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

Yeah, it's, uh, it's been a really long time. Sorry. David's story is partially inspired by a high school classmate and fellow cross-country/track and field runner who had a great deal of talent and dedication but ended up shattering her shins due to her former coach's insistence that she continue running even when she developed stress fractures.

"She loves you too much. Of course, you love her too; it's just that you're kind of an asshole sometimes." –The Fisher King

Chapter Twenty-Five: Physical Healing (Part Two)

Their neighborhood is not a good one, so one night when a gun goes off less than a block away it's not the most surprising thing in the world, but it wakes them both up.

For Jane, the sound of the gunshot is not as distressing as what happens when she sees Tommy wrench himself out of bed after a quick check to make sure the gun outside didn't pierce his body. He's hyperventilating and shaking in a cold sweat. She knows he sometimes wakes up at night, but she's never seen this before, and isn't sure if it's stupid to reach out and touch his shoulder as slowly and gently as she can.

He jerks away and after a moment turns to look at her with wide, wild eyes, realizing the touch came from someone who is not a threat to him. It takes him a few moments to discern dream from reality. He looks around the apartment and it's the same as always. The same bed, the same couch and desk. He still shakes, and she murmurs, leaning against his back, whispering into his ear, "It's okay. You're okay. I'm here." She repeats it again and again, a soft mantra, hoping her voice is as soothing as she wants it to be, and it feels like it's some kind of lullaby as she coaxes him back into bed. She kisses his shoulder and the nape of his neck, kisses the space between his shoulder blades. It's not something she does in a sexual manner; she does it to provide comfort, to bring him back to her. She does her best to calm his shuddering breaths, to fill the otherwise silent room. He isn't going to talk. She's come to expect that.

The words fall from her lips for the first time; words she's fought back due to trepidation and fear of embarrassment. "I love you," she whispers against the nape of his neck.

His body starts to relax. She doesn't know if that means he heard her or not. But she means it. She holds him, and he eventually relents without a word.

At some point they both fall back asleep; the last thing she thinks beforehand is that yes, she loves him. And for now that fact manages not to scare the hell out of her.

They don't mention what happened that night; not immediately, anyway. Now that she's not in a half-dreaming state, the fact that the words "I love you" slipped out worry her. She can't remember the last time she said anything like that. Perhaps once, in partial-jest whilst laughing at a particularly raunchy, gut-busting joke Carlos had told her. Otherwise, she doesn't say it; not even to Dionne, who feels more like family to her than anyone biologically related. She feels so much for this haunted, angry, and somehow compassionate and protective man whom she's known for several months. This kind of communication and opening up shouldn't be difficult. Maybe it's because Tommy's as far from an open book as he can manage; he's a door slammed shut in her face if she tries to get too close, and it's infuriating when she stops and thinks about it. She gets it. He feels that what he's lived through is far more traumatizing than what she's witnessed and endured, and in some ways he has. Still, she's addressed her fears with him. Most of them, anyway. There are a couple of hurdles to cross now that she's sharing her bed with him on a regular basis, but he's aware of them.

That they've fallen asleep like this; her forehead bowed against his shoulder blades, her breasts against his back, her own arms wrapped around his stocky frame, seems to serve as yet another reminder. She breaths against his skin, takes in the faint scent of the salt of sweat. When she wakes up, she isn't sure if he's asleep or simply uninterested in moving; he doesn't make a sound, but his breathing is shallower, so she guesses the latter.

"Good morning," she murmurs against the shell of his ear, and he grunts something along the lines of "Morning" in response before sitting up and reaching for his boxers. A sign that he remembers what happened, and, of course, will not bring it up or let her bring it up. She sighs and leans back against the bed. God forbid he let a moment of weakness show, even if it meant something, even if it made her feel closer to him than she ever had before, even if it meant those three words, that "I love you" pass through one of their lips for the first time. She can't for the life of him picture him saying it, and for a moment, she's simply pissed off. She watches him get dressed, and refuses to admit to herself that she finds his body every bit as incredible now as she did when she first saw him, all of him, in this room and on this bed, and that she's not staring. She never stares when he's in a half-sleeping haze, slowly adding layers, the thick ropes of muscle in his arms pulling up jeans, the muscles in his back and shoulders moving as he pulls on his tee-shirt. Granted, she prefers it when it's the opposite, but she still can't help but watch.

"You're back where you were before you got injured, fitness-wise," she says aloud, and Tommy turns and looks at her.

He shrugs. "Just about, yeah. I'm not really using it for anything, though."

"Do you miss it?" Jane asks, sitting up.

Tommy hesitates, halfway through reaching for his boots. He glances at her and back at the floor. Yeah, he knows exactly what she's talking about.

"I'm not going to judge you either way, I'm just curious."

He sighs and takes some time to respond. "Yeah," he says finally. "I miss it. It's the only thing I'm any good at anymore."

"You're good at cunnilingus," Jane says, can't help but let a joke slip, and when he looks at her with his eyebrows raised, smiles in as innocent a manner as she can manage.

He snorts in response; a hint of a smile tugging at his lips that grows wider only for a moment and she's always triumphant when she makes him laugh or come close to it. Always.

And then he lets a bomb drop. "How 'bout if I wanted to get back into it?"

Jane blinks. It takes a moment to register. "Because you're bored? Because you'd need a hell of a better reason than that. A dislocated shoulder isn't like a broken bone. It doesn't get stronger once it's healed; it gets weaker."

"I know," Tommy replies, sighing. "And no, I'm not just bored. Shit, Jane, I'm gonna be thirty-one next month. I got nearly ten years on you, and I only got so much time."

"Before what?" she presses on.

"Before I'm too old to fight. Brendan's got only two years on me, and he was the oldest guy in the tournament."

"What about when you are too old? What are you going to do then?" she asks.

Tommy runs a hand through his hair—he hasn't cut it in a while; it's getting shaggier—and sighs. "I don't know. For now I'm going to stick with what I know and see where that takes me."

"What if you get injured again?"

He looks over at her and fixes her with a glare. "I thought you said you weren't judging me either way," he says.

"When you said you missed it. Now I'm worried, not judgmental. See?" Jane gestures around her face. "This is me being concerned for you." She looks at him as she sits cross-legged on the bed and donned in her panties, bra and tank top, with those big dark eyes looking solemnly up at him as he stands above her.

He can't meet those eyes; he paces for a while—he's no good sitting down. "I'm not as crazy as I was," he says finally. "I mean, yeah, this is a dangerous sport so I can't say I'm not gonna get hurt again but…" he exhales and finally sits down next to her. "I'm not as reckless. At least I don't think I am."

He senses her nod. "The family issues aren't quite so urgent," she says quietly.

"Yeah." He glances at her and she's looking down at her hands as she wrings them in her lap. She's tense as hell. "You're not on board with this, are you?"

"Of course I'm not," she says, voice mostly even and at a volume that's nowhere close to shouting. She still doesn't look at him. "I don't give a shit about MMA. I don't have that passion you do, and I can't appreciate it because of what it did to you."

"It was what my brother did to me. There's a difference."

"But…" she hesitates. It doesn't sound like she's going to argue with him anymore. She sounds defeated. "You're a grown man. You're going to do what you're going to do and if it's…" she pauses. "What does David have to say about it?"

"He don't know yet. I'm gonna talk to him about it at our next session."

"Just…" she slumps back, slides until her back hits the wall and sighs. "Humor me and answer me this: has anyone ever…you know, died from an MMA match?"

Tommy snorts. "It's nothing like boxing, Jane. If you're wondering this 'cause of movies like Million Dollar Baby and The Wrestler, don't worry."

"Well?"

"In MMA history?" he glances over at her and she nods. "Two. More people die playing pro football than fighting in cages."

"But you can still get really hurt."

"That's the case with any sport; you know that."

"Yeah; I know." She watches as Tommy slides back against the wall with her, and leans her head against his arm. "So if or when David gives you the okay? What then?"

She watches him wince and tilt his head back. "I guess I'll have to go back to my trainer, see if he's on board."

And this she can understand; the hesitation she gets. "You mean your father?"

"You call him that. I like him a lot more as my trainer."

She looks at him, the jaw clenched tight at the mention of his trainer/father and the suddenly closed eyes, and she goes out on a limb. She does something that isn't advisable. "Tommy. Much as you'd probably hate to hear this, you're the apple of his eye. Of course he'd be on board."

"I'm not moving back in with him," he replies, eyes still closed.

"Who said you had to?"

"It was one of his rules the first time."

"So tell him you won't. After you find out whether or not you're actually allowed to go into the ring and when." She almost wants to hear that he can't go back in, or that he'd have to wait for a little while longer. She doesn't know if she can handle that part of him. She saw the videos once and saw a raging, almost monstrous fighter and she doesn't know how much she wants to see him again, let alone in person.

But he's good at this and he loves it.

But it's self-destructive.

It doesn't have to be a manifestation of all his negative emotions; that's the AA in you talking.

"So…" she pauses. "Um; I'm gonna make some coffee." She slides up off the bed and pads over to the kitchen.

This has got to be the most awkward morning they've had together so far.

Still, it could've gone much worse.

F

"So, uh," Tommy's back with David. It'll be one of their last meetings before his physical therapy's over. "I was wondering, I mean, athletes can back in the game after an injury, right?" David raises his eyebrows. He doesn't look incredulous or skeptical; he just silently urges the other man to elaborate. "As long as they're healed enough?"

David's mouth tugs up at the corners a little. "You asking for my permission to start fighting again?"

"I just wanna know what you think about it," Tommy replies, not wanting to seem weak or nervous in front of this guy, who is more and more becoming a friend; someone he likes having a beer with and just talking. But this guy's also a health care professional, and he knows that will always come first.

David looks at him with a steady, un-intimidated gaze a little longer, grabs a pen and his pad of paper, and starts writing. "Wait until a year is up. Until you are officially at least one year post-injury. Start off light. Don't get into matches yet. I've worked with a few fighters in my day, so I've got something of a loose plan."

"Were you ever a fighter?"

David shakes his head. "No way, man. My wife comes from a fighting family and roped me into taking a capoeira class a couple of years ago, but I wouldn't go into a cage or a ring. Not in a million years."

"You're an athlete, though." It's not a guess, a question or a speculation. It's something he can tell; not just because this guy's clearly really fit, or his knowledge of exercise. It's just something he can tell; one former jock to another.

"I was," David replies, finally looking up. "Track and Field at Carnegie Mellon."

"No shit; really?"

"Really. The two hundred-meter sprint, 4 X 200, and 50 meter hurdles. Got injured my final year of undergrad."

"How?"

David gives a sad smile and sits back. "It started as shin splints. I insisted on running on them. I had a partial athletic scholarship and my first four years were almost up. My coach also insisted that I run on the shin splints because, hey, no pain no gain. Athletes get hurt. It's a fact of life.

"The shin splints became stress fractures. I still fucking ran. No idea how I managed it. I lived off of Percocet twenty-four-seven, but I still did it. I had to. I was one of the strongest people on the team. Not to brag, but I was fucking excellent. Blew competition out of the water at regional championships, was on a national competitive level; the Olympics were starting to look like a real possibility if I could just work through the pain.

"But then they shattered."

"Your shins?" Tommy blinks, gaping.

"Yep."

"You shattered your shins? That even possible?"

David shrugs. "Must be. I did it. Hurt like a motherfucker, too. I finally reached a threshold that completely took me out of the game. It wasn't just agonizing to run; I couldn't fucking do it. I kept pushing my body through the pain till it finally went 'fuck you, I'm done' and quit on me. I couldn't so much as go for a jog for over two years."

"Shit…" Tommy's left feeling awkward, guilty, everything. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It turned out all right eventually. It set me back, took me in a slightly different direction than what I'd planned, but hey, at least now I can work with people as crazy stupid driven as I've been to keep them from making the same mistakes. Tommy, you're an athlete through and through. You're hard-wired to work through pain like it's nothing. But you have to recognize that you, like everyone else, have limits. You have to know what those limits are."

Tommy doesn't know what to say to that right away. Okay; so he's kinda sorta, well, moved. He clears his throat and tries to chuckle. "When'd you go from being my PT to being my shrink?" he asks in a tone he hopes sounds playful. Then again, he never comes across as playful. That's more Jane's department.

David just smirks a little. "As long as it helps keep your feet on the ground, man," he says.

E

It's morning the next weekend and Jane's watching Tommy as he borrows Jane's toothbrush for the umpteenth-millionth time and grimacing.

"You really should get your own toothbrush when you're here. Or bring an overnight bag or something if you spend the majority of your weekends here."

He spits into the sink basin and rinses both his mouth and the brush as he gives her an apologetic shrug. He is for the most part easy to stay with, domestically speaking. He cleans up after himself and takes quick showers. The first time he ever showered at her place and came out of the bathroom naked, dripping wet and wondering where the towels were is a sight and memory Jane wants to keep with her for the rest of her days.

"I'll try to remember next time," he tells her. "But when I'm headed to your place things like toothbrushes are the last thing on my mind."

Jane chuckles. "Romantic," she says, and gets up to brush her teeth as well. "Your birthday's coming up."

"Mm-hm."

"Have you thought about anything you might want?"

"I don't know. Nothing, maybe? I was fine with that last year."

Jane snorts and finishes brushing her teeth. When she's done she turns to him with a little smirk and leans her hands on the sink behind her. "Come on, Gramps. You're going to want something to celebrate your longevity." And she says it with the sweetest smile she can manage as she tilts her head down and looks at him from under those long lashes.

Tommy glares at her as she rinses out her mouth and her toothbrush. Then he finally starts laughing.

"God, you're young," he tells her.

Jane shakes her head a little and turns to him. "Only on the outside."

Tommy catches when Jane's smile fades and she draws away from him. So what he does is pull her back in and kiss her. For his part, he's wondering if she's hurt that he hasn't told her he loves her yet, when she has. But that's a stupid question to ask. Of course she's hurt. She just doesn't want to act like a melodramatic high school girl by sulking around or questioning him. He does. He does. He just…those words wouldn't sound right coming from his mouth. He can't form them, can't say them aloud.

But hell, he has to. He remembers that night, remembers the words spoken and she sounded like an angel when for several moments, several lifetimes, he was stuck back in the desert with his best friend giving his dying words when he couldn't do anything to save the man who'd saved his life countless times and…

"I…uh…" he hesitates and kisses her again. She looks at him with an expression so bewildered that he laughs a little as he dips his head to kiss her neck. "I…"

"What?" She puts her hands on his chest and pushes him away to arm's length. Without kissing her, without her permission to ease her into it the best way he knows how, he can either choke the words back or blurt them out clumsily. And of course he goes for the latter.

"I love you," he tells her. He's pretty sure he looks a little terrified when he says it, which doesn't help at all.

Jane takes a step back. This isn't the grand romantic moment either of them would've preferred. He should've said it earlier, should've told her first or even that night she said it to him for the first time. Right now she looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I…" she clears her throat. "Listen," she starts, sounds desperate. She's saying; Please don't fuck with me on this. I can't handle it if you don't really mean it. "Listen," she starts again, and she's wringing her hands, "If you're saying that because you feel obligated or guilty, don't say it. Don't say it if you don't—"

And fuck it all, he grabs her back and kisses her. Not roughly; it's not a 'fuck me' kiss. It's a 'love me' kiss. Gentle as opposed to demanding. He brings a hand to the side of her face, feeling the soft skin, hears the soft gasp as his other hand reaches the small of her back and holds her to him.

It's easier to say a second time. He pulls back enough to graze his lips over hers, and then her jaw. "I love you," he says it lower, says it softly. The words come out easier this time.

Those big dark eyes inspect his face, seem to try to detect a lie and there's none to be found. He means it. He's terrible with words and far from the best communicator but he means this. His lover's eyes look to well up a bit and he lowers his head a little, brings his forehead to hers.

"I love you, too," Jane murmurs back.