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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"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."