Danse wouldn't have expected it of himself, if asked. His values are all he's ever had--his honor, his sense of duty, his inflexible moral code, and he's never been able to imagine a situation where bending those would be the right or necessary thing to do.
But this isn't so big or important a lie, and even if it were--Deacon is a person who deserves to be sacrificed for. It's a revelation Danse hasn't been able to shake the weight of. For as long as Deacon has been sacrificing for others, his time and his safety, his face and his body, his very sense of self, nobody ever does it for him in turn. Danse still doesn't know why Deacon does it, what atonement he feels like he still owes, why he runs from himself the way he does--but what he knows is that Deacon ought to be a priority to someone. In and of himself, as a person, not an agent. And Danse wants to be that someone.
He follows, uncomprehending so far and not knowing what to expect by 'changes,' but when he enters the room, his eyes widen in that guileless open-book way of his, stunned to silence by the effort Deacon has put in and the thoughtfulness of the choices. A shelf for the kind of books he always finds himself wanting to borrow from Deacon's collection, a space to read them on his own, a real bed for them to curl up in and talk about them and wake tangled up together in the mornings--Danse doesn't even know which new addition feels the most important, but his throat is suddenly tight, and he has to swallow hard around it.
There's guilt in not telling Danse his own history. It never seems like the right time, but of course now that (he hopes) they'll be spending a lot more time together, he'll find the opportunity to. For now, though, he wants to bask in his partner's return and that precious, stunned look on his face.
Like Danse, he similarly wants to be the person to provide his partner with the sort of attention and care he knows Danse has never been given. To make him his priority. He hadn't realized how badly he wanted to until Danse was out of his reach, but now, it couldn't be more clear.
"If you'll call it that," he murmurs in response, moving behind Danse to gently slide a hand around his slim waist and hold him close. "...Are you hungry from your trip? Can I get you anything?"
They've roleplayed this, indulgently, tongue-in-cheek, with all the silliness of invented neighbors and their pre-war rosebushes. Danse as the war-weary returning soldier, Deacon as the faithful wife keeping the home fire burning. And it wasn't that it didn't feel real in its own way--even then, it had been a turning point, felt so real that it had shaken them, made them realize just how badly they both wanted it to be.
Danse just hadn't known what it really would feel like. There's teasing and groping and joking and over-the-top playacting and desperately gasped endearments in the throes of passion, and then there's the quiet way Deacon fits in against his side as if they were crafted as a matching set, arm anchored around him as if to reinforce that he's staying, and offers to cook as if Danse has just come home for dinner like he does every night. Like he will, every night.
And that's why there will be time for that later. Years of time, as much as anyone in the wasteland is granted those, if they can keep each other safe. Danse slips an arm around Deacon's shoulders in turn, meaning to just stand there with him for a moment, but it morphs unexpectedly into a full, tight hug, burying his face against the top of Deacon's head and rubbing his cheek gently against that regrowth of red and just holding him.
"You can test our bed frame with me," he murmurs, pulling back and sliding hands up to cup Deacon's face. "Then maybe dinner."
Deacon isn't sure what response he's expecting, but it isn't this. Not that he's complaining to be surrounded by those big, burly arms and given a face-full of Danse's chest, which he relaxes against and breathes in the heady scent of him. It's a smell he started to miss over the course of the week as the pillows and sheets aired out and smelled less and less like him every night. It makes Deacon kind of melt there, his arms clutching at Danse's back and resting happily against him until his face is pulled up to look at Danse, his cheeks flushed red.
"If you insist," he murmurs back, "I've only got an appetite for you, anyway..."
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But this isn't so big or important a lie, and even if it were--Deacon is a person who deserves to be sacrificed for. It's a revelation Danse hasn't been able to shake the weight of. For as long as Deacon has been sacrificing for others, his time and his safety, his face and his body, his very sense of self, nobody ever does it for him in turn. Danse still doesn't know why Deacon does it, what atonement he feels like he still owes, why he runs from himself the way he does--but what he knows is that Deacon ought to be a priority to someone. In and of himself, as a person, not an agent. And Danse wants to be that someone.
He follows, uncomprehending so far and not knowing what to expect by 'changes,' but when he enters the room, his eyes widen in that guileless open-book way of his, stunned to silence by the effort Deacon has put in and the thoughtfulness of the choices. A shelf for the kind of books he always finds himself wanting to borrow from Deacon's collection, a space to read them on his own, a real bed for them to curl up in and talk about them and wake tangled up together in the mornings--Danse doesn't even know which new addition feels the most important, but his throat is suddenly tight, and he has to swallow hard around it.
"You really did make it home," he says softly.
no subject
Like Danse, he similarly wants to be the person to provide his partner with the sort of attention and care he knows Danse has never been given. To make him his priority. He hadn't realized how badly he wanted to until Danse was out of his reach, but now, it couldn't be more clear.
"If you'll call it that," he murmurs in response, moving behind Danse to gently slide a hand around his slim waist and hold him close. "...Are you hungry from your trip? Can I get you anything?"
no subject
Danse just hadn't known what it really would feel like. There's teasing and groping and joking and over-the-top playacting and desperately gasped endearments in the throes of passion, and then there's the quiet way Deacon fits in against his side as if they were crafted as a matching set, arm anchored around him as if to reinforce that he's staying, and offers to cook as if Danse has just come home for dinner like he does every night. Like he will, every night.
And that's why there will be time for that later. Years of time, as much as anyone in the wasteland is granted those, if they can keep each other safe. Danse slips an arm around Deacon's shoulders in turn, meaning to just stand there with him for a moment, but it morphs unexpectedly into a full, tight hug, burying his face against the top of Deacon's head and rubbing his cheek gently against that regrowth of red and just holding him.
"You can test our bed frame with me," he murmurs, pulling back and sliding hands up to cup Deacon's face. "Then maybe dinner."
no subject
"If you insist," he murmurs back, "I've only got an appetite for you, anyway..."