Archive of Our Own ^beta

Layla wakes on the floor of her bedroom, confused and hurting and choking on hazy smoke. She rolls onto her back, face scrunching up in confusion. The last thing she remembers is... she was... she's not quite sure.

Her senses come back slowly to her even if her immediate memory does not. Her head is killing her, and her lungs are rattling. Her mouth tastes like ash. She sits up, feeling like she just woke out of a very deep sleep.

Then comes the sound. An awful blaring, over and over, shrill and shrieking, the sound of panic and danger. She grimaces. She thinks, thoughts like syrup, what is that?

She pushes herself to stand on unsteady feet. Then she clocks the smoke filling her room, and the sound becomes a siren, her mind catching up to itself.

"Oh, fuck," she says, and immediately coughs up half a lung. Gaia knows how long she's been breathing in the smoke. Did she fall asleep? Did the smoke knock her out so she didn't hear the siren?

Her thoughts jumble over each other and she finds herself grabbing her phone, her bag where she must have dropped it on her desk chair. At the same time she grabs a potted plant, and part of her brain says no, Layla, not a priority, so she puts it back, standing dumbly for a minute.

"Shoes," she tells herself. She pulls on her sneakers. "Handle," she tells herself, testing it in case it's hot. It's not, but she's feeling dizzy, now, as she cracks the door open. No inferno. Just thick smoke, and heat, from somewhere, and that siren screaming in repeated waves, so loud she cringes from it, like it has a physical presence and is lashing her over and over.

She drops to a crawl. Smoke is meant to rise, right?

She crawls, and she feels sick, eyes watering. Her apartment is endless and disorientating, a grey void. She can't find the door. Her heart is thumping in her chest. She covers her mouth with her shirt, coughing some more. Still, panic doesn't set in. She just feels sleepy and sore at the same time as a distant voice, the same one, she thinks, that told her to put the plant down and put on her shoes, tells her not to fall asleep, to crawl, to get up, Layla! Get out, Layla! Layla! Layla!

She furrows her brows. That isn't her voice. It isn't her.

She crawls forward an inch. Nothing is making sense. She took a sleeping pill. She remembers that. She'd come home at midnight exhausted and had wanted to just knock out for the night, get some good shut-eye. Which might explain why she didn't wake up when the alarms were sounding, as her apartment filled with smoke.

Layla!

There's that voice again. Distant, external. A little muffled. Shouting.

"Layla! Layla are you in here?"

"I'm here," she rasps. The floor looks very comfortable. "I'm in here," she says, pressing her cheek to it—it's warmer than it should be, or maybe she's just feverish.

A booming sound. One, two, crash. "Layla! Layla Williams are you in here?"

And then out of the smoke comes a torch beam and a tall, bulky shape. Layla looks up through her watery eyes. A firefighter in full uniform almost steps on her.

"Oh, fuck," she hears, and then he's in front of her, crouched down, anonymous behind his mask, his helmet; his uniform that flashes in the torchlight. She reaches for it. "Layla, is there anyone else in here?"

"No," she says, "Only me."

He speaks into his radio with one hand, while the other, rough and gloved, touches hers. Then he's saying, shouting really, that he's going to lift her up, to hold onto him. His arm is between her legs. The room spins. Then Layla is over his shoulder, and they're moving. She laughs, which she thinks must be a good sign. But—fireman's lift. She never thought it would happen to her. Her face thuds against his back, his shoulder, thud thud thud, and the air is getting fresher, and she squints against the light, and then—

And then they're outside, outside her apartment building, and it's controlled chaos. Two engines with flashing lights, multiple firefighters, people in silver blankets like baked potatoes. Someone shrieks. Layla feels like she might throw up.

"Alright, alright," someone else is saying, and then the entire world spins, ground-sky-ground-sky, and the firefighter is laying her gently on the ground and yanking off his gloves, his helmet, his mask, flinging them aside, and Layla is staring blearily at the sky and can't really breathe, but also feels so weak that she can't even panic. She can feel tears running down her temples and she can't really see a thing.

"Am I dead?" she says, and then she really starts to cry, because she didn't get to say goodbye to her mom, and Magenta's birthday is in a few weeks and her present is sitting wrapped and ready to go in her wardrobe.

"No," says the firefighter, "No, you're not. Here, careful—Boyd! Boyd, get a medic over here now!"

Hands on her face and her head. A mask over her mouth and nose. It feels like breathing gold. Sharp fragments but cold at the same time. Layla inhales.

"Slowly, slowly," says the firefighter. "Hey, you're alright. Layla? Breathe slow for me."

Layla does. She blinks, vision clearing a little. She feels the grass under her. She feels the pinch of the oxygen mask.

"Are you hurt?"

Layla blinks, chest aching.

"Layla, are you hurt?"

"No. No I... I fell asleep," she says. Then she sits up, yanks off the mask, and vomits. "Oh, gross," she says miserably. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise. Here."

The firefighter produces something for her to wipe her mouth with. He's talking to someone, Boyd, and then Guttierrez, and then she's drinking water, and then the mask is back on, and Layla is sitting there beside her own vomit, and she wipes her eyes, and looks back and realises—

"My apartment building is on fire?"

"Only a little. The smoke went through the vents but the fire itself has been mostly contained."

Layla blinks at the building. How odd, to feel no adrenaline, considering what she was just pulled out of. "Is everyone ok?" she asks.

"Seems like it. Hey, Layla, could you look at me?"

She does, twisting back around. Then she just stares, and nothing he's saying is registering. He has to be around her age, this firefighter. 'PEACE' is over his breast pocket. Layla breathes, great big aching lungfuls, at this young man, this handsome, sweaty young man with red lines over his cheekbones from his mask, hair an absolute mess and stuck to his skin, dirt or smoke blackening the side of his neck, his forehead and jaw. His dark eyes, and his eyebrows furrowing as he looks at her.

"—are you gonna throw up again?" he asks, and she realises he was talking at her, and she was just sitting there, swaying a little, staring at him.

"No," she says somewhat petulantly. Then she laughs. "Peace," she says. "Funny."

"Alright," says the firefighter, but he cracks a very nice smile himself. "Let's get you up."

He helps her stand like she weighs half a pound. He escorts her to a nearby ambulance, where she sits in a silver blanket of her own and drinks something sweet the paramedic gives her, and she doesn't see him again. He's disappeared to keep working.

Layla is taken to the hospital with two others both suffering smoke inhalation. They sit, mostly in silence, in the back of the ambulance, just breathing. The paramedic explains what will happen when they arrive and assures them that they'll be okay. She realises when she's climbing back out at Maxville Memorial that she's got her bag. Someone got it for her. She clutches it to her chest until she's in a bed having a blood test and is being asked if there's someone she can call, and she calls Will, because her mom is in Oregon.

He arrives less than thirty minutes later. Layla cries against his chest as he texts the group to say that Layla is fine.

"Jesus," he tells her. "When I heard your building was on fire, Layla..." He shakes his head. "I'm glad you're ok."

"Me too," Layla whispers. She tells her about what she thinks happened, the sleeping pills, the not hearing the sirens, the exhausting lack of panic she felt crawling around in the smoke. Magenta calls, offers to grab stuff from Layla's apartment since the fire is out and the building is stable. Then the nurse says Layla will be just fine, to get plenty of rest, take cough medicine if her throat is sore, and come back if she pukes up blood.

Layla walks out with Will. She breathes in the polluted city air of midtown Maxville, never so glad to be able to. Will drives her to Magenta's. Layla relays her tale of woe yet again, and then falls asleep in Magenta's bed.

***

She wakes at midday the next day feeling parched, run-over, and very, very lucky.

Magenta gives her a long hug. Layla drinks cold smoothies and calls her mom and says she's alright, to stay in Oregon, it's not a big deal. She doesn't cough or puke up any blood. She has a killer headache, so curls up on the couch with a cold compress on her forehead and brainless TV playing. She sleeps for another six hours. Around 8pm, she wakes ravenous, and Magenta orders takeout, and Zach and Ethan call to say what the fuck. Will drops by, the next morning, and his parents send her flowers. Layla calls her mother twice that day.

Then she goes to her apartment. The smoke damage isn't too bad, all things considered, and all but one of her plants survived. Layla flings the windows open. She, Maj, and Will take everything that's salvageable, loading it into the back of Will's gas-guzzling SUV. He says he knows she's okay because she bullies him about getting a more efficient car. By the end of the day, she's asleep on Magenta's couch again, but she wakes a few hours later and her friends are there and her apartment didn't burn down with all her stuff inside it, and insurance will cover everything that needs to be replaced, and she's not out on the street right away. Will is sent out to collect their delivery, and when he comes back, Layla is remembering PEACE, and breathe slow for me, and a smiling, sweaty face.

She tells Magenta and Will, scrambling through her memory.

"He was so... strong," she says stupidly. Maj scoffs. Will flexes his own considerable muscles.

"Well you kind of have to be, lugging your deadweight around."

Layla threatens him with her chopsticks.

"So your saviour wasn't just a regular hero," says Maj, grinning wickedly. "He was a super-hottie."

Will rolls his eyes. Maj wiggles her eyebrows.

"He was pretty cute," Layla says. "I mean... yeah." She smiles down at her pad thai. "He did save me. He was kind to me even though I looked like shit and nearly vomited on him."

"So he's an employed, athletic, kind, highly competent hottie," says Maj. "Sounds like a catch, if you ask me."

"Maybe you should go thank him," says Will. Maj slaps his arm with the back of her hand.

"Maybe? You definitely should."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate your appreciation—"

"Put on your sluttiest dress—"

"Put on normal people clothes," Will cuts in, elbowing Maj.

"Put on you cutest dress—the green one that makes your tits look good, which I saved, lucky you—and go bag—I mean thank—your very own sexy firefighter," Magenta crows. "You have to, Layla! His last thought of you can't be vomit and tears."

"I'm sure he hasn't thought about me at all," Layla says, swirling her chopsticks through the noodles. She puts her chin in her hand. "But maybe I will go. At least to say thanks."

"Yeah you will," says Maj, winking. Will is standing, telling Maj he can definitely lift her in a fireman's carry. Maj is leaping to her feet, shouting at him that she can definitely lift him, and why the hell would he think otherwise?

Layla sits there, grateful for being alive or whatever, and thinks, okay, maybe I will go.

***

The morning of day five, Layla wakes star-fishing in her bed, a dream lingering in her periphery. A face smiling at her. PEACE. She thinks she remembers him bringing her bag to the ambulance, but she was too out of it to fully realise. She smiles, and then she presses her fingers to her mouth, because this is ridiculous, it's probably some kind of saviour Stockholm syndrome, or something. He was just doing his job. Layla doesn't even know his name.

But she makes her mind up to go and speak to him, thank him. Even if it's just his job, something he's done a hundred times before.

On the sixth day post-fire, her headache is mostly gone, and her throat doesn't hurt anymore, and she's officially washed the smoky smell out of her hair. She's moved most of her stuff into Magenta's apartment while she arranges new accommodation. She's going back to work on Monday, and her boss has told her to take it easy. Life is moving on.

Layla roots through her things and there it is. The dress Magenta mentioned. Green with small pink flowers and a ribbon straps, the flouncy skirts brushing mid-thigh. She pulls it on, pairs it with her favourite boots. She adorns her body with perfume and some jewellery. She lets her hair flow in fiery waves and curls. She applies a bit of makeup. Then she stands in front of the mirror. It sure is a lot better than the sweats and snotty nose from before. And Maj is right. This dress makes her tits look great.

She snaps a quick photo and sends it to Maj, grabs her purse, and is through the door before she can chicken out.

She gets the sexy public bus further into Maxville, remembering that it was station 05 who responded, and when she steps off into the early summer sunshine, Maj has texted her back a dozen fire emojis.

Layla has butterflies in her stomach as she walks down the street. What if she's got the wrong place? What if he's not even at the station? What if he doesn't care, and really is just doing what he's paid to do, and actually hasn't spared a single thought about her in the last six days? She's trying too hard. What if he's not even single? What if he's not even into women? What if he's not into her?

This makes her flush with excitement and a bit of fear, because she actually has a crush on this guy she met for fifteen minutes when she was dazed from a high pressure situation. Maybe it'll fade once she gets to speak to him again. It's just that right now she feels like she needs to thank him, extend her gratitude, and at the very least get a good look at him, and figure out if he is available or even interested, and if she's actually interested or just infatuated in the moment over an idea.

The fire station appears, four doors gaping open beneath two floors, a city flag hanging outside. Layla feels very small as she walks across the concrete, but she keeps her head up and tells herself that at worst, she gets to thank the man who saved her life.

"Can I help you?" comes a voice, and she looks through the late-morning glare into the shadow of the station to find a woman standing from where she was working on one of the fire trucks, tools spread about.

"Uh, hi," Layla says. "It's not an emergency or anything." The woman relaxes a little, hands on her hips. "I was actually wondering if I could speak to the firefighters who responded to the fire on Ninth and Harbury last week."

"Oh well that'll be us," says the woman. "I'm Maya, by the way."

"Layla. I wanted to thank you, is all."

"Boyd! Tank! Gutierrez!" Maya shouts, and as if by magic three men appear from somewhere in the station. Layla suspects they were just sitting in the trucks, or perhaps clinging to the rafters. She likes to imagine them doing increasingly complex lifts on the firemen's pole that are enough to make a stripper blush. "This here is Layla, and she'd like to thank y'all for our service at the Harbury fire."

Boyd is tall and distressingly blond. Tank is five-seven-and-a-half and in possession of a thick moustache. Gutierrez is wearing his sunglasses on the back of his head and heavily tatted on both arms. All of them are muscular and good-looking, the kind of people you'd expect to see at fire stations, or at the very least featured in sexy calendars, leaning against trucks or plucking at their little suspenders, abs on display. She guesses it's just a requirement of the job.

"How goes it, Lila," says Boyd.

"Layla, you dick," says Tank. He sticks his hand out. "No thanks needed, but appreciated, miss."

Boyd shakes Layla's hand too, giving the same sentiment, and Gutierrez fist bumps her and asks her if she's alright, if she lost any of her stuff.

"A plant, a few things to the smoke. But otherwise I'm okay thanks to you guys."

"All in a day's work," says Tank. "Maya here is the machine that got us there so fast."

"Best driver in the city," says Maya, miming a steering wheel.

Layla takes a big breath. "Well, thank you, all of you. Really. I mean, one of you literally saved my life. He dragged me out of the building and was gone before I could say anything."

"Ah, I think I know who you're talking about," says Boyd, folding his arms. He laughs. "Smoke show, Maya."

Maya's eyes bug. "Oh," she says. "Oh, okay!" She eyes Layla, grins wider. "That'll be our sleepy little peacemaker," she says, giving Layla a jovial shake as Boyd speaks into his radio.

"Jakey, is smoke show up there with you?"

"Yeah, boss," comes the reply.

"He still napping?"

"Nope."

"Send 'im down immediate like, would you? Say it's a non-fire emergency."

Less than fifteen seconds later, a new person is jogging in from what Layla can only imagine is a three-story firemen's pole, looking around as if to identify what kind of incident needs resolving, his face serious and all-action.

Layla's heart leaps. Because it's Peace. The sweaty, dirty-faced man who saved her.

He slows to a walk, realising there's no emergency, and looks around the group before his eyes land on her.

"Hey," he says, and Layla feels her entire body go zing! as she watches him look her up and down, as she looks him up and down too, at his work boots, his dark blue-grey cargo pants, the black shirt, the suspenders hanging loose around his hips. Everythings fits him... just so. Makes his arms and shoulders look great the way this dress makes Layla's tits look great. No longer sweaty and covered in ash and smoke, his hair neatly tied back, he looks just like she remembers. No, he looks better. More handsome than she ever could have dreamed.

"Hi," she says, highly aware that the others are grinning manically.

"Warren," says Maya, and Layla repeats the name in her head, twisting her fingers around the strap of her bag. "This is—"

"Layla," Warren the firefighter says. "No, no, I remember. How's it going?"

"Layla wanted to thank you personally for saving her life," says Boyd as he corrals the others away. Gutierrez winks at Layla. Tank puts on his sunglasses and shakes Warren by the shoulders as he passes. Maya gives Layla a huge thumbs up as she backs away.

Then it's just the two of them, standing in the fire station. Layla can't help her big, stupid smile.

"Hi," she says again. "Sorry if this is... not how things are done? But I really wanted to thank you for what you did."

Warren is still looking right at her with those dark eyes that make her feel like she could fall into them forever, eyes that are devouring her, eyes that dip down to her chest twice and then away, because he knows she's caught him.

"I really appreciate it," Warren says, "but I'm just doing my job. No thanks needed."

"They're absolutely needed," Layla says. When did they step towards each other? "You saved my life. You made me feel safe. I had no choice but to come and thank you in person."

Warren inhales, his chest expanding. He tucks a bit of hair behind his ear. "Well," he says.

"Just accept my thanks," Layla cuts in, and he laughs in surprise.

"Alright. Thank you for the thank you."

Layla bites her lip and grins. She feels giddy.

"Warren, wasn't it?" she says.

"Yes." He puts his hand to his chest as if pointing to himself. Then he sticks it out. "Warren Peace."

"Layla Williams." Layla slides her hand into his. It dwarves hers, strong and sturdy. When he brings his other hand up to clasp hers inside his, she feels those butterflies turn into birds. "Thank you, Warren."

"You said that already."

"Can't really thank someone enough when they've saved your life."

Gaia, Layla thinks. He is the best-looking man I've ever seen, ever.

She also thinks (hopes) that this spark is real. That she's not imagining the electricity surging between them.

They're still holding hands, though, so maybe it is. She takes another step forward, looking up at him, letting him know she's taking him in, tracing his features. She tries not to squeal at him pulling her slightly as she approaches, like he doesn't want to let her go.

"Could I buy you a coffee?" she asks after a minute where they just sort of stand there, smiling at each other like dopes.

Finally he looks away, glances to the station. Layla's stomach clenches over the collapsed momentum of the moment.

"I'm technically on duty," he says.

"Oh. That's okay, maybe another time," Layla says quickly.

"...but that doesn't mean I'm chained here," he says, also quickly. "There's a café just around the corner. We could... we could walk there and back?"

"Perfect," Layla says.

"Alright," says Warren. He lets go of her hand, walks backwards a few steps. "Let me—let me tell Boyd and I'll—I'll be right back."

"Okay," Layla says, rocking slightly on her heels. "I'll be here."

"Okay," he softly echoes, and then he's jogging away.

Layla grins when she hears his colleagues, who were clearly eavesdropping across the floor, woop and holler at him. A few minutes later, he's jogging back out, radio on his hip.

"Let's go," he says, and as they turn, Tank shouts, "You're the man, smokey!"

"Like the bear?" Layla asks. She can't stop looking at Warren. She can't stop looking at his shoulders, his jaw, him. She can't stop seeing him looking right back at her.

"Not exactly," Warren says. "My nickname at my old station was Grouch. Here it's, uh, 'Smoke Show'." He flexes his fingers, and Layla grins, because of course it is.

"Grouch, huh," she teases instead. "How come?"

"Unfounded rumours about being grumpy."

"Unfounded?"

"Oh, yeah. Total lies."

Layla laughs. He looks at her and grins all wide. She says, not even thinking, not even pausing to doubt, "Can I have your number?"

He stalls, eyebrows lifting. Layla gets whiplash, fearing she's read this all wrong.

"If you're not interested or have someone already that's fine, I just thought I'd ask—"

"You can definitely have my number," Warren says. "I'm not with anyone. And I am interested." His voice is deep and steady, but hitches slightly like he's surprised. "I'd just planned to ask you for yours first."

"Well, Grouch, some people would call me competitive."

They stop on the sidewalk and exchange numbers. Warren texts her 'Hey' and Layla saves the contact just as his name and a fire emoji, even though her heart is telling her to add hearts and stars and other such whimsy.

They keep walking. Their hands may or may not brush.

They reach the cafe too soon, and he opens the door for her. As she passes beneath his strong, toned arm, catching a whiff of his cologne, he says, "This isn't because you think you owe me, is it?"

Layla stops, stares at him. Lets him squirm for just a moment. Then she tilts her head and says, "That's the purpose of the coffee. Everything else is because I think you're cute."