I do not own "Warrior." It belongs to director Gavin O'Connor.

Chapter Twelve: The Shit Hits the Fan

When she comes up to the restaurant she sees him in a button-down shirt and jacket that strain across his chest and shoulders. She can tell much easier now that he's gotten most of his muscle back and she likes how it looks on him. She likes his powerful, muscular body, likes the tattoo peeking out along his collarbone, even likes the way he fidgets in clothes she bets he's normally at loathe to wear. Insanely full lips thin out as he tugs at the cuff of his jacket, shifts his weight, and finally catches her eye.

She also likes the head-to-toe look he gives her as she comes up to him in a simple black dress that suits her more than the one she wears for work, one that makes her legs look miles long in patterned tights and flat black boots—she never wears heels outside of work; she doubts her ankles and Achilles tendons would be up to the task. Though judging from the expression on his face and the way his eyes linger, she's pretty sure he could care less what kind of shoes she's wearing. Probably has no idea.

He steps forward, finally says, "You look really good."

She smiles. "Thank you. So do you."

He walks in with her, holds the door open for her, brushes her hand and slowly, as if waiting for her to tell him to stop, brings his hand to the small of her back as they head to the table. He pulls all the gentleman moves, pulls out the chair for her. It surprises her, and then again it somehow makes sense. This is someone who's been trained to kill and to protect, someone with rage and someone with manners. Someone whose behavior has extremes and who cannot be easily placed.

It's not so much that she's afraid of opening up to him so much as he makes her nervous. He makes her feel things she's not used to feeling, makes her heart beat faster and her face flush, makes her want him when she should be doing the rational thing and not date for another year or two at least, when until then she doesn't know how to deal with that want. That and he is somewhat of a mystery, somewhat unpredictable. Seeing him fight, seeing the kind of fury he possesses has not made it any easier to talk to him.

A waiter comes by asking what they would like to drink and makes wine suggestions that make Jane want to tell him to shut the fuck up. Makes her wonder, whine pathetically inside her own head, Why can't I be one of those people who can enjoy a nice glass of wine on a night out to dinner?

"Just water, please," she says. Tommy gives her an odd look before telling the waiter the same thing.

"You don't like wine?" she asks, wondering if maybe he doesn't drink, either. It would make this a hell of a lot easier on her part.

"Nah. I guess you don't, either?"

If that's not her cue, she doesn't know what is. She'd been hoping to be a little farther along into the dinner before the topic came up, but here it is. She hesitates, bites her lip.

"Well, it's not that so much as…" and her brain temporarily shuts down. For the life of her she can't remember what she was going to say, and as he gives her a disconcerted look, she couldn't feel any stupider, trying to force the words out. She probably looks as though she's about to suffer an aneurysm.

"I, um, I really like you, and honesty's good, and I should tell you I'm a recovering alcoholic."

Tommy just freezes. His facial expression goes from slightly bemused and concerned to almost blank, except that his jaw and his back stiffen. He narrows those heavily-lidded gray eyes at her.

She doesn't quite get his reaction, so she adds as a way to lighten the mood, "It's not contagious, Tommy."

It doesn't help. Not one bit. She sees his fists clench on the table. He looks away and asks in a voice that's quiet but the farthest thing from soft, "How long?"

"How long have I been sober?" No response. "Thirteen months."

"Thirteen months," he repeats. There's a malicious tone creeping into that low, rough voice of his that she's not used to. All she can think is, oh shit. He looks back at her, and she realizes he no longer sees her. He sees a drunk. She may as well be swimming in a kiddie pool filled with beer. "You weren't even old enough to drink thirteen months ago."

She blinks, tries to get her bearings when he's really starting to scare the shit out of her. He couldn't be more menacing if she was facing him in the cage. And for the life of her she has no idea why he's acting this way. "No, I wasn't. Not legally, anyway." She tries to make him see, wants to calm him down, because he's like a gas gauge ready to blow. "Addiction isn't age specific."

"Bullshit." He says it loudly enough that a family at a nearby table glares at him. He pushes away from the table, looks at her as if she's diseased and then can't look at her at all. "You have no fuckin' idea what you're talkin' about, little girl…"

Her pupils dilate. Little girl? Who the hell does he think he's talking to? And anger, so much anger, cracks behind her eyes like lightning and the words shoot out of her mouth without recourse from her brain. "Fuck you, soldier boy!" She finds herself nearly shouting, leaning forward and not caring if anyone looks at them, not caring if he has a good seventy pounds or more on her. "You think I don't know what I'm talking about, asshole? You don't know who I am."

She could go on. When she's this incensed she doesn't calm down easily, and she can't take any satisfaction in the shocked look on Tommy's face, certainly not when this means the worst, when this has gone even worse than she'd feared.

"I'm leaving," he says finally, gets up.

"Good. So am I. I've lost my appetite." She's closer to the door so she gets out first, nearly running, wanting to scream expletives into the darkening night when she reaches the street. She hears footsteps near her and she turns back. It's him. Of course it's him. She starts to walk away. It hurts and infuriates her to look at him.

She keeps walking, and then feels a large hand grab her by the shoulder and turn her around. She's face to face with those eyes and that look in them that makes her freeze. "At those stupid fucking meetings you go to, you ever see a guy named Paddy Conlon? A pathetic old man who wears caps and listens to books on tape, doesn't have the balls to speak for himself anymore, begs forgiveness like a bum begging for change?"

She says nothing, is trapped, caught between seething anger and terror. Any sign of cold, composed anger is gone. His eyes glint and he can't stand still. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

"That drunk beat the shit out of me, my brother and my mother until I was fourteen. My mom and I had to leave home to get away from him. Don't you fuckin' dare tell me I don't know drunks. My mom died because of one. Brendan Conlon and I learned how to take a punch from one."

She's had enough of this. She's just too mad right now to feel sorry for him, too pissed off to appreciate this new piece of information, another key part to a sum that make up a man who up until now has completely intrigued her, pulled her in and is now shoving her back out because of one little word. Alcoholic. And now that that anger has overtaken her fear she realizes she can pull away. The grip he has on her shoulder is not enough to hurt or to keep her there.

"I'm not your father," she hisses, and walks away into the cold evening air, fighting back tears, and she's proud to say it's a winning battle, though it blurs her vision as she resolves not to look back.

A memory hits her like a bat to the skull. The one time he mentioned his father before tonight was in passing, mentioning his dad drinking. And then the epiphany comes.

Yes, she knows Paddy Conlon; a gentle, articulate older man who feels constant guilt over the abuse he inflicted on his children when he was drinking. A man who goes by 'Patrick' and loves to read and has a voice that sounds as though it were dragged through the pits of hell; a man who relapsed after a confrontation with his younger son who hated him for everything he did then and hates him for everything he is now, probably always will.

Tommy was that younger son.

Out of all the people in Pittsburgh to fall for…

She needs someone to talk to. She needs someone to talk to because she wants a drink. She wants a goddamn bottle of Jack Daniels, and then to go out to a bar like every other fucking twenty-one year old in Pittsburgh. The craving follows her as she makes her way back home, steadfastly avoiding looking at any bar or liquor store she passes, all the while thinking, I want to drink. She has to keep telling herself that piece of shit doesn't have the right to make you drink. He never should have had that power over his father and he sure as hell doesn't have it over you. Fuck him. Her rage, though, has lost steam. It comes far more quickly than it goes, but she manages to keep her composure, calm down her thoughts by the time she reaches the door to her apartment. She resolves to call her sponsor. She needs to. The rage may be dissipating, but the craving is not.

He's not worth a drink.

F

Tommy does what Jane apparently can't. He heads to a bar and orders a whiskey shot. It's not enough, though. He'd rather just get a bottle and drink it at home, but for the first time in a while, he's at a bar like someone his age should be, scanning the room for some decent pussy. He's not really in the mood for sex, though. Just a different female to distract him from the one who's just fucked him up.

And a woman comes sliding up next to him. She's Jane's polar opposite: short, small-boned and rotund, with perky, ample tits spilling out of a halter top that's a couple of sizes too small for her. She has a sunbaked-orange tan on what is probably naturally fair skin and long blonde hair.

He looks at her and her drink, a bottle of Guinness, looks at her face and pale blue eyes that take him in, a wide, full mouth that turns upwards as she checks out his shoulders and arms. Pretty. Though he'd prefer a pair of dark brown-hazel eyes that always have a look of vulnerability to them.

"You seem a tad dressed up for this place," she says, grinning and leaning in, not really realizing she's already showing enough tit that she really doesn't have to—really shouldn't.

She's right. It's more blue collar, more his speed, but instead of coming up with a response he tosses back the rest of his shot and orders another.

She furrows her brow. "Have I seen you before?" she says.

Oh, Christ. Not this again. He shakes his head as he gulps down his second shot. "This is my first time coming here," he says.

"No, I mean on T.V. or something," she says.

He looks away, wants her to shut up. This isn't what he needs. This isn't how he deals best with anger. What he needs is to punch someone in the fucking face, or, failing that, go for a run at a pace that causes a ringing in his ears and the taste of iron in the back of his throat. He gets out his wallet, pays for the two shots, and heads out, leaving the pretty blonde wondering what his problem is.

He doesn't have the buzz he wants, he's not properly drunk, but it doesn't matter. He'd still be crawling out of his skin.

Jane. Of all the girls to start dating, why'd he pick a drunk? A girl who seemed close to perfect. Seemed like a nice, normal girl who could help him adjust to a nice, normal life. Who the hell was she to act self-righteous about him lying to her when she turned out to be this…

He grits his teeth, stalks home, goes upstairs and changes into running gear, since he's still pretty sober. Too sober. As he pulls a bright jersey over his hoodie so cars will see him better, he almost thinks of asking Pop if he's seen her at meetings, as if he wants to make sure it's not some horrible dream or a joke. But then again he doesn't want to know. All those fucking sad little people reading the Bible as if that would make up for everything they've done, thinking they're different people 'cause they've found God. That God don't exist. If there was a God, he would've helped the people who needed it most. He would've helped his mother, not the man who'd ruined her life. He can't believe he thought things would be okay with this girl, that he'd wanted her, had thought she was the thing that was keeping him sane.

After a few stretches he goes out, sneakers pounding the pavement in a rhythm that he fights to maintain, goes in a five-mile loop to try to get thoughts of her out of his head, to calm down. It would have been so easy to pick up that blonde with the tits. He'd had a condom in his wallet, he could have fucked her in the bathroom—she probably would've agreed to it. He could've proved to himself that he can get what he wants from any other woman. He could've done it.

But instead he's out here, running through the 'Burgh at a strong pace and thinking about her, no matter how much he tries to outrun his thoughts.

She thinks she's changed? She thinks she's sober? They'll see. And as he finds that five miles isn't enough and he repeats the loop, he's not sure when the idea comes to him or why. He just knows that by the time he gets home, ready for a shower and something to eat, he'll go to that party Colt Boyd wants to throw for him. He'll bring Jane. Nothing wrong with taking a girl to a party. He saw her calm, 'has everything under control' mask slip. He wants to see it crack.

E

Dionne's not responding on her cell phone, so she calls her home phone. Dionne's husband, John, answers, and when he gets Dionne for her, she feels the tension build until she can speak.

"Sorry. I left the phone in the charger and forgot about it. So how did your date go?"

"Badly," Jane says. "Really, really badly. Remember Patrick talking about how he'd been an abusive father, how his younger son despised him whether he was drinking and getting violent or whether he was sober and trying to connect with him? Turns out I knew his son. And because of Patrick, he sees all recovering addicts in the same light."

"So the man you've been dating is Patrick's younger son. Holy shit."

"It's a small world after all," Jane says, bringing her back to the wall and sliding to the floor. "I mean…things were going really well and then I told him and the dam broke. It fucking broke and flooded. We ended up cursing each other out in a fancy restaurant. I lost it. He called me a little girl, told me I didn't know what I was talking about. I'm pretty sure I told him to go fuck himself, but I was just…I was so incensed I wasn't thinking. I haven't felt that kind of rage since those first ninety days. It was bad. We didn't even get around to ordering our meals, either. And it seemed so out of the blue to me. He liked how I looked. I definitely liked how he looked, I mean god damn that is one…and, and he had manners and I thought; he's probably not going to be judgmental. He knows me. He knows I didn't throw a conniption fit at him for things he held back. And then I told him, and he just froze. And when he came back, asked me how long I'd been sober, he was terrifying."

"And he told you about his father then?"

"No. We both walked out, couldn't handle it. I started walking away but he grabbed me by the shoulder and that's when he told me." She sighs, rubs a hand over her face. "I want a drink. I want to drink really badly. I won't, but I've had that craving since I started walking home. It seemed like so much work, so much want, for something that ended just like that," she slaps her hand on her thigh. "I mean, I bought a goddamn dress for this guy."

"He's not worth it," Dionne tells her, deep voice firm. "No one is."

"I kept telling myself that," Jane says. "He had power over Patrick because Patrick couldn't make the amends he wanted to, couldn't find redemption with him after skipping meetings and everything over him. That's bad enough, even when his guilt was justified. I, on the other hand, haven't done shit to him. He has no right to pass along all that guilt on to me. I've paid my dues, I've gotten hurt, I've made amends to the people I've harmed and he's not one of them. He doesn't have any power over me. At least that's what I keep telling myself." She hesitates. Dionne waits. "It just really sucks at the moment. Hurts at the moment. I'd so wanted to keep this going, this relationship. And it's ended so fast I can't keep up. I keep thinking about how maybe he'll calm down, turn around and apologize. Hell, if he did I might just give it another shot."

There's a silence as Dionne hesitates, waits for Jane to continue, and when she doesn't, chooses her words carefully. "If he does turn around and apologize, he probably won't mean it. If he offers to give it another shot, there will probably be a hidden motive to it. If the only other alcoholic he's known is one who traumatized him as a child, it's not an image he can easily shake. You can't just put a band aid on a deep wound and say it's healed, even if the bleeding's stopped. If he has problems with rage, what he grew up with plays a large part in that rage. You didn't mean to, you didn't know, but you triggered that rage. So honey, if he offers to give it another shot, be careful. That anger towards you is far from gone."

At the end of the phone call, in spite of everything that's gone on, her stomach rumbles. She sighs, gets up, and grabs a Budget Gourmet frozen dinner out of the freezer. Ah, fine dining.