Mike rolled to the other side of his bed once more in the hopes that he'd fall asleep. He thought that if he could just get some rest, then he'd be able to control his fire starting powers when he woke up. Or maybe this whole thing was just a nightmare and he'd wake up if only he could get back to sleep. He ignored the obvious flaws in that logic.

After what felt like hours but was actually only a few minutes, Mike gave up on sleeping his problems away and rolled off the bed.

He needed something to distract him from thinking about fire. Maybe a nice cup of tea would help?

So he headed into his kitchen and turned on his electric kettle, glad he didn't use the old-fashioned stovetop kind, when he spotted the charred remains of his toaster. It filled him with a deep sense of dread as he felt what he now recognized was the headiness and warmth that flooded his brain and precipitated a blaze.

He shook his head, tried to calm his rapid heartbeat, but he ultimately failed as the toaster caught fire once more. Mike frantically beat at it with his kitchen towel, but managed only to fan the flames. They caught on his cupboard that was coated with ancient lead-lined paint and made of what was probably the driest and oldest wood in the city.

He backed away hastily, feeling panic rise within him, and searched for his fire extinguisher which had proven so useful that morning.

With a second or two to steady his hands on the nozzle and the canister, he aimed it at the burning mess of fuel in his kitchen. He screamed and dropped the thing when it too lit up, and he turned to head for the safety of anywhere but his burning kitchen.

His eyes unintentionally caught his couch and the thing went up in a puff of smoke.

Mike screamed in anguish and frustration. He should probably call the fire department for help right about now. If only he could find his phone.

The kitchen must really have developed into quite the furnace, because a thick and heavy layer of black smoke was filling the room, and Mike dropped to his knees, hoping he'd left his phone somewhere close by. But it was hard to see with the air so polluted, and he ended up mostly fumbling blindly as his eyes watered and his lungs burned.

He heard it ringing faintly and realized it must be in the bedroom. He could hear the lick and roar of the growing flames behind him, and as he passed his coat rack, it became a fireball and collapsed on top of him.

He scrambled to escape the flaming death trap, pushing the wrought iron monstrosity off of himself with a yell, flinching as he wrapped his hand around the iron pole and lifted it up. He patted the stray flame off his pants in a hurry and swallowed down the fear and horror at the burns he had on his hand.

He realized that his phone was probably a moot point right about now, and that his main priority should be to get out as fast as possible, but he couldn't see anything, could barely hear anything with the sound of the growing fire in his ears, and the smoke was pouring into his mouth and nostrils, making breathing rather difficult. Tears unwillingly leaked from his eyes as he strained to see through the dense air. He tugged his shirt up so it made a make-shift mask, but it wasn't made for anything except being worn under a suit, and it kept slipping.

Mike decided that just sitting there uselessly on the floor was a good way to die, so he began crawling. He didn't know where he was crawling too, but he hoped he'd eventually find the door before he set anything else on fire.

There was a distant noise that Mike had trouble distinguishing, but he thought it sounded like knocking, and he wondered if maybe there was also a voice.

He found the corner of his apartment and guessed that he was unfortunately on the side opposite the door, when he burst into a painful coughing fit from the smoke.

Panic hit him then, and he realized he was going to die; he was going to burn to death from a fire he'd caused telepathically, all because he'd tried to make some tea. And worse, he was going to die alone. Now, he decided, was the perfect time to cry.

There was a sudden sharp noise, and Mike distantly wondered if the ceiling was collapsing or something, because he thought he heard the splintering of wood. Maybe it was just his cabinets giving one last hurrah.

It wasn't until he heard his name being called that he realized he wasn't alone anymore.

Through the smoke he thought he saw a person. It looked like they were wearing a suit, but he wasn't sure. His eyes were itching and he could barely keep them open for long anymore. There were rough hands on his shoulders, though, and he looked up into a face that looked like Harvey's. But it couldn't have been. Why would Harvey be in his apartment, especially when it was on fire?

"—ke."

He blinked at the not-Harvey.

"Mike," the voice repeated, and Mike felt himself being lifted as he started to cough up his lungs once more.

It felt like he was being dragged through a vacuum. He tried dimly to move, but his arms felt like dead weights, and what little movement he could achieve was oddly restricted, like he was being restrained.

He inhaled ash and coughed it back up, searching for the ever-diminishing oxygen. It felt like he was being drowned.

And then suddenly, he was in the clear. The air still smelled of burning and ash and terror, but it wasn't so thick anymore.

He wanted so badly to taste the fresh atmosphere, but when he sucked it into his lungs, it wouldn't fit. He couldn't breathe. He flailed his limbs in abject terror and gasped in the last-ditch effort to expand his lungs, but it was no use.

He thought he could hear a voice call his name as everything fell from his consciousness. It sounded faintly like Harvey's.

Sorry for the wait, all! This chapter was a bit longer, so I hope that sort of make's up for it...although you may hate me for the ending I just left you at...Sorry. Anyhow, thanks for reading and reviewing! You are all super cool, and get the virtual baked good of your choice! I normally would write you all back, but RL is distracting me. Until next time!