Chapter 2 : Flashback

The morning I signed up at the Academy, I was assigned a tall blonde boy- Simon, who was to give me a tour and then help me with my paperwork.
At some point around lunch though, he ditched me to go and hang out with his friends, so I'd eaten alone. I dumped my tray and headed towards the courtyard. Smiling at my guide as if to say 'Don't worry about me, I'm just a first year newbie with no idea where I'm going.'
I took a gulp of air, wondering where the nearest bathrooms were, and I felt him walk up behind me and spun around to ask.
"Where's the bath-" I reached out for an arm and noticed too late that it wasn't in uniform. It's wasn't Simon. This person's arm was bare. There was a static shock when I touched it.
"Oh, you're not my person." I looked up, black jeans and white t-shirt with a backpack on one shoulder. Eyes so deep, a weatherworn, golden brown. He was covered in sweat and slightly out of breath. I inhaled sharply. "My guide person I mean. You're not him."
His eyes were a vice, "Are you sure?"
I nodded. He looked me up and down, indiscreetly.
"Who are you?"
"I'm new."
"Garrett!" another guide shouted from across the courtyard, "this way please."
And then all I could see was the back of his head.

The time came and went. I was accepted into Gotham Police Academy, and found myself alone and overwhelmed on the first few days of orientation. I moved in my things, met my roommate- Josie Mac, and tried to settle into a strict routine of exercise, weaponry training, and theoretical knowledge. And sweaty-boy, Garrett? I didn't see him again. I thought maybe he didn't even go to the Academy, that he'd been lost. But then I came in to pick up my gun for the range and he was there. I put my head down when I saw him, he was another recruit.

"What's that guys name?" I asked one day in the canteen, "the one who doesn't talk to anyone?"
Josie had turned not only into a dorm-mate, but a friend, an ally. She was the only one who would run track with me and not get upset when she lost, and I was the only one who would join her in the ring to spar.
She could have been a supermodel, except she was barely five foot three. She knew everyone.
"Who?"
"Garrett?" I asked, unsure if I was even saying the remnant I had of his name right.
"You mean Luke?" she asked, grinning, "I went to high school with him."
"Yeah."
"Let me give you a clue Scottie, Luke Garrett will eat you for dinner and spit you out."
"You mean he's not nice?"
"Oh he's too nice, if you get where I'm going with this.. you should ignore him."

Ignore him. That's what I did. When Luke came into the morning seminars and took his seat, always at the front, when he pulled up on his pushbike in front of the gym, when he pointed out that the research we were studying was the most current, I looked away.
But I started to hear things, all of it unverifiable ad improbable. Luke was a musician, a poet, a carpenter. He had lived all over the country, he was born and raised in Gotham. He was bisexual, he slept with everyone, he slept with no one. His father was a crime lord, his father was in Gotham General having been beaten up by a crime lord. He was an ex-heroin addict, he was sober, he was always a little drunk.

He was always in the library when I was. It was the most neglected part of the Academy, in my opinion. Most of the cadets were obsessed with fitness, with making sure they had speed, stamina, that this was survival of the fittest and they were the ones at the top of the survival pyramid. But I knew that you had to keep your brain sharp too, there was no graduation guaranteed at the Academy. I was the fastest, out of the girls anyway. Some of the boys still out-ran me on the track field, and since I wasn't the best-shot, or the strongest, I would have to settle for being the smartest.

If he rolled up his shirtsleeves you could see the edges of his muscles that spoke to another, out of uniform, private body that he kept. It was the sight of this arm resting on the table in front of reams of half scribbled on paper on the library desk that changed me.
I remembered that static shock when I touched him. I felt the shock in my mouth. His inappropriate arm and the paper all around him. His manner too casual, too condescending.
"That's a lot of paper to waste," I said. My voice surprised me, ringing out over my vow of silence.
He looked at me. Perhaps it was raining outside, a stifling storm. Perhaps someone struck a match and held it to my cheek. Perhaps someone cleaved into my life into before and after. He looked at me. And then he laughed. From that moment on he became unbearable to me.

Each day after that, he swapped seats to sit opposite me. If I asked him a question about the assignment, he would answer. If I asked him a question about himself, he just ignored me.

I don't think I explained it well before. His teeth were perfect, and when we finished track he would always pull off his shirt, his throat pulsing like something that had been caged. His hair was irreverent after a work-out. He drank water like he was a goldfish. When he looked at you, he was the only person who understood you, sipped you, and swallowed like water. Some days his eyes were brown, sometimes they were black, but they were gold in the centre which is entirely different. When he laughed it was rare and explosive. When he rested his eyes from reading his eyelids would flutter like he was dreaming. When the recruits were together socially he could fill a room, or make everyone disappear. He would disappear too, turn himself off like a switch and I stood in the dark, waiting.

One day, he hiccupped.
Had he hiccupped? Not possible, I thought, everything he did was measured and controlled. He lifted his head and stared at the ceiling. I stared at him.
"Hey you know I've got his method…" I said, but he shook his head immediately and kept looking at the ceiling.
"If you hold your-"
"No" he replied, and I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, was this a joke? It was the fucking hiccups.
"Do you want some water?" I asked, noticing his bottle was empty and reached for it, I could go and fill it up in the library entrance.
"I can handle this," he said seriously.
"Is this a joke?" I asked.
"I don't like them."

He hit his hand on the desk and I froze. He gripped the book he'd been reading with his hand and shut his eyes, taking long breaths. He hiccupped again.
I went to refill the water bottle and returned quickly to find him still giving small hiccups, lifting him from his chair. He didn't look back at me, so I used the opportunity to sneak back with purpose, stealth. Once I was close enough behind him to see the hairs on his arms I sprang.
"BOO!" I slammed my hands onto his shoulders. I laughed. I stopped when he turned his face slightly, he was not laughing, he looked murderous.
"Wow sorry," I said, slamming the bottle down beside him.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, and I rolled my eyes, grabbing my things.
"A simple thank you would be enough," I snapped, walking away quick before I took a swing at him.
As I walked I cursed myself. He should be the embarrassed one. The fucking hiccups... what a little boy. He should be the one running away. But no, it was me.

For two week he didn't speak to me. Luke was somehow able to simultaneously ignore me as well as put me at the centre of everything he did. In the boxing ring he made sure to pair with me and he hit me without reservations. Assembling our weapons he was sure to sit himself next to me and make sure he won. The only thing I could do better was drills on the track... I was twice as fast at running and always left him in the dirt, which managed to infuriate him more.

One day, after a practice mission, I cornered him. He had been totally off that day, and while he'd made sure he'd been on my team, he'd also made no effort to cover me and I'd been shot by Sal Martinez.. it had hurt.
"What the hell is going on with you?" I demanded at the end of the session, as everyone piled to the changing rooms.
He stared past me, like I was a fragment of his imagination, but today I wasn't having it. I was sweaty, annoyed, and my back hurt from the bullet lodged in my vest. I didn't let him ignore me.
"Don't ignore me!" I scowled, snatching hold of his arm and insisting he face me. His face was thunder.
"Is this just about the hiccups thing or did I do something to offend you? What is it that's so annoying about me?"

He cracked.
"You don't annoy me Scottie, you distract me. You pull my focus. And I try not to lean into it, but when you're around... you're all I can think about."
"I-" I tried to respond but couldn't. How could anyone respond to that?
"Just leave me alone," he sighed, and walked away leaving me stood alone.

The bar was four deep. The crowd was full of professionals ready to let loose. TGIF right? I must have heard that one thousand times that night.

I split from the group to find the bathroom, limbs in my face, my hands wedging into the crowd.
Someone grabbed my fingers. I yanked my arm back and when I spun around I half-yelled, "Hey get off!"
I forgot how tall he was. In the days since the shooting incident Luke hadn't been in class at all.
When I turned he was up against me like it was the subway at rush hour, my nose lined up with his clavicle. His leather jacket blotted my vision. Someone pushed him from behind any my nose touched his chest. I looked up at him. Shit.
"Hi," I said.
"Hey there," he said.
I swayed on my feet. He didn't move to go anywhere. Not to the bar, not to the bathroom, he wasn't going anywhere. He'd sought me out.
He sighed, "I'm sorry about how I acted in the library. It's a thing. Since I was little, I freak out when I can't catch my breath. Anyway, I wanted to say thank you, for curing the hiccups. And to say sorry for the other day."
"It's ok," I replied, "are you going to come back to class?"
"I like that."
I gulped, "Like what?"
"That you're concerned about whether I go to class."
"Sometimes," I said, "I feel like we're talking. But we're not talking."
He reached out and grabbed a piece of my hair. He twirled it around his finger. I was not breathing.
"Sometimes I feel like I make you mad," I sighed, "or that I'm going mad."
"Oh, we're all mad here," he nodded, killing me with his grin and his wolfish cheekbones.
"Lewis Carrol?"
"That's a problem," he chuckled, letting go of my hair and bopping me on the nose, "I don't date girls who read."
He smiled, knowing he had me. Something expert in him, wrapping and unwrapping me. I looked away. I looked back, I started to say something, then stopped. I moved towards the bathroom but didn't move.
"You're confused," he nodded, "I can see it all over your face."
"Why would you want to date me? I thought you wanted me to stay away from you?"
"It's my fault your confused."
His hand moved to my cheek, and when he kissed me I said 'Oh god' into his mouth, but that, like everything else, was swallowed up.

The days that followed where chaos. I couldn't write, I couldn't run, I couldn't listen to the instructors on the gun range. Everywhere I went he was there now. His 'behind yous' became demonic. They came frequently and always unexpectedly.
"Behind you," Luke said in the corridor as I rejuggled things in my locker.
"Behind you," he said in line at the canteen.
First his shoulder, then the expanse of his chest. His thumb grazed the back of my arm, I always held my breath until the whole thing was over.

"Behind you" he said. I froze in the library archives where I'd been searching for a case file. My arm had been raised and I collected it at my side, stepping closer to the bookshelf to wait for him to pass.
He pushed me forward, and caught my hips with his hands. Body pressed against my back. Anyone else would have let me get out of the tight aisle, anyone else would have waited, but he rested his chin on my shoulder, and I never wanted to move.
"Let's go," he growled into my ear.
"Where?"
"To get something to eat, in the city," he said slowly, I could feel his smile against my neck.
I reached for his hand and he led us out of the library's basement.

Sat in a dirty booth with two dirty burgers, I finally let myself breath around him. This was my favourite place in the whole of Gotham, a diner fit for a one-day would-be cop.
"Why are you so mean to me?" I asked him.
"I'm mean because you're innocent and need toughening up- or you're never going to be a cop," he replied with a mouthful of food.
I laughed, "I'm not innocent just because I'm optimistic. Just because you're terrified of optimistic people, people who remind you of what it was like to have ideals, faith, freedom. I just remind you of the losses you've taken in your life as you've turned into this cynical, numb, boring person. You're jealous, that's why you hate me."
He put down his burger and stared at me.
"Do people tend to underestimate you?"
I shrugged.
"You know," he said, serious and leaned forward. Our knees touched under the table and I could see the pores on his face he was so close. "I get this feeling like you're very powerful. I felt it when we kissed, and I felt it when you were speaking just then. Like I tapped into an electrical current. But then I watch you and you spend your time trying so hard to get to graduation, that most of the time you hold it back."
I felt like my head was a vase, sometime breakable that had a crack in it, and the crack was spreading.
"I can't keep up with your mood changes. You're wearing me out, honestly."
"I want to take you back to the dorms and wear you out, since we're being honest," he replied.
I couldn't believe him. Josie had been right, he was going to chew me up and spit me out again.
Regardless, I went for a walk with him around the park, hand in hand. I let him walk me back home and he kissed me in the corridor until my lips were numb. Then he went back to his dorm.

He started to run with me in the evenings. He started to answer the personal questions I asked him. Unless we were in our separate classes we were together.
We went to bars in his old neighbourhood. They were all old, the gloss worn off the bar-tops, peeling paint, chipped tiles. No DJ, no cocktails. Everyone knew him or knew his family.
One rare afternoon off, we sat with the bar owner's Doberman snoozing under the table and he told me about how his father had been beaten half to death by a mob, and how that had motivated him to join the Academy.
I told him about my mother, and how she'd been killed to pay a debt. I told him that one day I went to my mother's work after school, just like I always did to score a hot chocolate and a pastry straight out of the baker's oven. Only that day I arrived and police were storming the place and a lady from forensics greeted me with a cup of water instead of my hot chocolate, and I found out that my mother had been baked in the industrial oven, not a croissant.
And because, after my scum-bag father had left us with the debt that had come to have her murdered, she was all I had left and I was put into the foster system.
He leaned towards me and whispered that he was sorry, and I whispered that it wasn't his fault, and a lock of hair fell into his eyes. He needed to get it cut, otherwise the trainers were going to give him a sanction for not having the standard hair cut all male recruits had. I pushed it back over his head, that's who I was now, the girl who got to fix his hair.