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.
Deacon isn't used to seeing this side of Danse. Not since he'd been young and scared, new to the world and seeking comfort in the arms of the person sworn to protect him. It's complicated, now, when somewhere around twenty years ago Deacon had felt a sense of parental protectiveness for the synth, and now he's being called romantic. That protective nature is still there, just changed as they both have with age and experience. Danse doesn't look a year older than he did then, outside of battle-worn skin and stubble, while Deacon wears a new face, his body aged in ways that Danse's never will. If he thinks about that for too long, it scares him, because he knows he can't keep that promise forever.
It is a promise, too. An oath. A pact. Even if the promise had been a casual one, he knows now there's depth to it. It sinks into his bones like its etched there forever, unbreakable as long as he remains one of the fae that this world marked him as. But he doesn't mind, he'd have meant it all the same.
"I know," he laughs softly, "You've made that abundantly clear."
Even when he'd thought Danse sought his companionship out of a true lack of options, he'd saved Deacon's life more than once. Deacon meant it when he said he owed him. He had paid those dues today; earning this level of gratitude is an unexpected bonus. What it means for them, he doesn't know- just knows that he's drawn in regardless, magnetized by those big, dark eyes that remind him so much of what he's lost.
He kisses Danse soundly, the hand on his cheek sliding back into his hairline, scratching gently at his ears in the way he remembers got Danse's tail wagging back in that dressing room.
Danse has not let himself think too much about his resemblance to Deacon's late wife, when it's not really so very strong--black hair and dark eyes aren't exactly a rarity, after all, and the synth component, well, that's just a crazy cosmic coincidence. He hadn't seen enough of the poor woman in those reflections to pick up anything about her mannerisms, and he can hardly know what she was like as a person. It hasn't occurred to him that anything about him would remind Deacon of her.
He doesn't know that he owes Deacon the kind of debt he can't even repay with lifesaving, even if he's gradually coming to accept that his freedom is something the Railroad deserves gratitude for. He doesn't know when the turning point was that made him start seeking out Deacon's company just for the enjoyment of it, instead of grudgingly reasoning that he makes better and less reluctant combat backup than the other people Danse has come to trust around here. But it hasn't been about lack of options for some time now, and more and more lately, it's become about that same kind of magnetism--beyond just sharing cigarettes and snack cakes in the Wienermobile and letting Deacon make him laugh more often than he'd want anyone else in the convoy to hear.
The scratch to his ears does exactly the same thing as it had the last two times Deacon's done it, only one of which Danse remembers, but it doesn't make him any less red in the face now. He's developed enough control over the tail musculature to arrest the wagging in its tracks now once it reflexively starts, but it takes concentration. And after a second, he relaxes and lets the control go again, lets the tail swing softly back and forth in rhythm with Deacon's hand, with a helpless little breath of laughter against Deacon's lips.
"I shouldn't let you do that," he says ruefully, "for the sake of my dignity, but it does feel really nice." And maybe he can allow it in private, from Deacon and only Deacon, because he knows the ribbing about it will be their little joke.
He can't help himself; the swing of that tail is just charming. It's proof that he knows he'd otherwise be denied that Danse enjoys things. Deacon notices when he suppresses smiles and laughter, but the uncontrollability of the appendage makes for a weak spot in Danse's armor, and those are always the sort of things Deacon is drawn to.
He smiles at that response, somewhat humored, just a touch cocky, but his fingers don't cease their petting. "Oh come on," he groans, "There's nothing undignified about being a very good boy. You made it out of a death-trap mostly unscathed. Consider it a reward."
He eyes down between them, the fingers of his other hand trailing over his chest and ribs gently, but clearly checking him for injury as opposed to feeling him up. "I think, anyway. You're not hurt, are you? It was a pretty brutal fall..."
"God." It's getting to be the predictable response whenever Deacon calls him a good boy, blush and all, but Danse sounds resigned now, and he lets his forehead fall to Deacon's shoulder just for a second as that scritching continues.
He does enjoy it. Very much, and he enjoys it even more now that he's tentatively let down more of his guard, and he might even be willing to talk about it (or at least indulge silently) if Deacon weren't suddenly being so solicitous.
"No, I'm fine, I--ah." He is going to have some bruises, the kind power armor usually insulates him from, in just the tender spot Deacon's fingers have prodded, but nothing he can't handle. His palms are skinned where he'd tried to catch himself on his hands, and his wrist--the same one he'd broken months ago, and let go without proper treatment for mistrust of Arcade, until magic had healed it up--feels stiff and will be terribly sore later, but he can tolerate that too.
"You make it sound like I fell off a cliff or something. It's just some bumps and scrapes." It's baffling to be fussed over, by Deacon or anyone else, but...nice, in a way that both makes him homesick for Haylen and stirs something he definitely hadn't allowed himself to feel for her.
Danse submitting to the whole good boy thing pleases Deacon in a way he can't articulate, but the weight of him on his shoulder is nice, he could get used to it, himself.
"A living plant wrapped itself around your ankles and yanked you hard to the ground. The ground shook, and I would have heard it a mile away." he replies. The last part he's totally making up, but sounds convincing enough. "I've got some medical supplies in my car, when we get back," he sighs, "Assuming we do get back."
"Did it really?" It says something, probably, that Danse's immediate instinct is now to ask, as if actually entertaining the possibility, whenever Deacon says something ridiculous but theoretically plausible, instead of automatically assuming whatever he says to be bullshit.
In this case, it only lasts a couple seconds before he's mentally chiding himself for his own gullibility, but still, he did ask. "Never mind. And medical supplies are scarce enough here as it is. I'm not letting you waste them on some bruises a squire could handle without crying. I just need to walk it off, and we should probably start doing that soon anyway in case we can't just get back the way we arrived."
Following the road, that is, which will be a hell of a journey if they have to catch up with the convoy on foot. But Danse doubts this will actually be the case, and he is not in a hurry to disentangle himself from Deacon's arms yet even for a practical reason. Even if he should. Even if leaning back in for one more kiss is hard to justify until he tells himself it's one for the road, and does it anyway.
"Mmm, or rest for a damn day," he teases back, skeptical as ever. But Danse isn't wrong that they should get moving, so rest will have to wait.
He's not expecting another kiss, and scoffs softly into it, charmed and humored and eager to be anywhere else so that sort of thing can be explored a bit.
"I'll let you take the lead for now," he murmurs, giving Danse a playful little push, "But if we get zapped back, I get to fret for at least 24 hours."
"You're not the first person to tell me I should be lazing around instead of making myself useful, and I'm not going to do it just because it's you, either." Usually it's a medic trying to order it, and Danse only takes medical advice when he's actually afraid he might die. Advice that comes from more personal concern, though...
...no, he's still not going to do it, but he will give Deacon a real, soft smile at that promise to fret, one that turns faintly cocky at that teasing little shove.
"If we're going to get zapped back, we better get our hands off each other," he says. "We don't want to feed the rumor mill."
"You'll be more useful well rested and you know it," he huffs, and literally has to look away once he notices that cocky smile, because it only makes him want to touch Danse more. God, this is stupid.
"Please. I am the rumor mill," he mutters, a lie of course, but one he could easily make true with all his bullshitting. If Danse is worried about his fellow drifters whispering about him messing around with Deacon, well, they don't have to see them together. They could see Danse seemingly alone. Or with a vast array of sunglasses-wearing characters. For example...
Deacon steps behind Danse and Jane Doe completes the circle around him, smirking over her shoulder as she heads down the road. "Come on, stubborn-ass. Don't slow me down."
Danse isn't really worried about that, partly because he doesn't think anyone else will take notice or comment, but also because he wouldn't care if they did. He really doesn't do secrets, after all. One wants to avoid PDA around the underaged, and he certainly thinks they can be quieter than certain others have been known to be, but it wouldn't be the end of the world if people knew who he was kissing. There's no rank or protocol to worry about anymore.
But he knows by now that Deacon likes to keep things clandestine whether it's necessary or not--and Danse doesn't even know the extent of it, doesn't know that everyone else here except Nora knows him by various different names, but he's aware enough to make an uncharacteristic effort at discretion for Deacon's comfort. "You would be," he says, of the one-man rumor mill, because--well, of course Deacon would be. That's precisely the kind of thing he'd want to control and know how to go about doing it.
Anything else he could say about this is promptly cut off, as Deacon surely knew it would be, by Danse's blushing silence at the reappearance of this particularly appealing illusion for the first time since the dressing room debacle. There's no reason to panic about it now, or to feel angry at his own response to it, when they've fully surrendered now to this undeniable need for each other whether it's a good idea or not. It just sets his stomach fluttering again, but with a little redirection of that energy, he can give as good as he gets with that sass.
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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.
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"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."
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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..."
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"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?
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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.
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"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
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"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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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It is a promise, too. An oath. A pact. Even if the promise had been a casual one, he knows now there's depth to it. It sinks into his bones like its etched there forever, unbreakable as long as he remains one of the fae that this world marked him as. But he doesn't mind, he'd have meant it all the same.
"I know," he laughs softly, "You've made that abundantly clear."
Even when he'd thought Danse sought his companionship out of a true lack of options, he'd saved Deacon's life more than once. Deacon meant it when he said he owed him. He had paid those dues today; earning this level of gratitude is an unexpected bonus. What it means for them, he doesn't know- just knows that he's drawn in regardless, magnetized by those big, dark eyes that remind him so much of what he's lost.
He kisses Danse soundly, the hand on his cheek sliding back into his hairline, scratching gently at his ears in the way he remembers got Danse's tail wagging back in that dressing room.
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He doesn't know that he owes Deacon the kind of debt he can't even repay with lifesaving, even if he's gradually coming to accept that his freedom is something the Railroad deserves gratitude for. He doesn't know when the turning point was that made him start seeking out Deacon's company just for the enjoyment of it, instead of grudgingly reasoning that he makes better and less reluctant combat backup than the other people Danse has come to trust around here. But it hasn't been about lack of options for some time now, and more and more lately, it's become about that same kind of magnetism--beyond just sharing cigarettes and snack cakes in the Wienermobile and letting Deacon make him laugh more often than he'd want anyone else in the convoy to hear.
The scratch to his ears does exactly the same thing as it had the last two times Deacon's done it, only one of which Danse remembers, but it doesn't make him any less red in the face now. He's developed enough control over the tail musculature to arrest the wagging in its tracks now once it reflexively starts, but it takes concentration. And after a second, he relaxes and lets the control go again, lets the tail swing softly back and forth in rhythm with Deacon's hand, with a helpless little breath of laughter against Deacon's lips.
"I shouldn't let you do that," he says ruefully, "for the sake of my dignity, but it does feel really nice." And maybe he can allow it in private, from Deacon and only Deacon, because he knows the ribbing about it will be their little joke.
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He smiles at that response, somewhat humored, just a touch cocky, but his fingers don't cease their petting. "Oh come on," he groans, "There's nothing undignified about being a very good boy. You made it out of a death-trap mostly unscathed. Consider it a reward."
He eyes down between them, the fingers of his other hand trailing over his chest and ribs gently, but clearly checking him for injury as opposed to feeling him up. "I think, anyway. You're not hurt, are you? It was a pretty brutal fall..."
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He does enjoy it. Very much, and he enjoys it even more now that he's tentatively let down more of his guard, and he might even be willing to talk about it (or at least indulge silently) if Deacon weren't suddenly being so solicitous.
"No, I'm fine, I--ah." He is going to have some bruises, the kind power armor usually insulates him from, in just the tender spot Deacon's fingers have prodded, but nothing he can't handle. His palms are skinned where he'd tried to catch himself on his hands, and his wrist--the same one he'd broken months ago, and let go without proper treatment for mistrust of Arcade, until magic had healed it up--feels stiff and will be terribly sore later, but he can tolerate that too.
"You make it sound like I fell off a cliff or something. It's just some bumps and scrapes." It's baffling to be fussed over, by Deacon or anyone else, but...nice, in a way that both makes him homesick for Haylen and stirs something he definitely hadn't allowed himself to feel for her.
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"A living plant wrapped itself around your ankles and yanked you hard to the ground. The ground shook, and I would have heard it a mile away." he replies. The last part he's totally making up, but sounds convincing enough. "I've got some medical supplies in my car, when we get back," he sighs, "Assuming we do get back."
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In this case, it only lasts a couple seconds before he's mentally chiding himself for his own gullibility, but still, he did ask. "Never mind. And medical supplies are scarce enough here as it is. I'm not letting you waste them on some bruises a squire could handle without crying. I just need to walk it off, and we should probably start doing that soon anyway in case we can't just get back the way we arrived."
Following the road, that is, which will be a hell of a journey if they have to catch up with the convoy on foot. But Danse doubts this will actually be the case, and he is not in a hurry to disentangle himself from Deacon's arms yet even for a practical reason. Even if he should. Even if leaning back in for one more kiss is hard to justify until he tells himself it's one for the road, and does it anyway.
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He's not expecting another kiss, and scoffs softly into it, charmed and humored and eager to be anywhere else so that sort of thing can be explored a bit.
"I'll let you take the lead for now," he murmurs, giving Danse a playful little push, "But if we get zapped back, I get to fret for at least 24 hours."
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...no, he's still not going to do it, but he will give Deacon a real, soft smile at that promise to fret, one that turns faintly cocky at that teasing little shove.
"If we're going to get zapped back, we better get our hands off each other," he says. "We don't want to feed the rumor mill."
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"Please. I am the rumor mill," he mutters, a lie of course, but one he could easily make true with all his bullshitting. If Danse is worried about his fellow drifters whispering about him messing around with Deacon, well, they don't have to see them together. They could see Danse seemingly alone. Or with a vast array of sunglasses-wearing characters. For example...
Deacon steps behind Danse and Jane Doe completes the circle around him, smirking over her shoulder as she heads down the road. "Come on, stubborn-ass. Don't slow me down."
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But he knows by now that Deacon likes to keep things clandestine whether it's necessary or not--and Danse doesn't even know the extent of it, doesn't know that everyone else here except Nora knows him by various different names, but he's aware enough to make an uncharacteristic effort at discretion for Deacon's comfort. "You would be," he says, of the one-man rumor mill, because--well, of course Deacon would be. That's precisely the kind of thing he'd want to control and know how to go about doing it.
Anything else he could say about this is promptly cut off, as Deacon surely knew it would be, by Danse's blushing silence at the reappearance of this particularly appealing illusion for the first time since the dressing room debacle. There's no reason to panic about it now, or to feel angry at his own response to it, when they've fully surrendered now to this undeniable need for each other whether it's a good idea or not. It just sets his stomach fluttering again, but with a little redirection of that energy, he can give as good as he gets with that sass.
"Or what? You'll sit on me again?"
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