"Control is a delusion. Fire didn't change its nature from the dawn of time. It lays in wait. From a faulty wiring, from an aromatic candle, from a pile of hot laundry—it springs and spreads. It's prepared to take property and lives with speed that boggles the unprepared mind.

"You'd think that someone like me, someone who witnessed a fireball to devour her parents, would be prepared. Yet, I'm not. Fire caught me unprepared only a few days ago. Again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends of the Wisconsin and Milwaukee Fire departments! Be vigilant and provide as much support as you can give to those who put their life to fight raging fire."

Harris' mind barely registered Ablaze's speech until this moment. His attention isn't consumed by hovering over the ballroom full of bright people.

It's Ablaze. He can't process anything except her standing in the spot-light. Ablaze, all alone. The embroidered wings shine red-and-gold with her smallest movement. It's like silk is actually feathers, stirred by the wind current holding the firebird a-soaring. That's all he can see.

She takes a pause, then turns to him with a wide smile, hands outstretched in a call for everyone to notice him. He suspected that some sort of public acknowledgement was coming—otherwise why would she want him on the stage?—but he's still caught unaware.

It takes all of his fortitude not to crack up when she finishes by addressing herself to him, personally.

"Thank you, Harris Sarkisian, the firefighter of Truck Company 12, from your very own Milwaukee Fire Department, for not letting the tragedy of fire to play out to the end, taking my life."

An embarrassed smile curves his lips, yet he beats down the jolts of embarrassed, neurotic laughter. His head's swimming from this struggle. It's the same excitement as from too many glasses of Champagne on a prom night.

He has enough wits about him to figure out he must stand in response to the applause. He stands up. Even higher up now, he picks faces from the crowd.

Desiree, clapping enthusiastically. Jung, beaming with fake fatherly pride. Villarreal, wearing an expression too grave for the occasion.

And Oliver Appleby... the man's face is impenetrable. His hands go through the motion of clapping, but his gaze is fixed on Ablaze. No different than Harris' own... Very different, actually. His face is sharp, nostrils--wide. The figure loses the effortless grace of a socialite. He's coiled as if he wants to leap onto the stage and carry Ablaze away.

Harris tries to shake off the fantasy—it has to be a fantasy! They're not in the jungles, for Chris' sake!

Indeed, next time he glances at Oliver, the man's completely relaxed. So, Harris exhales slowly and watches Ablaze for a cue. What should he do? Walk off the stage with her? Sit the heck down?

She glides her way around the table. At the last moment, he remembers to pull out the chair next to him for her. She lowers herself gracefully into it and he follows her example, like a perfect gentleman he isn't.

The master of the ceremonies comes to the podium to thank Ablaze for rousing speech and make his closing remarks. They fly over Harris' head, though he makes an effort to laugh whenever the laughter ripples through the audience. Because, Ablaze.

She sits next to him, the embroidered shoulder mere inches from his face. Her perfume fills that tiny space with a teasing scent of jasmine. The long tablecloth hides it from the rest of the world, but Harris notices her legs cross at her ankles. Not like a stop sign, as a tribute to etiquette. She does so naturally. She has the effortless grace too, just like Oliver. They're a match. A perfect match, when he flushed as red as his tanned skin allowed during the public praise. And his hands still shake. He caps his knees with them to stop it. He squeezes hard, clenching his fingers, but really clenching jealousy and desire and exhilaration. Not a drop of effortless grace in him. Not a shred!

Ablaze sneaks her hand under the tablecloth to put over his. Over his bouncing knee.

"It's nearly over," she whispers. "Sorry, you've missed your dinner."

"I am not," he whispers back and meets his gaze.

Magically, his head clears out and the shakes stop. He wants this woman. Nothing has been clearer to him in his life. He reads the same desire in her eyes, not adulterated at all by the colored lenses. Screw grace, effortless or drilled in! She wants him, not Oliver. He was right all along!

The ceremony closes with the last thunderous round of applause. He offers his hand, leads her to the steps off the stage.

"Agatha?" His chest expands with joy so much, it makes breathing hard.

She startles on the top step. "Please, no. Call me Ablaze. Please?"

"It's a beautiful name," he argues in a hushed tone once they resume walking down the steps. "Charming and sweet." And not pretentious. It's not just him, Desiree also thought 'Ablaze' was wrong for her.

"I know," she replies in a small voice.

They freeze by the base of the steps. He darts a glance at her face. She stares at the opposite wall, her eyes as flat as the paint.

"I know. My parents gave me this name. And when I'm... I'm..." she licks her lips, despite the layer of lipstick, searching for words to substitute whatever she's not willing to tell him.

"When I'm ready... I'll use it."

He's flying blind here. Villarreal would frown if he notices Harris sticking to Agatha, but Harris doesn't care. He takes her hand in his. "We're born ready to wear the names our parents gave us. So, how are you supposed to get ready?"

And how is it connected to Oliver? She didn't mention her boyfriend, but her eyes flicker around. She's looking for him, Harris bets, as ire rises in him. She's looking for him because the moniker is somehow about him, not her.

"Oliver isn't listening. He can't get to us in the next little while. Look!"

The grand chandelier dims enough for the LED fake candles at the periphery tables to turn to private islands. But the middle of the room is lit just right, without excessive brightness, but without the permissiveness of a club's neon-pierced darkness. The live music transforms the ballroom into what it actually is. A place of well-mannered jollity and romance. A place that is hard to navigate fast. The festive crowd responds to these cues. It mingles. It gets into Oliver's way. The only way he can cut through to them is rudely.

A shuddering breath rocks Agatha as she glimpses it too.

"Dance with me," she commands and almost drags him to the open space. It's alright with him.

Harris wraps his arm around her tiny waist, places her hand on his shoulder. Alas, she's a mediocre dancer, but who cares? He knows what to do.

The silk under his palm is soft and cool, crimping and crimping. It doesn't hug her curves like the synthetic fabrics would. He lets it filter his touch.

"Just relax and follow my lead," he implores into her ear.

The music is a simple beat. In five steps, he carries her to the middle of the dancing area. While his legs do the job, he surveys the premises, making sure he can switch the direction whenever needed to keep Agatha away from Olive. Easy as pie.

"You were telling me about your parents and your name?"

Her whisper is hot, fast, guilty. "It's too much to explain right now, Harris, but I'm unworthy... sinful... until I'm purified, I'm ablaze and can only be ablaze."

Sam's words are fresh in Harris' mind. The man thought in modern terms, calling her asexual. Sam misunderstood. In a different time or place, they'd call her penitent and pure. A woman trying to atone for a perceived sin by mortifying her flesh and resisting its base desires. A sinner with angel's wings.

"You were but a little girl when your parents died. Whatever you think you have done, they forgive you. It's far, far harder for children to forgive their parents' transgressions than vice versa." He chuckles bitterly. "Don't ask me how I know."

Naked hope blazes in her eyes. Her whole being pours into this one glance of insatiable yearning to be forgiven. Or at least the acknowledgment that it's not her fault. Even if it's only a wild guess by a stranger--if that's all he is to her. The hope of his own, hope that he's more to her, floods him.

"They forgive you. They love you wherever they are."

For a brisk moment, he basks in the intensity of her emotions. Happiness seems to be within his reach. He can measure the distance in inches. It's just as far as the soft gap between her lips and his. His heart pounds madly, shoving against the bones with each pump. The firebird in his arms doesn't burn him. It inflames him.

Another moment, and they'll never be strangers again.

Her eyes flicker. The shade of uncertainty crawls over her luminous face.

Dammit. Damn Oliver!

He whirls her, placing his back between her gaze and the man she caught in her peripheral vision.

Alas, too late. The rushing blood distracted him, and it's too late. The halo of hope around her gutters out and passion ebbs away with hope. He physically senses her slumping, dragging her feet, missing steps.

Inside his head, his inner self shouts 'No!' at the top of his lungs.

"Is this the hold Oliver has over you?" he blurts out. "Guilt? For your parent's death? Agatha? Talk to me... please?"

She stumbles more than ever and falls against his chest for a second.

The sensation that passes through him at the brief contact is indescribably good. He can imagine himself glowing, flying away. And, of course, the basic elation kicks in. He wants this woman in every way there is. And it's so, so inappropriate!

It fires his words. "That's not love! It's absurd to think it love! Just like dating a man your family approves of... to... why? Why, Agatha?"

"To honor my parents' wishes and take part in our family business."

The turmoil on her face calms into nothingness. She distances herself from him a tiny step—and she's a galaxy away.

He asked the wrong question. He asked the wrong effing question! Because despair and desire are a heady mix. They tramp wisdom.

She obviously never grappled with this particular clash of emotions, unlike that other thing, her childhood guilt. She knows how to handle that.

He's hitting a barrier that he doesn't comprehend. It's entirely foreign to him. He should step back from it, bypass it... but he's riled by how close he's come to winning her to his side unequivocally. How insanely close he's come to getting what he wants. In the heat of the moment, it's all he wants, like he hasn't wanted in the last four years. He can't let go of it easily!

Without thinking, he shouts in a whisper, "It's fucking medieval! It's so not you!"

She shakes her head. A small shake--and it dawns at him that he's blundered for the last time. It is her, and he's shown disrespect to an important part of her. And he's interrupted like a brute.

'I'm sorry,' he'd mutter, but the music stops. His music. Their music. 

The other couples on the floor stop and look around in a lighthearted confusion. The music isn't supposed to stop. The searchlight isn't supposed to move through their midst, as if a police helicopter was hovering overhead.

It does, however. The blinding light shines upon the Master of Ceremonies with his cordless microphone and Mr. Oliver Appleby.

Harris' heart sinks.

He releases Ablaze from his arms as the spotlight, Oliver, and his buddy advance onto them. He won't hold a woman against her will.

The silence, left by the cessation of music, fills in with murmurs, coughs and happy chuckles.

Harris takes a step after step back, retreating into the shadows on the perimeter of the dance floor. His hand, clenched into fist, sails to his face. He gnaws on his knuckles.

"Ladies and gents!" the Master of the Ceremonies enthuses. "There's nothing as old as the fairy tales! Or as exciting as the happy endings!"

To the roar of applause, Oliver steps forward. The spotlight flatters him. He looks even more polished and scrubbed than before. His blond hair and blue eyes brighten in the increased contrast to his tuxedo. How? By all rights the light has to wash him out... him and his tux!

"I am a wanderer," Oliver drawls into the microphone. "But the farther I travel, the more time I have to think about what's important. And when I faced losing the most precious person in the world for me, I have decided that the time has come to stop searching far and wide for happiness. Happiness is here! It's in front of me!"

He lowers himself to one knee. Who knows where in his slick, streamlined outfit he hid the little velvet box, but it finds its way into his hands. The conference screens come to life, zooming in on the hand and the box. Oliver clicks it open, offering a circle of gold in the palm of his hand. In the middle, a diamond the size of a quarter shines with rainbows. It's surrounded with fire-red rubies.

Maybe power cuts off by some miracle. Maybe some prankster pulls the fire alarm. As the last resort, he prays for a screech of feedback from the microphone.

Nope, no such luck!

Oliver's voice carries over the ballroom, loud and clear. "Ablaze, will you honor me and make me the happiest man alive by agreeing to become my wife?"

Ablaze looks at the clamshell box and the ring.

The faces all around Harris, pink, brown or black lit up with indulgent smiles of anticipation. Such a pretty couple. Ah, young love!

Harris' breath hitches. He hangs on to this pause.

Can Ablaze crush all the expectations in such a public proposal, wipe away the confidence from Oliver's face—

"Yes," she says. "Yes."

Her acceptance is dignified, without squealing or hopping or clapping or wiping away tears of joy. It doesn't matter, though. It's still a 'yes'.

The wings on the back of her dress ripple helplessly as she walks closer to Oliver and lets him slip the ring on her finger to the thunderous applause. The screens switch to a display of fireworks and clinking Champagne glasses.

Harris whirls, ready to vomit and stomp away, but finds himself face-to-face with Chief Villarreal.

The older man claps him on the shoulder.

"Good job there, Sarkisian," Chief Villarreal says. Harris strains his empathy to the max--and he can't catch a trace of irony in Chief's voice.

"But... I didn't discover anything of importance, Sir," he replies.

The Chief shrugs his shoulders smartly clad in the gray suit. "The important thing is, this problem's leaving Milwaukee."

Harris follows the direction of his superior's glance. There could be no mistake. Chief Villarreal looks directly at Oliver—and Ablaze in his clutches—receiving congratulations in a reserved British manner. Too many idiots mistake it for class. Between that, his status and her beauty... it's as the Master of Ceremonies has hinted. The scene has a fairy tale glow to it. Only Harris knows that this fairy tale isn't a Disney version. It's the real shit, the scary one.

"Sir, is Oliver Appleby our arsonist?" he asks the Chief directly.

Chief Villarreal rubs the patch of silver hair on his right temple. "No evidence. So, it's between us, Sarkisian. My gut tells me this man is the trouble we don't want here in Wisconsin. He's shifty. He's obsessed with this woman. The sooner our happy couple goes back to whence they came from, the sooner they're no longer our problem. Understood?"

No, not really. He still doesn't know what in Chief's eyes he has accomplished. "If he's an arsonist, Ablaze can still be in danger! Sir, I saw her in that room--"

"I want you back on the regular shift starting Tuesday," the Chief says drily. "Now go, before your date comes over and slaps me upside down on the head for keeping you from her. By the way, Sarkisian, I've had a chance to chat with her. A bright young lady, very, very bright."

After another meaningful glance from under a heavy brow, Chief leaves Harris on his own. Thankfully, he doesn't clap Harris on his shoulder again, or Harris would have screamed.

The Chief isn't wrong about Desiree. She's waiting for Harris with two glasses of playful red liquid. That's top-notch smart.

"Thank you." Harris takes one of the glasses from her. "I... need it."

She toasts him with the second one. "Let's drink to the rebounds. May we always be fortunate to meet a kindred spirit!"

The glasses clink. He sniggers. "Tell me, Desiree, do you suffer sometimes for being so frighteningly clever?"

"All the time, darling. All the time."

He gulps down his glass in one go. "Want to dance?"

"I thought you'd never ask!"