Danse knows this is urgent. Time is very much of the essence, because if they linger, the grove will just sap the rest of his strength like it's already been doing, and probably turn its hungry, vengeful attentions on Deacon too. The possibility of them both getting webbed up in vines and sucked dry, never to be seen by the convoy again, is distinct.

But fuck, does he want to kiss Deacon right now. More than he had even when fueled by alcohol and too far gone to remember it now, and more still when Deacon holds out that hand, which Danse grips tight to haul himself up and then keeps held firmly in his own. Above and beyond all that, he's never been more desperate to kiss anyone than he is at the sound of that snarling possessiveness. Where it even came from, he has no idea, because Deacon's never struck him as the type--but the werewolf in him seizes onto it with a sense of deep rightness, and the lonely wasteland orphan in him latches onto it with quieter longing, and only the soldier in him remembers that he can't afford to drift back off into dreamland now.

He's flagging hard now, having spent almost the last reserves of his energy to fight the vines off, but if he leans too hard on Deacon for physical support, it'll slow them both down. He lets go of Deacon's hand with a last thoughtless squeeze and nods exhaustedly toward the tree line. "Go ahead. I swear I'm right behind you. I won't let you down, I just..."