Title: Made of Flame
Summary: She made him what he was, then let him go. Kyro
Prompt: LJ meme: Prompt by arliddian
It was battle. It was fierce. It was bloody war. And all Kitty could think about was the boy made of flames.
"I'll be right back," she shouted into the X-Jet.
Bobby was still helping Jimmy onboard. "No! Wait!"
But Kitty had vanished into the wind.
She stayed phased. Nothing in her was foolish enough to think that what she was doing was anything like safe, searching for her enemy among the fallen with Phoenix disintegrating everything around them. She nearly choked on the iron smell of blood and haze of smoke, but she kept going until she found him.
"Oh, John," she whispered.
But it was only a moment lost; there was no time for more. She reached down and phased his body, then nearly stumbled under the weight. She could call for help. Kitty knewthat bad blood and all, Bobby would not want their former friend to die, but this was personal. This was her former lover, and flames belonged only to the fire.
She didn't call him.
He woke with a groan, then stifled it against the pain hammering inside his skull. His mouth felt dry and tasted of caked blood. He was lying on his back. He opened his eyes—and winced.
Kitty's voice was soft. Her own eyes failed to accuse them the way they had the last time he saw her. She laid one cool hand against his forehead and said quietly, "Your fever's down."
"What am I..." His voice trailed off. He stared at the rips in her uniform, the dry blood rusted against her hands and that perfect skin. He remembered briefly how soft it always felt. It was his blood, he suddenly realized, and it gave him strength to finish. "...doing here?"
Kitty's gaze flickered with...something. He wasn't sure what. "Looks like you'll be okay," she said, voice still soft.
Her face hardened. She leaned over and kissed him hard.
His emotions reeled. He tried to reach up and push her away, but he only held her tighter. The kiss tasted of blood and fire and sweetness.
She let him go with her lips but not her hands, mouth whispering fiercely into his: "You are fire, you hear me? You're not a lackey. You don't belong to anyone—anyone. Not me, not the Professor, and certainly not Magneto. You're fire. You belong to fire."
Then his hands were empty and the air was cold.
"I love you," she whispered, then was gone.
He sat up, fingering his ribs. Bruised but not broken. (Story of his life, huh?) He was in the back corner of some library between two crowded walls of bookcases. His flamethrower was empty in his hand. His Zippo was in the other, where she'd left it.
He did not even know if he'd been cured. He flicked open the Zippo, heart clenching at the bitter familiarity. The flames rose around him, and he was fire.