NEW! Shadowboxer (1/2) - Nuke/ATWT fic
Title: Shadowboxer
Pairing: Nuke Endgame (Temporary Lure)
Rating: M
Prompt: Boxing!Noah
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
Note: Yet another fic inspired by Jake’s boxing photos! It’ll be a short one with a happy ending.
***
Shadowboxer - Part One of Two
1. Keep Your Guard Up
Noah knows it’s stupid for him to take up boxing. Beyond stupid. Even with all the protective gear, even though he’s only sparring and not really fighting, there’s always the chance of another head injury.
“Brain cells don’t regenerate,” Reid told him once. “It’s not like breaking your arm. The damage is permanent.”
Noah flinches at the memory. Back then, Reid Oliver was a just disembodied voice in an unending ocean of darkness. That voice was brusque, even cold, but still professionally detached. It hadn’t taken on that edge it would later, that cruel glee that whispered I win, you lose.
Back then, Luke and Noah were still a team.
“I thought you said other brain cells will compensate,” Luke argued.
That was his Luke, Noah thinks fondly. Always arguing, always fighting. Never giving up on him, or on them.
“They might,” Reid answered coolly. “But there are a limited number of them. Noah will always be vulnerable to another brain injury.”
“What do you mean?” Luke demanded. His hand tightened around Noah’s, and Noah clung to him. He was glad Luke was here to ask questions for him. His own fear and tension and that God-dammed, ever-present darkness made it so hard to think clearly.
Reid gave an exaggerated sigh. “It’s not like a fight scene in the movies, or those idiots in professional sports. A normal human being cannot sustain multiple brain injuries without consequences.” Reid‘s voice got louder as he turned toward Noah. “Just take basic precautions. Wear a seatbelt. No contact sports. If you ride a bike, wear a helmet, and for God’s sake, stay off motorcycles, otherwise your boyfriend here might end up watering you twice a day.”
Noah finally managed to get his thoughts in order. Not surprisingly, they were colored with anger. “Aren’t you both forgetting something?” he asked.
“What is it, Noah?" Luke asked. His voice was still kind then, still tender. Later on, it would become impatient, frustrated, hurt. Later on, Luke would lie.
“You’re both assuming the surgery will be a success,” Noah said. “If it’s not, if I can’t see again...” He fought to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Then riding a bike won’t be an option.”
“Noah, don’t say that,” Luke scolded. “Dr. Oliver is the best, right?”
Right, Noah thinks sourly. Just then, his trainer throws a punch at him, bringing him back to the present with a start. Noah ducks automatically and throws a right cross.
The trainer feints, then circles opposite Noah in the ring, holding up the practice pads.
Noah throws another punch and hits the right pad squarely in the center.
“Good,” the trainer grunts. “Again.”
Noah hits the pad again, then again, pounding out the rage and frustration the memory has brought up. The trainer dances out of reach, then approaches. Noah attacks, hitting the pads until his muscles burn and sweat runs into his eyes, until his arms grow leaden.
“Keep your guard up,” the trainer warns.
Noah quickly brings his arms up in a defensive position, running through the checklist in his head: Fists level with his cheekbones, forearms parallel to each other. Elbows in, not out. Shoulders relaxed and ready, not tense. Head down, chin tucked.
“Good.” The trainer circles. “Keep it up.”
They continue to spar, but Noah’s arms, too tired to maintain his guard, drift down. The trainer throws a jab, catching Noah’s nose, and he stumbles back. His eyes water from pain, and he blinks rapidly to clear them.
“Time,” the trainer yells. She hands the pads to an assistant, then takes off her headgear, shaking out her long dark braid. “What just happened?”
Noah rubs his nose ruefully. “I didn’t keep my guard up?”
The trainer, Traci, rolls her eyes. “Right, genius,” she says. “But what else did you do wrong?”
Noah presses a gloved hand into his ribs, trying to relieve the stitch in his side. Traci is barely winded. “Uhhh...”
Traci sighs. “You wasted all your energy on your attack,” she explains. “And then you didn’t have any left to defend yourself. All your opponent has to do is wait for you to exhaust yourself, then step in and win the fight. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Noah says slowly. “I got it.” That’s what Reid Oliver did, he realizes. Waited on the sidelines for Noah to fuck things up with Luke, then stepped in and won the fight.
Traci nods, satisfied, then pulls her headgear back on. “Again,” she says.
***
Luke knows it’s stupid for him to drink. Beyond stupid. His kidney can’t take it, his brain can’t take it, his family and friends can’t take it. But more and more often, he finds himself reaching for a bottle.
It started on one of those long and lonely nights when Reid worked late. When Luke finally, gently, tentatively suggested that maybe they needed to spend more time together. Luke cringes at the memory. He’d actually used the phrase “couple time.”
Reid, pulling on his jacket, gave a derisive snort. “What, you want me to take you out dancing? Hold your hand in the park?”
“No.” Luke sat naked in bed with the sheets pooled at his waist. He resisted the urge to gather them protectively around him, like some pathetic virginal teenage girl. “I just thought it would be nice to, you know, have dinner together sometime.”
“Why?” Reid frowned at his expensive collection of ties. Since becoming Chief of Staff, he’d been dressing up more and hating every minute of it. He grabbed a tie at random - one of the ones Luke bought for him - and put it on, his skilled fingers knotting it quickly and efficiently. Luke offered to help once, and Reid brushed him off impatiently. “You see me every day.”
“I see you on your way to work, and your way back from work,” Luke said. “I see you in bed, and that’s about it.”
Reid sighed. “You knew I was a doctor,” he says, checking his reflection in the mirror one last time. “What did you expect?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his keys and cell phone. “Don’t wait up.” He paused. “And don’t call me, either.”
Luke blinked up at him. “What?”
Reid’s expression softened a little. “It just...it looks unprofessional, you calling me all the time.”
“Can I at least text?” Luke asked. He aimed for sarcasm, but ended up sounding forlorn.
“Like you and Noah? We’re not teenagers, Luke.”
Luke stared at him, too shocked to speak. Reid tried for a gentler tone. “Look, let’s talk about it this weekend, okay? I promise I’ll take you somewhere nice.” He kissed Luke and left.
Luke huddled in bed, trying not to cry, then jumped up, showered, dressed, and drove to the nearest liquor store.
Once my lover
Now my friend
What a cruel thing
To pretend
What a cunning way
To condescend
Once my lover and
Now my friend
Oh, you creep up
Like the clouds
And you set my soul at ease
Then you let
Your love abound
And you bring me
To my knees
Oh, it's evil, babe
The way you let
Your grace enrapture me
When will you know
I'd be insane
To ever let that
Dirty game recapture me
You made me
A shadowboxer, baby
I wanna be ready
For what you do
I've been swinging
All around me
'Cause I don't know
When you're gonna
Make your move
2. Respect the Jab
Reid doesn’t know, of course. Luke’s always been very sneaky about his drinking. Noah would have figured it out right away, of course, but Reid isn’t Noah.
It’s a good thing, too, Luke reminds himself. Reid would never hurt him the way Noah did. He and Reid never fight the way he and Noah did. He and Noah fought all the time. Yelling, arguing, slamming doors. Luke lurching out the door of the farmhouse: Don’t you walk away! Noah reeling back from Luke: Do not touch me!
Reid doesn’t fight, doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam doors. He discusses an issue, occasionally, when he has time and he thinks the topic is worthy of discussion. If not, he’s like a stone wall -- invulnerable, impenetrable, indifferent. Luke knows it’s selfish, childish even, but he thinks that if something happened to him, if he were gone, Reid would just shrug and move on with his life.
Maybe fighting isn’t the worse thing in the world, Luke muses as he twists the cap off the vodka bottle. Lord knows his parents have always fought like cats and dogs, since they were teenagers, but they still seem to love each other. Hell, if they didn’t care so much, they wouldn’t fight so hard.
There’s something there, some thought or realization lurking in the back of his brain, but then the first cool sip of vodka hits the tip of his tongue, and it’s gone
***
“You gotta respect the jab,” Traci says as she wraps Noah’s hands.
“Right,” Noah deadpans. “Respect the jab.”
“Shut up, airhead.” Traci grins and throws a playful punch. Noah dodges it with ease. “When you get in the ring, just remember to respect the jab.”
“Okay. You gonna explain that cryptic utterance, Obi-Wan?”
Traci nods toward the ring. “Check that guy out.”
Noah glances toward his sparring opponent, who’s warming up with his trainer. The guy looks pretty powerful. Noah frowns. “What am I looking at?”
Traci’s blue eyes sparkle with mischief. “He’s telegraphing every move before he does it. See? He winds up before every hook, more than he needs to, and reaches way back before his cross. You know how I’m always yelling at you to keep your elbows in?”
“Yeah,” Noah laughs.
“He’s not.” Traci mimics the other fighter, exaggerating her movements. “See? He wastes a ton of energy flailing around like that. Plus, if you keep your eye on his chest?” Traci taps her sternum. “You’ll know what punch he’s gonna throw almost before he does, because the movement actually begins here, not in the arms. Make sense?”
“Yeah,” Noah nods. “It does.”
“That’s why you need to respect the jab.” Traci steps back and put her fists up in a guard position. “It’s a small, quick movement. Out, and back in. Out-in.” She throws a quick jab, then another. “Out-in. You don’t show your punch before you throw it. You don’t use more energy than you need. And best of all, you get a hit in, but you keep your cover up.” She demonstrates another jab in slow motion, then pulls her fists back into guard position. “It’s not as flashy as the cross or the hook, but trust me: You keep hitting the guy with the jab, and before he knows it he’ll back on his heels. He’ll be off-balance, rattled. He’ll try to hit back but he won’t be able to get past your guard. Eventually, he’ll get tired and leave himself open, and then you step in and finish him off with a solid right cross. Got it?”
“Got it,” Noah says slowly. He’s thinking about everything that happened in the last twelve months. The Colonel showing up again, like something out of a nightmare. Crazy kidnapping Grimaldis. Getting shot. Mason. Fighting with Luke. The accident, being blind, fighting with Luke again, being sent away to blind camp (as he still thinks of it), coming back only to fight with Luke some more, and then the final killing blow: Doctor Reid Oliver. No wonder he still can’t get his head on straight.
“Hey!” Traci smacks Noah upside the head. “Where’d you just go?”
“Uhhh...just thinking about what you said. About respecting the jab.”
“Don’t think.” Traci shakes her head in disapproval and finishes wrapping Noah’s hand. “Just react. It’s faster.”
Noah frowns. “Are you sure?”
Traci nods emphatically. “Once you get in the ring and the adrenaline kicks in, your mind will be uselsss. But your body will react, because we’ve trained it to react. And another thing.” She scowls at Noah. “When you’re in there, don’t listen to anyone’s voice but mine. I don’t care if your sainted grandmother is watching on the sidelines yelling at you to throw a left hook, you only listen to me. Got it?”
Noah laughs. “Got it.”
“Okay.” Traci pulls Noah’s gloves on and ties them, then holds up her fists. Noah taps them with his, and Traci grins. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Kick it in the ass.”
Oh, your gaze
Is dangerous
And you fill your
Space so sweet
If I let you
Get too close
You'll set your
Spell on me
So darlin'
I just wanna say
Just in case
I don't come through
I was on to every play
I just wanted you
But, oh, it's so evil
My love
The way you've no
Reverence to my concern
So I'll be sure to
Stay wary of you, love
To save the pain of
Once my flame and
Twice my burn
You made me
A shadowboxer, baby
I wanna be ready
For what you do
I've been swinging
All around me
'Cause I don't know
When you're gonna
Make your move
3. Fight Your Fight
Boxing sucks, Noah thinks. It’s a month later, and he’s in the ring - not sparring this time, but an actual bout. Amateur level, of course, but still the real deal: Three rounds. No headgear. Cheering crowd. Referee in a striped shirt, concession stand selling popcorn, and Noah Mayer getting his ass handed to him yet again.
Traci told him he wasn’t ready. She was right, of course, but Noah didn’t listen. He wanted to prove something. Right now he can’t remember what he wanted to prove, or why, or to whom. He just wants the pain to stop.
He’s desperately trying to remember his training, but his brain isn’t working. All he can think about is how stupid he is for even trying this. What if he gets knocked out and goes blind again? Why is he such an idiot? Why doesn’t he ever learn?
The bell rings for the end of the second round, and Noah wants to cry with relief. He staggers back to his corner, trying to ignore the jeers of the crowd, and falls onto the bench that Randall, his cut man, sets out. Randall’s a regular at the gym. He’s six inches taller than Noah and about fifty pounds heavier and bald, like a black Mr. Clean. He has a pet Chihuahua named Baby for whom he knits tiny pink sweaters.
Randall holds up a bucket. Noah spits blood in it, then opens his mouth for water. Randal squirts it in from a plastic bottle. Noah swishes it around and spits again. Satisfied, Randall sets down the bucket and dabs Vaseline on Noah’s cut lip. He’s saying something to Noah, but Noah can’t hear him for the ringing in his ears. Something smacks Noah in the head.
“Hey!”
Noah blinks in confusion. Something smacks him again, and Noah starts to get pissed. He’s not in the ring now, so why is he getting hit? It’s not fair.
“HEY! AIRHEAD!”
Traci smacks him a third time, and Noah finally looks up. “What the hell?” he whines.
“Fight your fight!” Traci jabs him in the sternum, hard. “Fight your fight!”
Noah blinks stupidly at her. “What?”
“You’re fighting his fight, not yours. He’s got you on the defensive. Hey!” Traci grabs Noah’s chin. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah,” Noah slurs. The ringing in his ears subsides a little.
“Fight your fight, not his. Got it?”
The bell rings.
“Got it?” Traci yells.
“Got it,” Noah mumbles.
“Good, now kick it in the ass.”
Traci shoves him back into the ring as Randall whisks the bench and bucket onto the floor. Then they’re both gone, leaving Noah alone. The referee presses Noah’s gloves against his opponent’s. The other fighter grins, showing blood-stained teeth.
“Box!” The referee steps back.
The other fighter comes at Noah like a hurricane, arms whirling. Noah ducks a hook but takes an uppercut to the chin, and his head snaps back. This is followed by a series of agonizing punches to the gut. Noah folds in half to protect himself, and takes a right hook to the ear. He stumbles back against the ropes and almost falls. The crowd howls and calls for the knock-out. His opponent smirks and reaches back for a cross.
Way back.
Too far.
He’s open.
Noah’s fist flies out and jabs the fighter in the nose. Startled, the guy rocks back on his heels. Noah’s fist flies again. The second jab catches the guy in the same spot. Blood spurts from his nose. Noah surges off the ropes and jabs a third time. He’s not thinking now, just reacting.
The guy regains his balance and throws a punch, but Noah’s got his guard up, and he can’t connect. Noah dances out of reach, then moves in again with three quick jabs and a hook.
The other fighter rallies, and they trade blows, but Noah’s got the momentum now. The crowd can sense it, and they start cheering for him. The other guy gets angry and hits even harder, but his fury makes him careless, leaves him open for Noah’s fist. He’s distracted by the blood running from his nose, and he’s tired.
Noah’s tired, too. He’s tired of hurting. His whole body hurts, from head to toe, and it’s not that holy hurt that people talk about. It’s not cathartic or spiritual or any of that crap. It’s just pain. It’s the same pain he felt when he got his ass kicked by his dad, the Colonel hitting him everywhere but his face so he could still go to school the next day. It’s getting beat up by older kids before he was big enough to fight back. It’s being told he’s evil and sick and shameful for falling in love with a kind, beautiful man. It’s being attacked by thugs on the side of the road, it’s being kidnapped and tied up and shot, it’s falling and hitting his head and the agonizing pain and darkness that never ends. It’s being betrayed by the one person he loved and another person he trusted and being told it’s all his fault and he should be grateful. It’s giving his heart away and having it broken, and it hurts so much he can’t even breathe.
When Noah's fist connects with the other guy's face in the knock-out blow, everyone in the room knows it. There's a sudden, shocked silence, and then everything switches to slow-motion, like in the movies. The fighter's eyes roll heavenward, as if he's asking why, and Noah suddenly realizes he can't remember the man's name. Then he topples like a tree, lands face-down on the blood-spattered canvas, and stops moving.
The sound comes back on with an ear-splitting scream. The ring seems to tilt as Noah sways on his feet, staring down at his fallen rival. Noah’s vaguely aware of the ref counting down the seconds and then grabbing his wrist and hauling up his arm and the crowd roaring its approval. As the fallen fighter’s coach bends over him, Noah collapses to his knees, sobbing for air. Exhausted, he leans against Randall’s solid thigh. He feels Randall’s approving touch on his sweat-soaked hair and hears the gentle rumble of his voice, but can’t make out his words. Then the canvas rises up and smacks him in the face, hard, and darkness swallows him whole.
***
The fight starts about Luke’s family, but that’s not what it’s really about. It’s really about Luke feeling neglected, forgotten, invisible. Unloved.
“Unloved?” Reid stops making his sandwich and stares at Luke. “Why would I be here if I didn’t love you?” He gestures vaguely around him with his mustard-smeared knife. “Why would I put up with this Godforsaken town and these ridiculous people?”
“I don’t know,” Luke mutters mulishly. He’s pretty pickled right now, and his brain isn’t working very well. “It just feels like you don’t love me like you say you do.”
Reid sets down his knife and puts his hands on his hips. “Because I won’t go to some stupid family function that’s going to be just like every other stupid family function I don’t go to?”
“Yes!” Luke says. Then, confused: “No. It’s just...” He sighs, trying to get his thoughts in order. “My family is really important to me.”
“And?” Reid gestures for Luke to go on.
“And...if it’s important to me, shouldn’t it be important to you?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Luke stares at Reid. “Because that’s how it works.”
“How what works?”
“You know.” Luke waves his hands in the air. He can’t believe Reid hasn’t realized how blitzed he is. “Being together. That’s how it works. Because...” He holds up one finger triumphantly, convinced he’s about to finally score the winning point. “Because that’s what couples do.”
Reid shakes his head and turns back to his sandwich. “No, that’s what you and Noah did. I’m not interested in the whole white-picket-fence thing. Why can’t it just be enough that I’m here and I love you and we’re together?”
“I don’t know,” Luke mumbles.
Later that night, sitting on a bench in Olde Towne, Luke still doesn’t know. That’s part of the problem, he decides. Everything Reid says is completely reasonable and yet none of it makes any sense. But when Luke asks himself why, he can’t figure out the answer.
Luke pulls the bottle from his pocket and studies it thoughtfully. It’s still a quarter full, but he’ll need to find more eventually. It’s like the gas tank on your car, he reasons. You shouldn’t wait until it’s empty. Instead, refill when you’ve still got a quarter-tank left. That way you’ll never run out.
Pleased with his logic, Luke rises from the bench. The sidewalk tilts alarmingly as he sways on his feet. It occurs to him that he probably shouldn’t drive home. He pulls out his cell phone and peers at it unsteadily, scrolling through the list of names, not sure whom he should call. Reid’s at work now, and Luke isn’t supposed to call him at work. He could call any member of his family, but he suspects they’re still pretty mad that he skipped dinner for the fifth week in a row. His friends are definitely pissed that they never see him anymore - Reid refuses to hang out with them - and Luke doesn’t feel like a lecture at the moment.
Luke’s thumb stops scrolling at Noah’s name.
Noah would come and get him in a heartbeat, Luke knows. Sure, he’d be furious that Luke was drunk, but he’d still come and get him and make sure he got home safely. Then he’d hold Luke’s head while he threw up and calm him down when he cried and get him some aspirin and a bottle of water and tuck him into bed. He’d probably take away Luke’s car keys, too, so he couldn’t drive until he sobered up and he’d search the apartment for bottles and throw them all away and call his family to stage an intervention, but he’d come.
Because he’s Noah.
The phone falls from Luke’s hand and hits the pavement, shattering into several pieces. Luke gives a small cry and reaches down to pick it up. Instead, the pavement rises toward him and smacks him in the face, hard. Darkness follows.
***
To be continued...
**lyrics from "Shadowboxer" by Fiona Apple**
Pairing: Nuke Endgame (Temporary Lure)
Rating: M
Prompt: Boxing!Noah
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
Note: Yet another fic inspired by Jake’s boxing photos! It’ll be a short one with a happy ending.
***
Shadowboxer - Part One of Two
1. Keep Your Guard Up
Noah knows it’s stupid for him to take up boxing. Beyond stupid. Even with all the protective gear, even though he’s only sparring and not really fighting, there’s always the chance of another head injury.
“Brain cells don’t regenerate,” Reid told him once. “It’s not like breaking your arm. The damage is permanent.”
Noah flinches at the memory. Back then, Reid Oliver was a just disembodied voice in an unending ocean of darkness. That voice was brusque, even cold, but still professionally detached. It hadn’t taken on that edge it would later, that cruel glee that whispered I win, you lose.
Back then, Luke and Noah were still a team.
“I thought you said other brain cells will compensate,” Luke argued.
That was his Luke, Noah thinks fondly. Always arguing, always fighting. Never giving up on him, or on them.
“They might,” Reid answered coolly. “But there are a limited number of them. Noah will always be vulnerable to another brain injury.”
“What do you mean?” Luke demanded. His hand tightened around Noah’s, and Noah clung to him. He was glad Luke was here to ask questions for him. His own fear and tension and that God-dammed, ever-present darkness made it so hard to think clearly.
Reid gave an exaggerated sigh. “It’s not like a fight scene in the movies, or those idiots in professional sports. A normal human being cannot sustain multiple brain injuries without consequences.” Reid‘s voice got louder as he turned toward Noah. “Just take basic precautions. Wear a seatbelt. No contact sports. If you ride a bike, wear a helmet, and for God’s sake, stay off motorcycles, otherwise your boyfriend here might end up watering you twice a day.”
Noah finally managed to get his thoughts in order. Not surprisingly, they were colored with anger. “Aren’t you both forgetting something?” he asked.
“What is it, Noah?" Luke asked. His voice was still kind then, still tender. Later on, it would become impatient, frustrated, hurt. Later on, Luke would lie.
“You’re both assuming the surgery will be a success,” Noah said. “If it’s not, if I can’t see again...” He fought to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Then riding a bike won’t be an option.”
“Noah, don’t say that,” Luke scolded. “Dr. Oliver is the best, right?”
Right, Noah thinks sourly. Just then, his trainer throws a punch at him, bringing him back to the present with a start. Noah ducks automatically and throws a right cross.
The trainer feints, then circles opposite Noah in the ring, holding up the practice pads.
Noah throws another punch and hits the right pad squarely in the center.
“Good,” the trainer grunts. “Again.”
Noah hits the pad again, then again, pounding out the rage and frustration the memory has brought up. The trainer dances out of reach, then approaches. Noah attacks, hitting the pads until his muscles burn and sweat runs into his eyes, until his arms grow leaden.
“Keep your guard up,” the trainer warns.
Noah quickly brings his arms up in a defensive position, running through the checklist in his head: Fists level with his cheekbones, forearms parallel to each other. Elbows in, not out. Shoulders relaxed and ready, not tense. Head down, chin tucked.
“Good.” The trainer circles. “Keep it up.”
They continue to spar, but Noah’s arms, too tired to maintain his guard, drift down. The trainer throws a jab, catching Noah’s nose, and he stumbles back. His eyes water from pain, and he blinks rapidly to clear them.
“Time,” the trainer yells. She hands the pads to an assistant, then takes off her headgear, shaking out her long dark braid. “What just happened?”
Noah rubs his nose ruefully. “I didn’t keep my guard up?”
The trainer, Traci, rolls her eyes. “Right, genius,” she says. “But what else did you do wrong?”
Noah presses a gloved hand into his ribs, trying to relieve the stitch in his side. Traci is barely winded. “Uhhh...”
Traci sighs. “You wasted all your energy on your attack,” she explains. “And then you didn’t have any left to defend yourself. All your opponent has to do is wait for you to exhaust yourself, then step in and win the fight. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Noah says slowly. “I got it.” That’s what Reid Oliver did, he realizes. Waited on the sidelines for Noah to fuck things up with Luke, then stepped in and won the fight.
Traci nods, satisfied, then pulls her headgear back on. “Again,” she says.
***
Luke knows it’s stupid for him to drink. Beyond stupid. His kidney can’t take it, his brain can’t take it, his family and friends can’t take it. But more and more often, he finds himself reaching for a bottle.
It started on one of those long and lonely nights when Reid worked late. When Luke finally, gently, tentatively suggested that maybe they needed to spend more time together. Luke cringes at the memory. He’d actually used the phrase “couple time.”
Reid, pulling on his jacket, gave a derisive snort. “What, you want me to take you out dancing? Hold your hand in the park?”
“No.” Luke sat naked in bed with the sheets pooled at his waist. He resisted the urge to gather them protectively around him, like some pathetic virginal teenage girl. “I just thought it would be nice to, you know, have dinner together sometime.”
“Why?” Reid frowned at his expensive collection of ties. Since becoming Chief of Staff, he’d been dressing up more and hating every minute of it. He grabbed a tie at random - one of the ones Luke bought for him - and put it on, his skilled fingers knotting it quickly and efficiently. Luke offered to help once, and Reid brushed him off impatiently. “You see me every day.”
“I see you on your way to work, and your way back from work,” Luke said. “I see you in bed, and that’s about it.”
Reid sighed. “You knew I was a doctor,” he says, checking his reflection in the mirror one last time. “What did you expect?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his keys and cell phone. “Don’t wait up.” He paused. “And don’t call me, either.”
Luke blinked up at him. “What?”
Reid’s expression softened a little. “It just...it looks unprofessional, you calling me all the time.”
“Can I at least text?” Luke asked. He aimed for sarcasm, but ended up sounding forlorn.
“Like you and Noah? We’re not teenagers, Luke.”
Luke stared at him, too shocked to speak. Reid tried for a gentler tone. “Look, let’s talk about it this weekend, okay? I promise I’ll take you somewhere nice.” He kissed Luke and left.
Luke huddled in bed, trying not to cry, then jumped up, showered, dressed, and drove to the nearest liquor store.
Once my lover
Now my friend
What a cruel thing
To pretend
What a cunning way
To condescend
Once my lover and
Now my friend
Oh, you creep up
Like the clouds
And you set my soul at ease
Then you let
Your love abound
And you bring me
To my knees
Oh, it's evil, babe
The way you let
Your grace enrapture me
When will you know
I'd be insane
To ever let that
Dirty game recapture me
You made me
A shadowboxer, baby
I wanna be ready
For what you do
I've been swinging
All around me
'Cause I don't know
When you're gonna
Make your move
2. Respect the Jab
Reid doesn’t know, of course. Luke’s always been very sneaky about his drinking. Noah would have figured it out right away, of course, but Reid isn’t Noah.
It’s a good thing, too, Luke reminds himself. Reid would never hurt him the way Noah did. He and Reid never fight the way he and Noah did. He and Noah fought all the time. Yelling, arguing, slamming doors. Luke lurching out the door of the farmhouse: Don’t you walk away! Noah reeling back from Luke: Do not touch me!
Reid doesn’t fight, doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam doors. He discusses an issue, occasionally, when he has time and he thinks the topic is worthy of discussion. If not, he’s like a stone wall -- invulnerable, impenetrable, indifferent. Luke knows it’s selfish, childish even, but he thinks that if something happened to him, if he were gone, Reid would just shrug and move on with his life.
Maybe fighting isn’t the worse thing in the world, Luke muses as he twists the cap off the vodka bottle. Lord knows his parents have always fought like cats and dogs, since they were teenagers, but they still seem to love each other. Hell, if they didn’t care so much, they wouldn’t fight so hard.
There’s something there, some thought or realization lurking in the back of his brain, but then the first cool sip of vodka hits the tip of his tongue, and it’s gone
***
“You gotta respect the jab,” Traci says as she wraps Noah’s hands.
“Right,” Noah deadpans. “Respect the jab.”
“Shut up, airhead.” Traci grins and throws a playful punch. Noah dodges it with ease. “When you get in the ring, just remember to respect the jab.”
“Okay. You gonna explain that cryptic utterance, Obi-Wan?”
Traci nods toward the ring. “Check that guy out.”
Noah glances toward his sparring opponent, who’s warming up with his trainer. The guy looks pretty powerful. Noah frowns. “What am I looking at?”
Traci’s blue eyes sparkle with mischief. “He’s telegraphing every move before he does it. See? He winds up before every hook, more than he needs to, and reaches way back before his cross. You know how I’m always yelling at you to keep your elbows in?”
“Yeah,” Noah laughs.
“He’s not.” Traci mimics the other fighter, exaggerating her movements. “See? He wastes a ton of energy flailing around like that. Plus, if you keep your eye on his chest?” Traci taps her sternum. “You’ll know what punch he’s gonna throw almost before he does, because the movement actually begins here, not in the arms. Make sense?”
“Yeah,” Noah nods. “It does.”
“That’s why you need to respect the jab.” Traci steps back and put her fists up in a guard position. “It’s a small, quick movement. Out, and back in. Out-in.” She throws a quick jab, then another. “Out-in. You don’t show your punch before you throw it. You don’t use more energy than you need. And best of all, you get a hit in, but you keep your cover up.” She demonstrates another jab in slow motion, then pulls her fists back into guard position. “It’s not as flashy as the cross or the hook, but trust me: You keep hitting the guy with the jab, and before he knows it he’ll back on his heels. He’ll be off-balance, rattled. He’ll try to hit back but he won’t be able to get past your guard. Eventually, he’ll get tired and leave himself open, and then you step in and finish him off with a solid right cross. Got it?”
“Got it,” Noah says slowly. He’s thinking about everything that happened in the last twelve months. The Colonel showing up again, like something out of a nightmare. Crazy kidnapping Grimaldis. Getting shot. Mason. Fighting with Luke. The accident, being blind, fighting with Luke again, being sent away to blind camp (as he still thinks of it), coming back only to fight with Luke some more, and then the final killing blow: Doctor Reid Oliver. No wonder he still can’t get his head on straight.
“Hey!” Traci smacks Noah upside the head. “Where’d you just go?”
“Uhhh...just thinking about what you said. About respecting the jab.”
“Don’t think.” Traci shakes her head in disapproval and finishes wrapping Noah’s hand. “Just react. It’s faster.”
Noah frowns. “Are you sure?”
Traci nods emphatically. “Once you get in the ring and the adrenaline kicks in, your mind will be uselsss. But your body will react, because we’ve trained it to react. And another thing.” She scowls at Noah. “When you’re in there, don’t listen to anyone’s voice but mine. I don’t care if your sainted grandmother is watching on the sidelines yelling at you to throw a left hook, you only listen to me. Got it?”
Noah laughs. “Got it.”
“Okay.” Traci pulls Noah’s gloves on and ties them, then holds up her fists. Noah taps them with his, and Traci grins. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Kick it in the ass.”
Oh, your gaze
Is dangerous
And you fill your
Space so sweet
If I let you
Get too close
You'll set your
Spell on me
So darlin'
I just wanna say
Just in case
I don't come through
I was on to every play
I just wanted you
But, oh, it's so evil
My love
The way you've no
Reverence to my concern
So I'll be sure to
Stay wary of you, love
To save the pain of
Once my flame and
Twice my burn
You made me
A shadowboxer, baby
I wanna be ready
For what you do
I've been swinging
All around me
'Cause I don't know
When you're gonna
Make your move
3. Fight Your Fight
Boxing sucks, Noah thinks. It’s a month later, and he’s in the ring - not sparring this time, but an actual bout. Amateur level, of course, but still the real deal: Three rounds. No headgear. Cheering crowd. Referee in a striped shirt, concession stand selling popcorn, and Noah Mayer getting his ass handed to him yet again.
Traci told him he wasn’t ready. She was right, of course, but Noah didn’t listen. He wanted to prove something. Right now he can’t remember what he wanted to prove, or why, or to whom. He just wants the pain to stop.
He’s desperately trying to remember his training, but his brain isn’t working. All he can think about is how stupid he is for even trying this. What if he gets knocked out and goes blind again? Why is he such an idiot? Why doesn’t he ever learn?
The bell rings for the end of the second round, and Noah wants to cry with relief. He staggers back to his corner, trying to ignore the jeers of the crowd, and falls onto the bench that Randall, his cut man, sets out. Randall’s a regular at the gym. He’s six inches taller than Noah and about fifty pounds heavier and bald, like a black Mr. Clean. He has a pet Chihuahua named Baby for whom he knits tiny pink sweaters.
Randall holds up a bucket. Noah spits blood in it, then opens his mouth for water. Randal squirts it in from a plastic bottle. Noah swishes it around and spits again. Satisfied, Randall sets down the bucket and dabs Vaseline on Noah’s cut lip. He’s saying something to Noah, but Noah can’t hear him for the ringing in his ears. Something smacks Noah in the head.
“Hey!”
Noah blinks in confusion. Something smacks him again, and Noah starts to get pissed. He’s not in the ring now, so why is he getting hit? It’s not fair.
“HEY! AIRHEAD!”
Traci smacks him a third time, and Noah finally looks up. “What the hell?” he whines.
“Fight your fight!” Traci jabs him in the sternum, hard. “Fight your fight!”
Noah blinks stupidly at her. “What?”
“You’re fighting his fight, not yours. He’s got you on the defensive. Hey!” Traci grabs Noah’s chin. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah,” Noah slurs. The ringing in his ears subsides a little.
“Fight your fight, not his. Got it?”
The bell rings.
“Got it?” Traci yells.
“Got it,” Noah mumbles.
“Good, now kick it in the ass.”
Traci shoves him back into the ring as Randall whisks the bench and bucket onto the floor. Then they’re both gone, leaving Noah alone. The referee presses Noah’s gloves against his opponent’s. The other fighter grins, showing blood-stained teeth.
“Box!” The referee steps back.
The other fighter comes at Noah like a hurricane, arms whirling. Noah ducks a hook but takes an uppercut to the chin, and his head snaps back. This is followed by a series of agonizing punches to the gut. Noah folds in half to protect himself, and takes a right hook to the ear. He stumbles back against the ropes and almost falls. The crowd howls and calls for the knock-out. His opponent smirks and reaches back for a cross.
Way back.
Too far.
He’s open.
Noah’s fist flies out and jabs the fighter in the nose. Startled, the guy rocks back on his heels. Noah’s fist flies again. The second jab catches the guy in the same spot. Blood spurts from his nose. Noah surges off the ropes and jabs a third time. He’s not thinking now, just reacting.
The guy regains his balance and throws a punch, but Noah’s got his guard up, and he can’t connect. Noah dances out of reach, then moves in again with three quick jabs and a hook.
The other fighter rallies, and they trade blows, but Noah’s got the momentum now. The crowd can sense it, and they start cheering for him. The other guy gets angry and hits even harder, but his fury makes him careless, leaves him open for Noah’s fist. He’s distracted by the blood running from his nose, and he’s tired.
Noah’s tired, too. He’s tired of hurting. His whole body hurts, from head to toe, and it’s not that holy hurt that people talk about. It’s not cathartic or spiritual or any of that crap. It’s just pain. It’s the same pain he felt when he got his ass kicked by his dad, the Colonel hitting him everywhere but his face so he could still go to school the next day. It’s getting beat up by older kids before he was big enough to fight back. It’s being told he’s evil and sick and shameful for falling in love with a kind, beautiful man. It’s being attacked by thugs on the side of the road, it’s being kidnapped and tied up and shot, it’s falling and hitting his head and the agonizing pain and darkness that never ends. It’s being betrayed by the one person he loved and another person he trusted and being told it’s all his fault and he should be grateful. It’s giving his heart away and having it broken, and it hurts so much he can’t even breathe.
When Noah's fist connects with the other guy's face in the knock-out blow, everyone in the room knows it. There's a sudden, shocked silence, and then everything switches to slow-motion, like in the movies. The fighter's eyes roll heavenward, as if he's asking why, and Noah suddenly realizes he can't remember the man's name. Then he topples like a tree, lands face-down on the blood-spattered canvas, and stops moving.
The sound comes back on with an ear-splitting scream. The ring seems to tilt as Noah sways on his feet, staring down at his fallen rival. Noah’s vaguely aware of the ref counting down the seconds and then grabbing his wrist and hauling up his arm and the crowd roaring its approval. As the fallen fighter’s coach bends over him, Noah collapses to his knees, sobbing for air. Exhausted, he leans against Randall’s solid thigh. He feels Randall’s approving touch on his sweat-soaked hair and hears the gentle rumble of his voice, but can’t make out his words. Then the canvas rises up and smacks him in the face, hard, and darkness swallows him whole.
***
The fight starts about Luke’s family, but that’s not what it’s really about. It’s really about Luke feeling neglected, forgotten, invisible. Unloved.
“Unloved?” Reid stops making his sandwich and stares at Luke. “Why would I be here if I didn’t love you?” He gestures vaguely around him with his mustard-smeared knife. “Why would I put up with this Godforsaken town and these ridiculous people?”
“I don’t know,” Luke mutters mulishly. He’s pretty pickled right now, and his brain isn’t working very well. “It just feels like you don’t love me like you say you do.”
Reid sets down his knife and puts his hands on his hips. “Because I won’t go to some stupid family function that’s going to be just like every other stupid family function I don’t go to?”
“Yes!” Luke says. Then, confused: “No. It’s just...” He sighs, trying to get his thoughts in order. “My family is really important to me.”
“And?” Reid gestures for Luke to go on.
“And...if it’s important to me, shouldn’t it be important to you?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Luke stares at Reid. “Because that’s how it works.”
“How what works?”
“You know.” Luke waves his hands in the air. He can’t believe Reid hasn’t realized how blitzed he is. “Being together. That’s how it works. Because...” He holds up one finger triumphantly, convinced he’s about to finally score the winning point. “Because that’s what couples do.”
Reid shakes his head and turns back to his sandwich. “No, that’s what you and Noah did. I’m not interested in the whole white-picket-fence thing. Why can’t it just be enough that I’m here and I love you and we’re together?”
“I don’t know,” Luke mumbles.
Later that night, sitting on a bench in Olde Towne, Luke still doesn’t know. That’s part of the problem, he decides. Everything Reid says is completely reasonable and yet none of it makes any sense. But when Luke asks himself why, he can’t figure out the answer.
Luke pulls the bottle from his pocket and studies it thoughtfully. It’s still a quarter full, but he’ll need to find more eventually. It’s like the gas tank on your car, he reasons. You shouldn’t wait until it’s empty. Instead, refill when you’ve still got a quarter-tank left. That way you’ll never run out.
Pleased with his logic, Luke rises from the bench. The sidewalk tilts alarmingly as he sways on his feet. It occurs to him that he probably shouldn’t drive home. He pulls out his cell phone and peers at it unsteadily, scrolling through the list of names, not sure whom he should call. Reid’s at work now, and Luke isn’t supposed to call him at work. He could call any member of his family, but he suspects they’re still pretty mad that he skipped dinner for the fifth week in a row. His friends are definitely pissed that they never see him anymore - Reid refuses to hang out with them - and Luke doesn’t feel like a lecture at the moment.
Luke’s thumb stops scrolling at Noah’s name.
Noah would come and get him in a heartbeat, Luke knows. Sure, he’d be furious that Luke was drunk, but he’d still come and get him and make sure he got home safely. Then he’d hold Luke’s head while he threw up and calm him down when he cried and get him some aspirin and a bottle of water and tuck him into bed. He’d probably take away Luke’s car keys, too, so he couldn’t drive until he sobered up and he’d search the apartment for bottles and throw them all away and call his family to stage an intervention, but he’d come.
Because he’s Noah.
The phone falls from Luke’s hand and hits the pavement, shattering into several pieces. Luke gives a small cry and reaches down to pick it up. Instead, the pavement rises toward him and smacks him in the face, hard. Darkness follows.
***
To be continued...
**lyrics from "Shadowboxer" by Fiona Apple**