There's nothing for it but to toss himself in, head first, just like everything else, every other day, with Steve. Chasing down crooks or fixing an unfixable problem, or this, even this, he shoves into it full speed ahead, and there's nothing for Danny to do but chase along after him and do some of the pushing, himself.

The only other alternative is to get burned to a crisp under it all, but he can't, won't, because there's nothing destructive here, hasn't been, not even that one night, the one that left him all patterned in bruises that were never explained. Even then, it was never a fight. Was always just the two of them, stuck on the same orbit, filling the world with light and heat and contact and this, everything else that fills him up like juice pouring into a glass.

Scattered and shoving. Breath all ragged and painful in his chest, pushing for harder, for faster, like chasing down a suspect and needing to push his legs faster, faster, chasing something down that can't be tackled and brought to ground, that's only going to end up running him off a cliff, and he's shaking for it. Pressing up, to find Steve there, burn of muscles and burn of lungs, falling into sheer instinct, want and need, vaguely aware of blankets and sheets under him, intensely focused on the weight of Steve over him. Wanting to drag him down, to get so tangled they can't find the start of one and the end of the other.

Steve's name coming choked against his breath, fires lighting one by one in succession, all ready to come tumbling down together, slippery ropes tightening and coiling. Tremors running rampant under his skin, like he's trying to shake it right off. Matching Steve as best he can, and starting to lose rhythm to frantic speed.

While the room around them starts incinerating, cool island air flashing into a wealth of fire and light.