He's still conscious. That's a good sign. He can even stand under his own power, foregoing the need for X to work out how to carry him without coming into contact with his hands -- because that, after all, might be the reason he wears gloves. Those are all good things, and it makes their frantic dash out into the street much easier than it might have been otherwise.

The fresh air rolls over them like a wave of warm water. The moment they're clear of the flames, X falls to his knees, his eyes shut tight against streaming tears while he works to get his ragged breathing back under control. For all that X is acting exactly like someone who's just run through a fire, however, his skin looks completely untouched. No burns, no bruises, and no cuts.

He can hear the sounds of firefighting, as well as the clomp clomp of the earlier mounted officer approaching them. Run, says his well-worn danger instinct, but X couldn't even if he wanted to.