Deacon wakes with a snort, not realizing he and Danse had dozed off in their afterglow, bodies now stuck together in a way that feels unpleasant to peel away from. He still does, rolling over onto his back beside Danse with a soft grunt. He can't really see his reflection in the mirror on the wall from this angle, but he stares at it for a long minute, rethinking some of the things Danse said to him before until he feels the other man stir beside him.
Deacon props himself up on his side, looking over to Danse with a smirk. He waits until he sees those big, dark eyes begin to flutter open and then with a voice hoarse from his own nap, mimics the sort of tone a child might use on a playground.
"Ooooooo, someone's in loooove~" As if this doesn't apply to him, also.
It's been a better, deeper sleep than Danse has had in weeks, and he's slow to surface from it, only beginning to once Deacon rolls off him and deprives him of that comforting weight and warmth. He needs a moment to recall where he even is, and the baby brahmin eyes are momentarily wide and blank as he processes this sudden taunting.
But once he does, his little breath of laughter in response is happy and free, gaze softening with teasing fondness. "Well, I'm glad you feel comfortable expressing your feelings. I certainly won't hold them against you."
It's not the most sophisticated of banter, but Deacon always does inspire him to try. And the way he rolls over to face Deacon and reaches up to caress his cheek, scooting over again just close enough to feel body heat, serves as a perfectly clear reminder how mutual those feelings are. His eyes skim playfully down over his lover's nude body, taking in the remnants of the mess they'd made.
"We ought to get you cleaned up." As if that doesn't apply to him, also.
"Pssh," Deacon huffs, "Whatever, you love me." He replies matter-of-factly, which may be warning enough that he plans to weaponize this every chance he gets (along with pouting or any other silly little tactic that he really doesn't need to employ to get a reaction from Danse these days, but fun is fun).
But his smile does soften as Danse touches at his cheek, a sort of softness that he's come to really appreciate now that he isn't so surprised by it every time they're together.
"Me?" he asks with a smirk, "Were you planning to wear that out, today, or are you willing to let me scrub you clean as well?"
"I'm not sure that would have a beneficial effect on settlement morale," says Danse solemnly, as if somehow entirely unaware that anyone but Deacon might want to see him wear his birthday suit out the door. (Such as it is, for someone who was never technically born.)
Of course, even if it would, that doesn't mean Danse would do it. But the prospect of letting Deacon wash him down is a very different and much more appealing one, even if Danse had wanted to be the one doing the caretaking. He can't possibly bring himself to say no.
"I suppose I can allow it," he murmurs, ducking in for a brief little kiss. "Not sure how efficient I trust you to be about it, but fortunately, we've got plenty of time."
"You have no idea..." he murmurs in response, his own eyes trailing down Danse's body to fully appreciate it in its current state. He accepts his kiss graciously, but glares after Danse's continued commentary.
"Wow, okay," he scoffs, turning to roll out of bed, "Just so you know, I'm very trustworthy," he replies, plenty of humor backing that defense and pausing once he stands, turning back to glance at Danse again over his shoulder, "And efficient."
He stretches his back for a moment and then sort of waddles off in the direction of the bathroom, still muttering something intelligible through the wall, comparing scrubbing Danse's chest to cleaning carpet.
"Uh-huh." Danse's tone here may be deadpan, but his face is expressive enough to speak volumes, and that glance back over Deacon's shoulder finds him with his head tilted to gaze with a combination of deep fondness and cocky satisfaction at the bowleggedness he's been responsible for.
It doesn't take him long to heave himself up off the mattress and pad into the bathroom to join Deacon, though, coming up behind him to rest hands on his hips and tug him gently backward against the very hirsute chest he's complaining about.
"Carpet shampooing, huh?" he teases, low in Deacon's ear. "You see why I have my concerns. How long has it been since you really had to deal with hair?" His lips brush Deacon's temple, the same spot he's always found himself wanting to gravitate toward. He loves it when the earpiece of the sunglasses isn't there to impede his kisses.
Deacon crashes backwards into him a bit, not quite a trust-fall, but a close approximation since he feels the need to take advantage of every opportunity when Danse is being playful.
"Do not preach to me about haircare, Dansethony. I'd like to see you detangle a wig sometime," he teases, turning into that kiss. "And I still shave, that's an ordeal all on its own."
He pushes himself off of Danse again to reach for the shower and turn it on. "You tell a guy that your hair was ripped straight out by a super mutant one time..."
"You'd better not try to shave my chest," Danse warns. His arms have slipped almost automatically further around Deacon's waist to catch and steady him as he flops backward, but he lets go--not without reluctance--to let Deacon run the shower until it's as warm as it's capable of getting. The nickname does not bear responding to beyond a practiced, patented scowl of unamusement. It joins 'Dansetopher' and 'Danseolomew,' among others, on the list of things Deacon has been known to call him when he gets in a faux-lecturing mood.
It's true that he has never detangled a wig, and he considers this as he steps into the shower and pulls Deacon with him by the hand. The baldness might as well be mutant-induced for all he's ever seen Deacon maintain it, but Danse has spent enough mornings now watching dawn filter through the dirty window of the bedroom and illuminate the soft peachy shadow of fuzz on Deacon's scalp, just the barest hint of it, just enough to brush his lips against and feel the texture. He does so now, with a gentle nuzzle.
"What do you still need the wig for?" he asks, surprising himself a little with the question. "You could grow your own hair out again, you know. If you're keeping the face." He's asked that of Deacon before, shyly, in a more roundabout way. He doesn't handle change well. He isn't sure he could bear to look into a different face now than the one he's fallen in love with.
"God," Deacon scowls, "I could never be capable of such injustices. Talk about lowering morale."
Deacon's noticed the way Danse seems to take every opportunity to nuzzle at any regrowth on his scalp, enough so that he's almost considered letting it go for a bit longer as an experiment. He's hesitated, of course, still interested in keeping the anonymity of easy wig installation in case of danger. This isn't what catches him off-guard.
'If you're keeping the face' is the comment that has Deacon considering what that means for him. It means his recon days are probably over. That he'd be committing to wearing this mug for the rest of his days; one that isn't even his own, but has maybe come to be.
"That's something you want, isn't it?" he asks for clarity's sake, reaching for the soap as a distraction. Danse isn't a hard read, but he needs to hear him confirm it before it's really considered. "That kind of limits my career options," he adds, just for context.
It's the only face Danse has ever known him with, however aware he might be that there have been others. His fingers reach out to trace lightly over some of the scarring at the edges as he weighs his answer, all of his earlier teasing cockiness evaporating into the shower steam.
They haven't exactly discussed 'career options.' When both of their previous careers are as tense and fraught a subject as they are, future ones are harder to get on the topic of. But the gaping crater where the Institute once stood gives them a better and safer chance for a future now than either of them has ever had before, and Danse already knows there's nothing short of death now that would keep him from spending it at Deacon's side.
"I want you to keep the face I saw in the mirror last night," he says finally. "It's the face I was looking at when you told me you loved me. How could I be all right with you getting rid of it? There are so many other things you can do that won't have people hunting you down, Deacon."
That response causes Deacon's brow to knit with intense empathy. It's different, like this. It's why he's stayed so detached. Complications. Complicated feelings and attachments to his being. Complicated concerns about the safety of those he's seen with. Complicated aspects of anonymous work, work that isn't over just because the Institute is gone. The Commonwealth still needs the Railroad; people still need help.
But Danse has a point, doesn't he? Deacon can't do this forever. His body isn't what it used to be. No matter how young he could make it look, it still ages on the inside.
"I'm more worried about you," he admits, "The wrong people notice when you care about someone. There's worse things that people can do than hunt me down."
Given what they'd discussed the night before, Danse should understand, but Deacon still sighs and concedes slightly. "Maybe it's time I train a new team of Deacons anyway. My knees sounded like a pipe gun last night."
Danse is quiet, taking the soap from Deacon to lather his hands with it, and running them slowly over Deacon's sides and hips and lower back as if to rub aches out of the muscles and joints there.
"That wouldn't be worse for me," he says softly. But he does understand now, in a way he hadn't before. For all his own terror of loss, he understands very well how much more another person's safety can mean to you than your own. Deacon's long-lived wiliness would be admirable in a place like the Commonwealth even had he spent his decades peacefully tending a farm, rather than thumbing his nose on a daily basis at one of the best-equipped and most vengeful forces in the country. Danse knows he can take care of himself.
He's never been in a position before where he could serve someone better by keeping himself safe than by putting his own body between them and danger. It's a radical shift, a revelation, and still hard to wrap his mind around when that reminder of Deacon's age touches on things he tries hard not to think about. He sinks to his own knees, quick and effortless, to let his soap-slick hands roam further down Deacon's thighs and toward the creaky joints in question.
"It wouldn't kill you to let some new blood terrorize the Commonwealth for a change," he agrees. "You've earned the right to do it."
Danse's hands make Deacon melt slightly beneath them, sore muscles eased by their warmth. It's such an odd concept to him, that being hunted is a better fate than having to look at a different face every now and then, but he's used to seeing a stranger in his reflection. Prefers it. His eyes wouldn't change, and Danse is the only one who gets to see those, anyway.
With Danse on his knees, Deacon's hands reach out and carefully comb through his wet hair with his fingers, listening to Danse's argument with no light amount of consideration. He reaches for the hair wash and works it into Danse's roots, making sure to prove his earlier point that just because he doesn't have any hair of his own, doesn't mean he doesn't know how to take care of it.
"You know, you're being hyperbolic, but terrorize was actually part of the job description," Deacon replies with an air of humor in his voice. "Actually, there's a clause somewhere that I have to continue to terrorize others even through retirement. I figure if I ever settle down with mole rat farm, I'll train them all to do it for me. Do you think a mole rat can pull off a wig?"
Focused though Danse is on the task of massaging Deacon's calves, the hands slipping into his hair give him pause, drawing a soft groan of bliss from him as his eyes drift closed and his forehead rests for a moment against Deacon's stomach. He will never again question Deacon's ability to take care of it, or of anything else about him.
"Better than the radroaches you keep saying you've tamed," he murmurs, as his hands remember how to move again and rub tenderly at the backs of Deacon's knees. He could argue that he isn't being hyperbolic, and he knows Deacon's being his usual degree of facetious, but there's more than a kernel of something worth pursuing in there when he thinks about it. He looks up again, once he won't get soap in his eyes for it.
"Mole rats or no, farming really could suit you," he says, earnest enough to curl his fingers around Deacon's legs and grip gently. "I know you know what you're doing with it. The tatoes you planted out back are the best I've ever had. I've already heard people saying the yield from the cornfield is better than they'd expected. That's your doing. How many more people could it feed if you took charge and put more time into it? This town isn't getting any smaller."
"Roachelle would have looked nice as a blonde..." he remarks almost wistfully, playing along while he rinses the suds from Danse's hair, although the pleasant tone of his voice is the result of the massaging hands on his legs.
He swipes a stray piece of hair from Danse's face and stares down at him as Danse praises him for his green thumb, considering his options. It's not the most grandiose way to help others, but Sanctuary does get hungry, and he does know what he's doing.
"I'd need help," he replies finally, his thumb stroking along Danse's jawline. "Someone strong to help till the field and such." An eyebrow rises, suggesting something unsaid.
Now Danse understands Deacon's reluctance, when his mind hadn't quite drawn the parallel yet. It's one thing to urge the man he loves to hang up all his dangerous work and turn his hand to peaceful pursuits, one thing to be abstractly willing to take more precautions with his own safety out in the field for Deacon's sake--but another entirely to think of giving up the only thing he's ever been good at, an equal abdication of their former careers to make a go of this farming thing together.
It cuts just as sharply both ways, whether sword or plowshare. Danse can't protest that he's lost enough of his identity already without throwing soldier out the window too, if he's asking Deacon to lay aside the only thing that's constantly anchored his throughout that endless blur of different names and faces.
But these are the benefits to having someone who wants to be your rock. Other things become more fluid. Danse thinks about it, quiet as he tilts his cheek into Deacon's hand. "I could ask Nora to let me cut back on the long patrols," he says, compromising. "I can't have you delegating my work to other brahmin."
Deacon can recognize Danse's conflict similar to his own based on his expression, but he doesn't comment, letting him work it out while he considers himself what their life might even look like if they took this on together. It feels foreign to him after so many years, to settle down for a simple life with a lover, after everything they've been through. Bittersweet, too, considering his life should have been like that all along if the world was fair.
A slow, wide smile grows on Deacon's lips as Danse responds, and Deacon squats slightly so that he can kiss at Danse's forehead and offer his hands to help the other man back to his feet.
"You're irreplaceable," he replies sweetly, "But maybe the farm stuff's a part-time thing, anyway." As it is, both of them are on a path to self-discovery, and Deacon recognizes this. Danse needs to learn who he is without the Brotherhood, Deacon needs to accept who he is without frequently changing it. It isn't enough to just be each other's; that's too idyllic, too unrealistic. But they can be a foundation for each other's growth; striving to be the man they see in one another. That's a start.
Irreplaceable is a word that still feels almost too sweet to a man accustomed to being Brotherhood cannon fodder, a man who used to declare without a second thought that he would be glad to trade his own life so that any one of his brothers or sisters might live instead. He hasn't yet internalized that there are people--others, even, besides Deacon alone--who want him for who he uniquely is, even if he does know it in more of an abstract sense.
It's still a heart-melting thrill to hear it so casually and yet genuinely from Deacon's lips, and Danse cups his face in both hands to kiss him fiercely as soon as he straightens back up, grateful and adoring and hungry. He pushes Deacon those few inches backward to rest against the shower wall, body flush against his, holding him gently there with his weight because his hands are still occupied with their caresses to the edge of the face he wants to watch grow old.
The kiss maybe should have been expected. Danse often has passionate reactions to the things Deacon says, but the intensity with which he acts is always something that takes Deacon but surprise. He throws his arms around Danse's neck and melts against him, happily caged against the cool tile as he returns that passionate kiss and lets it linger on.
"Was it something I said?" he croaks teasingly against Danse's lips before nipping playfully at the lower one, his fingertips scratching into his scalp, thumbs massaging gently along the sides of Danse's neck.
"I'll keep the face," Deacon says softly, "In case that wasn't clear. For you, Baby Brahmin, it's worth the trouble."
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aftercare✨️
Deacon props himself up on his side, looking over to Danse with a smirk. He waits until he sees those big, dark eyes begin to flutter open and then with a voice hoarse from his own nap, mimics the sort of tone a child might use on a playground.
"Ooooooo, someone's in loooove~" As if this doesn't apply to him, also.
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But once he does, his little breath of laughter in response is happy and free, gaze softening with teasing fondness. "Well, I'm glad you feel comfortable expressing your feelings. I certainly won't hold them against you."
It's not the most sophisticated of banter, but Deacon always does inspire him to try. And the way he rolls over to face Deacon and reaches up to caress his cheek, scooting over again just close enough to feel body heat, serves as a perfectly clear reminder how mutual those feelings are. His eyes skim playfully down over his lover's nude body, taking in the remnants of the mess they'd made.
"We ought to get you cleaned up." As if that doesn't apply to him, also.
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But his smile does soften as Danse touches at his cheek, a sort of softness that he's come to really appreciate now that he isn't so surprised by it every time they're together.
"Me?" he asks with a smirk, "Were you planning to wear that out, today, or are you willing to let me scrub you clean as well?"
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Of course, even if it would, that doesn't mean Danse would do it. But the prospect of letting Deacon wash him down is a very different and much more appealing one, even if Danse had wanted to be the one doing the caretaking. He can't possibly bring himself to say no.
"I suppose I can allow it," he murmurs, ducking in for a brief little kiss. "Not sure how efficient I trust you to be about it, but fortunately, we've got plenty of time."
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"Wow, okay," he scoffs, turning to roll out of bed, "Just so you know, I'm very trustworthy," he replies, plenty of humor backing that defense and pausing once he stands, turning back to glance at Danse again over his shoulder, "And efficient."
He stretches his back for a moment and then sort of waddles off in the direction of the bathroom, still muttering something intelligible through the wall, comparing scrubbing Danse's chest to cleaning carpet.
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It doesn't take him long to heave himself up off the mattress and pad into the bathroom to join Deacon, though, coming up behind him to rest hands on his hips and tug him gently backward against the very hirsute chest he's complaining about.
"Carpet shampooing, huh?" he teases, low in Deacon's ear. "You see why I have my concerns. How long has it been since you really had to deal with hair?" His lips brush Deacon's temple, the same spot he's always found himself wanting to gravitate toward. He loves it when the earpiece of the sunglasses isn't there to impede his kisses.
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"Do not preach to me about haircare, Dansethony. I'd like to see you detangle a wig sometime," he teases, turning into that kiss. "And I still shave, that's an ordeal all on its own."
He pushes himself off of Danse again to reach for the shower and turn it on. "You tell a guy that your hair was ripped straight out by a super mutant one time..."
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It's true that he has never detangled a wig, and he considers this as he steps into the shower and pulls Deacon with him by the hand. The baldness might as well be mutant-induced for all he's ever seen Deacon maintain it, but Danse has spent enough mornings now watching dawn filter through the dirty window of the bedroom and illuminate the soft peachy shadow of fuzz on Deacon's scalp, just the barest hint of it, just enough to brush his lips against and feel the texture. He does so now, with a gentle nuzzle.
"What do you still need the wig for?" he asks, surprising himself a little with the question. "You could grow your own hair out again, you know. If you're keeping the face." He's asked that of Deacon before, shyly, in a more roundabout way. He doesn't handle change well. He isn't sure he could bear to look into a different face now than the one he's fallen in love with.
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Deacon's noticed the way Danse seems to take every opportunity to nuzzle at any regrowth on his scalp, enough so that he's almost considered letting it go for a bit longer as an experiment. He's hesitated, of course, still interested in keeping the anonymity of easy wig installation in case of danger. This isn't what catches him off-guard.
'If you're keeping the face' is the comment that has Deacon considering what that means for him. It means his recon days are probably over. That he'd be committing to wearing this mug for the rest of his days; one that isn't even his own, but has maybe come to be.
"That's something you want, isn't it?" he asks for clarity's sake, reaching for the soap as a distraction. Danse isn't a hard read, but he needs to hear him confirm it before it's really considered. "That kind of limits my career options," he adds, just for context.
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They haven't exactly discussed 'career options.' When both of their previous careers are as tense and fraught a subject as they are, future ones are harder to get on the topic of. But the gaping crater where the Institute once stood gives them a better and safer chance for a future now than either of them has ever had before, and Danse already knows there's nothing short of death now that would keep him from spending it at Deacon's side.
"I want you to keep the face I saw in the mirror last night," he says finally. "It's the face I was looking at when you told me you loved me. How could I be all right with you getting rid of it? There are so many other things you can do that won't have people hunting you down, Deacon."
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But Danse has a point, doesn't he? Deacon can't do this forever. His body isn't what it used to be. No matter how young he could make it look, it still ages on the inside.
"I'm more worried about you," he admits, "The wrong people notice when you care about someone. There's worse things that people can do than hunt me down."
Given what they'd discussed the night before, Danse should understand, but Deacon still sighs and concedes slightly. "Maybe it's time I train a new team of Deacons anyway. My knees sounded like a pipe gun last night."
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"That wouldn't be worse for me," he says softly. But he does understand now, in a way he hadn't before. For all his own terror of loss, he understands very well how much more another person's safety can mean to you than your own. Deacon's long-lived wiliness would be admirable in a place like the Commonwealth even had he spent his decades peacefully tending a farm, rather than thumbing his nose on a daily basis at one of the best-equipped and most vengeful forces in the country. Danse knows he can take care of himself.
He's never been in a position before where he could serve someone better by keeping himself safe than by putting his own body between them and danger. It's a radical shift, a revelation, and still hard to wrap his mind around when that reminder of Deacon's age touches on things he tries hard not to think about. He sinks to his own knees, quick and effortless, to let his soap-slick hands roam further down Deacon's thighs and toward the creaky joints in question.
"It wouldn't kill you to let some new blood terrorize the Commonwealth for a change," he agrees. "You've earned the right to do it."
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With Danse on his knees, Deacon's hands reach out and carefully comb through his wet hair with his fingers, listening to Danse's argument with no light amount of consideration. He reaches for the hair wash and works it into Danse's roots, making sure to prove his earlier point that just because he doesn't have any hair of his own, doesn't mean he doesn't know how to take care of it.
"You know, you're being hyperbolic, but terrorize was actually part of the job description," Deacon replies with an air of humor in his voice. "Actually, there's a clause somewhere that I have to continue to terrorize others even through retirement. I figure if I ever settle down with mole rat farm, I'll train them all to do it for me. Do you think a mole rat can pull off a wig?"
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"Better than the radroaches you keep saying you've tamed," he murmurs, as his hands remember how to move again and rub tenderly at the backs of Deacon's knees. He could argue that he isn't being hyperbolic, and he knows Deacon's being his usual degree of facetious, but there's more than a kernel of something worth pursuing in there when he thinks about it. He looks up again, once he won't get soap in his eyes for it.
"Mole rats or no, farming really could suit you," he says, earnest enough to curl his fingers around Deacon's legs and grip gently. "I know you know what you're doing with it. The tatoes you planted out back are the best I've ever had. I've already heard people saying the yield from the cornfield is better than they'd expected. That's your doing. How many more people could it feed if you took charge and put more time into it? This town isn't getting any smaller."
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He swipes a stray piece of hair from Danse's face and stares down at him as Danse praises him for his green thumb, considering his options. It's not the most grandiose way to help others, but Sanctuary does get hungry, and he does know what he's doing.
"I'd need help," he replies finally, his thumb stroking along Danse's jawline. "Someone strong to help till the field and such." An eyebrow rises, suggesting something unsaid.
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It cuts just as sharply both ways, whether sword or plowshare. Danse can't protest that he's lost enough of his identity already without throwing soldier out the window too, if he's asking Deacon to lay aside the only thing that's constantly anchored his throughout that endless blur of different names and faces.
But these are the benefits to having someone who wants to be your rock. Other things become more fluid. Danse thinks about it, quiet as he tilts his cheek into Deacon's hand. "I could ask Nora to let me cut back on the long patrols," he says, compromising. "I can't have you delegating my work to other brahmin."
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A slow, wide smile grows on Deacon's lips as Danse responds, and Deacon squats slightly so that he can kiss at Danse's forehead and offer his hands to help the other man back to his feet.
"You're irreplaceable," he replies sweetly, "But maybe the farm stuff's a part-time thing, anyway." As it is, both of them are on a path to self-discovery, and Deacon recognizes this. Danse needs to learn who he is without the Brotherhood, Deacon needs to accept who he is without frequently changing it. It isn't enough to just be each other's; that's too idyllic, too unrealistic. But they can be a foundation for each other's growth; striving to be the man they see in one another. That's a start.
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It's still a heart-melting thrill to hear it so casually and yet genuinely from Deacon's lips, and Danse cups his face in both hands to kiss him fiercely as soon as he straightens back up, grateful and adoring and hungry. He pushes Deacon those few inches backward to rest against the shower wall, body flush against his, holding him gently there with his weight because his hands are still occupied with their caresses to the edge of the face he wants to watch grow old.
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"Was it something I said?" he croaks teasingly against Danse's lips before nipping playfully at the lower one, his fingertips scratching into his scalp, thumbs massaging gently along the sides of Danse's neck.
"I'll keep the face," Deacon says softly, "In case that wasn't clear. For you, Baby Brahmin, it's worth the trouble."