Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue. Thank you.

Ok, this is a bit of a stretch for me, it's my first try writing a "Miggy" fic, so tell me what you think. This is AU, so don't kill me.

Thanks,

Miss C.

Iggy and I always had this little joke. Not the ha ha funny kind, just an argument that we often referred to during normal conversation. One that never failed to bring a smirk to my lips. It was the one he could never win.

"For the last time Max, Art is not eternal. Art is split second. A masterpiece that blooms suddenly and violently, before fading, falling, and leaving only a trace. The light on your face, the heat of chemical reactions on your skin, and that bone rattling, earth shaking boom that follows. That, my dear Max, is true art."

"You are mistaking, I fear. True art is eternal. It never fades. That "art" you speak of is nothing more than a fleeting beauty, not something that passes down through the ages. True art is everlasting. It never fades nor dulls, and can be perfected. True art can not be made with a chemistry set and a few matches, it requires talent, poise, and patience. None of which you seem to possess, Pyro."

"Are you saying I don't have talent?"

"Possibly."

"Fine, just don't be surprised when you find a little 'gift' outside your window on Christmas morning."

"You wouldn't." I say, narrowing my eyes.

"I would. Just admit it, you would be lost without me and my art." This time, he smirked, before turning and walking towards the door.

"Wait- I didn't say…" I went after him, putting a hand on his shoulder. The next thing I knew, My back was pinned against the door frame, my hand still on his shoulder, his lips on mine. My eyes fluttered shut and I kissed back as best as I could, considering this awkward position. When we broke apart, breathing heavily, he looked up sheepishly, indicating the mistletoe hanging above us.

I blushed a little, but didn't break away. I noticed his hand was still on my waist. Funny, I thought he… does this mean he meant that… or didn't he? I put a hand up to my face, feeling like I had just been subjected to a roundhouse kick. Oddly, it actually felt kind of nice. Very strange. Wait, I couldn't…like him…could I?

Before I had time to figure any of this out, he turned "See you around." He said jauntily waving. "Works every time." He muttered under his breath, smirking to himself. "I heard that!" I yelled, whacking him upside the head with a magazine.

"Fine you win! I surrender!!!!!"

"You admit my art is better?"

"Don't get carried away."

(The magazine was badly abused that day.)