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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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.