When Danse talks so longingly of the peace and prosperity and taken-for-granted comforts of before the war, he means the bombs that fell two hundred years before his time and two hundred years after Edward's, yet it's a wistful sentiment that's been echoed by soldiers for as long as war has existed. And it applies just as well now, to Edward's war. Danse has never in his life seen anything like that vision of warmth and comfort and home.
It would overwhelm him a little all on its own, but in combination with that touch, he has no defense against it. He could devour all of this like a famine victim. The soft oh he exhales is half from the vision, half from the pleasure of the touch, all of it part and parcel of the way this feels like coming in from the cold.
The tail is doing what it wants to do, wagging unopposed by any discipline now, and his legs feel weak as he melts gently into all four hands. It's an adaptation he's always found mesmerizing in people here, always secretly found himself wondering what it would be like to feel the touch of two sets of hands in concert, when he's so unaccustomed to the contact of even a single one.
Now he knows. He's leaning his cheek into one before he can think, entire body flooded with the physical pleasure of it and the relief of surrendering to the instincts he's been fighting for so long, a quiet groan leaving his throat that he's too distracted even to hear when his ears are being so sweetly overwhelmed. The comment would make him blush if he fully registered it, because soft is not something anyone has ever called Danse for any reason in his life, but it does apply to his hair, though he keeps it slicked back nearly as well as someone from Edward's time might do.
"Uh," he says, face warming with embarrassment as he collects himself enough to catch up to the question. It's a very reasonable one, though, when of course Edward wouldn't know. "It's black. Really nothing atypical in coloration here, just black hair and brown eyes." Nothing quite like the pretty tinge to Edward's hair when the bright desert light hits it, but Danse never casually admits to noticing these things, no matter how far the situation might have strayed from the bounds of decorum.
"Was that--" He's thinking about the vision again, never having received one from someone before, only having unintentionally projected some himself. "I always read about Christmas in the old world. I never thought I'd get to see it like that, not...so vividly." Even the scent of the pine had been realer, fresher, brighter somehow even secondhand than the evergreens that survive in the wasteland, but the emotion--that's what the old stories all talk about. "How old were you?"
Edward's hands don't always work together. It's been a struggle in many ways, trying to coordinate four when he's spent so long with only two. It's only at times like this, when he lets them go and isn't trying to overthink it, that they really work in harmony.
When Danse leans into Edward's hand--and of course it's the second left one, which will only be further encouraged by this--Edward's thumb strokes along his cheekbone, feeling the texture of his skin and the bristles of his sideburn under it. The hand on the other side wants the same, but this thumb touches Danse's eyebrow, smoothing along it, tracing the ridge of his eye socket. The hands that had been in Danse's hair move to his ears and take up the scratching so the other two hands can keep touching his face.
"Black hair, brown eyes," Edward repeats quietly. One of his thumbs finds the scar on Danse's cheek, and Edward frowns slightly before running his thumb along it. He wants to ask how it happened but knows better than to ask about scars. Sometimes they carry more weight than simply injured flesh.
"Oh, you saw that!" Edward hadn't meant to project that, and he certainly hadn't thought Danse would catch it. "I'm sorry, that's never happened before."
But he doesn't sound mad about it. Very much the opposite, and Edward's hands slow down as he hears the quiet longing in Danse's voice. The scratching slows down, and Edward moves his hands to cup Danse's cheek before leaning in, pressing their foreheads together. Then he tries to project more of the scene. The point of view changes: an impossibly tall, broad man, a giant in an intricately knit sweater, swoops down and picks up young Edward, but there is no fear. Only delight as he's swept into the air and cuddled under the man's chin, his white whiskers tickling the little boy's face and peals of high, childish laughter ringing out. Then the feel of the cables in the man's sweater under the boy's hand, the heavy wool and the scent of lanolin.
"My grandfather was still alive, so... four years old, perhaps? Maybe five."
The old man has settled into a chair now, with small Edward on his lap, and tossed a plaid blanket over them. Edward curls in against him, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat and watching the glittering lights on the tree.
The scar is perhaps the thing Danse would least mind talking about, if he actually knew how he'd gotten it. The culture of the Brotherhood of Steel is such that scars are emblems of pride, sources of bragging rights and good stories even to tell small children, even if you got them by really spectacularly fucking up. He wouldn't know how to explain the one on his cheek if he tried, but this does not stop him from tilting his head just a fraction further into the gentle caress of Edward's thumb, his heart beating faster for it.
Practical, he tells himself, with firmness that doesn't work, this is practical, he can't see, the touch is just logistically necessary. It's closing the barn door when the brahmin have already escaped.
But even were they still standing feet apart, even had Danse not already surrendered to that scratching and hair-petting in a way he's never gone so far as to do for anyone before, the imagery Edward shares now--and the emotion that accompanies it--would be striking at the unshielded heart of him like radiation through paper. The warmth of the ambience and the sensation of hope are things Danse already had some frame of reference for, and he means to just absorb it, enraptured. But the utter trust here, the safety and security of being a child in the arms of a protective adult, and above all of that, the unconditional love of a family member--
Danse jerks back, more quickly than he means to when Edward's only given him more of what he asked for, with a hitch in his breathing from the sudden tightness in his throat and stinging in his eyes.
Scars were like that on the front too, until they became life-changing, horrid things. Then everyone suddenly stopped talking about them, would pointedly pretend they were there, which was somehow worse.
Edward jolts when Danse pulls away, the shared memory of Christmas dissipating like ripples through water. All four hands loosen their grip but don't let go. He wasn't expecting a reaction like that, not when he'd shown something benign and pleasant. Had he been sharing a memory of the war, Danse's retreat would make more sense, but Edward is baffled about what caused the issue.
"I'm sorry, was that too much?" Tentatively, Edward strokes his thumb along Danse's cheekbone again. Another shared vision, this one more of a glimpse than a prolonged scene: two pints of a dark beer on a battered wooden bar top, their scent rich and hoppy, and a pair of hands recognisable as Edward's reaching out to take them.
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It would overwhelm him a little all on its own, but in combination with that touch, he has no defense against it. He could devour all of this like a famine victim. The soft oh he exhales is half from the vision, half from the pleasure of the touch, all of it part and parcel of the way this feels like coming in from the cold.
The tail is doing what it wants to do, wagging unopposed by any discipline now, and his legs feel weak as he melts gently into all four hands. It's an adaptation he's always found mesmerizing in people here, always secretly found himself wondering what it would be like to feel the touch of two sets of hands in concert, when he's so unaccustomed to the contact of even a single one.
Now he knows. He's leaning his cheek into one before he can think, entire body flooded with the physical pleasure of it and the relief of surrendering to the instincts he's been fighting for so long, a quiet groan leaving his throat that he's too distracted even to hear when his ears are being so sweetly overwhelmed. The comment would make him blush if he fully registered it, because soft is not something anyone has ever called Danse for any reason in his life, but it does apply to his hair, though he keeps it slicked back nearly as well as someone from Edward's time might do.
"Uh," he says, face warming with embarrassment as he collects himself enough to catch up to the question. It's a very reasonable one, though, when of course Edward wouldn't know. "It's black. Really nothing atypical in coloration here, just black hair and brown eyes." Nothing quite like the pretty tinge to Edward's hair when the bright desert light hits it, but Danse never casually admits to noticing these things, no matter how far the situation might have strayed from the bounds of decorum.
"Was that--" He's thinking about the vision again, never having received one from someone before, only having unintentionally projected some himself. "I always read about Christmas in the old world. I never thought I'd get to see it like that, not...so vividly." Even the scent of the pine had been realer, fresher, brighter somehow even secondhand than the evergreens that survive in the wasteland, but the emotion--that's what the old stories all talk about. "How old were you?"
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When Danse leans into Edward's hand--and of course it's the second left one, which will only be further encouraged by this--Edward's thumb strokes along his cheekbone, feeling the texture of his skin and the bristles of his sideburn under it. The hand on the other side wants the same, but this thumb touches Danse's eyebrow, smoothing along it, tracing the ridge of his eye socket. The hands that had been in Danse's hair move to his ears and take up the scratching so the other two hands can keep touching his face.
"Black hair, brown eyes," Edward repeats quietly. One of his thumbs finds the scar on Danse's cheek, and Edward frowns slightly before running his thumb along it. He wants to ask how it happened but knows better than to ask about scars. Sometimes they carry more weight than simply injured flesh.
"Oh, you saw that!" Edward hadn't meant to project that, and he certainly hadn't thought Danse would catch it. "I'm sorry, that's never happened before."
But he doesn't sound mad about it. Very much the opposite, and Edward's hands slow down as he hears the quiet longing in Danse's voice. The scratching slows down, and Edward moves his hands to cup Danse's cheek before leaning in, pressing their foreheads together. Then he tries to project more of the scene. The point of view changes: an impossibly tall, broad man, a giant in an intricately knit sweater, swoops down and picks up young Edward, but there is no fear. Only delight as he's swept into the air and cuddled under the man's chin, his white whiskers tickling the little boy's face and peals of high, childish laughter ringing out. Then the feel of the cables in the man's sweater under the boy's hand, the heavy wool and the scent of lanolin.
"My grandfather was still alive, so... four years old, perhaps? Maybe five."
The old man has settled into a chair now, with small Edward on his lap, and tossed a plaid blanket over them. Edward curls in against him, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat and watching the glittering lights on the tree.
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Practical, he tells himself, with firmness that doesn't work, this is practical, he can't see, the touch is just logistically necessary. It's closing the barn door when the brahmin have already escaped.
But even were they still standing feet apart, even had Danse not already surrendered to that scratching and hair-petting in a way he's never gone so far as to do for anyone before, the imagery Edward shares now--and the emotion that accompanies it--would be striking at the unshielded heart of him like radiation through paper. The warmth of the ambience and the sensation of hope are things Danse already had some frame of reference for, and he means to just absorb it, enraptured. But the utter trust here, the safety and security of being a child in the arms of a protective adult, and above all of that, the unconditional love of a family member--
Danse jerks back, more quickly than he means to when Edward's only given him more of what he asked for, with a hitch in his breathing from the sudden tightness in his throat and stinging in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, I--"
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Edward jolts when Danse pulls away, the shared memory of Christmas dissipating like ripples through water. All four hands loosen their grip but don't let go. He wasn't expecting a reaction like that, not when he'd shown something benign and pleasant. Had he been sharing a memory of the war, Danse's retreat would make more sense, but Edward is baffled about what caused the issue.
"I'm sorry, was that too much?" Tentatively, Edward strokes his thumb along Danse's cheekbone again. Another shared vision, this one more of a glimpse than a prolonged scene: two pints of a dark beer on a battered wooden bar top, their scent rich and hoppy, and a pair of hands recognisable as Edward's reaching out to take them.