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Didn't you tell me once you wanted some help optimizing your gun?
Unless you can make it take something other than fusion cells, there's no point anymore.
Jayce tells me he has something new in the works. I'll let you know once I have more details.
Jayce tells me he has something new in the works. I'll let you know once I have more details.
I meant more in the vein of a decent scope cause I ain't as aces at ammunition manufacturing, but let me know when you get your new gun constructed.
((Moved from HERE for deviant reasons.))
Deacon cannot resist the call of a clothing store. He isn't focused on the necessities that Danse is (He'll grab some later as an afterthought), right now he's too excited about the possibilities of disguises to add to his collection, which since leaving the Commonwealth has dwindled to like three outfits that aren't extremely useful in the convoy. Never let this guy near a Spirit Halloween, he'll probably go apeshit.
He's overwhelmed by the choices, but already has slung a pair of denim jeans over his shoulder that he's now setting aside so that he can shrug on a matching jacket for the full Canadian Tuxedo when he hears Danse's call. He smiles to himself, making his way through the racks and swiping himself an insane assortment of items on his way until his arms are piled high with options.
"What if I want your expert opinion on the fit?" he asks, moving into view. There's a curtained of section to their left, and Deacon makes his way to it, shifting the clothing to one arm to push the curtain open. Inside is a bench where he throws the hoarded clothing and a mirror, which he immediately uses to scope out the fit of the jacket he's shrugged on.
"I hope you realize you've just committed yourself to a whole-day affair."
Deacon cannot resist the call of a clothing store. He isn't focused on the necessities that Danse is (He'll grab some later as an afterthought), right now he's too excited about the possibilities of disguises to add to his collection, which since leaving the Commonwealth has dwindled to like three outfits that aren't extremely useful in the convoy. Never let this guy near a Spirit Halloween, he'll probably go apeshit.
He's overwhelmed by the choices, but already has slung a pair of denim jeans over his shoulder that he's now setting aside so that he can shrug on a matching jacket for the full Canadian Tuxedo when he hears Danse's call. He smiles to himself, making his way through the racks and swiping himself an insane assortment of items on his way until his arms are piled high with options.
"What if I want your expert opinion on the fit?" he asks, moving into view. There's a curtained of section to their left, and Deacon makes his way to it, shifting the clothing to one arm to push the curtain open. Inside is a bench where he throws the hoarded clothing and a mirror, which he immediately uses to scope out the fit of the jacket he's shrugged on.
"I hope you realize you've just committed yourself to a whole-day affair."
The heavy sigh Danse lets out at the sound of Deacon's voice could probably rattle the items off the shelves and alert monsters to their presence, but fortunately neither of these things happens yet.
Knowing that Deacon already owns more clothing than all of his other civilian acquaintances combined, and not for any reason Danse wants to think about, he expects to turn and see a sizable armful of it, but this is beyond even his expectations. "Is it too late to rescind the offer?" he asks, stonily.
The question is clearly rhetorical, though, as evidenced by the fact that he...does not do this, or leave, or even ignore Deacon to keep browsing for himself, but looks back somewhat against his will to assess what Deacon's found. It's a sturdy jacket, respectable enough by Danse's standards to go without criticism. Danse wonders what exactly qualifies his opinion on the fit as 'expert,' thinks about the possible answers, and opts not to ask.
"Looks like it has decent range of movement to me, but I'm not the one who has to aim in it. Where are you even going to store all that?"
Knowing that Deacon already owns more clothing than all of his other civilian acquaintances combined, and not for any reason Danse wants to think about, he expects to turn and see a sizable armful of it, but this is beyond even his expectations. "Is it too late to rescind the offer?" he asks, stonily.
The question is clearly rhetorical, though, as evidenced by the fact that he...does not do this, or leave, or even ignore Deacon to keep browsing for himself, but looks back somewhat against his will to assess what Deacon's found. It's a sturdy jacket, respectable enough by Danse's standards to go without criticism. Danse wonders what exactly qualifies his opinion on the fit as 'expert,' thinks about the possible answers, and opts not to ask.
"Looks like it has decent range of movement to me, but I'm not the one who has to aim in it. Where are you even going to store all that?"
There's merely a chuckle at the concept of a rescinded offer, as if Danse is making a little joke. Deacon knows he isn't, but it makes him laugh all the same.
"Ye of little faith. Haven't you seen the vehicle they gave me? You can't fucking miss it." The last three words are hissed with mild annoyance. Deacon doesn't like being perceived, and though the wienermobile is, as he once called it, 'majestic', it's the least conspicuous vehicle in the entire convoy. "Anyway, there's tons of room in there, and these aren't all going to be winners. I was actually thinking some of this might fit you."
He shrugs the denim off his shoulders, tossing it in a separate pile (his 'winners'), and then straightens out the t-shirt he's pulled on over his own that had been previously obscured by denim. In bold letters, it reads 'DOG DAD'.
"Ye of little faith. Haven't you seen the vehicle they gave me? You can't fucking miss it." The last three words are hissed with mild annoyance. Deacon doesn't like being perceived, and though the wienermobile is, as he once called it, 'majestic', it's the least conspicuous vehicle in the entire convoy. "Anyway, there's tons of room in there, and these aren't all going to be winners. I was actually thinking some of this might fit you."
He shrugs the denim off his shoulders, tossing it in a separate pile (his 'winners'), and then straightens out the t-shirt he's pulled on over his own that had been previously obscured by denim. In bold letters, it reads 'DOG DAD'.
"I know." Rarely is there ever quite such a smug, audible smirk in Danse's voice, but there's also rarely anything quite so satisfying to him as the thought of someone who relies on dishonorable sneaking tactics being thwarted in that by whatever passes for cosmic authority around here. The fact that the thwarting comes in the form of a huge bus shaped like a hot dog is just the icing on the cake. Or the mustard on the bun. Whatever. It's funny to him, and so few things ever really are.
It does not take long for Danse to be paid back in full for that smugness. The smirk first drops off his face at the idea of trying on anything of Deacon's choosing--just on principle, honestly, but also vividly remembering that moldy hi-vis vest that had proved worse than just walking around the power plant in his underpants--but when he actually sees the shirt, and knows Deacon must have chosen it on purpose, and remembers even more vividly that description of the 'good boy ears' that have now returned to his head as furry and pettable as ever, his face flushes as unflatteringly red as it had back in the lake.
And he can't even dive underwater to get away from it now, either. Truly, he can't even decide whether this or the 'good boy' had been worse, but either way, he knows he's giving Deacon precisely the reaction he wants, and so Danse turns back to the clothing rack with a scowl.
"I think you and I have very different standards for what constitutes usefulness in an item of clothing," he mutters. "Not to mention propriety."
It does not take long for Danse to be paid back in full for that smugness. The smirk first drops off his face at the idea of trying on anything of Deacon's choosing--just on principle, honestly, but also vividly remembering that moldy hi-vis vest that had proved worse than just walking around the power plant in his underpants--but when he actually sees the shirt, and knows Deacon must have chosen it on purpose, and remembers even more vividly that description of the 'good boy ears' that have now returned to his head as furry and pettable as ever, his face flushes as unflatteringly red as it had back in the lake.
And he can't even dive underwater to get away from it now, either. Truly, he can't even decide whether this or the 'good boy' had been worse, but either way, he knows he's giving Deacon precisely the reaction he wants, and so Danse turns back to the clothing rack with a scowl.
"I think you and I have very different standards for what constitutes usefulness in an item of clothing," he mutters. "Not to mention propriety."
"You're not wrong..." Deacon sighs, pretending that there is absolutely nothing strange or wrong about the shirt he's wearing. "If you had it your way, I'm sure you'd have welded a few garbage cans together and called it a day. I guess I'm biased but... I think I have better taste."
He grabs at the curtain and yanks it closed behind him while he changes, throwing the completely irritating tshirt back over the curtain to land vaguely in Danse's proximity. "Not everything has to have utility on the battlefield, soldier," he calls over the curtain, which is pulled back a few moments later to reveal the change. Deacon is now in a pair of dress slacks and a button-up shirt, which he's actively knotting a tie atop. He grabs thr matching blazer and throws it on, sizing it all up in the mirror.
"Maybe this in particular has less utility here, but back home this sort of thing got me taken way more seriously in some crowds..."
He grabs at the curtain and yanks it closed behind him while he changes, throwing the completely irritating tshirt back over the curtain to land vaguely in Danse's proximity. "Not everything has to have utility on the battlefield, soldier," he calls over the curtain, which is pulled back a few moments later to reveal the change. Deacon is now in a pair of dress slacks and a button-up shirt, which he's actively knotting a tie atop. He grabs thr matching blazer and throws it on, sizing it all up in the mirror.
"Maybe this in particular has less utility here, but back home this sort of thing got me taken way more seriously in some crowds..."
The shirt lands close enough to Danse for him to kick it under a shelf, and so he does. "There's nothing wrong with improvised body armor if it works," he retorts, before Deacon even makes it into the dressing stall, draping a couple promising pairs of cargo pants over his arm and looking for tops that might match them fatigue-style. Truly, Deacon, don't give him ideas. He will start hoarding trash bins.
He would at least concede that for other people, there probably are reasons to wear something other than power armor or a flightsuit. Sometimes. Overalls for farmers and white coats for doctors and that sort of thing. He is not braced for an example like this, any more than he was prepared to watch Deacon shirtlessly show the boiler room machinery who was boss, and Deacon can enjoy rendering him speechless once again.
He doesn't know how a frame like Deacon's can look so differently good in so many things, and just as good in an entirely different way than any of those when stripped half-bare. Danse has never thought about the particular skill it takes to blend seamlessly into a crowd, or that it takes skill at all, despite the fact that it's not something he's ever been able to do in his life or ever could--but Deacon isn't blending into anything right now. If he walked into a room wearing a suit like that, sharp and clean and making him look taller than he is but still appealingly trim, Danse would take notice. Anyone would.
Danse doesn't want to approve of the look, let alone the context in which it must have been useful back home, but it takes a good minute to remind himself of this. "What crowds," he says, "the Triggermen?"
It's a semi-legitimate question. It is completely undermined by the fact that he is only now managing to tear his eyes away.
He would at least concede that for other people, there probably are reasons to wear something other than power armor or a flightsuit. Sometimes. Overalls for farmers and white coats for doctors and that sort of thing. He is not braced for an example like this, any more than he was prepared to watch Deacon shirtlessly show the boiler room machinery who was boss, and Deacon can enjoy rendering him speechless once again.
He doesn't know how a frame like Deacon's can look so differently good in so many things, and just as good in an entirely different way than any of those when stripped half-bare. Danse has never thought about the particular skill it takes to blend seamlessly into a crowd, or that it takes skill at all, despite the fact that it's not something he's ever been able to do in his life or ever could--but Deacon isn't blending into anything right now. If he walked into a room wearing a suit like that, sharp and clean and making him look taller than he is but still appealingly trim, Danse would take notice. Anyone would.
Danse doesn't want to approve of the look, let alone the context in which it must have been useful back home, but it takes a good minute to remind himself of this. "What crowds," he says, "the Triggermen?"
It's a semi-legitimate question. It is completely undermined by the fact that he is only now managing to tear his eyes away.
"I have my doubts," he sighs, picturing a very imaginative image of Danse parading around in a dumpster and smiling to himself. It's frankly all he has to cling to, because somehow even (or especially) when Danse was stripped down to his briefs in the power plant, he looked good. Deacon has to keep up on his surgeries and everything else to keep his mug handsome, and Danse was spit out of the Institute printer looking like the sort of guy the Romans built shrines for. Not that he envies the guy for that, he knows it comes with its own baggage.
"You're thinking too small," he hums, admiring the suit for a moment longer before sighing and tugging off the tie. He loves it, but unless they come across Convoy Corporate HQ, it's not worth keeping and he knows it. "A suit like this means caps. A high-rise in the green jewel. Vault-Tec remnants. Political connections. High-stakes poker games." He glances over his shoulder at Danse with a smirk, "Stories for another time."
The curtain is closed again and Deacon takes his time disrobing, which gives Danse a reprieve. Then he's trying on some of his scavenged jeans, mostly to make sure he can move about in them before he starts sorting through the pile again.
"You're thinking too small," he hums, admiring the suit for a moment longer before sighing and tugging off the tie. He loves it, but unless they come across Convoy Corporate HQ, it's not worth keeping and he knows it. "A suit like this means caps. A high-rise in the green jewel. Vault-Tec remnants. Political connections. High-stakes poker games." He glances over his shoulder at Danse with a smirk, "Stories for another time."
The curtain is closed again and Deacon takes his time disrobing, which gives Danse a reprieve. Then he's trying on some of his scavenged jeans, mostly to make sure he can move about in them before he starts sorting through the pile again.
"I stand corrected."
In spite of himself, Danse is curious to hear those stories. It's all just another stark illustration of the difference in their methods and philosophies, blunt force versus subtlety, conquering versus infiltrating. He's never had to know more than the most basic outline of the Commonwealth's political situation, because the goal was always for the Brotherhood to supplant it anyway.
For the good of the people, he'd told himself, because whatever system was in place clearly wasn't getting the job done--and maybe that was the Institute's fault, but that was only all the more reason for the region to be controlled by the only power capable of stopping them. Detailed intel wasn't necessary. Blending in would have been counterproductive. Intimidation was the idea. Everything Deacon talks about here is utterly foreign to Danse, and he's made it known exactly how he feels before about what he considers the cowardice of misleading and not showing one's full might upfront, luring people into a false sense of security, all of that--
But it feels different now, when he has a worm's-eye view of how frightening and dangerous things really can get for certain people under Brotherhood rule. People Deacon cares about, even if Danse didn't until he knew he numbered among them. He's somewhat subdued now as he keeps poking through the rack. He finds a shirt in the exact same homesick-familiar shade of burnt orange as his flightsuit was, a color that's always looked good on him. He doesn't pick it up.
"I imagine you're an absolute menace at poker," he says, when Deacon's been quiet for a minute. Honestly, he doesn't even have to imagine; he just knows. "What else do you have in there?"
In spite of himself, Danse is curious to hear those stories. It's all just another stark illustration of the difference in their methods and philosophies, blunt force versus subtlety, conquering versus infiltrating. He's never had to know more than the most basic outline of the Commonwealth's political situation, because the goal was always for the Brotherhood to supplant it anyway.
For the good of the people, he'd told himself, because whatever system was in place clearly wasn't getting the job done--and maybe that was the Institute's fault, but that was only all the more reason for the region to be controlled by the only power capable of stopping them. Detailed intel wasn't necessary. Blending in would have been counterproductive. Intimidation was the idea. Everything Deacon talks about here is utterly foreign to Danse, and he's made it known exactly how he feels before about what he considers the cowardice of misleading and not showing one's full might upfront, luring people into a false sense of security, all of that--
But it feels different now, when he has a worm's-eye view of how frightening and dangerous things really can get for certain people under Brotherhood rule. People Deacon cares about, even if Danse didn't until he knew he numbered among them. He's somewhat subdued now as he keeps poking through the rack. He finds a shirt in the exact same homesick-familiar shade of burnt orange as his flightsuit was, a color that's always looked good on him. He doesn't pick it up.
"I imagine you're an absolute menace at poker," he says, when Deacon's been quiet for a minute. Honestly, he doesn't even have to imagine; he just knows. "What else do you have in there?"
Edited 2025-07-09 23:58 (UTC)
"Honestly? I prefer canasta..." he scoffs from behind the curtain, getting his 'No' pile started with the suit. An absolute bummer. The outfit he tries on next is extremely casual, offering layers to shed in case they ever find themselves at risk of unpredictable weather. Pants, a tee, another button-up, and a jacket that's a sort of vintage style bomber jacket. A little bulkier than he likes, but good quality.
"Oh, a little bit of everything," he replies as he opens the curtain again, "Just wait til we get to the sundresses." He smiles, but he says it like he's not kidding... mostly because he isn't. Strap in, Danse. Deacon is only getting started and it's only getting weirder from here.
"Oh, a little bit of everything," he replies as he opens the curtain again, "Just wait til we get to the sundresses." He smiles, but he says it like he's not kidding... mostly because he isn't. Strap in, Danse. Deacon is only getting started and it's only getting weirder from here.
He laughs--or something that passes for a laugh; a faint little huff acknowledging it as a joke--when Deacon mentions the sundresses, but after a second's contemplation, it occurs to him that it might well not be. He thinks he had caught a glimpse of something spaghetti-strapped in that pile, upon further reflection. It does not actually strike him as outside the realm of what Deacon might find himself possessed to wear.
"Those better not be what you said you picked out for me," he says mildly, recalling Deacon's suggestion back at the power plant, but once he turns around, this is forgotten for a few reasons.
For one, the sight of the jacket only takes the guilty homesickness inspired by that orange top and cranks it up, making him long for the days when he was on good terms with vertibird pilots and not diving frantically for the nearest cover whenever he heard one approach. For another, it also looks good on Deacon in a way it shouldn't, the sunglasses lending it a cool aviator's flair and making Danse think he should be wearing tighter pants underneath it and maybe a scarf on top. He doesn't know when he started thinking about the tightness of Deacon's pants as a positive that he would like to encourage.
And for a third thing, he's always coveted one of those jackets. The Brotherhood's limited stock of them wasn't part of the uniform for anyone in Danse's division. He'd sworn he wasn't actually going to entertain the thought of trying on anything Deacon found for him, but this is making him reconsider.
"That, on the other hand...does it come in my size?"
If it fits Deacon that well, it is not going to be Danse's size.
"Those better not be what you said you picked out for me," he says mildly, recalling Deacon's suggestion back at the power plant, but once he turns around, this is forgotten for a few reasons.
For one, the sight of the jacket only takes the guilty homesickness inspired by that orange top and cranks it up, making him long for the days when he was on good terms with vertibird pilots and not diving frantically for the nearest cover whenever he heard one approach. For another, it also looks good on Deacon in a way it shouldn't, the sunglasses lending it a cool aviator's flair and making Danse think he should be wearing tighter pants underneath it and maybe a scarf on top. He doesn't know when he started thinking about the tightness of Deacon's pants as a positive that he would like to encourage.
And for a third thing, he's always coveted one of those jackets. The Brotherhood's limited stock of them wasn't part of the uniform for anyone in Danse's division. He'd sworn he wasn't actually going to entertain the thought of trying on anything Deacon found for him, but this is making him reconsider.
"That, on the other hand...does it come in my size?"
If it fits Deacon that well, it is not going to be Danse's size.
Deacon whistles at merely the thought. "What can I do to get you into a sundress today?" he says in a voice that definitely is giving salesman, but he's not going to push his luck. Besides, Danse has humored him this long and that's approximately three outfits longer than he thought he'd have the man's attention for.
The question about the jacket makes him smile with a sort of warmth usually reserved by Deacon. He's practically tearing off so that he can race to find another in a larger size. "Ooooooh, twinning!" he shouts as he retraces his steps and begins shifting through the racks.
"If you have the chest for this, you have the chest for a sundress. Are you suuuure?" he teases, on his way back and waggling a matching jacket in Danse's direction.
The question about the jacket makes him smile with a sort of warmth usually reserved by Deacon. He's practically tearing off so that he can race to find another in a larger size. "Ooooooh, twinning!" he shouts as he retraces his steps and begins shifting through the racks.
"If you have the chest for this, you have the chest for a sundress. Are you suuuure?" he teases, on his way back and waggling a matching jacket in Danse's direction.
"It's not going to happen, Deacon."
His tone is flat, as probably expected, but it sounds almost as if there's more effort than usual being put into keeping it that way, as if he might crack a smile if he weren't guarding studiously against it. He can't help it. This isn't even the first time he's found Deacon's smile more powerfully contagious than it ever was back home--but then, he never saw Deacon smile like that back home. If Deacon ever did look that openly or genuinely pleased for anyone, it wasn't for Danse. It's a feeling he's not sure what to do with, but he can safely say he doesn't want to pass it up.
He's followed Deacon partway to the rack, out of sheer curiosity now if nothing else, and he does roll his eyes at the notion of being jacket twinsies, but there's amusement even in that. Danse hasn't really expected to be lucky enough for Deacon to find another jacket, but a shop like this seems to have enough of everything to go around, the way he supposes they must have back in the old days when you didn't have to get lucky.
He doesn't conceal his excitement about it, rewarding Deacon with a rare real smile in turn as he takes it to examine. Even the teasing is met with equally rare good humor in turn, now that he's in more of a mood for it. "What kind of utility would that have on me? Because I sure wouldn't be able to wear it into combat."
His tone is flat, as probably expected, but it sounds almost as if there's more effort than usual being put into keeping it that way, as if he might crack a smile if he weren't guarding studiously against it. He can't help it. This isn't even the first time he's found Deacon's smile more powerfully contagious than it ever was back home--but then, he never saw Deacon smile like that back home. If Deacon ever did look that openly or genuinely pleased for anyone, it wasn't for Danse. It's a feeling he's not sure what to do with, but he can safely say he doesn't want to pass it up.
He's followed Deacon partway to the rack, out of sheer curiosity now if nothing else, and he does roll his eyes at the notion of being jacket twinsies, but there's amusement even in that. Danse hasn't really expected to be lucky enough for Deacon to find another jacket, but a shop like this seems to have enough of everything to go around, the way he supposes they must have back in the old days when you didn't have to get lucky.
He doesn't conceal his excitement about it, rewarding Deacon with a rare real smile in turn as he takes it to examine. Even the teasing is met with equally rare good humor in turn, now that he's in more of a mood for it. "What kind of utility would that have on me? Because I sure wouldn't be able to wear it into combat."
Deacon sighs with extra dramatic oomph to the dress idea being shut down, because of course it did, but it won't stop him from being a little imp about it. Especially with Danse in a surprisingly rare good mood. Similarly, Deacon doesn't think he's ever seen the man smile like this. It makes him look like a completely different person, one that Deacon would dare to even say he'd befriend.
"Are you kidding? It's the ultimate combat wear. Not only are you working with unrestricted mobility, but a visual distraction! Get with it, tough guy." He's already handed over the jacket, but it's satisfying to watch Danse inspect it and seem genuinely excited about something.
"If you like that, I've got something else in my pile you should try on. I'll have to dig it out."
"Are you kidding? It's the ultimate combat wear. Not only are you working with unrestricted mobility, but a visual distraction! Get with it, tough guy." He's already handed over the jacket, but it's satisfying to watch Danse inspect it and seem genuinely excited about something.
"If you like that, I've got something else in my pile you should try on. I'll have to dig it out."
"Uh-huh." This is pretty much the reasoning he expected Deacon to deploy, and after shrugging on the jacket to test the (comfortable and unusually good) fit, he folds his arms across his chest. It has the added benefit of testing the range of motion in the arms, but he just wants to make sure he's properly conveying skepticism here. "I think I once heard a scribe make that same argument when explaining why Grognak the Barbarian can't wear a shirt. I didn't think it was particularly sound then, either."
Not that Danse wants to admit to reading Grognak comics. Or lingering long enough while he was supposed to be on duty to pay attention to a heated nerd debate about superhero costumes. It's probably too late to deny that if pressed, though, so he slips the jacket back off and folds it carefully over his arm and shifts the subject.
"But all right, fine. You've earned some consideration. If it's along similar lines as this, I'll hear you out."
Not that Danse wants to admit to reading Grognak comics. Or lingering long enough while he was supposed to be on duty to pay attention to a heated nerd debate about superhero costumes. It's probably too late to deny that if pressed, though, so he slips the jacket back off and folds it carefully over his arm and shifts the subject.
"But all right, fine. You've earned some consideration. If it's along similar lines as this, I'll hear you out."
"He can't wear a shirt because he's a barbarian, duh." Deacon huffs, as if he's annoyed by this, but he's just being playful. As he leaves Danse's side, he starts to shrug off the matching jacket. "We should get back patches if we're gonna do the matchy-matchy thing. With some kind of cool team name. I pitched Nora Death Bunnies at some point, but I don't think it stuck." Maybe he should get one in her size...
The jacket goes in his yes pile, and then Deacon starts rummaging through what's left in his assortment. A good bulk of it doesn't need to be tried on now that he knows what fits and doesn't, and he can sort through it later. Eventually, he comes across the items he had in mind: a pair of leather pants and a matching leather jacket.
"Sooooo, on the subject of leather, it's a decent alternative to armor. Sturdy, not easily punctured, but moveable. And you can still add plate over it if you're picky." He grabbed a couple sizes, since the nature of the fabric will make the fit less flexible, and waggles a larger set at Danse to entice him.
The jacket goes in his yes pile, and then Deacon starts rummaging through what's left in his assortment. A good bulk of it doesn't need to be tried on now that he knows what fits and doesn't, and he can sort through it later. Eventually, he comes across the items he had in mind: a pair of leather pants and a matching leather jacket.
"Sooooo, on the subject of leather, it's a decent alternative to armor. Sturdy, not easily punctured, but moveable. And you can still add plate over it if you're picky." He grabbed a couple sizes, since the nature of the fabric will make the fit less flexible, and waggles a larger set at Danse to entice him.
"I can't imagine why," he says dryly, though the concept of having matching jackets or a team name for the three of them is not actually unappealing in and of itself when Deacon suggests it. He knows it's a joke, and maybe it would be a little on-the-nose anyway, but it's not all that much different in nature than 'Recon Squad Gladius' and their field uniforms, and he misses being part of something like that even more here than he did back home.
He doesn't know what he's expecting when Deacon fishes it out of the pile, and the jacket is not an immediate no, but he is not entertaining the idea of trying on those pants. "You might have a point about the sturdiness," he concedes, "but I can't believe those pants would have more mobility than other material."
As if he wouldn't be clanking awkwardly around in a literal suit of metal right now if he could. And as if he hasn't spent fifteen years casually walking around in skintight orange canvas with an external thong-strap wedgie, when the metal isn't available.
He reaches for the jacket, but notably makes no move whatsoever to touch the pants. And he doesn't put the jacket on, either. He holds it up to scrutinize the details. "I feel like this would make me look like a delinquent," he grumbles.
He doesn't know what he's expecting when Deacon fishes it out of the pile, and the jacket is not an immediate no, but he is not entertaining the idea of trying on those pants. "You might have a point about the sturdiness," he concedes, "but I can't believe those pants would have more mobility than other material."
As if he wouldn't be clanking awkwardly around in a literal suit of metal right now if he could. And as if he hasn't spent fifteen years casually walking around in skintight orange canvas with an external thong-strap wedgie, when the metal isn't available.
He reaches for the jacket, but notably makes no move whatsoever to touch the pants. And he doesn't put the jacket on, either. He holds it up to scrutinize the details. "I feel like this would make me look like a delinquent," he grumbles.
"It's all in the name, babygirl," Deacon hums, "He's a barbarian, how else will they convey that he is barbaric??"
He definitely wasn't joking about a team name. Without the railroad and therefore a purpose, he's feeling a bit lost and kind of just wants to be part of something again. But admitting this would be vulnerable, and he's had enough vulnerable moments in front of Danse recently to last a lifetime. Moments he is actively pretending never happened.
"Moreso than what you're used to," he replies, then shakes the pants again in Danse's direction. "Um... forgetting something?" he asks, only to be dramatically scandalized by the next statement with a loud pearl-clutching gasp.
"A delinquent?! Dansetopher. It's convoy-chic!"
He definitely wasn't joking about a team name. Without the railroad and therefore a purpose, he's feeling a bit lost and kind of just wants to be part of something again. But admitting this would be vulnerable, and he's had enough vulnerable moments in front of Danse recently to last a lifetime. Moments he is actively pretending never happened.
"Moreso than what you're used to," he replies, then shakes the pants again in Danse's direction. "Um... forgetting something?" he asks, only to be dramatically scandalized by the next statement with a loud pearl-clutching gasp.
"A delinquent?! Dansetopher. It's convoy-chic!"
Danse has taken a lot of Deacon's nicknames for him in stride. He has taken a lot of other people's less-flattering epithets stoically as well, as one just learns to do when representing and recruiting for one of the most unlikable organizations in the country. 'Babygirl' might actually break him, as he mouths it silently with utter bafflement while Deacon just keeps on going.
The direct request for input snaps him out of it, though, and he reaches unthinkingly for the pants as long as they're being held out, but then recalls what he's meant to be doing with them. He still gives no indication of willingness to try them, and would explain himself if the crazy train weren't still chugging.
"You know that's not what it's short for," he interjects, unable to help himself, and then, in rapid what am I thinking succession-- "I mean, it's not short for anything. It just is. And I assume someone from the Railroad must have chosen it, so let me just make it known that I would have appreciated something harder to make fun of."
The puns, Deacon. They have followed him like a swarm of bloodbugs for his entire life. That guy in the checkerboard jacket asked him to tango.
"In any case, I'm not putting those on. I couldn't if I wanted to." He gestures vaguely and with deep annoyance to the tail behind him. He could have just swished it out into view, but doing anything akin to wagging it feels kind of like letting it win.
The direct request for input snaps him out of it, though, and he reaches unthinkingly for the pants as long as they're being held out, but then recalls what he's meant to be doing with them. He still gives no indication of willingness to try them, and would explain himself if the crazy train weren't still chugging.
"You know that's not what it's short for," he interjects, unable to help himself, and then, in rapid what am I thinking succession-- "I mean, it's not short for anything. It just is. And I assume someone from the Railroad must have chosen it, so let me just make it known that I would have appreciated something harder to make fun of."
The puns, Deacon. They have followed him like a swarm of bloodbugs for his entire life. That guy in the checkerboard jacket asked him to tango.
"In any case, I'm not putting those on. I couldn't if I wanted to." He gestures vaguely and with deep annoyance to the tail behind him. He could have just swished it out into view, but doing anything akin to wagging it feels kind of like letting it win.
"Do you ever, like... just have fun, or does everything have to be an educational lecture?" Deacon responds, wading back to his little dressing room and brushing off Danse's bitterness with the Railroad so that he doesn't turn this into another one of their patented arguments.
He's sorting through his pile as Danse continues to bring down the vibes, giving him a sideways glance as he tugs his shirt off to change again, pulling a muscle tee over his scarred torso. "Oh, right," he scoffs, "I forget about the tail."
He chuckles for a moment, shaking his head. "You know for a bit, I was wondering what weird appendages I was gonna grow. Maybe some whiskers, or like... giant crab claws or something? I mean there was the invisible thing..." he trails off, then turns to face Danse again. "It's weird right? I mean, the changes themselves, but even moreso the fact that no one seems to talk about them. And there's something else. Something new... but I'm still figuring it out."
He's sorting through his pile as Danse continues to bring down the vibes, giving him a sideways glance as he tugs his shirt off to change again, pulling a muscle tee over his scarred torso. "Oh, right," he scoffs, "I forget about the tail."
He chuckles for a moment, shaking his head. "You know for a bit, I was wondering what weird appendages I was gonna grow. Maybe some whiskers, or like... giant crab claws or something? I mean there was the invisible thing..." he trails off, then turns to face Danse again. "It's weird right? I mean, the changes themselves, but even moreso the fact that no one seems to talk about them. And there's something else. Something new... but I'm still figuring it out."
Danse is a little chagrined by the fact that he can't argue with this, and slightly chastened too, because he'd thought they kind of had been having fun a minute ago. Or he had, anyway. As much as he ever does. It's not very much.
It is not exactly fun to watch Deacon casually change with the curtain open now, giving Danse an even fuller view than before of those wiry muscles and deep scars. But it's...something, and while Danse isn't willing to think too hard about what that something is, he's not averting his eyes either. He probably should, but--it doesn't feel as disrespectful in this context, at least, and even if he can't say he's only human, he is still organic.
The shirt doesn't look bad on him. Of course it doesn't. Deacon doesn't have quite the build Danse would associate with a top like that, and he can observe with neutrality rather than pride that he could pull it off better himself, but it's still worth looking at, drawing Danse's attention to the sigil on Deacon's arm when he's never had occasion to notice it before. The design of it looks oddly familiar, but he can't place where he might have seen it before, never having taken enough notice of the railsigns in the Commonwealth to store them more vividly in his memory.
The mark is vastly different from his own, too, though he doesn't have much other basis for comparison when most of the other drifters usually have clothing covering theirs up. It's all part and parcel of the changes Deacon's talking about, and Danse can't really argue with that either, when he certainly tries to talk about it as little as possible. Other people might, but certainly not to him or where he can hear it, except for the occasional discussion he catches on the radio. But he's had more of a front-row seat than usual to Deacon's weird transformations, unlike any he's seen on anyone else, and this piques his interest now, because he knows there must be more to come.
"What do you mean? What's happening to you now?"
It is not exactly fun to watch Deacon casually change with the curtain open now, giving Danse an even fuller view than before of those wiry muscles and deep scars. But it's...something, and while Danse isn't willing to think too hard about what that something is, he's not averting his eyes either. He probably should, but--it doesn't feel as disrespectful in this context, at least, and even if he can't say he's only human, he is still organic.
The shirt doesn't look bad on him. Of course it doesn't. Deacon doesn't have quite the build Danse would associate with a top like that, and he can observe with neutrality rather than pride that he could pull it off better himself, but it's still worth looking at, drawing Danse's attention to the sigil on Deacon's arm when he's never had occasion to notice it before. The design of it looks oddly familiar, but he can't place where he might have seen it before, never having taken enough notice of the railsigns in the Commonwealth to store them more vividly in his memory.
The mark is vastly different from his own, too, though he doesn't have much other basis for comparison when most of the other drifters usually have clothing covering theirs up. It's all part and parcel of the changes Deacon's talking about, and Danse can't really argue with that either, when he certainly tries to talk about it as little as possible. Other people might, but certainly not to him or where he can hear it, except for the occasional discussion he catches on the radio. But he's had more of a front-row seat than usual to Deacon's weird transformations, unlike any he's seen on anyone else, and this piques his interest now, because he knows there must be more to come.
"What do you mean? What's happening to you now?"
They were having fun, which is the point. If Danse could just let go a bit, it could even stay that way. Not that Deacon thinks the other man ruined their time, not at all. Call it his own form of lecturing.
"More of the same, I guess?" he shrugs, glancing at himself in the mirror. "It's easier if I just show you..."
It's similar to when he'd turned invisible, or perhaps more similar to the time his outline seemed to blur like there was something in Danse's eyes when he'd been looking upon him. But what differs now is that when he returns to focus, he's changed. In this case it's subtle enough; he's filling out that shirt that had been loose on him a moment ago. Deacon appears more muscular than he had before, and he wonders if this was too subtle a change for Danse to notice. Maybe he should've grown hair, instead.
"I haven't managed to take this to any extremes," he begins, "But I could give it a shot now... before you go tearing holes in pants to fit your furry butt..."
"More of the same, I guess?" he shrugs, glancing at himself in the mirror. "It's easier if I just show you..."
It's similar to when he'd turned invisible, or perhaps more similar to the time his outline seemed to blur like there was something in Danse's eyes when he'd been looking upon him. But what differs now is that when he returns to focus, he's changed. In this case it's subtle enough; he's filling out that shirt that had been loose on him a moment ago. Deacon appears more muscular than he had before, and he wonders if this was too subtle a change for Danse to notice. Maybe he should've grown hair, instead.
"I haven't managed to take this to any extremes," he begins, "But I could give it a shot now... before you go tearing holes in pants to fit your furry butt..."
It is absolutely not too subtle for Danse to notice, when he is already staring right at those muscles, acquainting himself thoroughly with that they ordinarily look like. Given this sudden difference, he will realize later, when he thinks about it, that he actually prefers them as normal.
But this is the last thing on his mind right now, as the full stunning implications of this actually hit him. "Jesus," he says, simultaneously awed and a little bit horrified. "Now I know whatever brought us here doesn't have good intentions. Letting you, of all people, do that--it goes beyond irresponsible into downright pernicious."
Of course, there's not really anything nefarious he can imagine Deacon using it for here, and if anything, making Deacon more terrifyingly effective is more likely to be a good thing for the convoy as a whole in the long run. But in the short term, and on a more personal level, this is the last thing in the world that Danse needs Deacon being able to do.
And Deacon immediately demonstrates this, leaving Danse's eyebrows raised with belated alarm if Deacon's suggesting what he thinks he is. "Wait. Give what a shot? You don't mean--"
But this is the last thing on his mind right now, as the full stunning implications of this actually hit him. "Jesus," he says, simultaneously awed and a little bit horrified. "Now I know whatever brought us here doesn't have good intentions. Letting you, of all people, do that--it goes beyond irresponsible into downright pernicious."
Of course, there's not really anything nefarious he can imagine Deacon using it for here, and if anything, making Deacon more terrifyingly effective is more likely to be a good thing for the convoy as a whole in the long run. But in the short term, and on a more personal level, this is the last thing in the world that Danse needs Deacon being able to do.
And Deacon immediately demonstrates this, leaving Danse's eyebrows raised with belated alarm if Deacon's suggesting what he thinks he is. "Wait. Give what a shot? You don't mean--"
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