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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no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."