"I have my doubts," he sighs, picturing a very imaginative image of Danse parading around in a dumpster and smiling to himself. It's frankly all he has to cling to, because somehow even (or especially) when Danse was stripped down to his briefs in the power plant, he looked good. Deacon has to keep up on his surgeries and everything else to keep his mug handsome, and Danse was spit out of the Institute printer looking like the sort of guy the Romans built shrines for. Not that he envies the guy for that, he knows it comes with its own baggage.
"You're thinking too small," he hums, admiring the suit for a moment longer before sighing and tugging off the tie. He loves it, but unless they come across Convoy Corporate HQ, it's not worth keeping and he knows it. "A suit like this means caps. A high-rise in the green jewel. Vault-Tec remnants. Political connections. High-stakes poker games." He glances over his shoulder at Danse with a smirk, "Stories for another time."
The curtain is closed again and Deacon takes his time disrobing, which gives Danse a reprieve. Then he's trying on some of his scavenged jeans, mostly to make sure he can move about in them before he starts sorting through the pile again.
In spite of himself, Danse is curious to hear those stories. It's all just another stark illustration of the difference in their methods and philosophies, blunt force versus subtlety, conquering versus infiltrating. He's never had to know more than the most basic outline of the Commonwealth's political situation, because the goal was always for the Brotherhood to supplant it anyway.
For the good of the people, he'd told himself, because whatever system was in place clearly wasn't getting the job done--and maybe that was the Institute's fault, but that was only all the more reason for the region to be controlled by the only power capable of stopping them. Detailed intel wasn't necessary. Blending in would have been counterproductive. Intimidation was the idea. Everything Deacon talks about here is utterly foreign to Danse, and he's made it known exactly how he feels before about what he considers the cowardice of misleading and not showing one's full might upfront, luring people into a false sense of security, all of that--
But it feels different now, when he has a worm's-eye view of how frightening and dangerous things really can get for certain people under Brotherhood rule. People Deacon cares about, even if Danse didn't until he knew he numbered among them. He's somewhat subdued now as he keeps poking through the rack. He finds a shirt in the exact same homesick-familiar shade of burnt orange as his flightsuit was, a color that's always looked good on him. He doesn't pick it up.
"I imagine you're an absolute menace at poker," he says, when Deacon's been quiet for a minute. Honestly, he doesn't even have to imagine; he just knows. "What else do you have in there?"
"Honestly? I prefer canasta..." he scoffs from behind the curtain, getting his 'No' pile started with the suit. An absolute bummer. The outfit he tries on next is extremely casual, offering layers to shed in case they ever find themselves at risk of unpredictable weather. Pants, a tee, another button-up, and a jacket that's a sort of vintage style bomber jacket. A little bulkier than he likes, but good quality.
"Oh, a little bit of everything," he replies as he opens the curtain again, "Just wait til we get to the sundresses." He smiles, but he says it like he's not kidding... mostly because he isn't. Strap in, Danse. Deacon is only getting started and it's only getting weirder from here.
He laughs--or something that passes for a laugh; a faint little huff acknowledging it as a joke--when Deacon mentions the sundresses, but after a second's contemplation, it occurs to him that it might well not be. He thinks he had caught a glimpse of something spaghetti-strapped in that pile, upon further reflection. It does not actually strike him as outside the realm of what Deacon might find himself possessed to wear.
"Those better not be what you said you picked out for me," he says mildly, recalling Deacon's suggestion back at the power plant, but once he turns around, this is forgotten for a few reasons.
For one, the sight of the jacket only takes the guilty homesickness inspired by that orange top and cranks it up, making him long for the days when he was on good terms with vertibird pilots and not diving frantically for the nearest cover whenever he heard one approach. For another, it also looks good on Deacon in a way it shouldn't, the sunglasses lending it a cool aviator's flair and making Danse think he should be wearing tighter pants underneath it and maybe a scarf on top. He doesn't know when he started thinking about the tightness of Deacon's pants as a positive that he would like to encourage.
And for a third thing, he's always coveted one of those jackets. The Brotherhood's limited stock of them wasn't part of the uniform for anyone in Danse's division. He'd sworn he wasn't actually going to entertain the thought of trying on anything Deacon found for him, but this is making him reconsider.
"That, on the other hand...does it come in my size?"
If it fits Deacon that well, it is not going to be Danse's size.
Deacon whistles at merely the thought. "What can I do to get you into a sundress today?" he says in a voice that definitely is giving salesman, but he's not going to push his luck. Besides, Danse has humored him this long and that's approximately three outfits longer than he thought he'd have the man's attention for.
The question about the jacket makes him smile with a sort of warmth usually reserved by Deacon. He's practically tearing off so that he can race to find another in a larger size. "Ooooooh, twinning!" he shouts as he retraces his steps and begins shifting through the racks.
"If you have the chest for this, you have the chest for a sundress. Are you suuuure?" he teases, on his way back and waggling a matching jacket in Danse's direction.
His tone is flat, as probably expected, but it sounds almost as if there's more effort than usual being put into keeping it that way, as if he might crack a smile if he weren't guarding studiously against it. He can't help it. This isn't even the first time he's found Deacon's smile more powerfully contagious than it ever was back home--but then, he never saw Deacon smile like that back home. If Deacon ever did look that openly or genuinely pleased for anyone, it wasn't for Danse. It's a feeling he's not sure what to do with, but he can safely say he doesn't want to pass it up.
He's followed Deacon partway to the rack, out of sheer curiosity now if nothing else, and he does roll his eyes at the notion of being jacket twinsies, but there's amusement even in that. Danse hasn't really expected to be lucky enough for Deacon to find another jacket, but a shop like this seems to have enough of everything to go around, the way he supposes they must have back in the old days when you didn't have to get lucky.
He doesn't conceal his excitement about it, rewarding Deacon with a rare real smile in turn as he takes it to examine. Even the teasing is met with equally rare good humor in turn, now that he's in more of a mood for it. "What kind of utility would that have on me? Because I sure wouldn't be able to wear it into combat."
Deacon sighs with extra dramatic oomph to the dress idea being shut down, because of course it did, but it won't stop him from being a little imp about it. Especially with Danse in a surprisingly rare good mood. Similarly, Deacon doesn't think he's ever seen the man smile like this. It makes him look like a completely different person, one that Deacon would dare to even say he'd befriend.
"Are you kidding? It's the ultimate combat wear. Not only are you working with unrestricted mobility, but a visual distraction! Get with it, tough guy." He's already handed over the jacket, but it's satisfying to watch Danse inspect it and seem genuinely excited about something.
"If you like that, I've got something else in my pile you should try on. I'll have to dig it out."
"Uh-huh." This is pretty much the reasoning he expected Deacon to deploy, and after shrugging on the jacket to test the (comfortable and unusually good) fit, he folds his arms across his chest. It has the added benefit of testing the range of motion in the arms, but he just wants to make sure he's properly conveying skepticism here. "I think I once heard a scribe make that same argument when explaining why Grognak the Barbarian can't wear a shirt. I didn't think it was particularly sound then, either."
Not that Danse wants to admit to reading Grognak comics. Or lingering long enough while he was supposed to be on duty to pay attention to a heated nerd debate about superhero costumes. It's probably too late to deny that if pressed, though, so he slips the jacket back off and folds it carefully over his arm and shifts the subject.
"But all right, fine. You've earned some consideration. If it's along similar lines as this, I'll hear you out."
"He can't wear a shirt because he's a barbarian, duh." Deacon huffs, as if he's annoyed by this, but he's just being playful. As he leaves Danse's side, he starts to shrug off the matching jacket. "We should get back patches if we're gonna do the matchy-matchy thing. With some kind of cool team name. I pitched Nora Death Bunnies at some point, but I don't think it stuck." Maybe he should get one in her size...
The jacket goes in his yes pile, and then Deacon starts rummaging through what's left in his assortment. A good bulk of it doesn't need to be tried on now that he knows what fits and doesn't, and he can sort through it later. Eventually, he comes across the items he had in mind: a pair of leather pants and a matching leather jacket.
"Sooooo, on the subject of leather, it's a decent alternative to armor. Sturdy, not easily punctured, but moveable. And you can still add plate over it if you're picky." He grabbed a couple sizes, since the nature of the fabric will make the fit less flexible, and waggles a larger set at Danse to entice him.
"I can't imagine why," he says dryly, though the concept of having matching jackets or a team name for the three of them is not actually unappealing in and of itself when Deacon suggests it. He knows it's a joke, and maybe it would be a little on-the-nose anyway, but it's not all that much different in nature than 'Recon Squad Gladius' and their field uniforms, and he misses being part of something like that even more here than he did back home.
He doesn't know what he's expecting when Deacon fishes it out of the pile, and the jacket is not an immediate no, but he is not entertaining the idea of trying on those pants. "You might have a point about the sturdiness," he concedes, "but I can't believe those pants would have more mobility than other material."
As if he wouldn't be clanking awkwardly around in a literal suit of metal right now if he could. And as if he hasn't spent fifteen years casually walking around in skintight orange canvas with an external thong-strap wedgie, when the metal isn't available.
He reaches for the jacket, but notably makes no move whatsoever to touch the pants. And he doesn't put the jacket on, either. He holds it up to scrutinize the details. "I feel like this would make me look like a delinquent," he grumbles.
"It's all in the name, babygirl," Deacon hums, "He's a barbarian, how else will they convey that he is barbaric??"
He definitely wasn't joking about a team name. Without the railroad and therefore a purpose, he's feeling a bit lost and kind of just wants to be part of something again. But admitting this would be vulnerable, and he's had enough vulnerable moments in front of Danse recently to last a lifetime. Moments he is actively pretending never happened.
"Moreso than what you're used to," he replies, then shakes the pants again in Danse's direction. "Um... forgetting something?" he asks, only to be dramatically scandalized by the next statement with a loud pearl-clutching gasp.
Danse has taken a lot of Deacon's nicknames for him in stride. He has taken a lot of other people's less-flattering epithets stoically as well, as one just learns to do when representing and recruiting for one of the most unlikable organizations in the country. 'Babygirl' might actually break him, as he mouths it silently with utter bafflement while Deacon just keeps on going.
The direct request for input snaps him out of it, though, and he reaches unthinkingly for the pants as long as they're being held out, but then recalls what he's meant to be doing with them. He still gives no indication of willingness to try them, and would explain himself if the crazy train weren't still chugging.
"You know that's not what it's short for," he interjects, unable to help himself, and then, in rapid what am I thinking succession-- "I mean, it's not short for anything. It just is. And I assume someone from the Railroad must have chosen it, so let me just make it known that I would have appreciated something harder to make fun of."
The puns, Deacon. They have followed him like a swarm of bloodbugs for his entire life. That guy in the checkerboard jacket asked him to tango.
"In any case, I'm not putting those on. I couldn't if I wanted to." He gestures vaguely and with deep annoyance to the tail behind him. He could have just swished it out into view, but doing anything akin to wagging it feels kind of like letting it win.
"Do you ever, like... just have fun, or does everything have to be an educational lecture?" Deacon responds, wading back to his little dressing room and brushing off Danse's bitterness with the Railroad so that he doesn't turn this into another one of their patented arguments.
He's sorting through his pile as Danse continues to bring down the vibes, giving him a sideways glance as he tugs his shirt off to change again, pulling a muscle tee over his scarred torso. "Oh, right," he scoffs, "I forget about the tail."
He chuckles for a moment, shaking his head. "You know for a bit, I was wondering what weird appendages I was gonna grow. Maybe some whiskers, or like... giant crab claws or something? I mean there was the invisible thing..." he trails off, then turns to face Danse again. "It's weird right? I mean, the changes themselves, but even moreso the fact that no one seems to talk about them. And there's something else. Something new... but I'm still figuring it out."
Danse is a little chagrined by the fact that he can't argue with this, and slightly chastened too, because he'd thought they kind of had been having fun a minute ago. Or he had, anyway. As much as he ever does. It's not very much.
It is not exactly fun to watch Deacon casually change with the curtain open now, giving Danse an even fuller view than before of those wiry muscles and deep scars. But it's...something, and while Danse isn't willing to think too hard about what that something is, he's not averting his eyes either. He probably should, but--it doesn't feel as disrespectful in this context, at least, and even if he can't say he's only human, he is still organic.
The shirt doesn't look bad on him. Of course it doesn't. Deacon doesn't have quite the build Danse would associate with a top like that, and he can observe with neutrality rather than pride that he could pull it off better himself, but it's still worth looking at, drawing Danse's attention to the sigil on Deacon's arm when he's never had occasion to notice it before. The design of it looks oddly familiar, but he can't place where he might have seen it before, never having taken enough notice of the railsigns in the Commonwealth to store them more vividly in his memory.
The mark is vastly different from his own, too, though he doesn't have much other basis for comparison when most of the other drifters usually have clothing covering theirs up. It's all part and parcel of the changes Deacon's talking about, and Danse can't really argue with that either, when he certainly tries to talk about it as little as possible. Other people might, but certainly not to him or where he can hear it, except for the occasional discussion he catches on the radio. But he's had more of a front-row seat than usual to Deacon's weird transformations, unlike any he's seen on anyone else, and this piques his interest now, because he knows there must be more to come.
They were having fun, which is the point. If Danse could just let go a bit, it could even stay that way. Not that Deacon thinks the other man ruined their time, not at all. Call it his own form of lecturing.
"More of the same, I guess?" he shrugs, glancing at himself in the mirror. "It's easier if I just show you..."
It's similar to when he'd turned invisible, or perhaps more similar to the time his outline seemed to blur like there was something in Danse's eyes when he'd been looking upon him. But what differs now is that when he returns to focus, he's changed. In this case it's subtle enough; he's filling out that shirt that had been loose on him a moment ago. Deacon appears more muscular than he had before, and he wonders if this was too subtle a change for Danse to notice. Maybe he should've grown hair, instead.
"I haven't managed to take this to any extremes," he begins, "But I could give it a shot now... before you go tearing holes in pants to fit your furry butt..."
It is absolutely not too subtle for Danse to notice, when he is already staring right at those muscles, acquainting himself thoroughly with that they ordinarily look like. Given this sudden difference, he will realize later, when he thinks about it, that he actually prefers them as normal.
But this is the last thing on his mind right now, as the full stunning implications of this actually hit him. "Jesus," he says, simultaneously awed and a little bit horrified. "Now I know whatever brought us here doesn't have good intentions. Letting you, of all people, do that--it goes beyond irresponsible into downright pernicious."
Of course, there's not really anything nefarious he can imagine Deacon using it for here, and if anything, making Deacon more terrifyingly effective is more likely to be a good thing for the convoy as a whole in the long run. But in the short term, and on a more personal level, this is the last thing in the world that Danse needs Deacon being able to do.
And Deacon immediately demonstrates this, leaving Danse's eyebrows raised with belated alarm if Deacon's suggesting what he thinks he is. "Wait. Give what a shot? You don't mean--"
For a moment before Danse speaks, Deacon wonders if flexing a bit is too on-the-nose, and decides that no one needs that right now, because this is already weird enough, probably.
And yet in the same breath of air, he's considering testing his ability to mimic Danse's form. So simultaneously not weird enough? The train is barreling into the station; buy the ticket, take the ride.
Deacon barks a laugh at Danse's response, shrugging a bit with just his oversized shoulders. "I love how much faith you have in me," he snarks lightly, "Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."
A spin on his heel to face Danse, eyes scanning his body from behind his glasses, making sure to observe the details he's considering replicating, even if Danse doesn't seem thrilled by it. "Duh," he mutters with a smirk, "Twinning, obviously."
"For god's sake." There's really no way he or anyone else here can stop Deacon now from taking on their form for the purpose of prank chaos, and he can envision the worst-case scenarios entirely too easily, but...no, when he thinks it over, that's more something he would have worried about back home before he knew Deacon better. He has the sense now that if he did ask Deacon in earnest not to do this, he'd be listened to.
It doesn't keep him from feeling weird about the notion of Deacon shapeshifting into his own body to try on clothes he can't put on himself for practical reasons, but as invasive as it seems in a way he can't entirely put his finger on, it's not as if Deacon hasn't seen him in his underpants before. Half the Brotherhood has seen him in even less. And it would serve an undeniably useful purpose. He sighs heavily.
"All right, but I'm not just giving you free rein to put on whatever you want. I reserve the right to make you quit this at any time. I'd like to maintain some dignity here."
"Well, in case you change your mind..." Deacon reaches into his pile, grasping the hanger with the sundress, and hangs it prominently where Danse can see it. But he says nothing more, leaving it to grab the leather outfit he'd handed Danse before and returning to the dressing room. He gives Danse a long glance. "Wish me luck," he sighs in a 'here goes nothing' sort of way, then closes the curtain.
Behind it, he changes first. The leather outfit is definitely too big on his current form, so he focuses on that first; fitting into it so that it isn't falling off of his hips and so on. But then he's picturing Danse in his mind. The way he looked outside of the dressing room, watching this all unfold. The way he looked climbing out of the water, then dripping dry on the floor of the power plant. Or what his features looked like up close and personal before Deacon was dropped back into the water. Why this specific imagery comes to mind is something he'll contend with at some point. Whenever he's ready to stop lying to himself about how attractive Danse is.
That might be sooner than he thinks. Because when his eyes open and the reflection in the mirror is looking fine as hell in all leather and sunglasses, he nearly goes into cardiac arrest.
"Jesus Christ," he hisses in his own voice from behind the curtain; his turn to be alarmed. He turns to the side, to get a glimpse at the fit in the back. Is it hot in here? "Um... Are you sitting down??"
This thought process is completely inscrutable to Danse, who has probably broken some record for the shortest time it's ever taken for 'sure, I guess' to give way to 'what was I thinking,' and who has no idea what the shapeshifting process entails or how it works or how accurate it's possible to make it. He assumes it will be a good enough likeness just because he's never known Deacon to be anything other than committed to effectiveness in his disguises, but that only makes him wonder all the more how Deacon could recreate his frame well enough to use it as a tailless clothing mannequin.
He doesn't know what to think about the notion that Deacon's been observing him closely enough to make it look real, as if Danse hasn't just been doing the same thing in his own way for less innocent reasons. And he can't help snapping sharply and disconcertedly out of this reverie at the sound of Deacon's voice, because of all the things he might have expected to hear, this is...not one of them.
"What's wrong?" It certainly sounds like something is. "Are you...stuck like that, or something?" It's the first thing that comes to mind that could account for that note of alarm in Deacon's tone. He was half expecting Deacon to sound like him, too, and it feels like a slight relief that he doesn't, but the rest of this scenario is kind of making up for that.
Deacon scoffs in reply, hesitating another moment while he gawks at the reflection. "No, no... I just really nailed this. I don't want you to freak out on me," he replies, which is a half-truth, because yeah, he did nail it, and yeah, he doesn't want Danse to freak out... but he's omitting the fact that he's having a bunch of realizations right now and those are his real cause for alarm.
Without further ado, he whips the curtain back in a grand reveal, smirking in a way he most definitely has never seen Danse smirk, and mocking the other man's deeper voice.
This is not entirely reassuring him. "Why would I freak out, if it's that accurate? I've seen myself in a mirror before. I thought that was the objective here." Though he hasn't been inside the dressing room yet, and he rarely does actually get the chance to see himself in a full-length mirror, especially not outside of power armor. Danse has less reliable or objective a perspective on his own body than he might.
And whatever he looks like, he thinks when Deacon pulls back the curtain, it can't possibly be...that. (Surrealism entirely aside, which is proving difficult enough to process, between the outfit he's never worn anything like and the expression he's not even sure how to make.) Surely Deacon's pranking him after all, having a little laugh, just an extension of the little 'stick up your backside' and 'furry butt' jabs. It would go hand-in-hand with the way he's being mimicked after all, and he scowls reflexively, even if the imitation of his voice and his catchphrase wouldn't get more than a faint eye roll on its own.
"You're not funny, you know." He's been subject to enough teasing about his ass in the barracks and the showers over the years to be mostly inured to what he sees as a magically-enhanced version of it, at least. "All right. You've had your joke. Now make the proportions accurate so I can get some use out of this, or knock it off altogether."
Danse scowls and Deacon mirrors it, pointing a finger at Danse with a sort of glare.
"First of all, I'm hilarious," he replies, "And second, I got the proportions perfect, bud. You're stacked."
He turns again to look at his reflection, then whips his head back and forth between it and Danse. "Literally. Come get the side-by-side if you don't believe me."
"...Seriously?" There's a lot encapsulated in that 'seriously.' It's about the only response he can make to that too-accurate mirror of his expression, but also to the compliment, which leaves him otherwise speechless.
And to the image in the mirror, when he pushes into the dressing room to prove Deacon wrong, and finds himself completely unable to do so. He turns away, faintly mortified.
"Well--" He has no idea what to say. "Fine. I shouldn't have...doubted you." He folds his arms, glance even further averted.
"Honestly, even if you've got a point about the defense value of the leather, I think you'd pull it off better yourself. You should take it."
Deacon laughs, all-too pleased with himself. "Haha! Aahhh. Yes." Seriously.
It's alarming to Deacon the way that Danse can hardly look at himself. The sort of way he himself has trouble looking in a mirror. He watches curiously as Danse turns away, looking ashamed somehow. Boggles the mind.
"Oh, I plan to find myself some..." he replies, "But this one fits you far too well for you to leave it behind. And anyway, you look good in it. Dare I say cool." He shrugs off the jacket and tosses it at Danse, then nudges him with the back of an arm.
"Now get out of here so I can change into something and someone else. This is weird even for me."
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"You're thinking too small," he hums, admiring the suit for a moment longer before sighing and tugging off the tie. He loves it, but unless they come across Convoy Corporate HQ, it's not worth keeping and he knows it. "A suit like this means caps. A high-rise in the green jewel. Vault-Tec remnants. Political connections. High-stakes poker games." He glances over his shoulder at Danse with a smirk, "Stories for another time."
The curtain is closed again and Deacon takes his time disrobing, which gives Danse a reprieve. Then he's trying on some of his scavenged jeans, mostly to make sure he can move about in them before he starts sorting through the pile again.
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In spite of himself, Danse is curious to hear those stories. It's all just another stark illustration of the difference in their methods and philosophies, blunt force versus subtlety, conquering versus infiltrating. He's never had to know more than the most basic outline of the Commonwealth's political situation, because the goal was always for the Brotherhood to supplant it anyway.
For the good of the people, he'd told himself, because whatever system was in place clearly wasn't getting the job done--and maybe that was the Institute's fault, but that was only all the more reason for the region to be controlled by the only power capable of stopping them. Detailed intel wasn't necessary. Blending in would have been counterproductive. Intimidation was the idea. Everything Deacon talks about here is utterly foreign to Danse, and he's made it known exactly how he feels before about what he considers the cowardice of misleading and not showing one's full might upfront, luring people into a false sense of security, all of that--
But it feels different now, when he has a worm's-eye view of how frightening and dangerous things really can get for certain people under Brotherhood rule. People Deacon cares about, even if Danse didn't until he knew he numbered among them. He's somewhat subdued now as he keeps poking through the rack. He finds a shirt in the exact same homesick-familiar shade of burnt orange as his flightsuit was, a color that's always looked good on him. He doesn't pick it up.
"I imagine you're an absolute menace at poker," he says, when Deacon's been quiet for a minute. Honestly, he doesn't even have to imagine; he just knows. "What else do you have in there?"
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"Oh, a little bit of everything," he replies as he opens the curtain again, "Just wait til we get to the sundresses." He smiles, but he says it like he's not kidding... mostly because he isn't. Strap in, Danse. Deacon is only getting started and it's only getting weirder from here.
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"Those better not be what you said you picked out for me," he says mildly, recalling Deacon's suggestion back at the power plant, but once he turns around, this is forgotten for a few reasons.
For one, the sight of the jacket only takes the guilty homesickness inspired by that orange top and cranks it up, making him long for the days when he was on good terms with vertibird pilots and not diving frantically for the nearest cover whenever he heard one approach. For another, it also looks good on Deacon in a way it shouldn't, the sunglasses lending it a cool aviator's flair and making Danse think he should be wearing tighter pants underneath it and maybe a scarf on top. He doesn't know when he started thinking about the tightness of Deacon's pants as a positive that he would like to encourage.
And for a third thing, he's always coveted one of those jackets. The Brotherhood's limited stock of them wasn't part of the uniform for anyone in Danse's division. He'd sworn he wasn't actually going to entertain the thought of trying on anything Deacon found for him, but this is making him reconsider.
"That, on the other hand...does it come in my size?"
If it fits Deacon that well, it is not going to be Danse's size.
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The question about the jacket makes him smile with a sort of warmth usually reserved by Deacon. He's practically tearing off so that he can race to find another in a larger size. "Ooooooh, twinning!" he shouts as he retraces his steps and begins shifting through the racks.
"If you have the chest for this, you have the chest for a sundress. Are you suuuure?" he teases, on his way back and waggling a matching jacket in Danse's direction.
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His tone is flat, as probably expected, but it sounds almost as if there's more effort than usual being put into keeping it that way, as if he might crack a smile if he weren't guarding studiously against it. He can't help it. This isn't even the first time he's found Deacon's smile more powerfully contagious than it ever was back home--but then, he never saw Deacon smile like that back home. If Deacon ever did look that openly or genuinely pleased for anyone, it wasn't for Danse. It's a feeling he's not sure what to do with, but he can safely say he doesn't want to pass it up.
He's followed Deacon partway to the rack, out of sheer curiosity now if nothing else, and he does roll his eyes at the notion of being jacket twinsies, but there's amusement even in that. Danse hasn't really expected to be lucky enough for Deacon to find another jacket, but a shop like this seems to have enough of everything to go around, the way he supposes they must have back in the old days when you didn't have to get lucky.
He doesn't conceal his excitement about it, rewarding Deacon with a rare real smile in turn as he takes it to examine. Even the teasing is met with equally rare good humor in turn, now that he's in more of a mood for it. "What kind of utility would that have on me? Because I sure wouldn't be able to wear it into combat."
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"Are you kidding? It's the ultimate combat wear. Not only are you working with unrestricted mobility, but a visual distraction! Get with it, tough guy." He's already handed over the jacket, but it's satisfying to watch Danse inspect it and seem genuinely excited about something.
"If you like that, I've got something else in my pile you should try on. I'll have to dig it out."
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Not that Danse wants to admit to reading Grognak comics. Or lingering long enough while he was supposed to be on duty to pay attention to a heated nerd debate about superhero costumes. It's probably too late to deny that if pressed, though, so he slips the jacket back off and folds it carefully over his arm and shifts the subject.
"But all right, fine. You've earned some consideration. If it's along similar lines as this, I'll hear you out."
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The jacket goes in his yes pile, and then Deacon starts rummaging through what's left in his assortment. A good bulk of it doesn't need to be tried on now that he knows what fits and doesn't, and he can sort through it later. Eventually, he comes across the items he had in mind: a pair of leather pants and a matching leather jacket.
"Sooooo, on the subject of leather, it's a decent alternative to armor. Sturdy, not easily punctured, but moveable. And you can still add plate over it if you're picky." He grabbed a couple sizes, since the nature of the fabric will make the fit less flexible, and waggles a larger set at Danse to entice him.
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He doesn't know what he's expecting when Deacon fishes it out of the pile, and the jacket is not an immediate no, but he is not entertaining the idea of trying on those pants. "You might have a point about the sturdiness," he concedes, "but I can't believe those pants would have more mobility than other material."
As if he wouldn't be clanking awkwardly around in a literal suit of metal right now if he could. And as if he hasn't spent fifteen years casually walking around in skintight orange canvas with an external thong-strap wedgie, when the metal isn't available.
He reaches for the jacket, but notably makes no move whatsoever to touch the pants. And he doesn't put the jacket on, either. He holds it up to scrutinize the details. "I feel like this would make me look like a delinquent," he grumbles.
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He definitely wasn't joking about a team name. Without the railroad and therefore a purpose, he's feeling a bit lost and kind of just wants to be part of something again. But admitting this would be vulnerable, and he's had enough vulnerable moments in front of Danse recently to last a lifetime. Moments he is actively pretending never happened.
"Moreso than what you're used to," he replies, then shakes the pants again in Danse's direction. "Um... forgetting something?" he asks, only to be dramatically scandalized by the next statement with a loud pearl-clutching gasp.
"A delinquent?! Dansetopher. It's convoy-chic!"
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The direct request for input snaps him out of it, though, and he reaches unthinkingly for the pants as long as they're being held out, but then recalls what he's meant to be doing with them. He still gives no indication of willingness to try them, and would explain himself if the crazy train weren't still chugging.
"You know that's not what it's short for," he interjects, unable to help himself, and then, in rapid what am I thinking succession-- "I mean, it's not short for anything. It just is. And I assume someone from the Railroad must have chosen it, so let me just make it known that I would have appreciated something harder to make fun of."
The puns, Deacon. They have followed him like a swarm of bloodbugs for his entire life. That guy in the checkerboard jacket asked him to tango.
"In any case, I'm not putting those on. I couldn't if I wanted to." He gestures vaguely and with deep annoyance to the tail behind him. He could have just swished it out into view, but doing anything akin to wagging it feels kind of like letting it win.
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He's sorting through his pile as Danse continues to bring down the vibes, giving him a sideways glance as he tugs his shirt off to change again, pulling a muscle tee over his scarred torso. "Oh, right," he scoffs, "I forget about the tail."
He chuckles for a moment, shaking his head. "You know for a bit, I was wondering what weird appendages I was gonna grow. Maybe some whiskers, or like... giant crab claws or something? I mean there was the invisible thing..." he trails off, then turns to face Danse again. "It's weird right? I mean, the changes themselves, but even moreso the fact that no one seems to talk about them. And there's something else. Something new... but I'm still figuring it out."
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It is not exactly fun to watch Deacon casually change with the curtain open now, giving Danse an even fuller view than before of those wiry muscles and deep scars. But it's...something, and while Danse isn't willing to think too hard about what that something is, he's not averting his eyes either. He probably should, but--it doesn't feel as disrespectful in this context, at least, and even if he can't say he's only human, he is still organic.
The shirt doesn't look bad on him. Of course it doesn't. Deacon doesn't have quite the build Danse would associate with a top like that, and he can observe with neutrality rather than pride that he could pull it off better himself, but it's still worth looking at, drawing Danse's attention to the sigil on Deacon's arm when he's never had occasion to notice it before. The design of it looks oddly familiar, but he can't place where he might have seen it before, never having taken enough notice of the railsigns in the Commonwealth to store them more vividly in his memory.
The mark is vastly different from his own, too, though he doesn't have much other basis for comparison when most of the other drifters usually have clothing covering theirs up. It's all part and parcel of the changes Deacon's talking about, and Danse can't really argue with that either, when he certainly tries to talk about it as little as possible. Other people might, but certainly not to him or where he can hear it, except for the occasional discussion he catches on the radio. But he's had more of a front-row seat than usual to Deacon's weird transformations, unlike any he's seen on anyone else, and this piques his interest now, because he knows there must be more to come.
"What do you mean? What's happening to you now?"
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"More of the same, I guess?" he shrugs, glancing at himself in the mirror. "It's easier if I just show you..."
It's similar to when he'd turned invisible, or perhaps more similar to the time his outline seemed to blur like there was something in Danse's eyes when he'd been looking upon him. But what differs now is that when he returns to focus, he's changed. In this case it's subtle enough; he's filling out that shirt that had been loose on him a moment ago. Deacon appears more muscular than he had before, and he wonders if this was too subtle a change for Danse to notice. Maybe he should've grown hair, instead.
"I haven't managed to take this to any extremes," he begins, "But I could give it a shot now... before you go tearing holes in pants to fit your furry butt..."
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But this is the last thing on his mind right now, as the full stunning implications of this actually hit him. "Jesus," he says, simultaneously awed and a little bit horrified. "Now I know whatever brought us here doesn't have good intentions. Letting you, of all people, do that--it goes beyond irresponsible into downright pernicious."
Of course, there's not really anything nefarious he can imagine Deacon using it for here, and if anything, making Deacon more terrifyingly effective is more likely to be a good thing for the convoy as a whole in the long run. But in the short term, and on a more personal level, this is the last thing in the world that Danse needs Deacon being able to do.
And Deacon immediately demonstrates this, leaving Danse's eyebrows raised with belated alarm if Deacon's suggesting what he thinks he is. "Wait. Give what a shot? You don't mean--"
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And yet in the same breath of air, he's considering testing his ability to mimic Danse's form. So simultaneously not weird enough? The train is barreling into the station; buy the ticket, take the ride.
Deacon barks a laugh at Danse's response, shrugging a bit with just his oversized shoulders. "I love how much faith you have in me," he snarks lightly, "Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."
A spin on his heel to face Danse, eyes scanning his body from behind his glasses, making sure to observe the details he's considering replicating, even if Danse doesn't seem thrilled by it. "Duh," he mutters with a smirk, "Twinning, obviously."
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It doesn't keep him from feeling weird about the notion of Deacon shapeshifting into his own body to try on clothes he can't put on himself for practical reasons, but as invasive as it seems in a way he can't entirely put his finger on, it's not as if Deacon hasn't seen him in his underpants before. Half the Brotherhood has seen him in even less. And it would serve an undeniably useful purpose. He sighs heavily.
"All right, but I'm not just giving you free rein to put on whatever you want. I reserve the right to make you quit this at any time. I'd like to maintain some dignity here."
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Behind it, he changes first. The leather outfit is definitely too big on his current form, so he focuses on that first; fitting into it so that it isn't falling off of his hips and so on. But then he's picturing Danse in his mind. The way he looked outside of the dressing room, watching this all unfold. The way he looked climbing out of the water, then dripping dry on the floor of the power plant. Or what his features looked like up close and personal before Deacon was dropped back into the water. Why this specific imagery comes to mind is something he'll contend with at some point. Whenever he's ready to stop lying to himself about how attractive Danse is.
That might be sooner than he thinks. Because when his eyes open and the reflection in the mirror is looking fine as hell in all leather and sunglasses, he nearly goes into cardiac arrest.
"Jesus Christ," he hisses in his own voice from behind the curtain; his turn to be alarmed. He turns to the side, to get a glimpse at the fit in the back. Is it hot in here? "Um... Are you sitting down??"
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He doesn't know what to think about the notion that Deacon's been observing him closely enough to make it look real, as if Danse hasn't just been doing the same thing in his own way for less innocent reasons. And he can't help snapping sharply and disconcertedly out of this reverie at the sound of Deacon's voice, because of all the things he might have expected to hear, this is...not one of them.
"What's wrong?" It certainly sounds like something is. "Are you...stuck like that, or something?" It's the first thing that comes to mind that could account for that note of alarm in Deacon's tone. He was half expecting Deacon to sound like him, too, and it feels like a slight relief that he doesn't, but the rest of this scenario is kind of making up for that.
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Without further ado, he whips the curtain back in a grand reveal, smirking in a way he most definitely has never seen Danse smirk, and mocking the other man's deeper voice.
"Outstanding, no?"
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And whatever he looks like, he thinks when Deacon pulls back the curtain, it can't possibly be...that. (Surrealism entirely aside, which is proving difficult enough to process, between the outfit he's never worn anything like and the expression he's not even sure how to make.) Surely Deacon's pranking him after all, having a little laugh, just an extension of the little 'stick up your backside' and 'furry butt' jabs. It would go hand-in-hand with the way he's being mimicked after all, and he scowls reflexively, even if the imitation of his voice and his catchphrase wouldn't get more than a faint eye roll on its own.
"You're not funny, you know." He's been subject to enough teasing about his ass in the barracks and the showers over the years to be mostly inured to what he sees as a magically-enhanced version of it, at least. "All right. You've had your joke. Now make the proportions accurate so I can get some use out of this, or knock it off altogether."
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"First of all, I'm hilarious," he replies, "And second, I got the proportions perfect, bud. You're stacked."
He turns again to look at his reflection, then whips his head back and forth between it and Danse. "Literally. Come get the side-by-side if you don't believe me."
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And to the image in the mirror, when he pushes into the dressing room to prove Deacon wrong, and finds himself completely unable to do so. He turns away, faintly mortified.
"Well--" He has no idea what to say. "Fine. I shouldn't have...doubted you." He folds his arms, glance even further averted.
"Honestly, even if you've got a point about the defense value of the leather, I think you'd pull it off better yourself. You should take it."
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It's alarming to Deacon the way that Danse can hardly look at himself. The sort of way he himself has trouble looking in a mirror. He watches curiously as Danse turns away, looking ashamed somehow. Boggles the mind.
"Oh, I plan to find myself some..." he replies, "But this one fits you far too well for you to leave it behind. And anyway, you look good in it. Dare I say cool." He shrugs off the jacket and tosses it at Danse, then nudges him with the back of an arm.
"Now get out of here so I can change into something and someone else. This is weird even for me."
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