"TTFN!" Deacon calls after Nora before giving Danse his full attention, a smile growling on his face that is somehow both giddy and bashful.
"You were gone a long time. I mean, it felt like a long time. And I convinced myself of all kinds of wacky stuff..." he replies and reaches for Danse's hand while easing into a walk back to their house. "Like um, for starters, I'm kinda crazy for you. And the house didn't feel like home without you in it, no matter what I did to make it more home-y. So, I dunno, it's probably for the best I drop the act, that way, you could come home. Like, really come home. If you wanted to, I mean. But just know that if you don't, Nora will think this whole thing's a big joke, and my punishment involves getting a lower back tattoo."
He'd told Nora, the first time he'd brought her up to the Prydwen, that the ship was the only home he knew. After that had ceased to be true, he hadn't thought of himself as having a home anymore at all, rootless and adrift and alone now whether he was sleeping at the bunker or the Castle or a settlement. Then he'd begun to think of Sanctuary as a home in the more general sense, especially with these increasingly-frequent rendezvous between them giving him more and more reason to come to town.
But when he'd told Deacon a week ago that he couldn't wait to come home, he hadn't been thinking just of coming across that bridge; he'd been thinking of this little blue house. And he'd been thinking of opening the door to see Deacon there waiting for him. That, now, is what his mind thinks of as homecoming, whether he'd truly realized it at the time or not.
He hadn't said it in full consciousness of what he meant by it, but neither would he have said it at all if he hadn't thought Deacon felt similarly. But there's a difference between the quiet deep-down conviction that he isn't alone in his true feelings, and hearing it confirmed so effusively aloud in the same broad daylight he's longed to be able to hold hands in, exactly like this. Crazy for you. It almost echoes, as sweet as it feels to hear.
"How could you possibly think I wouldn't want to, when it's all I've been able to think about for a week straight?"
He knows what Deacon means, the mindset that would make him doubt, but maybe the smile on Danse's face will be enough to assuage that. It's the bright unguarded grin nobody but Deacon gets to see, and the only reason that might no longer be true is because they're in public now--it's still aimed solely at him, as Danse catches him giddily around the waist and sweeps him in close.
"She damn well better not think it's a joke, after I lied right to her face because I thought you'd want me to. That's about as real as it gets."
Deacon gives Danse a goofy little grin at that question, the way Danse is looking at him making his heart race just a bit. He knows that smile is just for him, but only because he's never seen it expressed anywhere else. But as much as he likes having something secret, he finds that doesn't mind anyone else seeing Danse smile at him this way, at least not while he has something to prove.
"Dunno, maybe you really wanna see me get a lower back tattoo." Deacon laughs, it turning airy once Danse draws him in close. His own hands creep up his chest, feeling over strong muscle on their way around his neck.
"You lied for me?" he asks almost huskily, looking up at Danse from beneath his dark glasses, "I am so proud of you," he teases, but what he means is that he finds it deeply romantic, and he tugs Danse down into a firm kiss that risks getting a touch out of hand for the middle of the street.
It's the first and only public display of affection Danse has ever engaged in, when ordinarily he'd be loudly and firmly citing decorum and protocol and telling any too-amorous subordinates to conduct themselves with more discipline. He has been in that position before, and been shocked by the notion that anyone could get so carried away as to do that sort of thing right out in front of people's eyes.
Now he understands. Now it makes sense to him how two people could need each other so badly as to be unable to wait the extra minute or go the extra distance for privacy, knowing that whatever onlookers might think matters less than feeling the full weight and pleasure of the moment, sinking into it and indulging themselves for once when they're both so painfully familiar with self-deprivation.
He could sternly tell Deacon not to get used to the lying, their usual sort of banter, and if Deacon sounded any less genuinely smitten by the gesture, he might--but he recognizes what Deacon really means by it, and hearing that kind of praise still melts him no matter what its underlying meaning is anyway. He squeezes Deacon gently and hums with delight into the kiss before it breaks.
"Your lower back is perfect the way it is," he says solemnly. "I wouldn't let anyone else touch it. Let's get inside."
Probably the first Deacon has indulged himself in. Maybe not ever, but certainly in about as long as Danse has been alive. It's certainly less about the lying and more about the fact that Danse has sacrificed his values for the sake of Deacon, and that's such a meaningful gesture that it affirms every decision Deacon has made in the past week.
The comment about his back makes him laugh in a sort of disbelief though, because the continued confirmation that there is something very solid between the two of them still feels very surreal. He hopes that once he gets Danse through those doors, it'll start to feel more normal. Deserved.
"Maybe you'll just have to put your own mark there," he purrs, taking Danse's hand again, "And, I alluded to this earlier, but, I have made some changes while you were out, with you in mind..."
He gets the door, gesturing for Danse to enter first and take stock of the new furniture. Deacon will follow him inside, making sure that the door is shut behind them.
Danse wouldn't have expected it of himself, if asked. His values are all he's ever had--his honor, his sense of duty, his inflexible moral code, and he's never been able to imagine a situation where bending those would be the right or necessary thing to do.
But this isn't so big or important a lie, and even if it were--Deacon is a person who deserves to be sacrificed for. It's a revelation Danse hasn't been able to shake the weight of. For as long as Deacon has been sacrificing for others, his time and his safety, his face and his body, his very sense of self, nobody ever does it for him in turn. Danse still doesn't know why Deacon does it, what atonement he feels like he still owes, why he runs from himself the way he does--but what he knows is that Deacon ought to be a priority to someone. In and of himself, as a person, not an agent. And Danse wants to be that someone.
He follows, uncomprehending so far and not knowing what to expect by 'changes,' but when he enters the room, his eyes widen in that guileless open-book way of his, stunned to silence by the effort Deacon has put in and the thoughtfulness of the choices. A shelf for the kind of books he always finds himself wanting to borrow from Deacon's collection, a space to read them on his own, a real bed for them to curl up in and talk about them and wake tangled up together in the mornings--Danse doesn't even know which new addition feels the most important, but his throat is suddenly tight, and he has to swallow hard around it.
There's guilt in not telling Danse his own history. It never seems like the right time, but of course now that (he hopes) they'll be spending a lot more time together, he'll find the opportunity to. For now, though, he wants to bask in his partner's return and that precious, stunned look on his face.
Like Danse, he similarly wants to be the person to provide his partner with the sort of attention and care he knows Danse has never been given. To make him his priority. He hadn't realized how badly he wanted to until Danse was out of his reach, but now, it couldn't be more clear.
"If you'll call it that," he murmurs in response, moving behind Danse to gently slide a hand around his slim waist and hold him close. "...Are you hungry from your trip? Can I get you anything?"
They've roleplayed this, indulgently, tongue-in-cheek, with all the silliness of invented neighbors and their pre-war rosebushes. Danse as the war-weary returning soldier, Deacon as the faithful wife keeping the home fire burning. And it wasn't that it didn't feel real in its own way--even then, it had been a turning point, felt so real that it had shaken them, made them realize just how badly they both wanted it to be.
Danse just hadn't known what it really would feel like. There's teasing and groping and joking and over-the-top playacting and desperately gasped endearments in the throes of passion, and then there's the quiet way Deacon fits in against his side as if they were crafted as a matching set, arm anchored around him as if to reinforce that he's staying, and offers to cook as if Danse has just come home for dinner like he does every night. Like he will, every night.
And that's why there will be time for that later. Years of time, as much as anyone in the wasteland is granted those, if they can keep each other safe. Danse slips an arm around Deacon's shoulders in turn, meaning to just stand there with him for a moment, but it morphs unexpectedly into a full, tight hug, burying his face against the top of Deacon's head and rubbing his cheek gently against that regrowth of red and just holding him.
"You can test our bed frame with me," he murmurs, pulling back and sliding hands up to cup Deacon's face. "Then maybe dinner."
Deacon isn't sure what response he's expecting, but it isn't this. Not that he's complaining to be surrounded by those big, burly arms and given a face-full of Danse's chest, which he relaxes against and breathes in the heady scent of him. It's a smell he started to miss over the course of the week as the pillows and sheets aired out and smelled less and less like him every night. It makes Deacon kind of melt there, his arms clutching at Danse's back and resting happily against him until his face is pulled up to look at Danse, his cheeks flushed red.
"If you insist," he murmurs back, "I've only got an appetite for you, anyway..."
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"You were gone a long time. I mean, it felt like a long time. And I convinced myself of all kinds of wacky stuff..." he replies and reaches for Danse's hand while easing into a walk back to their house. "Like um, for starters, I'm kinda crazy for you. And the house didn't feel like home without you in it, no matter what I did to make it more home-y. So, I dunno, it's probably for the best I drop the act, that way, you could come home. Like, really come home. If you wanted to, I mean. But just know that if you don't, Nora will think this whole thing's a big joke, and my punishment involves getting a lower back tattoo."
no subject
But when he'd told Deacon a week ago that he couldn't wait to come home, he hadn't been thinking just of coming across that bridge; he'd been thinking of this little blue house. And he'd been thinking of opening the door to see Deacon there waiting for him. That, now, is what his mind thinks of as homecoming, whether he'd truly realized it at the time or not.
He hadn't said it in full consciousness of what he meant by it, but neither would he have said it at all if he hadn't thought Deacon felt similarly. But there's a difference between the quiet deep-down conviction that he isn't alone in his true feelings, and hearing it confirmed so effusively aloud in the same broad daylight he's longed to be able to hold hands in, exactly like this. Crazy for you. It almost echoes, as sweet as it feels to hear.
"How could you possibly think I wouldn't want to, when it's all I've been able to think about for a week straight?"
He knows what Deacon means, the mindset that would make him doubt, but maybe the smile on Danse's face will be enough to assuage that. It's the bright unguarded grin nobody but Deacon gets to see, and the only reason that might no longer be true is because they're in public now--it's still aimed solely at him, as Danse catches him giddily around the waist and sweeps him in close.
"She damn well better not think it's a joke, after I lied right to her face because I thought you'd want me to. That's about as real as it gets."
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"Dunno, maybe you really wanna see me get a lower back tattoo." Deacon laughs, it turning airy once Danse draws him in close. His own hands creep up his chest, feeling over strong muscle on their way around his neck.
"You lied for me?" he asks almost huskily, looking up at Danse from beneath his dark glasses, "I am so proud of you," he teases, but what he means is that he finds it deeply romantic, and he tugs Danse down into a firm kiss that risks getting a touch out of hand for the middle of the street.
no subject
Now he understands. Now it makes sense to him how two people could need each other so badly as to be unable to wait the extra minute or go the extra distance for privacy, knowing that whatever onlookers might think matters less than feeling the full weight and pleasure of the moment, sinking into it and indulging themselves for once when they're both so painfully familiar with self-deprivation.
He could sternly tell Deacon not to get used to the lying, their usual sort of banter, and if Deacon sounded any less genuinely smitten by the gesture, he might--but he recognizes what Deacon really means by it, and hearing that kind of praise still melts him no matter what its underlying meaning is anyway. He squeezes Deacon gently and hums with delight into the kiss before it breaks.
"Your lower back is perfect the way it is," he says solemnly. "I wouldn't let anyone else touch it. Let's get inside."
no subject
The comment about his back makes him laugh in a sort of disbelief though, because the continued confirmation that there is something very solid between the two of them still feels very surreal. He hopes that once he gets Danse through those doors, it'll start to feel more normal. Deserved.
"Maybe you'll just have to put your own mark there," he purrs, taking Danse's hand again, "And, I alluded to this earlier, but, I have made some changes while you were out, with you in mind..."
He gets the door, gesturing for Danse to enter first and take stock of the new furniture. Deacon will follow him inside, making sure that the door is shut behind them.
no subject
But this isn't so big or important a lie, and even if it were--Deacon is a person who deserves to be sacrificed for. It's a revelation Danse hasn't been able to shake the weight of. For as long as Deacon has been sacrificing for others, his time and his safety, his face and his body, his very sense of self, nobody ever does it for him in turn. Danse still doesn't know why Deacon does it, what atonement he feels like he still owes, why he runs from himself the way he does--but what he knows is that Deacon ought to be a priority to someone. In and of himself, as a person, not an agent. And Danse wants to be that someone.
He follows, uncomprehending so far and not knowing what to expect by 'changes,' but when he enters the room, his eyes widen in that guileless open-book way of his, stunned to silence by the effort Deacon has put in and the thoughtfulness of the choices. A shelf for the kind of books he always finds himself wanting to borrow from Deacon's collection, a space to read them on his own, a real bed for them to curl up in and talk about them and wake tangled up together in the mornings--Danse doesn't even know which new addition feels the most important, but his throat is suddenly tight, and he has to swallow hard around it.
"You really did make it home," he says softly.
no subject
Like Danse, he similarly wants to be the person to provide his partner with the sort of attention and care he knows Danse has never been given. To make him his priority. He hadn't realized how badly he wanted to until Danse was out of his reach, but now, it couldn't be more clear.
"If you'll call it that," he murmurs in response, moving behind Danse to gently slide a hand around his slim waist and hold him close. "...Are you hungry from your trip? Can I get you anything?"
no subject
Danse just hadn't known what it really would feel like. There's teasing and groping and joking and over-the-top playacting and desperately gasped endearments in the throes of passion, and then there's the quiet way Deacon fits in against his side as if they were crafted as a matching set, arm anchored around him as if to reinforce that he's staying, and offers to cook as if Danse has just come home for dinner like he does every night. Like he will, every night.
And that's why there will be time for that later. Years of time, as much as anyone in the wasteland is granted those, if they can keep each other safe. Danse slips an arm around Deacon's shoulders in turn, meaning to just stand there with him for a moment, but it morphs unexpectedly into a full, tight hug, burying his face against the top of Deacon's head and rubbing his cheek gently against that regrowth of red and just holding him.
"You can test our bed frame with me," he murmurs, pulling back and sliding hands up to cup Deacon's face. "Then maybe dinner."
no subject
"If you insist," he murmurs back, "I've only got an appetite for you, anyway..."