced a clipboard, and withdrew a pen from a holder on her desk. "As I said, my name is Dr. DuPrae, Ada if you're more comfortable with that. But I'll just let you know I worked my ass off for the doctor title, so I like to hear it as often as possible."

Ada looked up from checking off the list of general information she was supposed to cover with a new patient on the first day of therapy. Her small joke did not reach through to him, so she returned her attention to the clipboard. "I've been a practicing psychiatrist for three years now, one of those years here. Before that I was I was working at the Harborview Medical Center in Seattle, where I completed my residency."

She glanced up at him, to find that he was actually listening. "I know you're not really interested, but I have to tell you anyway," she said as she continued, "I earned my undergraduate degree in psychology at the University of Washington, and then continued onto medical school at the University of Virginia. I specialize in adult mental health, emotional disturbances, and substance abuse. My therapies consist mainly of verbal communication, but I do tend to take my patients on field trips. Sound good?"

"What do you mean field trips?" he asked, inclining his head ever so slightly.

"Opening up in therapy takes courage, and there's nothing wrong with being rewarded for that valor," she said, picking up a loose sheet of paper to read over. "I like to treat my cooperative patients to something special every once in a while. Maybe out to lunch. Maybe to a football game. They aren't court-ordered sessions, but most don't usually refuse. Now, the government has ceased your health care benefits with your discharge, but it looks like the billing for your appointment fees is being directed to a Brendan Conlon? Is that your father?"

"No," Tommy said, and did not elaborate.

Ada assumed it to be his brother if not his father, and so continued, "Well Mr. Conlon has agreed to pay any and all additional fees regarding your treatment, including medication. Have you considered medication as a viable option toward your recovery?"

"I'm not taking no more meds." His statement was made with an air of finality, and Ada did not try to negotiate. A glance down at his medical records revealed the reason behind his firm stance on the subject. Mr. Conlon was no rookie to the use of psychiatric drugs and prescription painkillers.

"It says here that you were recently treated for a concussion and a dislocated shoulder," she looked up at him with interest. "Can I ask what happened?"

"How much does your little folder say about me?" he asked, gesturing towards her papers as he took another sip of water.

"Not much. I have your military and medical records, insurance information, emergency contacts, and…the documentation that I have to submit to court when we're done," Ada took the tracking of information as an opportunity to organize the papers into a neat pile. "So, are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Fight," he said, which caught her attention.

"What kind of fight?" she asked.

He must have interpreted her tone as believing he was some sort of incendiary hoodlum from off the streets, because he was close to looking offended as he responded with, "The professional kind."

"You fight professionally? What does that mean, boxing?" the conversation was beginning to turn away from specific, therapy-related topics as were usual during the first session, but she quickly justified it as a means to getting to know her patient.

"You heard of UFC? MMA?" his lackluster attitude towards his "profession" made her think that he wasn't all that passionate about it. A close look at his eyes told her otherwise. They were wide, and blazing in an animalistic way. Maybe he was just trying to intimidate her, or maybe reminiscing.

"UFC, yes. Is that MMA?"

"Yeah."

"What does MMA stand for?"

"Mixed Martial Arts."

"Martial arts, really?" she hoped he didn't mistake the light tone for mocking, as she was genuinely interested. Her brother had been a fan of UFC, but she'd never taken the opportunity to ask what it was. For all she knew, she could be sitting in a room with one of his favorite fighters, and she'd have no idea. "Is it real, or is it like WWE?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

His answer was pretty straightforward, and Ada released a short laugh. "I didn't know," she said amusedly through a smile, her eyebrows raised. "Have you been fighting for awhile?"

"Not really, not professionally."

"Since you went AWOL?" His silence let her know that her assumption was more or less correct. "Do you like fighting?"

"It's all right."

She took this as his version of 'yes, I very much like it, so much that I made a career out of it' and asked, "Does it help?" Ada knew that he understood the context of the question, but he didn't answer, so she continued, "It's a good thing if it does. Martial arts are a disciplined and respectable activity. I encourage a lot of the people I see to find a hobby where they can take all of their pent up emotion and translate that energy into something productive. It seems you beat me to it."

"You think putting the beat on someone is productive?" Tommy asked, mild confusion in his voice.

"Sure, as long as it's in a controlled environment with willing contenders," she said simply. "Besides, you would spend the majority of the time training, wouldn't you? That's the most important part psychologically. Dedication says a lot about how willing you are to better yourself as a person."

"You do anything?" he inclined his head slightly, expressing his personal interest.

"I dance," she said with a smile, and laughed as his eyes widened slightly in general surprise. "Not professionally, mind you, but it is a lifelong hobby."

"What, ballet?"

"If only," Ada shook her head. "No, I do ballroom, Latin ballroom, specifically. Like the tango and samba?" He shrugged, letting her know that he had no idea what that meant. "It's fun, but it all reverberates back to commitment. If you aren't committed to something, you're never going to get any better at it. With that said, are you in some sort of physical therapy for your shoulder?" He gave a single, sharp nod. "Excellent. I'd like to stay updated with your progress, if you don't mind. I'm happy to hear that you do mixed martial arts, and I think sticking with it is very healthy for you."

Upon another stretch of silence, Ada took her hint and slid over a paper off the top of the stack and held out a pen. "I think we've taken care of all we need to today. Just go ahead and sign off on your attendance record, and we're good to go." He took the pen from her and scribbled a signature before standing up at record speed. "It was nice to meet you, Tommy," she said, as she took the paper back to skim over it. She didn't bother to stand up, shake his hand, or see him to the door. He wasn't interested in professional and standard gestures, and neither was she. "I'll see you on Friday."

Within seconds, her office was vacant of enigmatic ex-soldier.


Hello! Thank you for stopping by. Tom Hardy's character in the beautiful, poignant film really stuck with me. There aren't many fics out there about Warrior yet, and I wish there would be. It's such a brilliant story to expand on, and very open-ended, which makes the opportunity all the more fun. :) Anyway, here is my contribution, and my take on the life of Tommy and the Conlons after Sparta. Tell me what you think!