His stomach turned with whispers of smoke, eyes running with what he told himself was the effort of keeping them open. All he could see was flames, hands against windows, blonde hair – but he wasn't sure whose anymore, his mother's, Cassie's…
Her scream split open the night, piercing the silence that hung heavy over Chance Harbour like a fog. He was at her stoop before she'd even thought to turn on a light. He burst into her room, eyes ablaze, fists drawn. There was no fire, no witch-hunters, no demons; only the witch with blankets strewn around her and eyes wide, gasping for the air which refused to cling to her throat. He dropped onto her bed, calling her name as she gasped in a raspy way he knew too well. His hand in hers, he willed her to breath.
She was breathing easier now, staring at the traitorous streaks from his eyes, watching as his own breathing hitched to match hers. "Cassie, are you okay?" Such a simple question, such a complicated answer. She leant forward, looping her arms around his neck and pulling herself closer, searching for anything but flames.
He was watching her, trying to recall a distant memory of a muttered tale over a phoneline. She was staring at his socks, puzzled by the colours on a typically grey-scale boy. A boy who was currently wearing no top and causing fires to light under her cheeks in a way that didn't wake her screaming but still left her slightly breathless.
She caught his arm as he stood to leave, feeling it tense beneath her fingers. "Stay?" His muscles still taut, he avoided her eyes, looking out at the empty home he should return to. "Please? I don't want to be alone when the fire comes."
They were still, awkward, frozen in a way that two so consumed by fire should never be. He was watching the stars, wondering what she saw when she looked at them: Adam and their destiny? Her mother, young and happy, decorating her room? A faceless father somewhere out there, looking at the same sky? Her eyes were still drawn to those socks. "I didn't say thank you. For at the dance. Going into the flames." He could see the smoke in her eyes, feel his heart bashing at his rips to say something. She whispered instead, "I don't know how you did it."
"You ran into the flames also, for Melissa." She rolled her head, staring at him directly.
"She's important to me. I couldn't just leave her."
"Maybe I couldn't leave her either – genetics, you know, we Armstrong's can't just leave pretty girls be, comes in handy when they're lying in a fire I guess." He smirked, waggling his eyes in the suggestive way of a cheese-ball. But she wasn't biting, too drained and confused, she bunkered down inside her mind.
"After that day on the dock, when Faye set my car on fire, I couldn't even light a candle for a week." Her voice trailed off, eyes drifting to the photo of her mother as her breathing caught roughly.
His hand gently slid across her arm, tracing its curve, the pink scar from Sloane's blade. A calloused thumb came out to sweep away the tear cutting its way down her cheek and she turned her face into it, seeking the comfort of hands which could break her, but wouldn't try tonight. He sighed, letting her body shelter in his. He whispered his confession - "I couldn't just leave you there, at the school, you're too important to me." - into her blonde locks as her breathing finally evened.