Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

By nine-thirty on a Wednesday morning, Shane Hollander had already consumed two coffees, answered forty-three emails, sat through one meeting that definitely could, and probably should have been an email, and listened to his manager spend twenty minutes discussing a colour-coded spreadsheet as though it were a matter of national security. When, in fact, it was about some very minor thing that someone would probably have to go over in their overtime hours anyway.

The office hummed around him in its usual way, alive with the quiet machinery of corporate existence. Keyboards rattled against desks, phones chirped in an array of different ringtones and printers spat out pages destined for brief consideration before being filed away and forgotten or didn’t print at all. 

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city gleamed beneath a pale autumn sky, washed in weak sunlight that turned the glass towers downtown into columns of silver and gold. It looked beautiful from up here. Distant- untouchable.

Shane was staring at a quarterly expenditure report that had somehow become his responsibility despite having nothing whatsoever to do with his job description, and felt anything but untouchable.

He had been staring at it for so long now that the little numbers swam before his eyes. He should probably have brought his glasses, and he mourned them remembering where they sat on his bedside table this morning. He glanced at a cell and highlighted red- that set of incorrect numbers weren’t his problem. He highlighted another yellow- those would likely be made his problem by the end of the week. A miscellaneous comment bubble popped up, likely accidentally added. Three follow-up requests appeared that he jotted down on his notepad despite the fact that he would probably just sit through the meeting without being needed for a single contribution, but they would be able to say he was there.

A brightly coloured calendar notification appeared in the corner of his screen with a tattletale ping. He closed it without reading it. A second one appeared with a slightly more insistent ping. He closed that one too.

His shoulders felt tight. The knot at the base of his neck had settled in days ago and shown no signs of leaving, even though he was going to the gym at least three times a week, and doing yoga on the days he wasn’t. 

The muscles in his back ached from hunching over a desk for hours at a time, and the fluorescent lighting overhead cast everything in a colourless glow that made every day feel vaguely identical to the one before it and made his head pound.

The office always smelled faintly of stale coffee and recycled air. Sometimes Shane wondered if he'd notice if he came in one morning and found himself trapped in a time loop.

The same greetings.

The same reports.

The same meetings.

The same spreadsheets.

Maybe one day he would finally start a business of his own that wouldn’t feel the same way, but for now, this would do. He wasn’t totally unhappy, he enjoyed work sometimes, but he always began to question it by the time they reached Q4. 

He was halfway through recalculating a set of figures someone else had entered incorrectly when a message notification popped up from one of his coworkers.

Rose

Check your email.

Shane glanced toward the neighbouring cubicle. A woman named Rose peered over the partition.

Her expression carried the unmistakable energy of someone avoiding her own workload.

Shane sighed, pushing one of his monitors slightly sideways, "What?"

She smiled, clasping her hands to the side of the keyboard. "Company volunteer programme."

Shane rubbed a hand over his face before vaguely gesturing to the array of documents open on his monitor. "I'm busy."

Rose looked directly at the report on his screen with a raised eyebrow, scanning over it quickly, "No you're not."

Shane added a new column and coloured it blue, "I am."

She slid back in her chair round the end of the cubicle, "You've been staring at the same spreadsheet for ten minutes."

Shane leaned back in his chair, "I'm thinking."

"You look like you're planning a murder."

Shane tilted his head, "That's also thinking."

Rose snorted, "Check your email."

The subject line caught his eye immediately.

COMMUNITY ENGAGEMENT OPPORTUNITY — EMERGENCY SERVICES TRAINING EXERCISE VOLUNTEERS NEEDED

He clicked cautiously and the email opened. As his eyes moved down the page, something inside him slowly awakened. The email was about a  regional emergency-services exercise.

Firefighters.

Paramedics.

Pararescue 

Search and rescue teams.

Volunteer civilians needed to act as casualties during a large-scale training scenario.

Lunch provided.

Transportation provided.

An entire day considered paid work time, Shane sat up. Then sat up straighter. Then reread the section about paid work time three separate times just to make certain he hadn't hallucinated it.

Rose watched the transformation happen in real time, "Oh no."

Shane immediately looked at her, "What?"

Rose tapped a pen on Shane’s desk, "That's the exact face you make when you're about to make someone else's problem your problem."

Shane ignored her.

His gaze remained fixed on the email.

This would be a full day away from the office. A full day away from the repetitive structure of spreadsheets. A full day away from meetings where grown adults debated formatting choices with the intensity of international diplomats negotiating peace treaties.

The thought arrived with startling clarity- Fresh air. Movement. People doing things that actually mattered. The idea felt like opening a window in a stuffy room.

His cursor hovered over the sign-up button.

Rose pointed at him, "You don't care about community engagement."

Shane pulled an expression that could only be described as aghast, "I am a pillar of civic responsibility."

Rose shook her head, "You once described volunteer work as 'surprise labour.'"

Shane shrugged, moving deeper into the email, "People grow."

Rose laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee.

Across the office, another co-worker looked up from his desk, "What are we laughing at?"

Rose pointed at Shane with mirth sparkling in her eyes and an inability to get the words out through laughter, "Shane's becoming a humanitarian."

"I’ve always been a humanitarian."

Unlikely for Shane he had spoken in one of those moments where the sound of a room just happens to lull entirely while one is speaking.

The co-worker stared.

Practically the entire office stopped and stared.

Shane maintained eye contact with all of them, but nobody believed him. Not even slightly.

Quickly after, Shane cut his losses, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. "Fine," he said. "Maybe I enjoy the idea of getting out of here for a day."

"Aha." Rose said dramatically, slowly sliding back to her side of the desk.

Shane pulled his keyboard forward again, "But at least while I'm out of here, I will also be assisting emergency services."

"By pretending to be injured."

Shane started typing again. "It’s a vital role."

"By lying on the ground."

Shane nodded, but didn’t make eye contact when he saw Rose trying to catch his gaze, "An essential contribution."

Rose shook her head, "You are unbelievable."

Shane changed a column in the spreadsheet, "Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

Shane clicked the sign-up button in the email on his other monitory before anyone could stop him.

A confirmation page appeared, and just like that, it was done. A more detailed email coming through with times and locations immediately.

An absurd amount of relief washed through him.

The feeling surprised him enough that he sat still for a moment, staring at the screen while the office continued around him in a blur of conversation and ringing phones and clicking keyboards.

One day- objectively, it wasn't much. A single day away from work, a temporary interruption, a brief detour. Yet somehow it felt significant, almost like there was finally a crack opening in a routine that had grown too tight around him

The rest of the afternoon passed more easily than the morning had. The spreadsheet still existed. The long tedious meetings still existed. His manager still sent three follow-up emails regarding colour coding that would never even see the light of day, but Shane found that now he cared considerably less.

Every time he glanced at his calendar, the upcoming volunteer day sat there waiting for him.

A small bright blue box. Something different- something unexpected and out of the usual routine. Shane honestly, if you asked him, could not remember the last time he put something new into his calendar that wasn’t work, babysitting Hayden’s kids, or drinks with Rose. 

Outside, evening gradually settled across the city, sunlight spilling gold across rooftops before sinking beneath the horizon. The towers downtown caught fire with reflected light. Windows blazed amber. Streets below filled with moving headlights that looked like rivers of stars flowing through concrete canyons.

Shane packed up his things with unusual enthusiasm. As he slung his bag over one shoulder, Rose looked up from her desk, "Excited for your heroic sacrifice?"

Shane laughed as he forced his laptop into the shoulder bag, "Very."

She smiled, "Try not to get fake injured."

Shane gave her a small salute as he began walking out, "I'll do my best."

"You know they're going to cover you in theatrical blood." She shouted to his retreating back,

Shane paused and turned back to face her, before continuing walking backwards, "Really?"

"I have no idea."

Shane groaned, "You're impossible."

Rose grinned as he headed for the elevators.

For the first time in weeks, work remained behind him instead of following him home.

The prospect of a day spent somewhere other than under fluorescent lights lingered warmly in the back of his mind all evening, a pleasant anticipation he couldn't quite shake. He imagined firefighters running drills across a courtyard. Emergency vehicles lined up in training facilities. Controlled chaos disguised as purposeful movement. People whose jobs involved action rather than emails.

He had absolutely no way of knowing that the volunteer exercise would end up changing the trajectory of his life- at that moment, all Shane knew was that he'd successfully escaped a day at the office. As far as he was concerned, as much as he enjoyed his job some days, that alone made signing up worthwhile.

—

The training facility sat on the edge of the city in a sprawling collection of warehouses, concrete yards, and purpose-built structures designed to imitate the places where emergencies happened. Shane saw it all through the windshield as he pulled into the car park just after eight in the morning with his coffee balanced precariously in the cupholder and a travel mug lid rattling softly whenever the car rolled over a crack in the pavement.

A line of emergency vehicles gleamed beneath the pale autumn sunlight. Fire engines stood in neat rows with their red paint bright glowing against the grey surroundings. High-visibility striped jackets in different colours flashed between buildings as firefighters, paramedics, and volunteers moved about preparing for the day's exercise. The air carried a faint chill that nipped pleasantly at his cheeks when he stepped out of the car, and somewhere in the distance he heard the metallic clatter of equipment being unloaded.

It felt strangely exciting. Not thrilling exactly but alive and purposeful- the whole place hummed with a kind of energy that seemed entirely absent from his office, where excitement usually arrived in the form of a revised meeting agenda.

Shane adjusted the strap of his bag over one shoulder and followed a stream of volunteers toward a registration table set up beneath a temporary canopy. The people around him looked like they had arrived for vastly different reasons.

Some appeared genuinely interested in emergency services. A few were students. One elderly woman spoke enthusiastically about volunteering for every training exercise she could find. Two teenagers were already taking selfies in front of a fire engine.

Shane stood among them, accepted his name badge, and tried not to look too pleased with himself for successfully escaping work. Honestly he was surprised Rose hadn't also jumped at the opportunity.

A coordinator with a clipboard gathered the volunteers together shortly afterwards and led them into a briefing room. The space resembled a classroom more than anything else. Folding chairs had been arranged in rows facing a projector screen displaying a map of the training site. Coffee urns sat on a table in one corner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

The coordinator launched into an explanation of the day's scenario. Firefighters and other rescue would be responding to a simulated office building incident.

Volunteers would play casualties- Some would have minor injuries whereas others would require more intense evacuation ranging in levels. Some would also be hidden throughout the structure for search teams to locate. Everyone received a casualty profile and was expected to remain in character once the exercise began.

"Please remember," the coordinator said, pacing slowly at the front of the room, "the crews are treating this as realistically as possible. Follow the instructions on your casualty cards. If your card says you can't walk, don't walk. If your card says you're unconscious, stay unconscious. The more realistic you are, the better training they get."

A hand rose from the back, "Can we improvise?"

The coordinator looked briefly horrified, "No."

A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Shane leaned back in his chair- this seemed easy enough, sit somewhere, pretend to be injured, then get rescued by someone that was hopefully competent.

Maybe even enjoy a free lunch while he was at it, though that seemed a little shallow now that he was looking at it all. Maybe when he got back he could tell exaggerated stories about the experience to his co-workers over lunch. Life was good.

The briefing concluded, and volunteers were directed into another room where staff members distributed casualty cards. 

A woman wearing a bright orange vest handed Shane a laminated card attached to a lanyard, "You're Twenty-four."

Shane took the card and gave her a small nod, "Sounds ominous."

She smiled like a slightly exasperated mother, "Read your profile."

Shane stepped aside and looked down. The card contained a short description beneath the bold casualty number.

Shane stared at it for a moment, then laughed.

The volunteer beside him glanced over.  "What?"

Shane tapped the front of the card, "They've basically assigned me to roleplay myself."

The man read the card, a grin spread across his face, "Oh wow. Office worker? That's rough."

Shane nodded solemnly, "I came here specifically to stop being an office worker for a day." but apparently fate disagreed and didn’t want to grace him with a true day off.

A staff member began directing casualties toward different sections of the training structure. When Shane's number was called, he followed a small group through a side entrance and into one of the mock buildings.

The atmosphere shifted immediately- outside the facility had felt open and bright. Inside felt like stepping into a carefully constructed illusion.

The building had been designed to resemble a modern office floor. Cubicles filled the space in orderly rows. Desks sat scattered with keyboards, monitors, telephones, and stacks of fake paperwork. Rolling office chairs occupied corners. Whiteboards lined walls covered with fabricated schedules and notices. At first glance it almost looked real, which was admittedly a little unnerving for Shane.

Then the details began to reveal themselves- the walls ended abruptly in places. Ceilings were higher than they should have been. The pages on the desks were blank, certain doors opened onto empty training spaces rather than actual rooms- the whole thing existed somewhere between reality and theatre. A place built to imitate life.

The staff member leading them stopped beside a cluster of cubicles. "Twenty-four?"

Shane raised a hand, "That's me."

"You're here." The woman pointed toward a spot near a workstation. "Your ankle injury means you can't walk out. Stay seated. Fire crews will locate you and decide how to evacuate you."

Shane nodded and moved over to the spot, "Got it."

She paused. "Questions?"

Shane looked around around the space carefully, "Nope."

She nodded, before saying a cheery "Good luck." Then she disappeared, leaving him alone.

For a while he remained standing, taking in his surroundings. The desk nearest him held a framed photograph of a family he'd never met, a coffee mug sat beside a keyboard, and sticky notes decorated one monitor. Small details carefully arranged to create the impression that people had worked here only moments before. The effect was surprisingly convincing.

Eventually Shane lowered himself onto the floor beside the cubicle wall, stretching his long legs out in front of him before remembering his assigned injury and adjusting accordingly.

The concrete beneath the industrial carpet tiles felt firm and cool, he settled back against the partition and honestly it was comfortable enough.

The exercise hadn't started yet, but somewhere beyond the structure he could hear faint voices and distant movement. Then, gradually, things began to change. The overhead lighting dimmed- not completely, but just enough so that the bright artificial glow softened into something far murkier. Imitating that of emergency generator lighting or smoke shielded windows. Shadows gathered in the corners of the room, which made the office landscape shift from ordinary workplace to something stranger. A faint haze began creeping through the structure- at first it appeared almost invisible. Thin wisps drifting along the ceiling, then more followed. Artificial smoke rolled slowly between cubicles and desks, catching the light in pale silver ribbons. It curled around chair legs and floated through open spaces with an eerie grace, transforming familiar office scenery into something dreamlike.

The room grew quieter, the distant chatter vanished, doors closed.

For the first time all morning, Shane found himself completely alone in silence. So he listened- the silence carried texture. The low mechanical hum of ventilation systems. The faint crackle of a radio somewhere beyond the walls. The occasional metallic clang from another section of the structure, the odd muffled voice.

Time stretched, and minutes passed- maybe more. Shane checked his watch then stopped checking it and the novelty of pretending to be injured began to wear thin. He shifted slightly against the cubicle wall so he could study the fake office around him.

He slowly read a motivational poster three separate times, then read all the letters in his head in the phonetic alphabet.

The smoke continued drifting through the room, softening edges and blurring shapes until the rows of cubicles seemed to fade into one another like half-remembered dreams.

Then he heard it. A door opening somewhere closer to him in the structure. Then voices, low, professional, focused. A burst of radio traffic crackled through the building and footsteps followed, boots striking the floor with steady confidence.

The sounds echoed strangely through the maze of cubicles, bouncing from wall to wall, drawing closer with every passing second. Shane straightened instinctively, a shadow moved somewhere beyond the haze, then another voice appeared, then another radio transmission- closer now. Close enough that he could distinguish individual words. Close enough that he could hear the creak of equipment shifting with each step.

The office around him seemed to hold its breath, Shane turned toward the approaching sound. Boots appeared first through the smoke. Black. Solid. His gaze followed them upward, and for the first time, he looked up.

The figure emerging from the smoke seemed to assemble itself piece by piece. First had come the boots. Now the dark bulk of turnout gear. Shane figured it must be firefighter, though an extra band of colour ran on each side of the reflective strip.

The reflective stripes flashed silver in the dimness as their owner moved through the maze of cubicles with the easy certainty of someone who knew exactly where he was going, one gloved hand resting briefly against a partition as he navigated around a desk. A radio crackled at his shoulder. Somewhere behind him, deeper in the structure, other firefighters were moving through the simulated office, their voices rising and falling in clipped professional exchanges.

Shane's gaze continued upward, the firefighter was tall. The kind of height that became even more impressive when paired with broad shoulders and a frame that seemed purpose-built for hauling equipment through burning buildings. The breathing apparatus strapped to his back only added to the effect.

He moved with remarkable economy, every action smooth and deliberate, carrying an awareness of his surroundings that reminded Shane of athletes and dancers and large predators all at once. There was no wasted motion or uncertainty.

Confidence practically radiated from him without a trace of arrogance, then he stepped fully into the light filtering through the artificial smoke from the window behind Shane, and Shane's brain promptly forgot how to function.

The firefighter couldn't have been much older than him, in fact maybe younger. Dirty blonde curls escaped from beneath his helmet in damp, unruly loops that caught the glow of the overhead lights. A small mole rested on his left cheek, close enough to his mouth that Shane noticed it immediately for reasons he would later spend an embarrassing amount of time examining. His features were striking in a way that felt unfair, all clean lines and strong bone structure softened by an expression of easy concentration.

His eyes were what lingered, blue. A startling, vivid blue despite the murkiness of the air around them. The kind of colour usually reserved for postcards and tropical oceans and paintings where artists exaggerated reality because reality wasn't enough.

For one ridiculous moment, Shane forgot he was supposed to be injured.

Forgot he was participating in a training exercise.

Forgot his own name.

The firefighter spotted him immediately and his attention clearly sharpened, a small smile touched his mouth as he approached, "Casualty Twenty-Four?" 

His voice carried a faint accent Shane couldn't immediately place. Low. Warm. Entirely too pleasantly wrapped around his vowels.

"Uh." A pause then Shane cleared his throat, "Yeah. That's me."

The smiled slowly faded as focus shadowed his face, "Good."

The firefighter crouched in front of him. The movement brought him closer, and Shane found himself suddenly aware of details he absolutely did not need to be aware of. The faint scent of smoke clinging to the turnout gear. The scrape of protective fabric. The pale lashes framing those impossible eyes. A name patch sat across his chest- ROZANOV.

The firefighter extended a gloved hand, "Can I see your casualty card?"

"Oh." Shane fumbled briefly with the lanyard, "Right."

Their fingers brushed as the card changed hands- a completely normal interaction, entirely insignificant, but his pulse reacted as though he had just experienced a life-changing event.

Rozanov looked down and began reading. The playful edge disappeared from his expression entirely now. Professional focus settled over him instead. His gaze moved steadily down the card.

A slight furrow appeared between his brows as he assessed the information. Shane watched him read. The silence stretched, then eventually Rozanov nodded to himself, "Alright."

He handed the card back, "How's the ankle?"

Shane glanced down, "The imaginary one?"

That earned him a brief laugh- a good laugh Shane noticed. The sort that settled warmly in a person's chest. "Yes, the imaginary one."

Shane pulled a face and dramatically sighed, "Oh, terrible."

Rozanov nodded, keeping a serious expression on, "I see."

Shane continued, "I've never experienced such fictional pain."

The corner of Rozanov's mouth twitched, "I'll make a note of it."

A burst of radio traffic interrupted them. Rozanov tilted his head slightly to listen, "Copy," he said into the microphone attached near his shoulder. Then his attention returned immediately to Shane. Calm and stead. "We're going to get you out of here."

Shane nodded, makes sense, he thought. They'll probably help me stand. Maybe throw an arm over a shoulder- something practical. Something normal. Something proportional to the fact that he was a large adult man.

At six foot Shane had long ago accepted that people usually approached lifting him with caution. Friends asked for help moving furniture rather than the other way around. Family members recruited him for carrying heavy boxes. Nobody had ever looked at him and thought, ‘Yes, I can pick that up.’

Rozanov's gaze flicked briefly over him. Assessing. Calculating. Then he smiled again. A small thing, soft around the edges, made to comfort. "Don't worry." Something about the words landed unexpectedly, "I've got you."

Shane opened his mouth but whatever response he intended to give never arrived, because Rozanov reached forward, one arm slid behind Shane’s back, the other settled beneath his knees, and then- Up. 

The movement happened with such startling ease that Shane barely registered it. One moment he was sitting on the floor. The next he wasn't. The world shifted and his stomach performed an alarming somersault and not because he’d been quickly lifted but something else entirely.

The carpeted floor dropped away beneath him, and somehow he ended up cradled securely against a firefighter's chest as though this was the most natural arrangement in the world.

Shane stared at the side of the man’s face. Rozanov adjusted his hold slightly, effortless and completely unbothered.

No strain crossed his face.

No tightening of muscles.

No indication whatsoever that carrying a fully grown man required any particular effort.

The realization hit Shane like a freight train, because Shane was not small. He went to the gym three times a week. He knew exactly how much space he occupied in the world. He knew what lifting him involved.

Rozanov carried him as though gravity had become optional, "You alright?" the firefighter asked.

The concern sounded genuine. Shane blinked. "Yep." His voice cracked. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

Rozanov nodded, apparently accepting the answer. Then he started walking and everything became significantly worse, or better, Shane wasn't entirely sure. The motion was surprisingly smooth.

Each step felt steady beneath him, absorbing impacts before they could travel through his body. One powerful arm remained securely around his back while the other supported his legs. The turnout jacket felt solid and warm against his shoulder. Safe- the thought arrived uninvited. The sensation settled somewhere deep inside him before he could stop it.

Around them, the exercise continued, radios crackled, voices echoed through the smoke. Someone reported another casualty found. Someone else requested an update.

Rozanov responded easily while continuing to carry Shane through the structure, "Casualty located." A pause."Adult male, conscious and responsive." Another pause. "Beginning evacuation."

Shane listened to him speak, listened to the quiet confidence in every word. Listened to the certainty. The competence.

His internal monologue had become entirely unhelpful- this was fine, this was a normal reaction. People get carried by firefighters every day. Entirely ordinary. Nothing life-altering happening here.

Rozanov shifted his grip slightly as they rounded a corner. His arm tightened briefly around Shane's back. The movement was practical- necessary, and entirely professional. Shane nearly ascended directly into another plane of existence. He stared resolutely at the radio on Rozanov’s jacket. Then at the ceiling. Then at absolutely anything except the profile of the firefighter carrying him.

Unfortunately none of those things helped. The blue eyes remained firmly lodged in his thoughts, practically burned into his retina. The warmth of the protective gear remained impossible to ignore. The effortless strength remained devastatingly apparent. 

Outside light began appearing ahead of them, pale and golden through the haze- the exit. Fresh air spilled into the structure, cool and clean, and when Rozanov stepped through the doorway the world opened around them.

Sunlight flashed across polished metal and reflective tape. Emergency vehicles sat waiting in the yard beyond. Volunteers and staff moved between training areas. A light breeze carried away the lingering scent of smoke.

Only then did Rozanov lower him carefully toward a nearby chair. Every movement remained deliberate. Gentle and attentive. As though Shane might actually be injured. His trainers touched the ground and Rozanov straightened up.

For a moment the sunlight caught in those impossible blue eyes, "You okay?"

The question was simple, very reasonable, Shane looked up at him. At the curls escaping beneath the helmet, at the faint flush in his face from exertion that apparently hadn't been exertion at all. At the firefighter who had just carried him through a smoke-filled building as though he weighed absolutely nothing. Several responses presented themselves.

Thank you.

I'm fine.

Good job.

Something coherent, something useful. Instead, helpfully, his brain produced static. "Uh." Rozanov waited patiently. Shane continued staring and the smile returned, small and amused, warm enough to make all the static frying Shane’s brain considerably worse.

"Yeah," Shane managed finally, swallowing to try and get the fuzziness off his tongue, "Yeah. I'm good."

The firefighter nodded. Satisfied. Then turned to answer another call on his radio, leaving Shane sitting in the autumn sunlight with absolutely no idea what had just happened to him.

—-

Monday arrived with all the grace of a falling filing cabinet.

The training exercise lingered through the weekend like sunlight trapped in the corners of a room, resurfacing unexpectedly while Shane was making coffee, folding laundry, standing in line at the supermarket, or staring at the ceiling long after he should have been asleep. 

By Sunday evening he had managed to convince himself that the entire thing had been mildly interesting, slightly unusual, and otherwise completely insignificant.

That confidence lasted until approximately nine-thirteen Monday morning.

He was halfway through opening a spreadsheet when a memory surfaced with such clarity that it felt less like remembering and more like reliving.

Blue eyes.

A quiet smile.

Strong arms sliding beneath his knees.

Shane immediately closed the spreadsheet, then opened it again because he knew he should. Then stared at the blinking cursor, unfortunately the numbers on the screen dissolved into meaningless shapes.

His thoughts wandered elsewhere.

A training structure filled with smoke. Dirty blonde curls. A low voice saying, I've got you.

Shane sat back heavily in his chair, "No."

The word escaped before he could stop it, across the aisle, Rose looked up, "What?"

Shane pinched at the bridge of his nose, "Nothing."

She snorted, "You just said 'no' at your computer."

"I'm establishing boundaries."

Rose slowly returned to her work.

Shane glared at the spreadsheet- the spreadsheet remained innocent despite many attempts to find it otherwise.

The problem was entirely inside his own head, because every time he attempted to focus on work, another piece of the day resurfaced. The way Rozanov had crouched beside him. The little crease that had appeared between his brows while reading the casualty card, easy confidence threaded through every movement, absurd strength and above all the horrifying ease. Shane remembered the moment of being lifted most vividly, most particularly the complete absence of hesitation.

The way the world had shifted beneath him.

The sensation of being carried through the building while Rozanov calmly discussed logistics over the radio as though transporting a full-grown man required roughly the same effort as carrying a backpack.

His stomach performed an alarming little swoop, therefore he immediately opened another spreadsheet in self-defence.

For nearly an hour he fought a losing battle against his own thoughts. By lunchtime he was annoyed. By three o'clock he was actively irritated. By five he found himself sitting alone at his desk after most of the office had gone home, staring out at the city through rain-speckled windows while the memory replayed for perhaps the thousandth time- a sensible person would have moved on. A sensible person would have treated the entire thing as an amusing story.

Shane considered himself a sensible person.

Unfortunately evidence was beginning to suggest otherwise.

The next morning proved even worse, the memory had somehow acquired details. Specific details. The array of details that should not have lodged themselves so firmly inside another person's brain.

The mole on his cheek.

The accent.

The colour of his eyes.

The way his smile had changed depending on whether he was joking or concentrating.

Shane hated that he remembered all of it- genuinely hated it, because remembering implied attention, and attention implied interest. 

Interest implied questions Shane had absolutely no desire to examine because that would require totally changing his perspective on himself.

By Wednesday he was eating lunch alone at his desk when the realization struck him.

Rozanov.

He knew the surname- from the name patch on the jacket. The letters stitched neatly across the firefighter's chest. The knowledge arrived quietly, then sat there; Waiting.

Shane looked at his computer. His computer looked back. A dangerous amount of silence followed, "Don't."

He clicked open a browser. "This is normal."

A search bar appeared, "People look people up all the time."

His fingers hovered briefly above the keyboard, then typed. Rozanov firefighter

The search results appeared immediately, Shane felt ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. like a teenager stalking their crush on Myspace.

Still, curiosity pushed him forward, he clicked and one page became another.

Department website.

Community events.

Training photos.

Fundraisers.

Group pictures.

Articles.

Eventually Shane found him in a photograph from some public outreach event. Ilya stood among a group of firefighters, smiling directly at the camera beneath bright summer sunlight. The same curls, the same eyes, the same smile.

 Shane stared. And stared. And continued staring.

This was already a terrible idea- then he noticed another link.

CHARITY CALENDAR FUNDRAISER

His cursor drifted toward it- obviously purely academic, undeniably entirely innocent. Definitely a community initiative supporting good causes, nothing more.

He clicked.

Again the page opened smoothly and for several seconds Shane simply looked. Then immediately sat upright in his chair, "Oh, come on."

The calendar apparently raised money for a children's hospital.

A very worthy cause.

An extremely worthy cause.

An extraordinarily worthy cause.

It also featured firefighters- professional photographs tastefully arranged. Unfortunately for Shane, "tastefully arranged" still included fitted shirts, rolled sleeves, and enough visual evidence of muscle definition to make his brain short-circuit.

He scrolled once- a grave mistake.

There was Rozanov, leaning against a fire engine with his arms folded the sunlight catching in those ridiculous blue eyes. A grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

The photographer deserved jail time.

Shane closed the tab immediately, his own reflection stared back at him from the darkened screen.

He pointed accusingly at it, "No." 

Shane stood up.

Walked into the kitchen.

Returned.

Looked at the monitors on his desk.

Walked away again.

Came back.

The entire situation felt deeply unfair, because this was absurd. Entirely absurd, he was a fully grown man. A firefighter had carried him during a training exercise.

That should have been the end of the story.

Instead his brain had apparently decided to build a shrine around the experience.

The following week passed in much the same fashion- work continued, meetings happened, spreadsheets multiplied and Shane endured all of it while stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that a certain firefighter occupied an increasingly large amount of mental real estate.

Then, late one Thursday afternoon, another company email arrived. The notification appeared quietly in the corner of his screen- community engagement opportunity, additional volunteers needed, emergency services outreach event- casualty role players requested. Shane froze.

The office buzzed around him.

Phones rang.

Someone laughed near the break room.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

For a long moment he simply stared.

His cursor hovered over the message, the sensible part of his brain began preparing an argument. The argument never got the chance.

The email opened.

His finger moved.

The sign-up form appeared, and before a single coherent thought could intervene, Shane clicked the volunteer button.

Confirmation arrived seconds later- registration successful. He sat back in his chair, looked at the screen, then rubbed both hands over his face.

Across the room, Rose glanced over, "You signed up for another one, didn't you?"

Shane lowered his hands, "...maybe."

Her eyes narrowed immediately, "Oh my God."

"It's community engagement."

"Shane."

"It's important."

"Shane." He looked away.

Rose's expression transformed with horrifying speed- recognition, suspicion, "Oh my God."

The words came out slowly this time, Shane pretended to become very interested in a spreadsheet. Unfortunately, the smile he couldn't quite suppress gave him away completely.

—

The second volunteer day arrived bright and cold, sunlight pouring across the training facility in long golden sheets that turned every fire engine into polished glass and painted the concrete yard with sharp-edged shadows.

Shane arrived ten minutes early, a pure coincidence really. Entirely unrelated to the fact that he had spent most of the previous evening arguing with himself.

The argument had been simple- he was volunteering because he enjoyed supporting emergency services, because it got him out of the office.

The firefighter had absolutely nothing to do with it. The fact that his brain supplied a pair of impossible blue eyes every time he thought the word *firefighter* was beside the point.

By the time he parked, grabbed his badge, and headed toward registration, he had almost convinced himself. Almost.

The facility looked familiar now, much less intimidating than it had during his first visit.

People mved through the yard carrying equipment and folding tables. Radios crackled from every direction. Somewhere a diesel engine rumbled to life. Firefighters crossed between buildings in groups of two and three, helmets tucked beneath their arms, reflective strips flashing whenever they caught the sun.

The entire place possessed the same purposeful energy he'd noticed before- a rhythm. Everyone moving toward something, everyone with a job to do.

Shane found himself scanning the crowd- purely observational of course. He wasn't looking for anyone, he wasn't. 

His eyes swept across the yard.

A paramedic.

A coordinator with a clipboard.

Three firefighters unloading equipment.

A group gathered near one of the engines. 

Then- dirty blonde curls.

The recognition filtered in instantly. His stomach dropped somewhere near his shoes. "Oh for-." The words escaped under his breath.

The firefighter stood near the side of a ladder truck talking with another crew member. One hand rested against his hip. A helmet hung loosely from the other. Morning sunlight caught in the loose curls escaping around his forehead and turned them almost gold.

Even from a distance Shane knew exactly who he was, which was in retrospect deeply annoying.

Two weeks.

Two entire weeks.

Apparently enough time to forget a spreadsheet.

Not enough time to forget a firefighter.

Shane tore his attention away and continued toward registration- a perfectly normal adult reaction.

He joined the queue, collected a clipboard from the desk and started filling out paperwork, all while staying very carefully focused on the form in front of him.

Name.

Emergency contact.

Medical conditions.

Volunteer acknowledgment.

Simple.

Manageable.

Safe.

He was halfway through signing his name when a familiar voice drifted across the morning air. 

"Twenty-Four."

Everything inside him stopped- the pen froze, he froze, even the radio chatter seemed to vanish for half a second. Slowly, Shane looked up. Rozanov stood a few feet away smiling.

The helmet was tucked beneath one arm now. His turnout trousers were already on, suspenders hanging loose against a navy station shirt that stretched comfortably across broad shoulders. The morning light sharpened every detail Shane unfortunately remembered.

The curls, the mole on his cheek, those ridiculous blue eyes. Amusement danced openly in them, and for a moment Shane simply stared, Rozanov remembered. Not vaguely. Not the way people sometimes recognised familiar faces, but without hesitation.

"Twenty-Four?" Shane managed.

The smile widened, "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten your number."

Something warm and entirely unhelpful unfurled inside his chest. "You remembered?"

Rozanov shrugged, the movement looked effortless. Everything about him seemed effortless, "You were memorable."

Shane forgot approximately six different words- possibly more. His brain reached for a response and came back empty-handed. Several seconds passed.

Enough that amusement deepened in Ilya's expression, "You alright?"

"I-" Shane cleared his throat, "Yeah."

Excellent recovery, truly exceptional. 

Ilya appeared delighted by it, "Good."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward, It should have been awkward. They barely knew each other. Instead it felt strangely comfortable, like resuming a conversation that had been interrupted rather than starting a new one.

Ilya tilted his head slightly, "Twenty-Four is getting awkward."

Shane blinked, "What?"

"The number." A smile tugged at one corner of Rozanov’s mouth, "I should probably learn your name."

"Oh." Shane immediately hated how pleased that made him. "Shane, it’s Shane."

The firefighter repeated it, "Shane." Thoughtfully, as though trying it out, almost as if he was committing it to memory.

The simple act of hearing his own name in that voice should not have affected him nearly as much as it did.

Unfortunately nobody had consulted him.

"Ilya," the firefighter offered.

As though Shane hadn't spent two weeks knowing exactly who he was. As though he hadn't accidentally discovered an entire charity calendar. As though he hadn't closed that calendar with enough force to nearly break his laptop.

Shane held a hand out, "Nice to officially meet you." 

Ilya reached forward and grasped his hand in a strong grip, it lasted a second a second longer than a normal handshake. Shane being too busy looking at the way Ilya’s hand wrapped around his, and the feel of the slightly callused soft skin against his own. Ilya gave him a small nod and Shane slowly let go of his hand.

The smile that followed felt almost conspiratorial, as if he had just let Shane in on something private, like they were sharing a joke only the two of them understood.

The morning briefing pulled them apart shortly afterwards. Volunteers gathered beneath a canopy while coordinators explained the day's exercises.

Shane expected that to be the end of the interaction- a pleasant conversation, a brief reunion, nothing more.

Instead Ilya kept appearing. Everywhere. At first Shane assumed coincidence, the facility wasn't enormous, people often crossed paths.

Then he ran into him near the coffee station.

Then again outside one of the training buildings.

Then again while waiting for a briefing to begin.

By lunchtime the pattern had become difficult to ignore.

Shane was carrying a paper plate loaded with sandwiches when a familiar voice appeared beside him, "How's the ankle?"

He nearly laughed, "The fictional one?"

Ilya crossed his arms and came to a stop next to Shane, "The very same."

Shane squinted into the light, "Fully recovered."

Ilya nodded gravely, "Excellent news."

"The doctors said I'd pull through."

Ilya made an affirmative noise, "Modern medicine is remarkable."

The conversation flowed effortlessly from there, they talked while volunteers and firefighters moved around them. About work. About volunteering. About entirely unimportant things that somehow became fascinating anyway.

"You really work in an office?" Ilya asked eventually.

The skepticism in his voice made Shane laugh, "Unfortunately."

"I thought maybe the casualty card was fictional." Ilya said.

Shane raised an eyebrow at him, "What exactly does an office worker look like?"

Ilya considered this, "Smaller."

"Smaller?"

A grin spread across the firefighter's face. "You look like you should be carrying furniture."

"I use spreadsheets."

Ilya sighed dramatically, "A tragic misuse of resources."

Shane laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.

The sound seemed to please Ilya more than it should have.

Later, while volunteers were being moved between scenarios, Ilya appeared again. "Do you volunteer often?" he asked.

Shane tilted his head, "This was my second time."

"Interesting." The single word carried enough meaning that Shane narrowed his eyes.

"What?"

The firefighter shrugged, "Most casualties don't come back."

"Maybe I enjoy helping."

"Maybe." The expression accompanying the answer suggested he found this explanation deeply suspicious.

Shane made a face, "You don't believe me."

Ilya shrugged, "No."

"You're very rude."

"I rescue people."

The grin that followed lingered long after the conversation ended. By mid-afternoon Shane found himself anticipating the next time Ilya would appear. Then immediately becoming annoyed with himself for anticipating it.

Then smiling anyway when it happened, even worse was realizing the conversations rarely began with him- Ilya kept finding reasons to start them. Small insignificant reasons, but enough that shane was beginning to notice, enough to wonder. Enough to make Shane's 

thoughts increasingly difficult to manage.

As the afternoon wound down, volunteers gathered for the final major exercise briefing.

A coordinator began handing out casualty cards, Shane accepted his without much thought. Then looked down.

Casualty 24

Male

Head injury.

Unconscious.

Requires evacuation.

His stomach did something strange. The memory of strong arms and blue eyes arrived immediately afterwards- coincidental timing. Very unhelpful timing.

He looked up- across the room, through clusters of volunteers and firefighters and folding tables and drifting afternoon sunlight, Ilya was already watching him.

The firefighter's gaze dropped briefly to the card in Shane's hand. Then returned to his face. A smile appeared, slow, knowing, dangerously warm for someone he had only talked to a handful of times.

Shane's pulse immediately forgot how to behave, and somehow, impossibly, the smile on Ilya’s face widened.

—

The building felt different this time.

The first exercise had carried a certain novelty with it, the excitement of unfamiliarity softening the edges of the experience. This one felt deeper somehow, more immersive. The artificial smoke hung thicker in the air, drifting through corridors and rooms in pale grey currents that swallowed corners and softened outlines. 

The overhead lighting had been reduced until the entire structure existed in a perpetual twilight, shadows gathering beneath desks and along walls, transforming the mock office environment into something that felt strangely distant from reality.

Shane lay where he'd been placed near the far end of a conference room.

A long table occupied the center of the space, chairs sat abandoned around it.

Someone had left fake paperwork scattered across the surface, and through half-lowered eyelids before the exercise began, he had noticed a coffee cup tipped on its side as though its owner had fled moments earlier.

Now his eyes remained firmly shut, his casualty card sat tucked where firefighters would find it.

The floor beneath him felt cool through his clothes, around him the building breathed with distant activity.

The newly familiar sounds of footsteps and radio came and went in waves. Sometimes close. Sometimes more distant.

Time stretched strangely in the darkness, just like last time. A few minutes passed, or ten, or twenty. Shane still found it impossible to tell. Then footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the room- heavy boots.

The sound immediately sharpened his attention, there were several sets. Maybe a small team. The voices arrived next, muffled by walls and smoke, but obviously professional and focused.

Then one voice separated itself from the others. Low. Warm. Oddly Familiar. Shane's butterflies promptly abandoned all attempts at dignity.

For God's sake.

Apparently he had become the sort of person who could identify a firefighter by sound alone- a deeply embarrassing development in his situation.

A radio crackled. Then the conference room door opened and the sounds changed immediately, much closer now- Shane was pretty sure they were iInside the room.

Shane remained perfectly still- a model casualty. A very committed volunteer. A man absolutely not listening for one specific voice.

Boots crossed the floor, equipment shifted, Then- "Well."

The familiar voice carried a note of amusement. "Look who we found."

Shane fought the urge to smile.

Another firefighter laughed, "You know this one?"

A brief pause followed, "Yes I have rescued him before."

Something warm unfurled beneath Shane's ribs. The footsteps stopped beside him- close, very close, there was a moment of silence, then, ever professional, Ilya's voice appeared directly above him. "Sir?"

He paused, "Can you hear me?"

Shane remained motionless- a dedication to professional commitment. A hand tapped lightly against his shoulder. "Sir?"

Silence. Another pause. Then, without opening his eyes, Shane muttered: "I'm unconscious."

For approximately two seconds the room was completely silent.

Then somebody snorted, another firefighter outright laughed. The laughter spread. Even through closed eyes Shane could practically feel Ilya smiling. "You are?" The amusement in his voice had deepened considerably.

"Yes."

"Interesting."

Shane’s face stayed slightly mushed against the floor, "I'm committed to the role."

A chuckle escaped from somewhere nearby. "That's dedication."

"Thank you." The response arrived automatically. Then Shane remembered unconscious people weren't generally conversational. "Oh." A pause. "I'm unconscious again."

The room dissolved into laughter. Even Ilya laughed. 

The sound washed over Shane warm as sunlight, then rough gloved hands settled against his shoulder- large hands. Steady hands. Strong hands. Professional hands.

Unfortunately Shane's nervous system appeared incapable of distinguishing between those categories. "Let's have a look."

The words arrived softly, then Ilya rolled him onto his back.

The movement was controlled and efficient, one arm guiding his shoulder while the other supported his side. Shane felt the strength behind it immediately. The ease. The certainty. Like being moved by something utterly solid.

His pulse immediately betrayed him, the casualty card lifted. A few moments passed while Ilya read, Shane could almost picture it, blue eyes scanning the details- the slight furrow that appeared between his brows whenever he concentrated. The thoughtful expression. The infuriating attractiveness.

"Head injury," Ilya said.

"Unconscious."

"Looks like you're having a rough couple of weeks Twenty-Four."

Shane remained unconscious. Heroically. A radio crackled somewhere nearby.

Information was exchanged- the assessment completed.

The team discussed evacuation. Shane prepared himself for a stretcher- that seemed reasonable, logical, definitely the appropriate option.

There were multiple firefighters present- a stretcher existed somewhere.

Nobody needed to carry a man his size. Right?

Then Ilya said: "I've got him."

The phrase should have been illegal. A dangerous phrase. An extraordinarily dangerous phrase, because Shane already knew exactly what came after it. 

One arm slid behind his shoulders. The other beneath his knees.

The movement felt familiar now. Familiar and somehow worse.

Then- Up. Again. No hesitation, preparation, or visible effort.

And suddenly Shane found himself cradled securely against Ilya's chest for the second time in two weeks. His soul departed his body. There was simply no other explanation, because again Shane was not a small man.

Yet here he was once again being lifted as though gravity had negotiated special terms with one specific firefighter. Ilya adjusted him automatically. 

A gloved hand moving quickly to rest behind his neck- protecting his head because of the assigned injury- professional. Necessary.

Shane experienced immediate and catastrophic emotional damage, the position forced him closer than he had been before. Close enough to feel the rise and fall of breathing beneath layers of turnout gear. Close enough to catch the faint scent of smoke embedded in fabric combined with whatever slightly citrusy Shampoo Ilya used.

The world narrowed strangely.

Everything reduced itself to warmth and motion and the steady rhythm of footsteps carrying him through the building.

He couldn't even joke this time, couldn't distract himself. Couldn't say something sarcastic to break the tension- he was unconscious. Trapped. Left entirely alone with his thoughts.

A terrible situation, every adjustment Ilya moved through made it worse. At one corner Ilya shifted him slightly higher.

Practical.

Devastating.

Later his grip tightened around Shane's back while navigating a narrow doorway.

Efficient.

Emotionally ruinous.

Then came another adjustment near the stairs.

The hand supporting Shane's neck moved briefly, fingers spreading carefully through his hair before settling once more at the base of his skull- Shane nearly transcended physical existence.

Meanwhile Ilya continued calmly discussing logistics over the radio. As though carrying a fully grown man through a dark smoke-filled structure required absolutely no effort whatsoever.

As though Shane wasn't currently re-evaluating his entire life and everything he thought he knew about his sexuality.

The exit appeared eventually, fresh air drifted inward, cool and clean. Sunlight spilled through the doorway in bright golden beams highlighting the dust motes in the smoke.

The atmosphere changed immediately, voices grew louder. The exercise yard returned around them, Ilya stepped outside.

The warmth of sunlight settled across Shane's face, then the movement stopped. A stretcher waited nearby, carefully, Ilya lowered him down. One hand remained behind his neck until the very last moment.

Then the pressure disappeared, the loss felt immediate- which was frankly ridiculous. 

Shane opened his eyes, sunlight flooded his vision, the brightness forced him to blink several times.

Shapes gradually sharpened. Blue sky, fire engines, and directly above him- Ilya. Close enough that Shane could make out individual curls escaping from beneath his helmet. Close enough to see the tiny mole on his cheek. Close enough to notice the slight tug at the right side of his mouth already forming. "Good news."

Shane blinked up at him, "What?"

Ilya nodded, "I have excellent medical news."

"Oh?"

"You survived."

A laugh escaped before he could stop it.

Illya nodded again, "Against all odds."

Shane smiled, "I’m a truly inspirational case." 

Ilya looked around playfully, "I'll alert the newspapers."

Shane sat up slightly, "I think they should know."

Ilya nodded, and gently pushed Shane back onto the stretcher.

The smile that followed lingered, neither moved away. Several seconds slipped by. Then several more- long enough to become noticeable. Long enough that Shane started wondering if he was imagining things. Whether he was reading too much into every glance and smile. Whether he was constructing entire fantasies out of ordinary friendliness.

Then Ilya spoke again, not because he had to. Not because the exercise required it. Simply because he seemed reluctant to leave and he could pass it off on performing critical medical care.

"So." His head tilted slightly, "Office worker."

Shane smiled. "Firefighter."

"Pararescue." The correction arrived gently.

"Oh?"

Ilya nodded, a hint of pride touched his expression. "We assist with these exercises. We’re who the Seals and the Green berets call when they need help."

Shane sighed, "That sounds considerably more interesting than spreadsheets."

"I think most things are more interesting than spreadsheets."

Shane put a hand to his chest, "That's hurtful."

Ilya zipped his jacket back up, "I stand by it."

The conversation continued- only a few minutes, easy, but neither appeared particularly eager to end it.

Around them the exercise carried on. Radios crackled. Volunteers moved between stations. Coordinators called instructions across the yard.

Yet somehow they remained where they were.

Talking.

Smiling.

Lingering.

And as Shane watched Ilya laugh at something he'd said, watched the way those bright blue eyes remained fixed on him with easy, genuine attention, a realization settled quietly into place.

Dangerous- almost hopeful, and totally Impossible to ignore.

Maybe he wasn't the only one who had spent the past two weeks thinking about a training exercise.

By the time the exercise finally ended, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the training facility in shades of amber and gold. Long shadows stretched across the concrete yard. Fire engines gleamed beneath the fading light, their polished surfaces reflecting fragments of sky. Volunteers drifted toward the parking area in small groups, carrying bags and water bottles and the comfortable exhaustion that follows a day spent working.

The atmosphere had softened dramatically, the frantic energy of the exercises was gone now.

Equipment was being packed away, radios had fallen quieter- the day was winding down and Shane should have been heading home. Instead he found himself lingering- not obviously. Not enough for anyone to comment, but just enough to delay leaving by a few minutes.

A conversation here.

A slow walk there.

An unnecessary stop at the volunteer table to check he’d returned a badge he'd already returned ten minutes earlier. Honestly, even in his own eyes his own behaviour was becoming embarrassing. Unfortunately knowing it did nothing to stop it.

Eventually there was no excuse left.

The yard had emptied considerably, most of the volunteers were already gone. The evening breeze carried the scent of cooling concrete and distant woodsmoke from one of the training props. Somewhere nearby a metal door slammed shut.

Shane adjusted the strap of his bag and started toward the car park. His footsteps echoed softly against the pavement. The sky overhead stretched wide and clear, streaked with pale orange clouds. For a few moments he allowed himself to enjoy the quiet.

The day replayed itself in fragments.

Laughter over coffee.

Easy conversations.

Blue eyes finding him across the crowded concourse.

The feeling of being carried. Again. He shook his head, a smile tugging briefly at his mouth.

Then, at the last possible second- "Shane."

The Russian accented voice carried across the evening air, his heart immediately attempted to launch itself into orbit, he stopped walking, turned, and there he was.

Ilya stood several yards away near the edge of the parking area. For a moment neither moved.

The sunlight caught in his curls, turning them copper-gold around the edges. His turnout gear was gone now, replaced by dark station clothes. A duffel bag hung from one shoulder. One hand rested awkwardly against the strap, something felt different.

It took Shane a second to identify it- nervousness.

The realization surprised him enough that he almost forgot to breathe, because this was the first time he'd ever seen uncertainty on Ilya's face.

The man who walked through smoke-filled buildings without hesitation. The man who casually carried grown adults around as though they weighed nothing. The man who somehow seemed comfortable in every situation. Right now he looked distinctly less certain.

"Hey." Shane's voice emerged steadier than he felt.

"Hey." Ilya approached, not hurried. Just a slight jog for his first few steps to close the distance between them. When he stopped, a strange silence settled briefly into place. Not uncomfortable but definitely expectant. Both of them standing beneath a sky slowly filling with evening light.

A faint breeze stirred between them, Shane suddenly became aware of everything- the distant sounds of people loading equipment, the weight of his bag, the warmth still lingering in the pavement from the afternoon sun, the fact that Ilya seemed to be searching for words. Which was somehow the most alarming thing of all.

"You heading home?" Ilya asked.

Excellent start. Shane almost smiled, "That was the plan."

"Right." A pause, "Good plan." he scrunched his nose slightly, “Yeah of course,”

Another pause followed, slightly longer this time. Ilya rubbed the back of his neck.

The movement looked oddly self-conscious, and Shane felt a flicker of hope. Not that he really knew what he was hoping for- but he still felt it. "You okay?" he asked.

A laugh escaped Ilya, quiet, and i it hadn’t been Ilya making the noise Shane would have labeled it as almost embarrassed. "Yeah." The answer came quickly, "Maybe."

That earned a grin from shane, "Very reassuring."

"I know." The smile that appeared was softer than usual. Less practiced, maybe more genuine somehow, it felt more like it belonged to Shane.

For a moment he glanced away toward the training buildings, then back. Shane watched something unfold behind those blue eyes. A decision. A gathering of courage perhaps.

The sort of thing that takes shape quietly before becoming visible. When Ilya spoke again, his voice had dropped slightly. "I've been trying to figure out how to ask you something all day."

The world seemed to narrow immediately. The car park disappeared. Everything beyond the space between them faded softly into the background.

"Oh?"

A corner of Ilya's mouth twitched, "I had several plans."

Shane raised an eyebrow, "Several?"

Ilya sighed, "They were all terrible."

The admission made Shane laugh, "How terrible?"

"Very."

"Now I'm curious."

Ilya shook his head, "You shouldn't be."

"I feel like I should."

That earned another laugh, and the tension eased slightly- Only slightly, because neither of them had forgotten why this conversation was happening.

The silence returned, gentler this time, filled with anticipation.  Then Ilya exhaled. Slowly.

As though deciding to simply jump and hope the ground appeared beneath him, "Okay."

He looked directly at Shane, those ridiculous brown eyes held his gaze.

Steady.

Open.

Honest.

"I don't know if I'm picking this up right."

Every muscle in Shane's body suddenly became aware of itself.

"I don't know if I've completely misunderstood things."

The words emerged carefully, each one chosen before being spoken.

"And I don't know if you're interested."

Shane's heart forgot how to function. Entirely.

"But..."

A faint flush had appeared high on Ilya's cheeks, the sight nearly killed him, because somehow this was real.

Somehow the firefighter, sorry, pararescue, standing in front of him was nervous.

Actually nervous.

"Right, I was wondering if maybe I could get your number."

The words settled softly between them, simple and earnest, without any games, without any cocky confidence- just words turned honest with hope.

For one brief second Shane simply stared- relief arrived first. A wave so immediate and overwhelming that it almost made him laugh. Relief. Then excitement. Then joy.

Then the sudden realization that he had spent weeks preparing himself for rejection that apparently was never coming.

His grin appeared before he could stop it. A hopeless grin. An enormous grin.

The sort that gave everything away instantly, Ilya noticed and slowly the nervousness in his expression eased. Just a little.

Which somehow made Shane even happier, "Yeah," He cleared his throat, attempted dignity. Failed immediately, "Yeah." The grin refused to leave, "I think that can be arranged."

A laugh escaped Ilya, the kind that seemed to light him from the inside, the sight felt strangely precious.

They exchanged phones very ordinary- the sort of interaction people performed every day. Yet Shane's hands somehow felt too large and awkward while entering his number. When he handed the phone back, their fingers brushed.

Neither commented on it.

Neither seemed especially eager to move away afterward.

Instead they remained standing there beneath the fading evening sky.

Talking.

About nothing.

About everything.

The conversation wandered naturally.

Work.

Volunteer events.

The city.

Favourite coffee shops.

Small pieces of themselves exchanged gradually and willingly, minutes slipped past unnoticed, the horizon gradually deepened into richer shades of gold.

The first hints of evening settled across the training grounds, eventually Shane glanced toward his car, "I should probably go."

"You probably should."

Neither moved.

Ilya smiled.

Shane smiled back.

Something settled comfortably between them- the strange uncertainty that had existed since their first meeting seemed to dissolve. Not completely, there was still an air of anticipation, but now there was certainty too. The good kind, the kind that felt like finally stepping onto solid ground.

"Drive safe," Ilya said.

"You too."

Shane smiled and looked back over his shoulder, "Try not to rescue anyone on the way home."

Ilya laughed, "No promises."

Finally they parted, Shane headed towards his car, the evening air felt lighter now somehow. The world brighter, his pulse, of course, remained completely unreasonable. 

He'd barely made it halfway across the parking lot when his phone vibrated, the sound startled him enough that he nearly dropped it.

A text message.

He opened it immediately.

Ilya <3

Just making sure you typed it correctly.

Shane stopped walking, stared at the screen. Then laughed aloud. A ridiculous laugh that escaped before permission could be granted. He looked back toward the facility.

Across the parking lot, Ilya was still standing a few paces from where he'd left him.

Watching.

When he noticed Shane looking, he lifted a hand. The smile that followed was impossible to mistake- Shane's own appeared instantly.

Shane :)

So little faith

By the time he reached his car, his cheeks hurt from smiling.

By the time he pulled out of the parking lot, he had reread the text three times.

By the time he reached the main road, he was grinning at every red light like a complete idiot.

The city unfolded around him in ribbons of evening gold, traffic lights reflecting against the windshield, the last sunlight lingering along rooftops and windows. For once, Shane didn't even mind the drive home, because his phone rested safely in the cupholder beside him, and for the first time since Ilya had walked through artificial smoke and promised to get him out, Shane knew exactly where the story was going next.