I do not own "Warrior." It belongs to Gavin O'Connor. And yes, I know Nick Nolte's seventy years old in real life. I'm writing Paddy as sixty-six going on sixty-seven. Don't like it? Tommy's thirty in this. And this may have to do with coming from a family of addicts—and being one myself, but even more than the fight, the most powerful moment in the film to me is Paddy's relapse, and I'm not going to leave him out. Also, I've forgotten the names of Brendan's two younger daughters, so for the time being they're "Stacey" and "Jennifer." Also, the OC won't be coming in until the next chapter.

Chapter Two: Identity and Sobriety

"Do you…do you really mean that?" He doesn't like the emotion in his voice, but it leaks through. He shifts his weight and tilts his head back, feeling restless, feeling exhilarated and without knowing why.

"Tommy, I can't change what I did fourteen years ago—I don't regret it much, though. I found my soul mate fourteen years ago—and I can't change what I did two weeks ago. But I can do something now. We both can. What do you say? Will you let me do that?"

"I…" he stops. His mouth has gone dry. Is it wrong that he's upset that he would be giving someone else's money to a family he owes his life instead of his own? Why is he at a loss for words? Why does this hurt like hearing Brendan say "I love you" in the octagon two weeks ago did?

"Do you want to pick this up later, in person?"

Might as well. It's not like he's going to get any further by phone. "…Yeah."

"We can do that. You want to come over tomorrow? I'll pick you up at the train station in the afternoon. Say, around twelve."

"Yeah." He's talking one syllable at a time, trying to get his voice to work. Awkward can't even begin to describe the feeling. "Uh. Thanks. See you."

Tommy gets off the phone and heads home.

Paddy's sitting in living room reading an old copy of The Bleak House. It sounds right for this place, now that it's no longer screaming, violent, drunken-rage house. At least it's not Moby Dick anymore. Paddy brightens as he sees his son's newly-free right arm and says, "Congratulations! You're free of the sling."

"Yeah. Thanks." He heads over to the kitchen for a glass of water, an exercise in turning a faucet that makes him wince, and hears the old man's voice falling through, saying, "Tommy, we need to talk about something."

It had to happen sooner or later. They're in the same house, after all. He comes back, leaning with his left side into the door frame. "You'd like me to find work and a place of my own because a thirty-year-old man shouldn't be living with his dad," he says.

"Well, that's the thing. I'm not sure how you'll be able to. Have a seat, would you?" Reluctantly, he obliges. "You left the military. And after thirty days you're marked a deserter. Now, you know the consequences for deserting the Marines. You can't just change your name and expect them to stop looking for you. They'll find your records, your birth certificate, social security, everything. They'll track you down."

Tommy takes a sip of water. "No, they won't," he says.

"What…yes, they will. I'm surprised they didn't find you already." Paddy looks like the answer may be somewhere in the back of his mind but he doesn't want to acknowledge it.

Tommy leans forward, not giving a shit how this will sound, almost hoping it will be devastating. "My last name isn't the only thing I changed," is what he says, and waits for the light bulb to go off.

His father's eyes widen, the pale blue completely bewildered. "You…you didn't."

"I did." He didn't care about disappointing his father before. He doesn't now. He's sick and tired of hearing people call him a hero. He's no such thing; he knows what he is. "Didn't you wonder why I had no money? Getting new documents like that took up most of it. No, they won't find me. Not for a while. I can find a job. At some point I might be able to get a bank account or get an apartment. Thomas Conlon doesn't exist anymore. Understand?" He gets up and heads upstairs.

He knows what he is.

F

Tommy knows he doesn't look too bad when Brendan picks him up at the train station closest to his house. He's lost a little weight and definition and probably looks tired but with the layers of clothes he has on with the threat of oncoming Pennsylvania winter it's hard to tell.

He doesn't know which car is his brother's, so he has no choice but to wait until Brendan pops out and comes toward him, and he's not sure how much of which emotions he's feeling most, but they're all there. Anger? Yes, lots of it. Nervousness? You bet your ass. Happiness? Maybe. There's this surreal element seeing his brother, talking to him again, that is so much stronger than when he had experienced with Paddy, who he'd felt nothing but a defiant 'fuck you, old man, I'm an adult now and you couldn't hurt me if you tried' feeling for. And for the life of him he's not sure what to do when Brendan walks up and stands in front of him, looking just as uncomfortable. But there's warmth. And Tommy's certain that, in spite of everything, in spite of all these years resenting him, his brother's a good man.

"Good to see you," Brendan finally says. "You look all right."

"Thanks. You, too."

It's probably the weakest ice-breaker in history, but it gets the job done. Brendan leads him to the car and opens the passenger door for him before getting in on the driver's side. "What, so I'm a woman now?" Tommy says as he gets in.

Brendan laughs and starts the car.

E

The place is beautiful; it's this clean, well-kept house in a clean, well-kept suburban neighborhood. It kind of amazes him how well-adjusted Brendan seems to be. They were raised in the same household, after all.

The light slanting through the window casts highlights on the top of the kitchen table where they sit down and Brendan offers to make some coffee.

"I still don't drink coffee, but you go ahead." He takes off his coat and looks around. He could never really adjust to this kind of life. It's like dysfunctional is all he knows; all he could know.

"How about some water?"

"Sure. Thanks."

And here he is; drinking water at high-countered island in the kitchen of the man who turned on him sixteen years ago and dislocated his shoulder two weeks ago and, somehow, is his big brother. The guy sitting calmly across from him as though none of this is fucked up, as though they're the same when they're not. Things can't go back to normal because they never were normal. He clenches his fist and it spreads soreness up his arm into his shoulder, which makes it all worse.

"So where is your friend from? What's the address?"

"Why'd we have to meet at your house?" Tommy asks. He doesn't want his water anymore; he wants to leave. It doesn't feel like he should be here.

"I thought it would be better than meeting at Dad's. Why?" He sounds so innocent. He was always so innocent. Why is he thinking like this? "Would you rather head to a diner or something?"

"No, I wouldn't rather head to a diner. Just…don't. Stop acting like…" he stops.
Brendan tries to go on. "I have about two million that I will never need. Ever. You said your friend's name was Manny?"

"Yes." He clenches his fist again. He welcomes the soreness. It gives him resolve; it reminds him. "His name was Manny Fernandez." There are things he wants to say but can't; there are memories he wants to spout at Brendan, the reason he's out of the Marines and will never go back in. He can't and he won't explain it. It is all he can do to not get up and leave. As if that would help anything. They're miles away from the train station.

"Are you all right?" Brendan asks. Tommy looks at him like, you can't seriously be that dense.

"No. Not really. I'm a fucking cripple."

"You're not," Brendan says gently, but he looks away after meeting his brother's eyes and seeing nothing but cold anger and the pain of someone who doesn't like to feel. "Come on, Tommy. I'm trying to help. You know I'd take back what I did if I could. I can't help this family if you don't let me."

He knows that. He also knows he wants out of here. He sits back. "You're really willing to do this for me?" Brendan nods. He sighs and thinks about it. "Do you have a pen and paper?" he asks.

When Brendan brings back a pad of note paper and a pen, Tommy flips over the page with the grocery list and writes down an address. "It's in El Paso, Texas," he says. "This is the wife's name." He keeps scribbling, hoping his brother will be able to read it somehow. The man's a teacher. He's probably used to worst handwriting than his. "And give them this note. Don't read it. Just include it with the check." He's writing faster than ever now, unable to look at his brother. Part of him can't believe he's treating his brother like his father, but the other part of him thinks it makes perfect sense. His father beat the shit out of him on a regular basis as a kid. His brother gave him a one-time injury more serious than any his father had ever put on him.

"You want out already." Doesn't even pose it as a question. Smart man.

"You don't have to drive me back." He's almost done writing.

"How else are you going to get there?" Brendan takes his car keys out of his pocket and waits for his brother to finish writing and they both head out. The car ride is silent until the end, when Tommy says, "I really don't want you to read the note."

"I won't. I promise." Brendan sighs and makes the turn to the train station. "I just wish it could've gone better than this."

"Yeah." Me, too. I wish I could stand to talk to you right now. I hope it changes. "And Brendan?"

"Yeah?"

Tommy slides out of the car. Before he closes it he says, "Thank you."

A

He pulls in about a minute before Tess does and rips the two sheets of paper out of the notepad, concealing them in his jacket and stashing the notepad back before she gets into the kitchen. Stacey and Jennifer each hold one hand as she comes in and stops short at the sight of her husband looking desolate at the kitchen island, the lights off, sitting still.

"It didn't go well, did it?" she asks, sounding not surprised but purely compassionate.

He just shakes his head. "He has so much anger, you know?"

Tess nods. "It showed. When he was fighting." She goes to the fridge and gets two juice-boxes out of the fridge, handing one to each daughter and ushering them to the family room. When she comes back she slides onto the chair next to his. After a moment of just staying there with him she kisses the side of his face, along the jaw, and says, "Some wounds take a long time to heal."

R

It took nearly a week for Paddy to go to a meeting when he got back to Pittsburgh. He didn't want to go back with his tail between his legs, back to day five because his son said a few things to him. He threw out his paper and tape-copies of Moby Dick. He never wanted to see that title again. He tried reading Hemmingway, but quickly realized it wasn't the best choice for someone who doesn't want to think about alcohol. He squirmed, fretted, obsessed; a dry drunk who tried very hard to not drive to the liquor store whenever he headed out, as usual, only without the support system he'd liked so much when he could proudly say he hadn't had a drink in nearly three years, where he went by "Patrick" because "Paddy" sounded like an active drinker's name and he could feel like a normal, functional, relatable human being who just couldn't tolerate alcohol.

And all the while Tommy was incapacitated for two weeks, in the same house but not the same world, depressed and as foul-tempered as he'd ever been. Paddy finally did as his son had asked and avoided him, which just left him with AA. And the first day back he was certain people could tell immediately that his sober days were back in the single digits. He felt like he may as well have had the word "Drunk" branded on his forehead like the mark of Cain, and was silent throughout the meeting, avoided the sharing he usually did. There were enough people that it didn't seem like it would be a problem.

An AA friend with five years of sobriety stopped him after the meeting as he tried to sneak out without being noticed. "Patrick, are you all right?"

Paddy nodded quickly but then thought, Just who do you think you're fooling? "No." He sighed. The words tasted so bitter. He practically spat them out. "I relapsed."

The other man, Sid, winced in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that. I…I heard about what happened with the fight."

"That's not why I did," Paddy told him, and somehow froze, lost for a moment. Sid waited. He was quite willing to listen. It'd been a while since that happened. "You ever get that feeling that there are no second chances in life? Like, no matter what you do, no matter what you say, no matter how much time passes, you cannot atone to the people you've harmed most?"

"Your sons?"

"My younger one, specifically. I didn't expect him to ever like me after everything that had happened. I was surprised he ever showed up to begin with. But…" he stopped. "I know the steps inside and out. 'We made direct amends to the people we've harmed.' But how can you make direct amends to someone who refuses to accept it? Someone who will always despise you? How can you live with that, if that someone is one of the people you've harmed the most?"

Sid paused. "Sometimes I think sobriety depends on the people around who you've known throughout your drinking days. If they can't forgive you, you might not be able to forgive yourself."

"I don't think I should forgive myself," Paddy says. "I feel like I'd be in denial if I thought what I did to my family was forgivable."

"For now, you just need to live with it. Understand that that part of you, the fucked-up addict in everyone who goes to these meetings, that imbalance in brain chemistry, has a hold over you. And that rage we all have somewhere inside us is touched and reaches new levels when it mixes with alcohol. The only way to keep that at bay right now is to not drink. I'm glad you're back, Patrick."

A

The first thirty days are much harder the second time around. Paddy hears that that's the case for everyone who quits a substance, whether it be alcohol, cigarettes, cocaine, chocolate or what have you, only to go back to using it. He's pretty sure it has more to do with his age; he's going on sixty-seven, after all.

He thinks he really should have gotten a sponsor. He hadn't known the full extent of the damage he'd done to his wife or his younger son until that night he found his boy drinking on his porch, providing just enough details for him to understand, but he could have been more honest with himself. If he'd had a sponsor he could have called him or her up after Tommy finally shredded the last lingering threat of emotional stability he had, tore down his neat little world to make him realize he never really got things together. He could have listened to someone wiser but probably younger say "Let go and let God" while he could listen and think, Blow it out your ass.

It occurs to him that if he'd had a gun, he probably would have shot himself.

One thing occurs to him about Tommy that's not comforting—far from it—but somehow helps him at least try to let go of some of the guilt. What he endured as a child and as a teenager isn't the only thing that's scarred him. What Paddy Conlon, the raging drunk of a father did is not the only source of Tommy's rage, pain, and resentment. He's had his adulthood to show him and subject him to violence as well. He's been through war, through combat, and that's no small thing. He knows there are stories there. He's sure he'll never be able to hear them.

R

"Excellent. Keep going." David claims to be impressed with Tommy's progress so far. It's been six weeks now since he's gotten that sling off. Eight weeks since the fight. He takes advantage of whatever exercise he can do, frustrated with his body and trying everything he can do not fall any farther from where he had been six weeks and one day before. He has no idea why he feels this kind of pressure when it's clear he's not going to use it for much. It doesn't look like he'll be fighting again, maybe ever. But still he thinks, go running, and he does. He thinks, do five-hundred sit-ups, and he does.

The puny "weights" he started with have graduated to slightly heavier ones. "Any chance I'll be able to use actual weights at some point?" he asks.

"I won't have you bench-pressing, if that's what you mean."

"When will I be able to?"

David shakes his head. "You're not even two months healed. You need to be patient with this. You're doing the maximum amount that someone with your injury can do. Don't push it farther than it can go."

They work some more. "I got a job at the gym where I used to train."

"What?" David looks not only shocked, but furious. "Tommy, you can't risk healing over that. Find a job somewhere else."

"No, it's fine. I'm working the front desk for now." He remembers the look on the owner's face when he walked in asking to fill out an application. The man nearly shit his pants, he was so excited. "I haven't punched anything but air."

"Within a week you'll be able to progress all the way to a small bag, but that's all," David warns.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember." But day-to-day life is starting to get easier, and it helps that he knows that Pilar got at least something.

A

Pilar Fernandez got a lot of bills, a lot of school notices, but this looked different. She noticed the sender's address—Brendan Conlon—and wrinkled her forehead. Tommy's brother? Since when did she know Tommy's brother? Hadn't he done his brother more harm than good? She'd watched "Sparta" after putting her kids to bed and seen it all, had peeked through the cracks in her fingers, unable to keep from covering her eyes. It was like watching her brother get hurt.

She opened the envelope anyway and saw a check and a sheet of notebook paper. She recognized the handwriting on the paper and pulled that out first. By the time she was done reading it she was almost in tears.

Dear Pilar,

I was going to send you the money. I wish more than anything I could've won it for you, for your kids, for Manny. I'm so sorry I failed.

I told my brother about it and he says he doesn't need all the money he won. He says he can give some of it up without a problem. I don't know if he really means it. It's weird. He bailed on me and my mom and then he dislocates my shoulder. Shouldn't I hate him or something? But I don't.

I'll always owe my life to Manny. I think we both know that. But maybe this is a start.

-Tommy

She pulled the check out of the envelope and saw the number. Two million dollars. She blinked and counted the zeros. Again. And again. The number never changed. She sunk to the floor, the strength leaving her legs. When all three of her kids came downstairs and asked why she was crying, she simply grabbed all three of them at once and hugged them as fiercely to her as she could.