Controlled Burn

An episode tag to "Alone and Unafraid". I'm not entirely sure where this came from, but the Muse whacked me upside the head, and it practically wrote itself. I guess it was meant to be? Anyhow, I do wonder how Chandler keeps the violence that lurks beneath his skin so contained. It's obvious from the now-infamous Kitchen Fight that he's capable of much more than giving orders.

Also - Tom/Rachel. . . Keeping that kind of attraction contained would be a feat.

Regardless, this one's a bit more mature than any of my others, hence the rating. You've been warned.

-OOOOOOO-

Part One

Her hands. Her skin. Her cool-heat.

Her fingers trailed along his collarbone, gentle and clean against his body. He could feel her breath against his chest, where her nimble fingers were working at the buttons of his shirt. She was studying him, her face a mess of worry, her normally-generous lips thin and tight. She spread her palm against his rib cage, probing gently at the bruise she'd found there, skimming her thumb along a long cut just under his left pectoral.

"Are you having trouble breathing?"

But he couldn't answer her. He didn't trust himself to speak. He shook his head and flattened his palms on the P-way wall behind him. She'd gotten his entire shirt open, now, smoothing the bloody fabric away from his body. Both hands moved on him, testing his shoulders, his collarbone, where another long cut gaped, a point just above his sternum where an impressive abrasion had just begun to blossom. Gasping, she spread her hand against his chest, apparently unaware of how his muscles quivered at her touch, of how he couldn't keep himself from responding. Slowly, she explored downward, towards his hips, her fingers tracing the bruising, the redness, the swelling along his abs, his stomach, his sides.

Her hair swayed as she shook her head in disbelief. "Good lord, Tom - what happened to you? You're battered all over. Everywhere I look, there's a new injury."

Clearing his throat, he looked away - over her head, to where a sign detailed some random function of the red-painted valve sitting below. Tom stared at the sign without really processing it. All he could see in his mind's eye were her hands on his skin, the ruined fabric of his shirt shoved away from his body, her hands tugging at the waistband of his pants as she explored a bruise on his hip. He shivered - like a terrified child in the night. When he sucked in a breath, it was nearly a sob. She'd brought him to this.

She raised her eyes to his, concern and compassion thick in her expression. "Are you hurting, Tom?"

Her tongue flickered along her lips, and he thought he'd die.

Damn, yes. All over. He hurt everywhere - but not from his injuries. He ached for this - for her, for her touch, her skin against his. For the release that he'd find there. Hating himself, he leaned into her ministrations, even when he knew he needed to push her away and escape.

-OOOOOOO-

"Grab a beer, dude." Mitchell turned, whisper-yelling into Tommy's ear. "You look like a high school punk."

"I am a high school punk." Tommy glanced around, surreptitiously yanking a bottle out of the ice-filled cooler next to the couch. Running his thumb along the cankered edge of the cap, he scanned the room.

The frat house was loud, and hot, and crowded. Tom hadn't intended on ending up at the party, but Mitchell had been insistent. They'd been bored, three months away from graduation and already having mentally checked out of it all. There had been a dance at the high school that night, but Tom hadn't had any desire to go. He'd told his mom that he was going to the movies with friends. Instead, he and Mitchell had driven aimlessly around town until they'd ended up at the University. It was hours past their curfews, but the noise from Frat row had drawn them like moths to a flame.

"Yeah, but you don't have to look like it." Mitchell flicked the cap of his beer off and away, taking a long draw as he caught Tommy's eye. Swiping at his lips with the back of his hand, he grinned at his best friend. "And this party looks appears like it could become absolutely epic."

Rolling his eyes, Tom gestured with the still-unopened bottle. "It's a bunch of drunk college boys."

"You're looking at this all wrong, Tommy." Mitchell grinned, winking. "It's a bunch of drunk college girls."

"C'mon, Mitchell. College chicks?"

His friend leaned close, gripping the back of Tom's neck with his hand. He breath smelled like the beer he'd nearly finished, and was already obviously feeling its affects. "Get your groove on, my friend. Go. Peruse. Conquer."

"Conquer."

With a laugh, Mitchell shoved his friend away. "Go, Tommy. Conquer! Be a man!" With a final, long draw from his bottle, he threw Tom a sloppy salute and disappeared into the crowd.

Sighing, Tom scanned the chaos. Bodies littered the place - a few lightweights had already passed out and had either fallen, or been deposited, in corners or on sofas. He wandered into what might have been a living room, where a spot had been cleared for dancing. A dozen or people gyrated there with varying degrees of ability. Tom watched absently, the bottle dangling from his fingertips, before turning and exploring further.

The decor of the fraternity's residence appeared to have been acquired from only the most mediocre of thrift stores. Mismatched furniture had been grouped at various locations throughout the large open common area downstairs, chairs, couches, and several well-worn, overstuffed recliners that Tom wouldn't necessarily had ever chosen to sit on. Beyond the dancers, a large rear-projection TV was playing some random horror movie, which was completely inaudible over the sound of the music blaring from a stereo on the opposite end of the room. The pool table and foosball set-up had crowded out what as supposed to have been a dining room, he supposed, and a large, once-elegant staircase stretched upwards from the entryway towards some dim regions beyond. Tom didn't need to guess what was going on upstairs - an impatient couple on the landing was demonstrating with considerable enthusiasm.

He found an empty wall and leaned back against it, watching the ebb and tide of the people around him. The fraternity's members were obvious - they were wearing matching gold t-shirts. They were also the ones refilling the coolers and steering the music and game selection. The majority of them were normal guys - drinking, hitting on the girls, playing pool or dancing. One of them, however was wearing a plastic flower lei and a coconut bra. He was louder and more animated than the rest of them were, but Tom didn't see him actively drinking. He smiled, and laughed, and schmoozed as hard as the rest of his clan. But for whatever reason, this guy seemed malignant.

Malignant. That had been one of his SAT Prep words. His mom could be happy that her money had been spent well.

Tom frowned, looking around for Mitchell. No dice - his friend had probably chatted up some Sweet Something who was available and willing and had found a quiet corner to disappear into. Shifting on his wall, Tom made another cursory scan of the crowd, but nothing or nobody appealed to him. He glanced at his watch and groaned. He was going to be in so much trouble.

Pushing away from the wall, he strode past the pool table towards the kitchen. More coolers sat on the floor next to a breakfast bar, where a bastard assortment of bowls and trays held chips and snacks. The display was singularly unappetizing, but he did find a shrink-wrapped package of small water bottles on the floor next to the fridge. Depositing the beer on the counter, he grabbed some water, instead.

The game at the pool table had heated up. Three or four frat boys stood directly behind Coconuts, who was hovering near one of the players. She was tall. Tall and lithe, with long wheat-colored hair that she'd gathered back in a ponytail. Tom watched as she bent herself over the table, then worked on lining up a tricky shot, her features tight with concentration.

Stopping at the edge of the action, Tom watched as she took a deep breath and then drew the cue backwards before sending it back forwards with a perfectly timed thrust. The white ball jumped over a solid one before ricocheting off the opposite side of the table and hitting first one, then two, then three striped ones, sending them all into the different pockets. The frat boys groaned in unison, making a grand display of their upset disbelief.

The girl straightened with a sly smirk on her pretty face. She'd been watching the balls drop, but then looked upwards and caught Tom's eye. Green eyes, fringed with dark lashes. Dimples. Full, expressive lips. And then her gaze dropped down his feet and worked its way back up to his face with a languid, frank interest that made his mouth go dry.

"You cheated." Coconuts drummed his fingertips on the polished wood of the table's edge, calling her attention back to him. "Either that, or you're a player."

"You're the one that made the bet, Bentley." The girl set the cue down, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. "I can't help it that you didn't think it through first."

"Still. I made that bet in good faith. You never told me that you were a pro."

She laughed at that, walking around the table towards Coconuts. "You never asked me if I knew how to play, only if I wanted to."

Bentley's eyes narrowed, his jaw working rhythmically.

"So, anyway. You made the bet. Pay up." She extended her hand, palm up. "I believe that was a Benjamin, right?"

"I'm not paying you squat." Bentley thwacked at her hand, hitting her on the knuckles and forcing it upwards. "I don't pay cheaters."

"A hundred bucks, Bentley." She rolled the cue back and forth between the thumb and her forefinger of her left hand, bracing her right against her hip. "That was the bet."

Tom took an almost involuntary step forwards. The frat boys were inching forward, until they'd made a semi-circle behind her. With Coconuts in front of her, and the Gold Shirts behind, there was no way for her to escape. She flickered a look around her, then glared at Bentley. "Really? You think your goons are going to scare me?"

Coconuts only had to take a few more steps and he was so close to the girl that their bodies were touching. He reached out and hooked her with a hand on her lower back, yanking her towards him and grinding a bit against her hips. "You could always let me pay it off in other ways."

She tried to pull away, but he was too strong. Getting desperate, she whacked him on the side of the head with her pool cue. Coconuts grunted and faltered a bit. Taking advantage of his momentary lapse, the girl took a step backwards, pushing at Bentley's chest with both hands, managing to gain a few inches before the goons stepped up from behind to prevent her escape. One of them reached around her and snagged the cue from her hand.

Coconuts shook his head, closing in on her again. "That wasn't cool, girlfriend."

"I'm not your girlfriend." She stood warily, more fearful, now, as Bentley cupped her waist with his beefy hand.

"C'mon, chica." He had both hands on her, now, smoothing an insidious line from her back down around her rear end and back up again. He lowered his head and tried to kiss her, but she jerked backwards again, landing a solid punch against his chest. His smile lacked humor. "You're a fighter. I like it when women are feisty."

"Let me go, Bentley." She wriggled against the man, against the hands that were holding her in place. Her lips had thinned, and she was breathing in quick, short bursts. The color had drained completely from her face.

Bile rose up in Tom's throat, his hands curling into fists. He felt hot, as if a fire had been kindled somewhere deep inside him and was now scorching him from the inside. It was the same feeling he got right before the snap, when the guy on the other side of the line of scrimmage was glaring him down. Swallowing down a surge of nervous fury, he strode over to the group, stopping next to Bentley. He tried to speak, but had to clear his throat before anything came out. "Cut it out."

The man turned towards Tom, assessing him. He was shorter than Tom by an inch or so, but heftier, the arms holding the girl were thick with muscle. With an arrogant smirk, he judged, and then dismissed the newcomer. "Leave this to me, kid. I've got it covered."

But Tommy held his ground. He reached out and laid his hand on the guy's arm, wrenching it down and away from the girl's body. "Let her go."

Bentley growled, turning towards Tommy and hitting his chest with an open palm. "I said, go away, kid."

"And I said, let her go."

The girl saw her opportunity and took it, skittering sideways until she'd somehow ended up behind Tom. He felt her hand grasp his shirt, pulling him backwards. Her voice shivered against his ear. "C'mon. Let's go."

But Bentley wasn't losing lightly. He smacked Tom again, harder, crowding both Tom and the girl back towards the wall. "This isn't your business, kid. You need to leave."

"Okay. But I'll be taking her with me." Tom raised a hand and braced it against the frat guy's body. It was incongruous to feel the hard edges of the coconut bra and lei against the bundled rage of the older man. "Dude. Chill. Nobody's losing out on anything. Just let this go."

"Chill? I don't like it when snot-nosed punks interfere in my business."

Tom pressed his lips together, taking careful stock in the situation, trying to read just how angry the other man was. He was sober - he didn't smell like alcohol, at least - and beneath Tom's fingers, his body was a tight bundle of angry energy. There was nothing controlled about Bentley. Nothing reasonable. Something his father had told him once whizzed through his brain - the one who thinks, wins.

"Okay, then. I'll go." Tom lifted his hands in faux-surrender. Shuffling backwards, he proffered a smile and a lax sort of shrug. "Sorry. I apologize for butting in."

Bentley considered, running a hand across the stubble on his chin. For the barest of moments, it seemed like he was going to let it go, but then he shifted, settling his weight back on his right foot and swinging his right hand fist straight for Tom's head.

The girl squealed and ducked, but Tommy reacted faster, raising his left arm to block the blow before delivering one of his own. Tom was not only taller - but his reach was longer, and his fist impacted Bentley directly on the jaw, propelling his entire body backwards and towards the pool table. Bentley recovered quickly, pushing off of the table and flying back towards Tommy, who dodged to one side and hit the older man again - twice. A left to the gut and another right hook to the face.

Coconuts staggered, then wiped a spurt of blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand. Tommy stood tall, hands still fisted, his arms at his sides.

"You're going to wish you hadn't done that, kid."

"Said the old man to the kid who still hasn't taken a hit."

Bentley growled, deep in his chest, swiping at his mouth again before rushing forward. He was aiming more for a tackle than a blow, catching Tommy right between the numbers with a shoulder, while he impacted Tom's cheek and chin with a quick couple of upward punches. Tommy swore, finding himself shoved hard into the wall, his shoulders crashing against some of the framed pictures he'd perused earlier, and then hitting another with the back of his head. Coconuts used Tom's surprise to his own advantage, pinning the younger man with an arm to his neck while using his other fist to land several punches to his opponent's abdomen.

Tommy took only a second to recover. Pain radiated through his stomach and head - but he was more angry than hurt. Steadying himself on one foot, he swiped at Bentley's feet with his other leg, simultaneously punching up at the arm holding him to the wall. The other man faltered, his balance disrupted, and Tommy hit him in the face with the back of his right fist, before immediately folding his arm around Bentley's neck, tucking his opponent's head neatly under his own arm. Quickly, he seized Bentley's arm and twisted it up and over the man's back.

"Dude!"

"Son of a - "

"Bent!"

Tommy could see the Gold Shirts approaching over the back of their struggling leader. Tightening his hold, he squeezed until Bentley squeaked, and then quieted, his body making half-hearted jerking attempts to get away. Tommy's gaze flickered to where the girl was standing, several feet away and at the far end of the pool table, both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. He returned his attention to the fraternity leader's three buddies.

"Listen up, doorknob." He flexed the arm holding Bentley, who squealed again, making a half-hearted attempt to get away. "I can stand here for a while. I can squeeze a little tighter, until you pass out. At which time I'll drop you like a brick and you'll embarrass yourself in front of all of your friends. Or, you could wave your goon squad off and I'll let you go. Then, you'll stand right here, in this spot, until my new friend and I leave your stupid party." Tommy turned slightly, wrenching Bentley's head to one side and tugging a little more on the guy's arm. He looked down at his prisoner, at where the tips of his ears had gone crimson.

"Go to hell." Coconut's voice was raspy and weak. Worried and angry, his friends frowned, taking another half-step closer.

"That wasn't one of your choices, Bentley." Tom angled his free hand around and gripped the wrist just under the other man's neck. Ever so lightly, he twisted his own fist more fully into Bentley's throat. "Now, think again. I let go and you back off, or I stand here and you end up on your sorry ass in front of all your guests."

Bentley's breath came in tiny little puffs, now, and Tom could feel him fading. He was no longer struggling to get away - only to remain on his own two feet. He lifted a hand to tap at Tom's arm. "Let me go."

"You sure? You're not going to come up swinging?"

"C'mon, man." One foot slid out from under Bentley's weight, and his ears had turned a mottled pink rather than red. He was losing oxygen. His voice was little more than a whisper. "Let me go."

Tom looked again at the girl, whose expression had turned from astonishment to pleading. With a final twist at the other man's neck, Tommy suddenly loosened his grip and stepped away from the other man, who fell to his knees on the floor.

"Okay then." Tommy's hands curled into fists again, and he slowly began to make his way towards his new friend. At Bentley's gesture, the Gold Shirts backed away, and Tom made his way over to where the girl was standing. He was breathing hard, his inhalations short, deep bursts that expanded his entire rib cage and chest. His entire body was tight - wired - pulsing with adrenaline and the excitement of battle. It was how he felt right after a football play, or after his leg of a swim team relay. Only, it was better. His fists hurt, and his stomach had surely started to bruise, and his jaw ached where Bentley had landed a lucky blow. But even with the pain, a rush of something new had made its way through his body. He felt - transformed. He felt powerful. And he wanted more.

The girl stood there, staring at him, her face radiating an odd expression - one that he'd never seen before. Tommy was surprised when she took his hand and led him out of the dining area, past the rest of the drunk, oblivious party-goers, and out into the cool of the night.

They walked, quiet, past a row of frat houses, and a few dormitories, around a corner and towards a slightly more modern apartment building. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a metal ring when they got to her door, finding her key with one hand, the fingers of her other hand still gripped in his. The key slid into her lock silently - but she didn't open the door. Instead, she let it sit there, the ring dangling from the knob.

Hesitating, she turned to face him. Even in the dim glow of the street lights, she was beautiful. Her hair had blown over her shoulder, and her eyes were bright with something that Tom wasn't certain he knew how to interpret. She chewed nervously at her lower lip with with those perfect little teeth before stepping close. "Thank you for what you did back there."

"The guy was a jerk."

"He was." She nodded, reaching up to touch lightly at his face, at where a bruise was surely coloring his cheekbone. "But you were amazing. Stupid, probably, but amazing."

Tom's eyes drifted closed as the girl probed a little at his cheek. Her touch was feather-light, tender, and gentle. Her skin was cool against his. "I guess I'm not too bright - "

But he couldn't finish the thought. She'd tipped up on her toes, fitting her lips to his, her hand curving around the back of his neck, her body pressing against his own. He was still tense, still throbbing with the after effects of the fight, still completely wound up, and the kiss fed his energy. His arm threaded around her body, his hand fitting itself to her lower back, to the swell of her hip, pulling her towards him, more firmly against his body.

Open, hot, deep. Closed eyes, hands spreading and kneading, thigh to thigh, stomach to stomach. He was fueled by the fight, by his previous boredom, by anger and excitement, and victory. He was young and stupid and ornery, and this beautiful girl - for whatever reason - wanted him. He pulled her closer, teased her lips open further, groaned deep in his throat when her hand tugged at his shirt and found the skin beneath. Tommy felt her withdraw for a moment as she turned the key in the lock. He felt her hand grip his again - more firmly this time, as she pulled him across her threshold and closed the door behind them.

-OOOOOOO-

He made his way downstairs around noon - bleary-eyed and sated. His little brother had already claimed the TV and was playing some sort of video game, while his sister had a passel of books and papers organized in neat piles all over the breakfast table. Crossing past the kitchen island, he opened the refrigerator door, taking out a gallon of milk. It was nearly empty.

"You could put a shirt on, Tommy." She'd always been bossy. She got it from their mother. His sister glanced up at him and rolled her eyes as he unscrewed the lid off the jug and took a swig. "Gross. And by the way, what happened to you?"

Tom looked down at his abdomen, at the bruises that had appeared there. "Mitchell and I were fooling around."

"And your face, too?"

"He got lucky."

As usual, his little sister's expression displayed her opinion of him - and it wasn't good. "Mom's gonna be pissed."

"She'll get over it." Tommy took another long draw of milk, finishing off what was left in the jug. Sliding the empty container on the counter, he stepped towards the island and grabbed an apple out of the bowl there. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Your mother is at the grocery store." The new voice came from the hallway, and Tom turned to see his father standing there. He was a large man - not as tall as Tom, but powerfully built. His stance wasn't easy or relaxed. He was worked up about something. Giving Tom a meaningful glare, he pointed at his first born son. "We need to talk. Back porch. Now."

Tom stared at the apple in his hand momentarily before chancing a look at his sister. Her face was now a perfect mixture of concern and triumph. Well, at least she might care if he didn't survive whatever his father had planned for him. He raised his brow and gave her a cocky little salute. "If I die, you can have my stereo."

"I want your room."

Tommy grinned. It hurt like the devil to do so, pain shooting up his cheek and into his temple, but he refused to show discomfort. "Only if I'm really dead. If I'm a vegetable, you're out of luck."

"Jerk."

But she didn't mean it. Setting his apple on the counter, Tom turned, padding barefoot across the hallway and through the family room. White-washed French doors led out onto the patio, and Tom paused to look out the glass for a moment, watching as his father adjusted his position on the porch steps. When had he gotten old? Tom couldn't ever remember his father looking anything but big and gruff and strong, but now - he seemed tired. His hair had started to go gray. He had a pallor to his skin that the son hadn't noticed before - something less than hale and hearty and well. Taking a deep breath, Tom opened the door and headed out, closing the door quietly behind him.

His dad didn't look back, patting the step next to him instead in silent invitation. Tom took it, the wood of the porch cool beneath his feet. It was a brisk day - breezy and cool. Lowering himself to sit next to his father, he mused absently that he probably should have put a shirt on after all.

"You had a visitor this morning."

"Oh?" That truly surprised him. He hadn't been expecting anyone.

"Lorna."

"Who?"

His father turned to him, his frown expressing more than anger - he was disappointed. "Lorna. She came to return your wallet. Apparently, you left it in her room early this morning. She thought you might need it for work or whatever."

Ah. Damn. Tom looked down at his feet. There was really nothing to say to that. He hadn't realized until that moment that he'd never bothered to learn her name. Lorna. It suited her.

A few hours before, he'd glanced back at her as she'd slept, her hair a glorious tumble around her bare shoulders, the early morning light catching the gold in the strands. She'd stirred as he'd buttoned up his jeans, her eyes opening with a blurry sort of satiation that perfectly matched his own. He'd grabbed his shirt off the end of the bed and then bent to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Tommy." She'd reached up and skimmed her fingertips along his injured cheek again. "It's never been that way before."

He'd smiled, kissing her again. "For me, either."

Because he'd never done it before. But he wasn't willing to expound on that to her - this near-stranger with whom he'd shared everything and nothing. Instead, he'd warmed her palm with his lips and then muttered something in parting before heading for the door.

He wasn't sure how he'd felt about it then, and he wasn't sure now. Mitchell would be standing on rooftops trumpeting his triumph, but Tom - Tom wanted to keep it close.

Jed's voice brought him back to the present. "She was expecting to leave it with one of your room mates. She was more than a little surprised to find out that you're still in high school."

"Yeah."

"I take it that she's the reason that you completely ignored your curfew and got home after the paper had already been delivered?"

Tom watched as a ladybug crawled across a knot in the wood of the step his feet were resting on. He related to the bug just now, wondering when a foot would arrive to squash him. "She's part of it."

"That's a hell of a shiner you've got there. And your ribs are hurting, too?"

The ladybug took flight, and Tom was instantly jealous of an insect. Oh, to be able to fly away. "I took a few hits last night."

"Do I want to know the whole story?"

"Probably not." Tom tilted his head to look over at his Old Man. "Would it be enough to tell you that I won?"

"It'll have to be, won't it?" Jed Chandler frowned. "It's not like you talk with me anymore."

"You don't talk to me, either, Dad." He watched his father frown again. "So, we're kind of even there."

The Old Man's jaw clenched a few times while he worked that through. "Well, I hope that one of you was smart enough to use - "

Tom cut him off. "She had something."

"Good." He nodded. "That's good."

Inside the house, something landed with a distinct 'clunk', followed by a muffled epithet. A dog erupted into furious barking down the street that only lasted for a second or two, and from out front came the sounds of kids on bikes. Tom flattened his right hand, making a rough examination of his knuckles. He hadn't felt it last night, but they were raw, and bruised. Small cuts had opened up in the creases, and it hurt to bend his fingers. He made a fist, then flexed his hand out again, Pain, then ease. Pain - ease. It was something else to concentrate on while his father studied him.

"I know you think I'm too old to understand. I'm sure that you didn't go out looking for a fight last night - or whatever else happened. Maybe you did. I don't know." Jed's voice was gruff, but calm. "But I was that guy, once. You're looking for an outlet. You're restless. You're hungry for something to do. For some way to feel alive."

"Dad - "

"Let me finish, Son." The Old Man didn't look at him, he merely gestured into the open air, palm down, as if trying to quiet down the world. "I'm not the best father in the world. I'm not even at the top of the pile. I've been gone most of your life on deployments or training. I've been out there doing things that I can't and won't talk about. And I've done some good. Some really damned good stuff. But I've had to do things that I'm not proud of, too."

Tom pressed his lips together and leaned forward, his forearms braced against his knees.

"Violence serves a purpose. Lorna told me what happened at the party. How you came to her rescue. How you beat up that guy." Jed shook his head, scratching at his chin. "She's a nice girl."

"I don't know her that well."

"Obviously." He sighed, shooting his son a speculative look. "But believe me when I tell you that I know you pretty damned well. You're like me, heaven help you. Back in the day, before I met your mother, I was hot-headed and wild. It was that whole 'alive' thing, you know? The harder you hit- the harder you get hit - the more you live. And then you feel like some kind of damned warrior - invincible. It's the violence, right? You learn to like it, and then you need it - you feed on it. You crave it. And anything that gives you the same rush will become a substitute for it. So, you'll get banged up in a fight and have all this energy floating around, and some sweet young thing smiles at you, and you follow her home. You follow her wherever she'll take you, and you'll do - things. You use up all of the rest of that energy. You'll use her. And afterwards, you'll leave her there alone. And you won't ever know her name."

Tom closed his eyes against the sharp pang welling up in his throat. This is what shame felt like, then. This was regret.

"Sex and violence are two sides of the same coin. They're both raw and real and visceral. Both of them can make you feel like you're at the top of the world, or at the bottom of the crap-heap. You're a man, now Tommy. You've grown into one while I haven't been looking. And you're tall and handsome as the devil and fearless. You're about to go out into the world - and I think that you'll be all right. But if there's one thing that I want you to know, it's that you shouldn't ever use violence or sex because you're bored, or restless, or angry. Don't substitute either of those things for real life. Don't leave a lot of Lornas in your wake, Son."

"I haven't, Dad." Tom was surprised at the tone of his own voice. Determined, sincere - earnest. He curled his hands into fists again. "I won't."

"I believe you." And Jed's tone showed that he did. "There are a lot of guys out there who just kind of bounce through life. They go to school and they go to work and they come home to their wives or girlfriends or whoever and they wouldn't ever even dream of punching the crap out of some lowlife frat punk. Maybe they don't know how to fight, or maybe they're just not built the same way you and me are. Your little brother will happily beat the snot of out some Mario Brother doofus or a dragon in some made up dungeon, but I can't see him taking out a bully."

"He'd probably file an injunction and then debate him to death."

Jed smiled at that. "He IS a brainiac, isn't he?"

"That, he is." Tom grinned. It hurt - pain shooting up his jaw and towards his eye.

"The thing is, you've got to learn some control, or you're going to be wild-balling it around the world and never find a spot to land. Guys like us need to keep a tight rein on ourselves. We can do a lot of good, or we can let the violence eat us."

Tom nodded. "Yes, Sir."

For a few long moments, they merely sat there, the breeze flowing around them, the sounds of the day wafting in and around the yard. From the front of the house came the unmistakable sound of his mother's car - the muffler had long-since needed repairing. It puttered to a stop, and the door squeaked open.

"I guess she's back with the groceries."

"Probably."

Jed groaned a little, rising to his feet. "I should ground you, or something. You should be in trouble."

Tom clenched his teeth.

"But I think we understand each other now, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Okay, then." Jed stepped back onto the porch, reaching out to grasp the handle of the door. Opening it, he paused, then looked back at his son for a beat before shoving the door open wide and motioning towards the interior. "Well, then, let's go help your mother."

To be continued. . .