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.
If Deacon was really honest with himself (which he isn't; he can't be honest with anyone with any regularity), he'd admit that his charades were pointless in the convoy. He wasn't involved in any secret mission, and outside of Danse and Nora, who both knew who he was and what he was involved in, not a soul would care about Deacon's habits back home. But Deacon acts this way out of habit, and he doesn't know anyone else enough to trust them too deeply, so why bother being seen as vulnerable? Relationships can be exploited, after all.
With a scoff, Jane's head whips around to him again, eyebrows raised above her shades. "Why? You offering up a ride?"
They all do things here that aren't necessary, that aren't their jobs anymore, clinging to mindsets and patterns from the past because it's just about all any of them have left from home. Danse might not be generally inclined to condone Deacon's particular ingrained habits of shadow-hiding and track-covering, but nobody's being harmed here, either--except maybe Deacon himself, but this is all far too new and cautious and tentative for Danse to feel like he should prod at that.
There are perhaps other things he's being invited to prod at, and he turns his attention to this particularly provocative wording. "That depends what kind of ride you're talking about," he says, back to trying to conceal his tantalized amusement behind his usual clipped bark, and only managing it halfway. "If you want to go piggyback, that's a pretty big ask without my power armor, but I guess I could haul you for a little while."
He doubts this is the kind of ride Jane meant, but wonders if the offer might get taken up anyway.
Deacon likes the little banter they get into, the way Danse tries to play things cool, the way he sometimes blushes despite himself, or how even if he doesn't, his tail gives him away. A spin on Doe's heel has her walking backwards, smiling cheekily at Danse as he replies.
"That wouldn't be seated now, would it?" A question she doesn't really want the answer to, because its purpose was to subtly assure him that the proposition was for another time, one where she might explore a few different takes on the concept.
"You're injured, anyway. You'll have plenty excuse to expend energy later.
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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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With a scoff, Jane's head whips around to him again, eyebrows raised above her shades. "Why? You offering up a ride?"
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There are perhaps other things he's being invited to prod at, and he turns his attention to this particularly provocative wording. "That depends what kind of ride you're talking about," he says, back to trying to conceal his tantalized amusement behind his usual clipped bark, and only managing it halfway. "If you want to go piggyback, that's a pretty big ask without my power armor, but I guess I could haul you for a little while."
He doubts this is the kind of ride Jane meant, but wonders if the offer might get taken up anyway.
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"That wouldn't be seated now, would it?" A question she doesn't really want the answer to, because its purpose was to subtly assure him that the proposition was for another time, one where she might explore a few different takes on the concept.
"You're injured, anyway. You'll have plenty excuse to expend energy later.