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The fire alarm went off at two in the morning. Because when the hell else did fire alarms go off?
Carson jerked out of sleep so violently their arm whacked Greta in the shoulder. Greta mumbled a complaint. Carson shoved at the weight of blankets, trapped and half-strangled until they were finally on their feet. They clamped their hands over their ears. The blaring alarm pierced right through, like nails on a chalkboard—if the chalkboard was Carson’s spine. Goosebumps tightened Carson’s skin, painful prickles all down their arms and up the back of their neck. “Greta! Greta, we have to get out of here!”
Greta groaned and rolled out of bed. Yawning, she yanked on a sweater and shoved her feet into the nearest pair of runners. “Okay. It’s okay. We just have to go downstairs.”
In the distance, sirens wailed, dopplering closer. Jesus, the building was really on fire. Carson felt half-blinded by the noise of the alarm. Greta tried to take their hand, but Carson jerked away. They needed the muffle of their own palms. They squinted their eyes as tightly as they could, as if the sound could stab them through their eyes as well. Greta wrapped an arm around their waist and led them out the door to the fire stairwell.
The stairs were worse. The alarm shrieked a higher note, echoing off the cement walls of the stairwell, and now mixed with the press of bodies and questions as all their neighbours pushed and grumbled. Babies cried. Children whined. The stairs were cold and rough on Carson’s feet—they hadn’t stopped for shoes.
And the noise just kept going. Once they were outside, they were directed by a fire marshall with an electric bullhorn where to stand. The fire truck’s strobing lights beat red against Carson’s now tightly-shut eyes. Greta murmured to them, tugging at their hands, but Carson hunched as small as they could and refused to lower their arms.
“Carson!”
Carson’s head jerked up. For an instant they stared at Greta, worry written all over her face. Her fingers wrapped around Carson’s wrists. “Greta—I—fuck. I can’t. I can’t. The building’s on fire.”
“It’s not.” Carson could barely hear Greta through the thunderclap of their own heart, the babble of the people around them, the whoop of sirens. But they saw Greta’s mouth moving, as if in slow motion, and tried to focus on it. “It’s not—it was an electrical fault. The fire marshall—”
That was good. Carson knew that was good. But their heartbeat roared in their ears. Their lungs felt too tight to breathe. They couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t—
Greta’s hands gripped hard at Carson’s wrists, but this time she wasn’t trying to yank Carson’s arms down. She was simply holding on, so tight it was almost painful. Carson could feel it, though. Greta’s fingers. The length of them. The hard press of her wedding ring against Carson’s wrist bone. Heat, where Carson was frozen in every other inch of their body. “Carson. Stay with me. Breathe, sweetheart.”
Carson couldn’t stop twisting their head. They weren’t trying to disagree with Greta, but their head kept insistently jerking to the side, as if they could shake off the weight of all the sound.
And then Greta was walking with them. Feet still cold, cement still rough, but Carson could feel it now. The aching chill. The occasional stab of a stone under their foot. And Greta, leading, insisting. Away from the lights, the noise.
Then, suddenly, like a curtain falling: peace. They’d turned a corner, and that was enough to cut off most of the noise, and all of the wailing lights. Greta let go of Carson’s wrists and wrapped them in a hug. Not a hi-how-are-you hug; not a romantic, swaying hug; this was a hug like a straightjacket, that enveloped Carson and pressed firm, warm reality against them from every side.
And Carson could finally breathe. Breathe, and then shiver, the shivers vibrating into a full on shake that wouldn’t stop. Greta stroked a firm palm down Carson’s back, over and over again, and Carson focused on that sensation: Greta’s hand, the scratchy-grip of her finger nails, the strength of her palm. Over, and over, and over again, until Carson was breathing. In. And out. With each long stroke. Greta didn’t stop until Carson was still.
“Sweetheart. Carson. Love,” Greta said, the words like her hand: slow, firm, grounding. “Be with me. Just an alarm. You’re here. I’m here.”
“I’m, yeah. Here,” Carson said. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Shush,” Greta said. “Anyone would panic who thought the building was burning down.”
Carson shook their head, a denial this time. Anyone would, but not like Carson. Not with the stupid, senseless, unthinking terror that Carson got from sudden loud noises. Carson could listen to engines and impact guns and drills all day and not break a sweat, but a banging door, a sudden voice, a fire alarm, and they were a fucking wreck.
Greta must have sensed Carson’s thoughts, because she gripped Carson’s face in both hands. She peered into Carson’s eyes, only for the quickest moment, before folding Carson’s cheek against her collarbone. “Anyone. Carson.”
Carson swallowed and did their best to nod. “Okay. Okay.”
“All right. Good to go back? They’re letting us back in after they check the fire panel.”
Carson’s body tensed. Without permission. Just: one moment, trembling, but loose; the next, twisted like a noose.
Greta felt it. “Not yet, then,” she said.
“I—I can—”
“No,” Greta said. “I’m staying here. I want you with me, Shaw. We won’t freeze. A few more minutes. Right here.”
And that’s where they stood, on a grimy New York street, Carson pressed against Greta’s chest and holding on like their life depended on it. They breathed her in; felt her skin; waited, while Greta let them. Let them be anyone, anyone at all, anyone loved and cared for and known, until Carson was fully themself again.