It's taken Danse longer than it's taken Deacon to realize that something's wrong, even though he's the one feeling increasingly foggy and leaden-limbed. That hasn't been so out of the ordinary for him lately, after a tentative trial run at testing the boundaries of the Institute's bold 'synths don't need sleep' boast. He'd made it almost 48 hours before deciding he'd rather be sharp when driving on the mountain road he could see up ahead, but that isn't enough to satisfy him--he's seen Haylen hold out for longer, and much as he admires her, she's still human. He'll try again once the convoy's road smooths out.
He'd considered running the 'how long can I go without food' experiment instead, but then once Deacon had hit on the idea of foraging for hooch-enhancing ingredients along the convoy's previous path, Danse had decided it would just be miserable to do that while hungry, and eaten a normal breakfast. Nonetheless, he hasn't been at his best this week. And he wouldn't blame Deacon for noticing, except that his brain is finding it difficult to focus. Why is he still so tired, after a rest he already should have found unnecessary? He doesn't think the tree had done anything, and he isn't accustomed to getting sick.
Still, if Deacon's going to put things like that, it's a matter of pride now. He straightens up from his uncharacteristic slouch and picks up the pace as best he can. "I'm in better shape than you'll be after eating an entire box of carbohydrates," he says, as if he hasn't marched on a meal of Instamash and potato chips before. That's one thing his synth constitution seems to handle unusually well. But he feels like he's experiencing the kind of food coma he's only known since arriving here, and there's nothing to account for it right now. He pauses again to rub his eyes, yawns, and loses his train of thought.
Deacon's expression is skeptical. After all, it doesn't take very long after that little gloat for Danse to look about ready to collapse again. The eyeroll behind his glasses is damn-near audible. He's going to need to think on his feet, here.
"Get it together, soldier!" he barks in a passably-military tone. A touch smug, he nudges Danse with his elbow to jostle him. "What do I gotta do to wake you up?" he asks, demonstrating a little slap to his own cheek as if that's an option. If he does it to Danse, there is always the chance that his hand gets bitten off. Maybe he's ticklish?? God. Now is probably not the time.
But Deacon is worried. He's never seen Danse like this, and given the way he's seen the world they find themselves in effect those around them, he highly suspects it's gotten to him somehow... which means to could hit Deacon next. They need to hustle.
The jostling isn't necessary at that exact moment, when that bark startles him enough to make him flinch--mostly with its volume, but it is just passably military enough to take Danse back to his initiate days and being hollered at by Paladin Krieg when he wasn't digging latrines fast enough. It is not an experience he looks back on with fondness, however much he might otherwise miss that old bastard.
"Well, you don't need to hit me," he says, with the irritable tone of someone being denied a request for five more minutes of sleep. God, that would be nice. Just five more minutes of rest under one of those other trees, in their comforting shade. What harm could it do?
Deacon's elbow brings him back to reality just long enough for a chill to creep down his spine at the brief realization that this could, in fact, do a lot of harm. He isn't supposed to be feeling like this. It isn't natural. And he does need to listen to Deacon, who might be a gadfly at the best of times, but who would never just leave him here to pass out and be devoured by carnivorous plants.
"Just--keep talking. And don't get smug about it. This may be the only time you'll ever hear me say that to you, so don't rub it in."
Deacon might commonly make a quip or three, but he's not the sort of guy who will just talk a person's ear off, far from it. He prefers silence, mystery, and all things that generally come with the 'guy who wants to be anyone but himself' persona. So at that reply, he dramatically clutches his pearls and gasps.
"Smug? Me? Never." he replies, "Fine, fine..."
The military stuff seemed to work, at least. Deacon straightens up, moving a few steps ahead of Danse with a light jog and puts on his best drill sergeant voice. "Don't just stand there with your teeth in your mouth, soldier! Get a move on! We have daylight to stomp out! I want to see those knuckles off of the ground and those feet move like there's a Deathclaw on your tail."
This works to get Danse moving not so much because of the voice--which he will think about in more detail later, because it's doing something to him and he does not want to analyze it--but because parsing the nonsensical phrasing takes enough brainpower to keep him from losing focus again for the moment.
"If there was a deathclaw on my tail," he mutters, "I'd probably let it rip the damn thing off and keep it. God knows I don't want it."
He wonders sometimes if the wastelanders here, himself included, have gotten a little complacent now that they don't have deathclaws to worry about. Nothing that's ever burst out of a husk at Danse has been remotely as problematic as a deathclaw. But he can at least remember what it feels like to run from one, so he does his best to channel that energy, even if he can't quite muster a jog.
"How are you so chipper? I'm not complaining, we'd be in big trouble if you weren't, but..." He's slowing down again, sounding as drained as if he's just taken the entire Freedom Trail at a run, even if he isn't out of breath.
"Is that an argument, soldier?" Deacon barks, if only because now is not the right time to tell Danse that he finds the tail charming, especially when it wags against his will in response to something Deacon has done. He'd never thought of himself as a dog person, and yet...
"Next time you're surrounded by territorial Deathclaws and your battle buddy, who is bleeding from multiple wounds, tells you that he needs to make it back to his wife and children, are you going to look him in the eye and tell him you'll let the damn things tear you apart because you don't want your tail???" Deacon isn't even sure that the Brotherhood is allowed to have a home life, but that shouldn't matter. Danse has soldier hammered into his head, so whatever drill sergeant Deacon is channeling right now is irrelevant. It's the tactics that matter, here.
Deacon slows down at Danse's questioning, noticing Danse slowing down as well. It's more unusual to see this other man this tired. "Oh don't worry, you owe me for this one..." he mutters, falling back to Danse's side so that he can shove close enough to shout directly into his ear.
Danse has the wherewithal to roll his eyes at the first challenge, even if he recognizes the purpose of it enough to keep him from complaining, but then things begin to feel fuzzier around the edges.
It isn't that Deacon's tactics aren't working. They are working, as best they can, and as best as anything else really could. The imagery is evocative enough to bring Danse back to similar situations and spur him doggedly on a little further, back the way they came toward the grove's edge in the barely-visible distance. He's just starting to feel like he's in that half-dreaming state, drifting off on his feet again as they slow to a stop, feeling like he is back with his old company, trying to hold off a 'claw attack with broken and bloodstained power armor as they buy Knight Astlin time to line up her aim--
Deacon's actual words have ceased to register, which is for the best in some ways lest Danse start to wonder exactly what he's going to owe Deacon for this, but in any case, that state of being is short-lived. At that shout, he jerks awake again with a full-body startle, staggering backward a step and nearly tripping over a root, and his response is the deep-ingrained reflex that comes from years of service.
Score one for Sgt. Deacon. It's a good thing he has such a good poker face, because otherwise he'd look far too pleased with himself at the sudden compliance. He'll replay the moment in his memory later, once he's certain they're safe from harm.
"You will be sorry if I have to wake your wilted ass up again," he continues with his act, reaching in to give that tail-end a firm wack with his hand and immediately regretting it, because good god is that going to give him something to think about after this.
"There you go, 'Atta boy," he utters, a bit more himself than he means to be, but the end of the grove is in sight. Freedom is surely upon them, even if they have the added inconvenience of trying to find their way back to the convoy.
Once Danse is awake enough again to realize what he's said and who he's said it to, his expression solidifies into a distinct scowl, even though he still ought to be grateful. The slap to his ass--conveniently made even easier by the way his tail swishes out of the way as if to invite it--only deepens the frown and makes him blush brightly on top of it, despite the fact that Deacon is far from the first person to give in to that impulse. Danse's ass had once been informally voted the most smackable one in the barracks, before his promotion to paladin rendered it above such indignities. (He had not been present for the vote.)
He doesn't have time to think about why it's different coming from Deacon, aside from the obvious fact that it isn't being inspired by real military camaraderie. (He also doesn't have time to think about the rush of pleasure and warmth that floods him at that gentler 'atta boy.')
He would think about it, probably with some accompanying protest, if the grove were not deciding to take this all as a threat to its desired meal and step up its game. At this pause, before Danse can start moving again, the underbrush begins to snake vines out toward him, coiling around his calves before he can react and giving a swift sharp jerk to yank his feet out from under him and send him crashing to the ground, landing hard on his stomach with a painful, winded grunt as the breath rushes from his body.
Deacon should have been paying attention. Instead, he's staring at the most smackable ass in the barracks, and his lack of awareness has once again cost Danse his dignity and wellbeing. The guilt is palpable. Or will be, once the shock goes away.
The vines are staking claim on their territory despite Deacon's best efforts to get Danse moving out of their harm, and while this would normally piss Deacon off anyway, the draconian shift he's experiencing has made him somewhat territorial himself. The initial shock of what's happened morphs into an anger that Deacon doesn't normally show, and through a grit of his teeth, he's moving fast to stomp on one of the vines and grind it beneath his heel.
"Oh, I don't think so," he mutters aloud, addressing the damn forest directly. More vines are snaking their way over, and Deacon has a few things on his person that he's already reaching for; a utility knife on his belt and the lighter he keeps in his pocket for his cigarettes. The knife obviously to cut Danse loose, but...
"Make another grab at him and I'll burn the whole damn grove down!" he shouts, as if plantlife understands human language at all. It doesn't matter to him if it does, frankly.
The last time Danse had seen Deacon this genuinely angry, it had been at him, and he'd fully deserved it. Under the circumstances, it had not occurred to him to find it attractive. And he is not even the slightest bit prepared for how utterly, wildly different it feels to see Deacon get angry to the point of violence on his behalf.
He doesn't protest it or try to claim it isn't necessary. Partly because it very much is, and Danse is never one to reject a rescue he actually needs, but mostly because the notion of Deacon being protective of him stirs up a kind of overflowing emotion he can't even name, and if Deacon were to look down at him right now he'd see the same wide, shocked, admiring baby-fawn eyes that M7 used to turn on Doe when she would muscle in front of him to gun down ferals before they could touch him. There's just a shade of something extra that M7 had never felt, though, a tinge of heat and a little flush of recognition at the romance of it.
It's gone in the space of a moment, because Danse can compartmentalize, and he isn't going to make Deacon do all the work. He wrestles himself back into a sitting position to kick out at the things, trying to pry them off once they've been wounded by Deacon's knife, but he's just slow enough at it to make the grove think it might still have a chance. As if calling Deacon's bluff, it reaches out one more tendril in Danse's direction.
While he's not so naive to think he's fought them off that easily, Deacon sees the progress being made by Danse's movement. It's clear to him now that the other man's exhaustion is definitely part of this, the forest's move to slow down their prey and make him easier to catch.
"C'mon, " he mutters to Danse, offering him a hand just as he notices the new vine movement. He flicks on the lighter and waves the flame in its direction, his voice taking on a more eerie calm tone as he does. "Ah, ah, ah... Go find something else for dinner," he says, "He's mine."
The last word is growled in a way he'll later reflect on, but the threat of fire does seem to deter the wildlife once it feels the heat. Satisfied with this, he turns back to Danse to offer his hand again. "We gotta get you out of here," he says firmly, "Now."
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..."
"Absolutely fucking not," he snaps, deliberately pushing Danse along ahead of him where he can watch. If this drill sergeant bullshit isn't going to work any longer, well, Deacon will just have to do something he knows Danse finds annoying. Something he will probably hate strongly enough that it will fuel him for another few yards. And here he was enjoying their first little adventure that went without an argument. So much for that.
"I swear I'm right behind you," Deacon mock-repeats in a voice that is about as close of an approximation to Danse's that he can. "I just need to rest my big, dark, baby brahmin eyes under a tree until it sucks the last of the life out of me."
When Danse looks at him, it'll be like he's looking in the mirror again in that dressing room. Deacon's perfected his illusionary Danse disguise, he's just never gotten the voice right. Still want to kiss him, now?
All right, maybe not. At least not as an immediate response to the sudden shift in tactics, which Deacon is fully correct in assuming will piss Danse off enough to give him a second wind. When he has the time and bandwidth to stop and think for more than a second at a time, he'll understand that this is just more of Deacon trying to keep him safe, and moreover that it says something that Deacon has observed him well enough to calculate his needling with such precision.
But right now, he's worn to the bone, and too irritable because of it to think of anything but exactly the sort of engagement Deacon wants from him. "I know I don't sound like that. And if you're insinuating that I'm trying to hang back out of laziness, or gullibility--"
The break in the trees is just up ahead now, and he is still managing to keep up some pace as he's marched toward it, so the outrage is in fact working.
"Oh no?" Deacon rushes up ahead of Danse again, turning to face him and walking backwards so that he can keep his eyes on the other man while taunting him toward the exit.
"Prove it, then. Because every minute I deem you move too slowly, I get closer to dressing you in something you definitely don't want the rest of the convoy seeing you in for our grand reappearance."
As if to prove his point, he's suddenly not wearing the shirt he had been, and instead seems to have something tight and lacy cinching in Danse's waist, his wild werewolf chesthair poking out of it from every end. It looks extremely hot 'ridiculous'.
The taunting voice, he could handle, but this is just slightly too much indignity to be borne, and his eyes widen further than they've managed since he first started to nod off under that tree. At another time, he'd have more of a filter and be better equipped to brush it stoically off, but right now--
"You son of a bitch."
There's no real heat to it, the accompanying scowl more on principle than anything, but this, too, works to keep him going, until Deacon finally backs out into a grassier open area and Danse follows him. The difference is immediate, stark, a lifting of the weight on his limbs and eyelids, rejuvenation as if he's taken a desperately-needed power nap, and this is evident in the prompt straightening of his spine and sharpening of his dazed-looking eyes.
With that newfound clarity comes the recognition of just how hard Deacon has been working to keep Danse alert enough to escape, even if it meant annoying the hell out of him. It also occurs to Danse to wonder just how much attention Deacon has been paying to the particulars of his body hair, because what peeks out of the corset now is a shockingly accurate representation.
"I didn't mean that," he backtracks--sheepishly, in light of the fact that Deacon's just saved his life, but still eyeing that lingerie with wariness. It is not what he would consider a good look on his own frame. "But I think we're out of the woods now, so you can drop the...whatever you're doing."
Deacon's cackle feels wrong coming out of Danse's mouth. He doesn't actually care about the cursing, he's been called so much worse.
But there's a calmness to him once he notices Danse perk up, and a bit of pride to realize his little scheme worked. He doesn't change back just yet, wanting to be absolutely certain they're safe. If nothing else, maybe with him looking like Danse's twin, it's a decent decoy.
"You did," he shrugs nonchalantly, "In the moment, anyway. And I deserved it..." he moves back closer to Danse's side so that he can triumphantly taunt the forest once more. Because he's won. Claim staked.
"That's right!" he shouts back at the trees, "I hope you all get turned into math textbooks! Hahaa..." he laughs tiredly, reaching back to pat Danse on the shoulder. "Well done soldier," he sighs.
Danse isn't sure which gets to him first, or more strongly--that sincere praise from Deacon with its gentle physical affection, making warmth well up in his chest again even when a part of him is still offended by the mimicry, or the weariness in Deacon's tone that makes it all the more obvious how much effort he's just expended for Danse's benefit.
He's earned the right to yell at the forest for no other reason than that, but the possessiveness is still audible underneath it, and even with Deacon still mocking him in that corset, Danse's earlier desire to kiss him comes roaring back. Just...not looking like this. Danse is not nearly vain enough to want to kiss his own mirror image, no matter what it's wearing. He covers that hand on his shoulder with his own in a kind of reciprocal claim-staking, a gesture that he wouldn't make if he were just acknowledging a platonic shoulder clasp. This is not a platonic anything. Not anymore. Not after that 'he's mine.'
The clearing they've entered has a broken-down old shed, surrounded by things like rusted garden tools and mildewy scarecrow components, but Danse ignores these and rests a hand on Deacon's chest--not so tangibly furry as his own, even if made to look it--to back him steadily toward it.
"I said, drop it."
His voice, its usual low firm growl, seems almost to echo faintly in the wide-open clearing.
And just like that, the illusion snaps away. It isn't as if Deacon intended to keep that up all evening, but that isn't what makes him drop the act. Just as he's been compelled to do things before, such as claim his territory with Danse, or be unable to enter his vehicle without explicit permission, there's something in Danse's voice that he cannot bear to resist. He clears his throat, looking back up at Danse as himself, shorter once more and a lot less furry.
It's odd for more reasons than one, but in the eerie quiet outside of that all-consuming order as Danse has him pinned against an old shack, the weight of everything they've experienced today starts to sink in. The way Danse responded to Deacon's barking, the pull he'd felt to protect his own, the way his ass jiggled under the clap of his hand, and now the way Danse looks at him has heat pooling somewhere deep inside of himself, and a shuddering breath escapes his lungs, speechless all of the sudden.
Danse doesn't realize he's done anything compelling. If Deacon seems unusually quick to comply with that demand, Danse just takes it for a response to the commanding tone he's deliberately cultivated over the years, mundane but often effective--and maybe a bit of sensual distraction in the way he holds Deacon against that splintery wooden wall with the weight of a single hand, flat against his chest now, warm and firm as he moves closer to cage Deacon in.
"That's more like it," he murmurs. He wouldn't often want to see Deacon as speechless as this, regardless of what he might grumblingly pretend, but right now, it feels fair. Now, the breathlessness is shared between them as much as that life-giving breath was in the lake, and a flush rises to his cheeks as he realizes how mutual the unspoken need for this is.
They might neither of them remember the last time this happened, but Danse will remember this time in razor-precise detail as he bends his head to press his mouth to Deacon's, slow and deliberate now rather than the fierce drunken hunger of before, winding his way deeper into it and anchoring his free hand in Deacon's shirt in a way that's already become unconscious habit when they're this close.
He can't pinpoint what exactly he finds most alluring about this, be it the way he's pinned into place to begin with, crowded against the shack that feels like it could possibly collapse under their weight, or the way Danse's voice goes from commanding to sensual, those four little words igniting the sparks in Deacon's chest into stronger heat.
Deacon's eyes fall shut behind his shades as Danse's lips meet his, and his own fall open easily to welcome him in, curious and meticulously tasting him where he can. If it weren't for the fact that Deacon is nearly almost anxious, he'd feel that he has no reason to be, here, because this is so clearly desired between them, his arm not resisting to throw themselves around Danse's body and tug him close with an unspoken hunger.
He groans softly into Deacon's mouth, his reactions even more vivid and candid than they usually are, and his body leaning just that little bit further in to press them flush together as Deacon drags him closer. The hand on Deacon's chest slides up and around to the back of his neck, and then Danse's fingers slip under the wig to stroke softly at the hair underneath--that, he remembers, even if only half-consciously, and he longs to feel it right now.
His tongue meets Deacon's halfway as they deepen the kiss together, matching each other's energy spark for spark, and when Danse pulls back again, it's only just far enough to speak.
"I can't believe you threatened to burn down a forest for me," he breathes, voice husky. "I've never seen anything that romantic in my life." And hot. It was really, really hot. Granted, Danse has not witnessed much romance in his life, and been the object of even less of it, but he remains smitten nonetheless.
He doesn't mention the more overt possessiveness, as if afraid that if he acknowledges it aloud, Deacon might recant it. Danse isn't even sure how he ought to feel about it himself, no matter how much he'll be dwelling on it later, and how much it's fueled his need to have his arms around Deacon right now. They both know what's been said, and now at least Deacon knows it's far from a deterrent where Danse is concerned.
Danse's groan is echoed as Deacon's body arches to meet his halfway and eliminate the distance between them. His breath catches as Danse pulls back, gawking slightly as he speaks. He can't help the way his cheeks turn pink and he stammers slightly as if trying to explain himself in a hushed tone.
"It was trying to kill you. I--" he cuts himself off before he can backpedal all of it. He doesn't know if it's wise to be doing this sort of thing with Danse to begin with, but it's kind of late for that consideration, now. Deacon takes a breath and speaks with more confidence then, his hand cupping at Danse's jaw.
"I won't let anything harm you."
He's almost certainly said those exact words to Danse before, when they'd both been different people, when their situation had been much different, too. There's something bittersweet about saying it, now.
The hand on his face would be making Danse's heart want to reach out of his chest like a potato in a root cellar stretching out a sprout in search of light, even if it were just being done as an anchor while they kissed. Outside of the kiss, that gesture takes on a dimension of tenderness that makes Danse lean physically into it, head tilting and eyes drifting briefly shut.
The promise is grave, solemn, in a way he isn't accustomed to hearing from Deacon. Danse believes him.
"That goes both ways, you know." It didn't always, even back when he'd first steeled his nerve and asked Deacon to teach him how to shoot a pistol, so that he could pull more of his own weight on that dangerous journey to Rivet City. But it does now.
Danse would never refuse that offered protection, not even out of pride, even had their recent ordeal not made it very clear how necessary it can sometimes be--but he would like to think that keeping people safe is a specialty of his too, and he'll be damned if he lets anything touch a single fuzzy ginger hair on Deacon's head. He ducks in for another kiss, as if cementing the pact with it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He'd considered running the 'how long can I go without food' experiment instead, but then once Deacon had hit on the idea of foraging for hooch-enhancing ingredients along the convoy's previous path, Danse had decided it would just be miserable to do that while hungry, and eaten a normal breakfast. Nonetheless, he hasn't been at his best this week. And he wouldn't blame Deacon for noticing, except that his brain is finding it difficult to focus. Why is he still so tired, after a rest he already should have found unnecessary? He doesn't think the tree had done anything, and he isn't accustomed to getting sick.
Still, if Deacon's going to put things like that, it's a matter of pride now. He straightens up from his uncharacteristic slouch and picks up the pace as best he can. "I'm in better shape than you'll be after eating an entire box of carbohydrates," he says, as if he hasn't marched on a meal of Instamash and potato chips before. That's one thing his synth constitution seems to handle unusually well. But he feels like he's experiencing the kind of food coma he's only known since arriving here, and there's nothing to account for it right now. He pauses again to rub his eyes, yawns, and loses his train of thought.
no subject
Deacon's expression is skeptical. After all, it doesn't take very long after that little gloat for Danse to look about ready to collapse again. The eyeroll behind his glasses is damn-near audible. He's going to need to think on his feet, here.
"Get it together, soldier!" he barks in a passably-military tone. A touch smug, he nudges Danse with his elbow to jostle him. "What do I gotta do to wake you up?" he asks, demonstrating a little slap to his own cheek as if that's an option. If he does it to Danse, there is always the chance that his hand gets bitten off. Maybe he's ticklish?? God. Now is probably not the time.
But Deacon is worried. He's never seen Danse like this, and given the way he's seen the world they find themselves in effect those around them, he highly suspects it's gotten to him somehow... which means to could hit Deacon next. They need to hustle.
no subject
"Well, you don't need to hit me," he says, with the irritable tone of someone being denied a request for five more minutes of sleep. God, that would be nice. Just five more minutes of rest under one of those other trees, in their comforting shade. What harm could it do?
Deacon's elbow brings him back to reality just long enough for a chill to creep down his spine at the brief realization that this could, in fact, do a lot of harm. He isn't supposed to be feeling like this. It isn't natural. And he does need to listen to Deacon, who might be a gadfly at the best of times, but who would never just leave him here to pass out and be devoured by carnivorous plants.
"Just--keep talking. And don't get smug about it. This may be the only time you'll ever hear me say that to you, so don't rub it in."
no subject
"Smug? Me? Never." he replies, "Fine, fine..."
The military stuff seemed to work, at least. Deacon straightens up, moving a few steps ahead of Danse with a light jog and puts on his best drill sergeant voice. "Don't just stand there with your teeth in your mouth, soldier! Get a move on! We have daylight to stomp out! I want to see those knuckles off of the ground and those feet move like there's a Deathclaw on your tail."
no subject
"If there was a deathclaw on my tail," he mutters, "I'd probably let it rip the damn thing off and keep it. God knows I don't want it."
He wonders sometimes if the wastelanders here, himself included, have gotten a little complacent now that they don't have deathclaws to worry about. Nothing that's ever burst out of a husk at Danse has been remotely as problematic as a deathclaw. But he can at least remember what it feels like to run from one, so he does his best to channel that energy, even if he can't quite muster a jog.
"How are you so chipper? I'm not complaining, we'd be in big trouble if you weren't, but..." He's slowing down again, sounding as drained as if he's just taken the entire Freedom Trail at a run, even if he isn't out of breath.
no subject
"Next time you're surrounded by territorial Deathclaws and your battle buddy, who is bleeding from multiple wounds, tells you that he needs to make it back to his wife and children, are you going to look him in the eye and tell him you'll let the damn things tear you apart because you don't want your tail???" Deacon isn't even sure that the Brotherhood is allowed to have a home life, but that shouldn't matter. Danse has soldier hammered into his head, so whatever drill sergeant Deacon is channeling right now is irrelevant. It's the tactics that matter, here.
Deacon slows down at Danse's questioning, noticing Danse slowing down as well. It's more unusual to see this other man this tired. "Oh don't worry, you owe me for this one..." he mutters, falling back to Danse's side so that he can shove close enough to shout directly into his ear.
"Now MOVE."
no subject
It isn't that Deacon's tactics aren't working. They are working, as best they can, and as best as anything else really could. The imagery is evocative enough to bring Danse back to similar situations and spur him doggedly on a little further, back the way they came toward the grove's edge in the barely-visible distance. He's just starting to feel like he's in that half-dreaming state, drifting off on his feet again as they slow to a stop, feeling like he is back with his old company, trying to hold off a 'claw attack with broken and bloodstained power armor as they buy Knight Astlin time to line up her aim--
Deacon's actual words have ceased to register, which is for the best in some ways lest Danse start to wonder exactly what he's going to owe Deacon for this, but in any case, that state of being is short-lived. At that shout, he jerks awake again with a full-body startle, staggering backward a step and nearly tripping over a root, and his response is the deep-ingrained reflex that comes from years of service.
"Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!"
no subject
"You will be sorry if I have to wake your wilted ass up again," he continues with his act, reaching in to give that tail-end a firm wack with his hand and immediately regretting it, because good god is that going to give him something to think about after this.
"There you go, 'Atta boy," he utters, a bit more himself than he means to be, but the end of the grove is in sight. Freedom is surely upon them, even if they have the added inconvenience of trying to find their way back to the convoy.
no subject
He doesn't have time to think about why it's different coming from Deacon, aside from the obvious fact that it isn't being inspired by real military camaraderie. (He also doesn't have time to think about the rush of pleasure and warmth that floods him at that gentler 'atta boy.')
He would think about it, probably with some accompanying protest, if the grove were not deciding to take this all as a threat to its desired meal and step up its game. At this pause, before Danse can start moving again, the underbrush begins to snake vines out toward him, coiling around his calves before he can react and giving a swift sharp jerk to yank his feet out from under him and send him crashing to the ground, landing hard on his stomach with a painful, winded grunt as the breath rushes from his body.
"Nngh--god damn it--"
no subject
The vines are staking claim on their territory despite Deacon's best efforts to get Danse moving out of their harm, and while this would normally piss Deacon off anyway, the draconian shift he's experiencing has made him somewhat territorial himself. The initial shock of what's happened morphs into an anger that Deacon doesn't normally show, and through a grit of his teeth, he's moving fast to stomp on one of the vines and grind it beneath his heel.
"Oh, I don't think so," he mutters aloud, addressing the damn forest directly. More vines are snaking their way over, and Deacon has a few things on his person that he's already reaching for; a utility knife on his belt and the lighter he keeps in his pocket for his cigarettes. The knife obviously to cut Danse loose, but...
"Make another grab at him and I'll burn the whole damn grove down!" he shouts, as if plantlife understands human language at all. It doesn't matter to him if it does, frankly.
no subject
He doesn't protest it or try to claim it isn't necessary. Partly because it very much is, and Danse is never one to reject a rescue he actually needs, but mostly because the notion of Deacon being protective of him stirs up a kind of overflowing emotion he can't even name, and if Deacon were to look down at him right now he'd see the same wide, shocked, admiring baby-fawn eyes that M7 used to turn on Doe when she would muscle in front of him to gun down ferals before they could touch him. There's just a shade of something extra that M7 had never felt, though, a tinge of heat and a little flush of recognition at the romance of it.
It's gone in the space of a moment, because Danse can compartmentalize, and he isn't going to make Deacon do all the work. He wrestles himself back into a sitting position to kick out at the things, trying to pry them off once they've been wounded by Deacon's knife, but he's just slow enough at it to make the grove think it might still have a chance. As if calling Deacon's bluff, it reaches out one more tendril in Danse's direction.
no subject
"C'mon, " he mutters to Danse, offering him a hand just as he notices the new vine movement. He flicks on the lighter and waves the flame in its direction, his voice taking on a more eerie calm tone as he does. "Ah, ah, ah... Go find something else for dinner," he says, "He's mine."
The last word is growled in a way he'll later reflect on, but the threat of fire does seem to deter the wildlife once it feels the heat. Satisfied with this, he turns back to Danse to offer his hand again. "We gotta get you out of here," he says firmly, "Now."
no subject
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..."
no subject
"I swear I'm right behind you," Deacon mock-repeats in a voice that is about as close of an approximation to Danse's that he can. "I just need to rest my big, dark, baby brahmin eyes under a tree until it sucks the last of the life out of me."
When Danse looks at him, it'll be like he's looking in the mirror again in that dressing room. Deacon's perfected his illusionary Danse disguise, he's just never gotten the voice right. Still want to kiss him, now?
no subject
All right, maybe not. At least not as an immediate response to the sudden shift in tactics, which Deacon is fully correct in assuming will piss Danse off enough to give him a second wind. When he has the time and bandwidth to stop and think for more than a second at a time, he'll understand that this is just more of Deacon trying to keep him safe, and moreover that it says something that Deacon has observed him well enough to calculate his needling with such precision.
But right now, he's worn to the bone, and too irritable because of it to think of anything but exactly the sort of engagement Deacon wants from him. "I know I don't sound like that. And if you're insinuating that I'm trying to hang back out of laziness, or gullibility--"
The break in the trees is just up ahead now, and he is still managing to keep up some pace as he's marched toward it, so the outrage is in fact working.
no subject
"Prove it, then. Because every minute I deem you move too slowly, I get closer to dressing you in something you definitely don't want the rest of the convoy seeing you in for our grand reappearance."
As if to prove his point, he's suddenly not wearing the shirt he had been, and instead seems to have something tight and lacy cinching in Danse's waist, his wild werewolf chesthair poking out of it from every end. It looks
extremely hot'ridiculous'.no subject
"You son of a bitch."
There's no real heat to it, the accompanying scowl more on principle than anything, but this, too, works to keep him going, until Deacon finally backs out into a grassier open area and Danse follows him. The difference is immediate, stark, a lifting of the weight on his limbs and eyelids, rejuvenation as if he's taken a desperately-needed power nap, and this is evident in the prompt straightening of his spine and sharpening of his dazed-looking eyes.
With that newfound clarity comes the recognition of just how hard Deacon has been working to keep Danse alert enough to escape, even if it meant annoying the hell out of him. It also occurs to Danse to wonder just how much attention Deacon has been paying to the particulars of his body hair, because what peeks out of the corset now is a shockingly accurate representation.
"I didn't mean that," he backtracks--sheepishly, in light of the fact that Deacon's just saved his life, but still eyeing that lingerie with wariness. It is not what he would consider a good look on his own frame. "But I think we're out of the woods now, so you can drop the...whatever you're doing."
no subject
But there's a calmness to him once he notices Danse perk up, and a bit of pride to realize his little scheme worked. He doesn't change back just yet, wanting to be absolutely certain they're safe. If nothing else, maybe with him looking like Danse's twin, it's a decent decoy.
"You did," he shrugs nonchalantly, "In the moment, anyway. And I deserved it..." he moves back closer to Danse's side so that he can triumphantly taunt the forest once more. Because he's won. Claim staked.
"That's right!" he shouts back at the trees, "I hope you all get turned into math textbooks! Hahaa..." he laughs tiredly, reaching back to pat Danse on the shoulder. "Well done soldier," he sighs.
no subject
He's earned the right to yell at the forest for no other reason than that, but the possessiveness is still audible underneath it, and even with Deacon still mocking him in that corset, Danse's earlier desire to kiss him comes roaring back. Just...not looking like this. Danse is not nearly vain enough to want to kiss his own mirror image, no matter what it's wearing. He covers that hand on his shoulder with his own in a kind of reciprocal claim-staking, a gesture that he wouldn't make if he were just acknowledging a platonic shoulder clasp. This is not a platonic anything. Not anymore. Not after that 'he's mine.'
The clearing they've entered has a broken-down old shed, surrounded by things like rusted garden tools and mildewy scarecrow components, but Danse ignores these and rests a hand on Deacon's chest--not so tangibly furry as his own, even if made to look it--to back him steadily toward it.
"I said, drop it."
His voice, its usual low firm growl, seems almost to echo faintly in the wide-open clearing.
no subject
It's odd for more reasons than one, but in the eerie quiet outside of that all-consuming order as Danse has him pinned against an old shack, the weight of everything they've experienced today starts to sink in. The way Danse responded to Deacon's barking, the pull he'd felt to protect his own, the way his ass jiggled under the clap of his hand, and now the way Danse looks at him has heat pooling somewhere deep inside of himself, and a shuddering breath escapes his lungs, speechless all of the sudden.
no subject
"That's more like it," he murmurs. He wouldn't often want to see Deacon as speechless as this, regardless of what he might grumblingly pretend, but right now, it feels fair. Now, the breathlessness is shared between them as much as that life-giving breath was in the lake, and a flush rises to his cheeks as he realizes how mutual the unspoken need for this is.
They might neither of them remember the last time this happened, but Danse will remember this time in razor-precise detail as he bends his head to press his mouth to Deacon's, slow and deliberate now rather than the fierce drunken hunger of before, winding his way deeper into it and anchoring his free hand in Deacon's shirt in a way that's already become unconscious habit when they're this close.
no subject
Deacon's eyes fall shut behind his shades as Danse's lips meet his, and his own fall open easily to welcome him in, curious and meticulously tasting him where he can. If it weren't for the fact that Deacon is nearly almost anxious, he'd feel that he has no reason to be, here, because this is so clearly desired between them, his arm not resisting to throw themselves around Danse's body and tug him close with an unspoken hunger.
no subject
His tongue meets Deacon's halfway as they deepen the kiss together, matching each other's energy spark for spark, and when Danse pulls back again, it's only just far enough to speak.
"I can't believe you threatened to burn down a forest for me," he breathes, voice husky. "I've never seen anything that romantic in my life." And hot. It was really, really hot. Granted, Danse has not witnessed much romance in his life, and been the object of even less of it, but he remains smitten nonetheless.
He doesn't mention the more overt possessiveness, as if afraid that if he acknowledges it aloud, Deacon might recant it. Danse isn't even sure how he ought to feel about it himself, no matter how much he'll be dwelling on it later, and how much it's fueled his need to have his arms around Deacon right now. They both know what's been said, and now at least Deacon knows it's far from a deterrent where Danse is concerned.
no subject
"It was trying to kill you. I--" he cuts himself off before he can backpedal all of it. He doesn't know if it's wise to be doing this sort of thing with Danse to begin with, but it's kind of late for that consideration, now. Deacon takes a breath and speaks with more confidence then, his hand cupping at Danse's jaw.
"I won't let anything harm you."
He's almost certainly said those exact words to Danse before, when they'd both been different people, when their situation had been much different, too. There's something bittersweet about saying it, now.
no subject
The promise is grave, solemn, in a way he isn't accustomed to hearing from Deacon. Danse believes him.
"That goes both ways, you know." It didn't always, even back when he'd first steeled his nerve and asked Deacon to teach him how to shoot a pistol, so that he could pull more of his own weight on that dangerous journey to Rivet City. But it does now.
Danse would never refuse that offered protection, not even out of pride, even had their recent ordeal not made it very clear how necessary it can sometimes be--but he would like to think that keeping people safe is a specialty of his too, and he'll be damned if he lets anything touch a single fuzzy ginger hair on Deacon's head. He ducks in for another kiss, as if cementing the pact with it.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)