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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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--"
no subject
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.