androidvictoriam | for taediosum

for taediosum

[ Disgusting, he'd called those patches of temporary scales growing through the injuries on his own face and arms, that first day here. It had been the very first experience he'd had with any kind of transformation, back when his arms still had a relatively ordinary amount of hair on them, and his face hadn't needed to be shaved twice a day to keep his beard in check, to say nothing of the ears and the tail and the fangs and the way everything has an impossibly vivid scent now and all the rest of it besides. Maybe it was just the unexpectedness of the scales. Maybe it was the bright copperhead color, seeming garish to him even when he wasn't objecting to it on his truck or his uniform.

He doesn't know. He can't logically account for why he'd thought those ones were ugly, whereas the ones on Arcade now are...elegant, is the word that periodically comes to mind. Like marble, he's caught himself thinking; like the kind of ancient statue that seems of a piece with the Latin he quotes. But Danse tries not to think much about any of that. What good does it do him?

There's a grace to both the scales and the extra arms they cover, and those are another thing he has to deliberately stop himself from thinking about sometimes, or watching as they move, mesmerizing in the way they maneuver together. He tells himself he's just impressed by the efficiency of having twice as many arms for necessary tasks. He doesn't even believe himself. But it doesn't matter. Things are still so newly and tentatively civil between them these days, and it would be downright irresponsible to let something as frivolous as this make it weird again. If there's one thing Danse knows how to do when he tries, it's force any and all physical desire down into a lead-lined little box and keep things professional.

There's plenty to keep him occupied anyway, as they move north into ever-colder territory. Even were he not sporting an amount of insulating fur now that feels just barely within the realm of still human (or human-adjacent), this is just the kind of autumnal cold it gets in the Commonwealth. A Commonwealth fall might as well be a Capital winter, but he's roughed it outdoors through both of those for deep recon ops and come out the other side only mildly frostbitten for the wear, and he can chop wood and forage food and build campfires with the best of them. He's perfectly in his element. He'd still been cheerfully sleeping out in his truck bed until a few days ago, stealing an extra blanket from the sleeping car and carrying on as usual. He knows not everyone's built for cold weather; he's heard complaints already, but it hasn't yet occurred to him how literally true that might be.

Still, it seems like a good idea to go chop some extra firewood just in case, to have around the camp. The woods here are absolutely brimming with mushrooms and berries and edible roots and things that would be a luxury to find un-mutated and minimally-irradiated back home, and he considers trying to gather some of those too as long as he's out, but he decides it'll depend on whether the frost he can smell in the air turns into snow. ]

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[ He's been cold, before. There are mountains around the Mojave, the ruins of snowy ski resorts built up into distant, secluded settlements, among some of them. He's hiked miserably through snow and frozen in streaming sleet, and shivered so hard he thought for certain his teeth would chip when they chattered. But none of that was ever so miserable as this.

The cold is far from severe, and even just his usual layers should be enough to keep the chill at bay, especially in collaboration with his tendency to keep moving, to always be doing something (even if that something is only idly pacing, half the time). But none of it helps. He's more exhausted, more sluggish, with every degree the temperature drops. And it's not just physical - it's in his head, too. Even thinking takes an effort, the colder he gets. He only feels marginally better when he's able to huddle close to a fire or bundle up on one of the convoy's interior couches, but that's not an option all the time. Arcade doesn't let it be, because he doesn't want to sit idle and useless while everyone else pitches in.

That's why he's in the woods, too. Not to chop firewood (there are drifters both better suited to that chore and in better condition for it), but to forage while he can. He made sure to stop and build up a bit of heat by the nearest fire, on his way past the boundaries of camp. Now, though, that warmth seems to be sapping away from him almost tangibly, with every passing second.

He doesn't even really register the intermittent sound of someone working away among the nearby trees, as focused intently on his own self-appointed work as he is. And on just keeping his feet, a task that seems increasingly more difficult than properly identifying berries and mushrooms, as he goes. (Not that that's so easy, with all the wool packed into his skull, either.)

When he starts to lean down toward another healthy looking patch of green herbs, the world around him swims suddenly to the side, swaying as he slumps against the nearest tree. Before he can stop himself, he's sitting down - or dropping, at least, dragged down by a freshly overwhelming wave of fatigue. Falling asleep here definitely isn't a good idea, but in spite of the shivering, he thinks he just might. ]

[ The collapse is silent enough that Danse doesn't hear it, especially not over the sound of his axe, though with his hearing as painfully enhanced as it's recently been, he might have picked up on something if he were a little nearer. It's just good fortune that he rounds a bend and happens to see Arcade slumped against the tree, before he's been out too long in the cold on his own.

The immediate and obvious assumption, as Danse runs over, is that he must be injured--there's never any shortage of local monsters that want to bite or gore them all; it feels like home--but at a closer distance, he can't see any blood, no oddly twisted limbs (even accounting for the extra ones), not even any clear signs of mushroom poisoning, which he'd trust Arcade to avoid more handily than anyone else here in any case. ]

My god. What happened?

[ He kneels down, reaching up with one gentle and over-warm hand to touch Arcade's face and study it more closely in a way he wouldn't take the liberty of doing if this didn't feel emergent, examining him with everything he can recall of his very basic training in field medicine. Arcade feels colder than a live human should be able to, though things obviously aren't that dire yet. It's been a long time since Danse had to do anything like this himself rather than defer to someone like Haylen, and his diagnostic skill here would be limited, except for a memory that strikes him now at the sight of the scales.

"Scribe Neriah, is there a reason your...zoo here has to be ten degrees hotter than the rest of the ship?" He can feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck into his power armor, and he sounds every bit as irritable as he looks.

"There is, Paladin. It's for the reptiles. They can't generate their own body heat, so we need to keep the temperature higher for them, or they're useless for behavioral observation because they're too sleepy to do anything. Proctor Ingram's found a way to redirect some of the heat from the engines--"

She breaks off, as one of the sharp-fanged little iguana things attempts to demonstrate on a passing squire exactly how lively the heat is making it. Danse gets the gist.

All right. At least he has a potential idea of where to start, if this is in fact the issue. His truck, with its warm blankets and finicky but occasionally-functioning heat, isn't parked close enough to be much help yet and he can't get it any closer. But his scavenged jacket is, in a rather unusual turn of events for him, a size too big, enough to maybe try and share. ]

[ The sound of Danse's voice doesn't rouse him, but the hand on him does - almost immediately. Everything else about him still moves slowly, as if he's underwater, as he struggles to open his eyes, to process where he is and what exactly is going on. But that initial start and the way he leans into Danse's hand is swift and abrupt.

Arcade doesn't particularly enjoy unsolicited touch, least of all from people he still isn't quite sure he completely trusts. But warmth isn't something he could drag himself away from, if he tried, right now.

Danse doesn't have to move closer, because Arcade does it for him, arms (all four of them) pushing into the extra space under his jacket, trying to sap the body heat from him. He might not die out here if he can't, but he certainly won't be able to move again under his own power. Working on instinct that isn't entirely his own (nor is it entirely human), instinct he'll be mortified by later when he can reason well enough to be, he slumps, half-conscious, into the only source of heat in this whole freezing forest. ]

[ The shock of this is not quite enough to make Danse recoil--even if he could, held firmly in place now by four separate arms--but enough that the jolt of his heartbeat and the speed of his pulse would be tangible if Arcade were in a state of mind to notice. It ought, however, to register in the way the startled redness it provokes raises Danse's temperature even more.

But it shouldn't come as so much of a surprise. Danse, too, understands these new deep-seated instincts and reflexes that shouldn't belong to them. He would understand this even if some new component to his brain weren't shouting at him to protect a vulnerable packmate right now. He's been telling that component to shut up for weeks, for all the good it's done anyone, but at least his reasons for that are in the past. Even the initial touch here, though practical, is not something he's sure he would have had the same impulse to do back home, though he'll attribute that to the difficulty of touching anyone with power armor gauntlets.

He makes the most of the jacket, folding as much of the extra fabric around Arcade as he can, though there still isn't a lot of excess to spare. But his own arms can work, warm in their own right, pulling Arcade closer into the shared coat, core against core. He's already warmed up and healthily flushed from the exertion of the woodcutting, and even at his baseline, he's always run hot. He remembers Cutler once calling him a human space heater, and he'd only been wrong about the "human" part.

He'll just sit here, monitoring the situation, until something happens. His heart rate does not seem inclined to normalize itself just yet, but that's just keeping his temperature up. He will not think about how those scaled arms sit in just exactly the spot around his waist that he's briefly imagined they might. ]

[ Arcade moves against him like he might try to slither under his clothes entirely, if he could, unthinking beyond his innate desire to survive. The cold might not kill him right away, but his changed mind and body react as if it might, relaxing only fractionally when he's pulled as close as he can get, the heat source obligingly draping around him.

It takes a few minutes of consistent warmth pushing back that bone-deep chill before he actually seems to stir. His glasses are askew, his cheek pressed hard into Danse's shoulder, and though he doesn't have the energy yet to move, his confused grimace speaks volumes.

At least he can recognize the body wrapped around his (or that he's... unceremoniously wrapped around) without looking up. (For reasons he won't be examining, right now.) ]

Danse...? What happened?

[ He's been walking around in a haze for so many days, now, that it doesn't alarm him as much as it should to come to in a patch of wood he only half remembers. Aggressively hugging a man who, until lately, has only barely tolerated his presence, though? That's definitely new. ]

[ Danse has spent these few minutes desperately holding himself as still as he can, watching with anxious concentration for any sign of consciousness aside from the fact that Arcade can obviously move when some part of his brain wants to, and debating exactly how much more time he should give the situation before trying to extract his car phone from his pocket and call for help. What form that help could actually take, he doesn't really know. Getting someone else to build a fire is the best he can come up with, because he sure can't do it himself under these conditions.

In light of this, his sigh of relief when Arcade speaks up is more obvious than he wants it to be, even if it's clearly just the first step. It was definitely easier not to be embarrassed about this when Arcade wasn't conscious, but he knows enough about sharing body heat for survival purposes to know moving yet is out of the question, even if he's only ever had to do it with a fellow endotherm. ]

I was hoping you could tell me.

[ He doesn't sound too disgruntled about this, at least. The main emotion in his voice is confusion, and all of it pretty mild. It's not all that hard to piece together with some analysis; nothing is contradicting his hypothesis, it's just the strength of the reaction that's genuinely surprised him. The strength, the clearly unthinking primal quality of it, the not-quite-human speed of the motions, uncanny but not in a way that would be very distressing if it didn't come with concern for Arcade's health.

This, in turn, is hard to sort through. He can't tell how much of it comes from practical concern about keeping the squad medic safe, how much is instinct-driven lupine conviction that the few people from home need to stick together for better or worse like grudging dysfunctional family, and how much is personal, given that he's found it annoyingly difficult already not to like Arcade just a little even when he was still steadfastly refusing to give in and trust him. He doesn't think the reasons really need to be dissected right now. ]

You were half frozen and completely out of it. I was concerned I wouldn't be able to wake you up at all, except--

[ Well. Except for the very purposeful, very determined burrowing. Not something Danse generally associates with the comatose. ]

[ Oh, great. So it sounds like he's gone completely out of his mind and managed to make himself look like an utter incompetent in one fell swoop. And... for some reason, he can't seem to disentangle himself, even now. It's almost like his arms have gone numb - and maybe they did, a little, from the chill - but he can still feel them. He just can't actually make them move. Which maybe would only be a regular kind of bad, if at least two of his hands weren't pressed firmly to the small of Danse's back.

(Then again, maybe not being able to move is a blessing, when so much as wiggling his fingers might seem, at best, wildly inappropriate, in this position.) ]

Oh. Well. I think I'm... Probably still alive. So, no real reason for concern. Probably.

[ He's been less reassuring, he's sure, his voice still half-muffled against Danse. But not by much. ]

I think I just got, uh, a little too cold. I might just need - a minute.

Probably.

[ If his tone got any flatter or drier, it could probably make Arcade even more homesick for the desert. ]

Well...take your time.

[ Not that either of them actually has any choice in the matter whatsoever, but it's something to say. Danse isn't always a nervous talker; he can let a silence be comfortable if it has the capacity to be, but this one does not. And "trying to distract himself from where those hands are or how Arcade's hair smells" is one of those situations where talking feels called for, even if he knows he's rarely the guy to rely on for conversation that makes things less awkward rather than more.

The fact that the mortification here is so clearly mutual is not a "pain shared is pain halved" kind of deal. It only makes things worse. But Danse feels like navigating the unpredictable changes being imposed on them is something that deserves a bit of grace while they all figure things out, so he won't judge Arcade for winding up here. God only knows what might happen next with this degrading wolf nonsense. He can only hope people give him the benefit of the doubt too. ]

If you'll believe it, this isn't even the first time this has happened to me in the last six months, so I could have been less prepared.

[ Not exactly, of course. Not so much in the "having to share body heat with a hypothermic snake person accustomed to being warm-blooded" sense. More in the "being awkwardly and inescapably hugged by a medic in distress and having exactly zero idea what to do about it except hug back in a way he hopes is helpful" sense. He would say he's just glad Arcade isn't crying on him, but he doesn't want to put poor Haylen on blast like that.

He shifts position, very minutely, hoping in vain to get his painfully cramped tail out from under him, but gives up on it almost instantly when he realizes it'll force him to push his hips out in a way that would be even less appropriate than anything Arcade could be doing with his fingers were he capable of moving them. ]

Edited 2025-06-26 09:05 (UTC)

[ Don't make him think about the desert, Danse. All he wants to do is curl up on a large, flat, hot rock somewhere... Okay, definitely still out of direct sunlight. But avoiding a sunburn doesn't mean he can't entertain the thought of otherwise baking in the Mojave heat, right now.

Even if he's presently the furthest thing from it. Not that Danse isn't doing an admirable job of trying to warm him back up. Under ordinary circumstances, he'd feel like a furnace, Arcade thinks, completely unbearable to be pressed up against for too long. Now, though, he might actually be the only thing keeping Arcade from slipping into some kind of hibernative coma - at best.

Which is admirable, really. He just isn't making it any better with the conversation. ]

You have me at a disadvantage, then.

[ His tone is definitely dry enough he'll make himself homesick if he thinks on it too long.

So he focuses on struggling to will the feeling back into his limbs, instead. With an almost pained hiss, Arcade manages at last to pull one of his hands away from Danse (one of the ones pressed to his upper back, thankfully) flexing his fingers uncomfortably beneath his jacket. A soft, audible, still shaky exhale feathers across Danse's neck as Arcade shifts back against him, unaware of his increasing discomfort (as preoccupied as he is with his own). ]

I don't think "advantage" is a word that applies to either one of us right now--

[ How unaware Arcade can manage to stay is going to be challenged, because while Danse has been sitting still in an unremarkable way thus far, now he freezes to the point where even breath is on hold, shoulders tensing and spine stiffening sharply under those two lower hands.

He's maintained a decorous, professional equilibrium even with all of those arms around him, even with these keen lupine senses letting him hear Arcade's heartbeat and feel completely surrounded and saturated by his entirely-too-pleasant scent--this has all been just enough for him to tolerate while thinking of other things, provided nothing really upsets the balance.

But that soft stuttering breath against his neck is too much, calls to mind too many thoughts he's had to forcibly cull more than once since he's been here, feels too strangely erotic in a way he's too unprepared for and unguarded against. His nerves (and his eyes, if anyone could see them right now) light up against his will at the sensation of it and the way Arcade keeps moving against him, a hot spike of arousal he can feel in his core with an accompanying wave of abject horror under the circumstances.

As much as he prides himself on being able to suppress these things, he's failed to consider just how much easier that is to do when encased in a solid shell of thick metal at all times, and when nobody is actually testing his restraint. It's all he can do to temper the sudden panicked reflex to wedge his arms between them for a few inches of space, but in that, at least, his common sense can override what his body wants to do. He doesn't know whether to protest or apologize, and anything he says is inevitably going to make matters worse. ]

Do you have an estimated timeframe on this?

[ Perfect. His voice is hushed and ever-so-slightly strangled. ]

[ Arcade is still distracted by the sensation and mobility returning, slowly, to his limbs to make much note of Danse abruptly tensing against him. If he registers it at all, he simply automatically files it away as more of that mild, dutiful discomfort. Not a good thing, but also not of much concern. And all the more reason to keep straining to regain some semblance of control over himself, so that he can free Danse from this awkward obligation as soon as possible. And both of them from the whole... situation.

But that strained, impatient question does get through to him, sparking a flash of frustrated annoyance— ]

Oh, sure. This completely unprecedented problem I'm experiencing for the first time ever should only last another five minutes or so. My prediction is based on nothing, of course, so it's probably fairly inaccurate.

[ Of course, it's not until Arcade opens his mouth and takes a deeper breath after snapping at him that he tastes the air. That inadvertent, inescapable new sense is one he's still getting used to, still trying to figure out how to read more fully than pure instinct allows - but he knows the difference between a vital read that spells irritation and one that trends toward... other feelings, at this point.

For one, those stress hormones and strained, rapid signs always taste bad. Bitter, metallic, flat flavors that linger unpleasantly long, just like the pain or discomfort causing them. This tastes warm and rich and not like anything he can immediately place, but far from bad.

Arcade awkwardly clears his throat, realizing now that he's making things worse, but. Maybe not in the way he initially assumed. He forces his scaled hands apart at the center of Danse's back, and manages to slide them away from where they've been pinned, but only so far. He's still too cold to try to fight off the fatigue in any meaningful way, but he can at least put an inch or two of breathing room between them. Even if it immediately makes him shiver again. ]

Listen— I appreciate the effort, but I'm not sure this is going to work fast enough to preserve your comfort, so...

[ Danse's face and neck are red enough with embarrassment now to make his skin feel hot and feverish, and he doesn't respond verbally to the (not unexpected) snapping, only sets his jaw tightly enough to make a muscle stand out in his neck and focuses on his own breathing until it calms.

He had hoped, in vain, that he'd been physically disciplined enough that the source of his distress wouldn't be so immediately obvious, that maybe he could have passed it off as something else, or just deflected--it's never occurred to him that the forked tongue, when he's noticed it, is anything more than a cosmetic change, the way his own tail seems to be.

But no, today is apparently a day for karmic retribution for everything he's put Arcade through since arriving here, because he doesn't think any reaction could have been quite as humiliating as the awkward pity he's reading into this. Anger or offense might have been preferable, he thinks, if obliviousness couldn't be an option.

Only at the mention of his comfort is he reminded that this isn't about him, that however much he might be mortifying himself, he's not the one who nearly ended up comatose out in the freezing woods, still half paralyzed with circulation issues in a way he knows he'd be having a hard time not panicking about if it were him. Nobody asked for this, but it is what it is, and that shiver would rekindle a shamefaced protective instinct in him even without the deep, half-conscious part of his own changed mind that casts Arcade as someone in particular to look out for. ]

I'm sorry. Obviously my comfort shouldn't take priority over your health, it's just that this is about as drastic a departure as it's possible to get from the level of contact I'm used to--

[ Nobody asked for excuses, either, so he gives up on that one halfway. He shifts, as long as there's no longer any point in pretending they don't both know the nadir of awkwardness this can reach now, to move the tail aside so that he can settle in more comfortably for longer. That warm little pool of tingling desire has subsided by now (though his temperature hasn't, fortunately enough for their purposes.) He can rally. ]

You have my word that it won't be an issue again. [ He will pretend, fervently, that he can promise that. ] But--we can maximize the heat transfer more efficiently now that you can move a little, so I think it would be advisable to try.

[ Given what's just happened, being able to make himself more clearly articulate anything that amounts to "come back here and snuggle in again" is a losing battle, but it still does seem like the most practical option currently available to them. ]

Edited 2025-07-01 06:08 (UTC)

[ There's a logical connection here that Arcade hadn't quite gone so far as to make, himself, before Danse spoke up again. But it doesn't take much to push him to the right conclusion, when Danse's flagrant unease doesn't even split the difference between the simple, straightforward kind of discomfort Arcade assumed he was causing and the ever so slightly more complicated kind that that deep, obvious blush directly indicates.

The same blush that he can't look at without wanting desperately to bury his face against it, soaking up the residual heat. Danse looks like he's liable to start steaming in the frosty, open air any second now. And Arcade can't even feel if his own face is red, with the unfortunate revelation unspooling behind his stunned pause. His face just feels cold. His blood just feels cold.

So getting abruptly to his feet and retreating into the trees (maybe to find somewhere to deliberately go and die, now) is probably still out of the question.

His already reeling mind short-circuits briefly at Danse's insistent suggestion, skipping right past reasonable and landing on an old scrap of medical advice about how to handle immediate, freezing hypothermia. The last thing he needs to be thinking about is removing clothing to better share body heat, especially when he can just imagine how good it might feel to slide both sets of hands into any opening they can find in Danse's outfit. And there might be a few; his clothes have clearly seen better days. Less transformative ones, certainly. ]

Uh. Maybe you should... be a little clearer. More specific. If there's a better way to do this—

[ That'd be great, actually. But Arcade seriously doubts it, and he's hesitant to just go snuggling in again (the part of him that's still managing to think clearly enough to fight that instinct, at least). ]

What can I do that isn't going to make this exponentially worse for you?

[ Telling him to phrase that suggestion more explicitly is not the way to keep from making things worse, in Danse's opinion, but he keeps that at least in part to himself. ]

If there's a better way to do this, you're the doctor here, not me.

[ He has only really been thinking in terms of "stop doing things that make you shiver like that for my sake," counterproductive as that is for them both when it only prolongs the problem anyway and makes Danse feel guilty into the bargain--makes his wolf brain want to reach proactively out and pull Arcade those few inches back into his arms again and warm him like a blanket if he won't do it himself, but he refrains.

But he has enough survival training to know why skin-to-skin contact is recommended, too. It's never actually come to that for him, in all his time roughing it with squadmates in the northeastern cold; there were always others around to help, for one, and he's never had to do more than share a bedroll back-to-back, or hold someone else's frost-numbed hands against his chest until the fire was warm enough to thaw them. And nobody involved was literally cold-blooded, no matter how bitterly certain subordinates might have accused him of having ice water in his veins.

It would help. It would make this go faster. Danse has sort of transcended embarrassment at this point and moved on to a state of tranquility, which will likely last just about as long as it takes for Arcade's hands to actually touch his bare skin. ]

You don't need to take into account what would make it worse for me. [ He does, at least, recognize the kind intention in the offer. ] The only thing that's going to make this any better for either of us is getting you to a point where you can walk, and then you can blast the heat in my truck for as long as you need. You...seem to know how best to go about warming up, so...

[ Maybe not consciously, if that initial embrace was any indication, but maybe it doesn't have to be done consciously now, either. If there's one thing Danse is coming to understand, it's having instincts that he could give in and listen to if he were willing. ]

Do what you need to. Whatever you feel will work best. I...just needed a minute to adjust, is all. I was caught off-guard, but I'll be fine.

[ Sure. It's about being taken by surprise. He'll go with that. ]

[ Arcade is doing his best not to find this uncomfortable stalemate as frustrating as it is, because technically Danse is more than likely presently responsible for saving his life. Or near to it, at the very least. He doesn't know what happens if he winds up on his own, out here, half frozen. Maybe he'll simply slip into some form of hibernation, readily able to thaw once the weather turns again. But given the potential alternatives, it isn't a gamble he really wants to take.

On the other hand, neither is trying to wiggle his way inside Danse's half ruined coveralls and soak up all his body heat just to survive. Not when they've only just barely gotten to the point of being able to behave relatively normally when in each other's presence. This is definitely going to ruin that.

Whether it's the serpent part of him or pure stubborn survival instinct, though, eventually he's forced to give in. With an irritable, still shivery sigh, Arcade slumps closer again. ]

Fine.

[ He doesn't settle, though, still moving in stuttering fits and starts as he pulls his arms out of his sleeves. The dirty white lab coat is okay insulation, ordinarily, but it's not going to help, here. And even if he isn't quite willing to shed the shirt underneath it, it still brings them considerably closer with only that threadbare barrier left, on his part.

He only barely manages to resist temptation, scaled palms pressing to the hirsute swath of chest bared by Danse's broken zipper but not sliding under the fabric. ]

But I wash my hands of any further responsibility, should you continue to have a perfectly natural reaction to my proximity.

[ The emphasis of sarcasm makes it sound far less understanding than he actually is. ]

[ This is one of the rare occasions on which Danse's tendency to take things literally is more help than hindrance, if only by a little bit. The edge of sarcasm is not completely missed, sharp as it is, but it doesn't bite deep enough to make him wonder if he's being outright mocked or anything. He will take that "perfectly natural" at...something close to face value.

It doesn't make him any less tongue-tied, startled and stammering just a little in a way that also helpfully distracts him from what would be a stronger reaction to those cool scales pressed against his chest, finally putting an answer to his frequent wondering about what they would feel like to touch. He'll do his part with the agreement too, as if he hasn't been wrestling back the tide of animal urges as well in more than just the way he's struggling to find words about--as if he hasn't wanted the excuse he now has to wrap his arms around Arcade again, holding him deliberately closer this time, and rub gingerly at his back and arms through that thinner layer of fabric to get the blood circulating.

The coat strikes him as still potentially useful, and he reaches for it to tuck over them both lengthwise like a small blanket. It helps him, anyway, when the only thing still keeping him furnace-warm right now is that combined power of embarrassment and arousal, though being now draped in Arcade's inexplicably-maddening scent all over again is another shovel of coal to fuel the latter. ]

Not everyone would be that forgiving about it, you know.

[ He doesn't mean to sound quite so defensive about that, when he does have at least some inkling that Arcade probably knows that just as well or better than he does. Not that they've ever discussed it. For a lot of good reasons. ]

I had good reason to think you might take issue.

[ This is predominantly his own fault, which he does not think needs to be brought up again, so he doesn't. ]

Edited 2025-07-04 06:55 (UTC)

[ His other hands join the scaled set, after another moment of harsh internal debate. Danse's skin feels far warmer bare than it does over his clothes, though; his other fingers almost feel normal again, even after only a few seconds' worth of contact. How long it'll last is the problem, given how slowed his circulation seems to be - that sluggish feeling persists, making him feel clumsy and useless even just sitting down, and a truck with the heater on high feels like a prospect several small eons away from his present reality. So he'll just have to bear up under it, for both their sakes.

As preoccupied as he is with trying to find a balance between taking what's offered and taking some kind of unintentional advantage, Arcade only distantly takes note of Danse covering them up. Or of him talking, unfortunately.

Arcade's brow furrows, confusion in it rather than annoyance, now, as he very seriously contemplates a spot somewhere between the end of his nose and Danse's other shoulder (when he dropped his head back down to rest on the other again, he can't recall). His scaled hands slip farther under the fabric parted around them, after all, their palms oddly smooth between those soft textured ridges patterned neatly across them. ]

Take issue? With you coming to rescue me? Yeah. Tall, dark, and handsome saving the day. What a nightmare.

[ It's Danse's turn for a trembling breath now, as those hands with their very different textures (both of which he's pictured, at varying times, to imagine the contrast) slip inside his clothing, his heartbeat still elevated underneath them.

But he's braced himself carefully enough to keep steady now, with only a single hard swallow as he closes his eyes, trying not to let his awareness of the reality give way to any further mental images of those hands roaming deliberately down over his chest and sides, or how little Arcade would need to move in order to tilt his face into Danse's neck and press his lips to the pounding pulse there. In the momentary silence, he begins mentally to go over as much of the Brotherhood Codex as he can recall from memory.

He doesn't know if the rubbing is helping much with regaining circulation, but he isn't being told to stop, and it's what he would do for anyone else under the circumstances too, so he keeps at it, though probably not quite vigorously enough to get the best effect out of it. He's adjusting again, tolerably enough. But those words still the determined movement of his hands, prompt a little jolt in his heartbeat with their unexpectedness. ]

I didn't think--

[ He didn't think a lot of things. And now he has to sort through all of the things he didn't think, with a very faint, slightly lost-sounding noise somewhere in the back of his throat. ]

I didn't think you'd object to the rescue itself, just...my enjoying the proximity. [ There was probably a better way to phrase that. He was never going to find it. ] I didn't know you thought of me like that.

[ It's unfortunate that Danse is only more charming the more flustered he grows. That helpless noise, in particular, is wildly intriguing in a way Arcade has to put real effort into ignoring - though that doesn't change the pleasant warmth that it sparks, anyway.

Actual warmth, at that. He's almost starting to feel a little more human, the longer they're pressed together like this. Even Danse's hands rubbing at his back are beginning to feel a little more there, gentle friction building up a gentle heat in his freezing skin. It's just also unfortunate that it isn't making him want to try his luck at standing up any time soon. He'd much rather stay curled up here and pressed to as much of that bare skin as he can reach—

Also not a thought he is entertaining, as he awkwardly clears his throat. ]

I don't. I mean - it's not like I am thinking of you... like that. It was more a statement of objective fact, if anything.

[ One he's sure he's pointed out, before, if off-handedly and with some noted sarcasm. But when a man confesses that he was built in a lab, of course it's the natural next assumption that he was also made to be upsettingly gorgeous on purpose. ]

The same way that you, uh, enjoying this is purely a function of biology, and not a commentary on my personal - anything. That is, I won't take it personally, anyway.

[ It might have registered before, when Arcade pointed it out, had Danse been less deliberately resistant at the time to a good-faith interpretation of anything he had to say. Danse doesn't remember the particulars now, hadn't gone over them after the fact with a fine-tooth comb the way he does with most things, only because he'd been sick enough for a lot of that conversation to feel a little blurry in his memory anyway.

He hasn't yet resumed the careful friction, but he's occupied with pulling his arms from the sleeves of his own jacket, forced to remove them temporarily from around Arcade in order to do so, but perhaps worth it for the added effectiveness of draping a coat warmed with his own body heat around Arcade's back before slipping arms around him again underneath it. It won't work indefinitely, because he can't stay warm without it forever, but it's better insulation for now.

He doesn't know why it hadn't occurred to him earlier, chivalrous stereotype that it is. If the movement of doing it conceals the very slight slump of his shoulders at that immediate "I don't," that's only a bonus. He ought to say something, and maybe that something should be an apology for the bounds he thinks he's probably already overstepped, but if Arcade is going to talk about objective fact, then Danse should address the misconception he's cultivated about this being just a matter of touch-starved overstimulation. ]

Look, I don't want to cross a line, but if I'm being honest, this would be a hell of a lot easier with anyone but you. You can take it impersonally, but you have to know you're every bit as attractive.

[ Though there are other reasons it would have been easier with anyone else, chief among them that with anyone who wasn't taller than he is and possessed of an intimidatingly sharp tongue, Danse would have had no reservations about just scooping them up and carrying them. That's been less of a first-resort option here. ]

Certainly more so than anyone else in this camp. There's no comparison.

[ Arcade sighs as the coat drapes around him, its borrowed heat like a furnace briefly turned on at his back. That awkward stiffness and the fatigue fogging his mind have all but dissipated, now - at least where it counts - and the chilled numbness is fading faster with every little concession to get closer.

Which only makes the turn their conversation is taking that much more of a minefield to navigate. Though maybe that's being a tad hyperbolic. He doesn't find Danse the least bit repellent, and Danse apparently has some far more in-depth thoughts on the matter, in his regard. This should be a good thing, probably. But Arcade has gone too long without having to navigate the complicated waters of someone earnestly being attracted to him (as opposed to meaningless, insincere flirting). He doesn't think brushing this all off with some mildly sarcastic humor is the right move, here, even if it is his knee-jerk reflex. ]

Well, no pressure or anything, right?

[ He regrets the poor phrasing as soon as he's said it, wincing tangibly against Danse's shoulder. ]

Not... like that. I mean, uh, I'm flattered. Maybe under different circumstances, this would be a mutually enjoyable experience. But I already feel like I'm taking advantage of your - hospitality.

[ And maybe whatever attraction is there, too even if only unintentionally. (Then again, maybe Danse really just is that broadly altruistic, under the right circumstances.) ]

[ He tenses momentarily at the phrasing, opening his mouth to protest, but realizes just as quickly with that wince that it wasn't meant that way and cuts himself off too. Well. One always can rely on Danse to take an uncomfortable situation and make it worse, but he regroups as best he can, wanting to smooth things over. ]

I don't understand why you think you're taking advantage of anything. If I'm not, you certainly aren't. I know you don't have some ulterior motive. It's basic survival training; we both know it.

[ A stark departure from those weeks when he'd been convinced that everything Arcade did must have had an ulterior motive, but only because it had been impossible to reconcile his decency and selflessness in providing medical care with the idea of someone secretly plotting against them all in the name of genetic purity, and not even life in the Brotherhood had really trained Danse for that level of cognitive dissonance.

It's the kind of altruism (even if it does come clad in short-temperedness and the occasional outburst of yelling) that wasn't found nearly as often in the Brotherhood as Danse wanted to believe, the kind of thing he can't help but like and admire in the rare people he does find it in. And something he does understand for himself, because he would be doing this for anyone else in the convoy had he found them here and been equally unable to move them right away. Just as Arcade had been willing to help without condition when Danse had come to him for medicine, even when Danse had made it clear then that the truce was temporary and Arcade wasn't yet exonerated from suspicion.

(Though he had been, really, after that. Danse's wary surveillance from then on had been forced, intermittent, halfhearted, that strange shared dream only the nail in the coffin for what he already knew deep down to be useless.) ]

You've been looking after the rest of us for months without demanding anything in return. Someone should reciprocate when you need it. And regardless of what I said, I'm not doing it because of your good looks.

[ His tone is more wry about that, gently so, than indignant or defensive. ]

I'm pretty sure basic survival training doesn't include anything about continuously hitting on the person you're trying to help survive.

[ His tone is more than simply wry, though there's a lightness to it that still belies the obvious good humor beneath. He may be able to readily and easily brush past any claims of altruism on his part, but the seemingly constant reaffirmation of his apparent attractiveness are harder to ignore.

It's not that Arcade lacks in self-esteem. He might be assertively self-effacing, most of the time, but that doesn't mean he thinks himself somehow unworthy or unlikable (or, yes, particularly unattractive, either). He's also not unused to being flattered or hit with the frequent, flagrantly casual come-on. But praise from someone who actually, honestly means it always does hit differently.

And it softens the edges of the walls he puts up, whether he wants it to or not.

His fingertips tap idly against Danse's bare chest, the scaled set dragging lightly over warm skin. His face actually does feel a touch hotter, now, but without being able to see himself blush, he can't be sure it isn't purely psychosomatic. ]

By all means, though.

[ It doesn't usually take as much emotional expression as this to have Danse downright groveling with apology for overstepping boundaries, and this response, taken on its face, would ordinarily have him trying to self-immolate through sheer force of will (in the unlikely event that he'd pushed himself to say anything that would even prompt it.)

But he isn't taking it literally this time. He's focused now on picking up those nuances of tone, and this sounds...almost teasing, not chastising. Even, or perhaps especially, in light of that blush. Danse doesn't feel quite as mortified now by the faint goosebumps that arise under those gently-moving scaled fingertips, his skin eager to respond to the touch when all of his faculties are diverted toward controlling any more dramatic physical reactions. ]

Then maybe we can resume this once you're a less captive audience.

[ One of the reactions not currently being controlled is the huskiness in his voice, though he clears his throat in a futile effort anyway. It does double duty as he immediately backtracks on his phrasing. ]

--The conversation, that is.

[ That's already a forward enough proposal. ]

And in the meantime, just...let me know once you feel like you can stand, and I'll help.

[ "We can resume this conversation another time," he'd said, and then...hadn't. Or hasn't, yet. Even under the circumstances, emboldened by the humor in Arcade's voice and by slightly brain-clouding arousal, he'd already begun to feel like he'd crossed the sort of line he never would have back home. Once they'd made it back to his truck, and he'd left Arcade to finish thawing out while he gathered up the piles of wood he'd left under the trees, the chill air and the space alone to think had given him room to second-guess, and he's been nothing but the picture of decorum and propriety since.

When actually around Arcade, at least. It had been difficult enough even before all of that to keep his private thoughts in check, but he'd managed. Now that he actually knows the weight of those extra arms around his waist, and the texture of those scaled hands against skin nobody else has touched in years, he can't help but be more preoccupied. His brain wants to take this new sense-memory and run with it, and it's all he can do to stubbornly hobble it.

(There are the unnervingly intimate bits of knowledge too, things that appeal more to loneliness than lust, like the softness of that breath against his neck or the tickling brush of Arcade's hair against his cheek while resting on his shoulder. These, he is even more determined to keep from thinking about, and therefore more successful.)

Everyone is in better spirits as they leave the city, the atmosphere almost festive in light of how flush with new supplies the company is, and the bar in particular stocked well enough now to keep them all tipsy for months. Danse doesn't feel guilty about indulging in a late-evening cocktail once most of the others have cleared out of it, but he isn't particularly expecting Arcade to walk in when he's halfway through drinking it, and he finds himself briefly at a loss before clearing his throat with a nod of greeting. ]

How's the weather been treating you?

[ This is what he actually says aloud, the kind of politely neutral talk he's been keeping to in these past couple weeks (though it's a deeper expression of friendly concern than it sounds on the surface, when they both know he has good reason to ask now. And he does worry.) The commentary his mind decides to add is more along the lines of damn, but his shoulders look nice and broad in that new shirt, and this does not actually make it to his lips, but it doesn't need to.

Everyone's stray thoughts had been audible to everyone else during that brief time passing through that broken-up stretch of brush and tumbleweeds, but Danse's never actually stopped doing that, at least not to the people his wolf brain has adopted as part of his incongruous wasteland pack. He's just not usually thinking quite so loudly or clearly as to project, and when he does it's usually more sensations than words, but alcohol tends to turn up the volume. Danse remains fully oblivious that it's happening. ]

[ Leaving the city is the only thing Arcade is in better spirits about. Well, other than having a decent surplus of supplies, for once. But the experience of procuring it all? Not one he's eager to keep living in for long. As initially thrilling as it was to finally see some novel sign of civilization - much bigger than the average garage or outpost they've been through - the messy, chaotic maze of the city was more than enough to make him regret that thought. More than once.

Maybe that's why he's on his way to the Hubcap. Almost certainly it is, as much as he'd like to steal a drink and at least half an hour to himself to try to unwind a little.

Company isn't something he's expecting, and his knee-jerk reflex is to march right back down the steps behind him as soon as he realizes he's walked in on someone. Before he can turn to go, though, Danse makes their awkward greetings official. ]

Uh, better.

[ Arcade offers this with little enthusiasm, a not so thin thread of chagrin worming its way into his weary facade. He hasn't passed out recently because the cold has been receding, and that's the question he assumes he's actually answering. Embarrassing to field, but probably fair, considering the source.

Before he can decide between further uncomfortable smalltalk or excusing himself as if he has anywhere else to be, though, that thought pops, unprompted, into his head. Arcade flinches, blinking, not far enough away from that horrible, glowing desert scrub to be freshly alarmed but still suitably startled. ]

—Excuse me?

[ It's hard to be annoyed with the compliment, as it registers, and maybe he's straightening up a little, a hand plucking at the tidier fabric of his new shirt. (Though he would insist he isn't preening.) ]

If you're going to talk about how I look, you could at least do it out loud.

[ Even if reluctant, this seems like an honest answer, which is enough to satisfy Danse. He would leave it at that, because a situation usually has to be more inescapably awkward than this for him to resort to forcing small talk out of desperation, but that excuse me after the question's already been answered has him looking sharply up with the air of a wary gazelle.

After the scrublands, he has an ominous inkling of what's just happened even before Arcade confirms it. If he wasn't already familiar with the feeling of his mind being an open book to Arcade and vice-versa, they wouldn't be having a civil conversation right now and the convoy might well have been overrun by ambulatory brains. He just didn't think it was still happening. (In his brief and red-faced moment of horror, he can at least be grateful his stray thought wasn't something filthier.)

He isn't exactly affronted by that challenge to say what he's thinking out loud, but it does come as a surprise. Arcade certainly hasn't made any move to pick up where they left off in the forest either, evidently just as content to pretend Danse hadn't said anything. He considers this, with the benefit of his half-full glass of liquid courage. It's a strong drink, one he'd mixed himself from a recipe popular on the flying drunk tank he used to call home. ]

That's what you want, huh?

[ It does genuinely seem to be. Danse recognizes a little preening when he sees it, and it is not undeserved. He drains the rest of his glass methodically before answering. The phrasing here, as if his projection had been deliberate, makes him want to push back with some mild defiance. ]

Fine. That shirt looks damn good on you. The whole outfit does. I suspect you feel the same way I do about pre-war consumerism, but you look like you should be in one of those old billboard advertisements. The ones about how four out of five doctors recommend...something medically inadvisable that I'm sure you'd never advocate.

[ A pause. ]

This comparison is getting away from me. My point is that you look handsome as hell. That candid enough?

[ That's what you want, huh?

Arcade doesn't answer, but the faintest suggestion of a smile flickers across his face. There's a shift in color, too, where his scales are visible - that faded white and gold bleeds to soft orange-tinted pink for just a moment, a brief flush of brighter color that accompanies the private thrill that harmless phrasing sends through him. It sounds less like an accusation than an offer, and he's not at all unhappy to be proven right, when Danse eventually continues.

Even if, in Arcade's estimation, he's laying it on pretty thick. ]

Plenty. Thanks.

[ Since Danse is making such quick work of the booze, though, he'd probably better move. Stepping around to slide behind the bar, Arcade starts puzzling his way through the many and varied new bottles stocking it - many of which don't have any discernible labeling. What was there has been worn away by time and exposure, or torn off by whoever handled them last. But a fair few of the newest acquisitions are in good enough condition to be somewhat legible, still. At least enough so for him to find a wine that doesn't look completely poisonous.

He reaches for a chipped glass with one of his scaled hands, as the human set work on opening the bottle. That part of him they'd probably leave off a billboard. ]

Do I owe your newfound talent for very verbose flattery to the liquor, or is it just good spirits?

Who says it's newfound? I've been told it's a habit of mine.

[ He twirls the glass absently between his fingers, letting the remaining ice begin to melt, but making no move yet to refill it--he won't object to letting Arcade catch up a little, now that he's pleasantly buzzed and his tongue looser than usual. ]

When I let it be.

[ Therein lies the rub. It's not actually that infrequent of an occurrence, in a broader sense, because Danse enjoys giving out praise for all manner of different things when he thinks a situation calls for it, but almost never does he indulge in a context like this. The liquor doesn't hurt, and in this particular case, it's also a slightly pointed well, you asked for it.

He's captivated by the way those scales themselves seem to be blushing, and suddenly he wants nothing so much as to see if he can make them do that again. It's enchanting, almost enough to make him blush a little in turn. The arms might not make it into an ad illustration, but that doesn't make them any less privately appealing to Danse either, and his gaze lingers on that fluid coordination longer and more openly than he's accustomed to allowing himself. ]

You really have gotten the hang of those. You probably could assist with your own surgeries now.

[ He could do a lot of things, probably. Danse will not offer any further suggestions yet. One drink is not enough to make him voice that list out loud. ]

[ Brows raised, Arcade glances back at him. The dubious edge that colors the look melts away in his consideration, as he assesses both Danse and the glass in his hand. ]

Maybe you should let it be more often.

[ He did ask for it, but if Danse is going to assume he regrets that, now, well. He's definitely only getting one-way telepathy out of this deal. (Which is confirmation Arcade is grateful for, honestly.)

He shrugs as he pours himself a glass, waving away the suggestion with one of his free hands. ]

It's impossible not to get some practice in, the longer I'm stuck with these, but my fine motor control is still a far cry from that kind of precision. I'd much rather stick to lower stakes activities, for now.

Maybe I should.

[ The agreement comes readily, with a little hint of a smile, because no, he's no longer making that assumption. The pleasure of knowing that more overt flirtation is welcome warms him as much as the liquor does.

He wouldn't mind watching some of that lower-stakes practice, or even better, helping with it somehow, but he's just sober enough yet to recognize that it would be clumsy to say so in exactly the terms he's thinking. He rests an elbow on the bar and leans his face against his hand, posture relaxing distinctly from its usual stiff discipline as he settles into the conversation.

It's easier, too, to be more casual when he's out of anything he could think of as a uniform--the coveralls had been meant as a substitute for his flightsuit, but here he's in jeans and flannel, civilian garb that he hasn't worn the like of in fifteen years. The jeans might be snug, but they're still more comfortable than skintight orange canvas ever was. ]

Do the scales have much sensation? [ It's a question he's wanted to ask for a while. ] I mean, they must have some for you to have the level of control you do, but when I've seen them act like armor...

[ If there's anyone who knows armor, after all, it's Danse. He knows exactly what it feels like to be so heavily protected as to be impervious to touch. ]

[ Arcade leaves that agreement without further comment, setting everything behind the bar back to rights before rounding to the other side again. With only Danse at the bar, there are plenty of open seats to choose from, but Arcade goes against his usual preference and slides onto the one next to him.

He hasn't had enough to drink, yet, to justify the sidelong glance he steals as he sits down. But he can't possibly be the only one to have looked, today. Those jeans are considerably more well-fitted than the coveralls were. ]

As much as my skin does, surprisingly. [ He taps a couple of scaled fingertips on the bartop, as he takes a cautious sip from his glass. Minimal grimacing. It's not that bad, actually. ] Maybe more so. They're weirdly sensitive to some things, not so much to others.

[ Danse can probably guess at some of what fits into the latter category. He's seen Arcade shrug off enough pointed violence, by now. ]

[ Arcade might not be the first person to look, but he's the only one Danse has noticed doing so, because he doesn't care enough what anyone else thinks of his appearance to pay attention to where their gaze lands. But when his own is still fixed on Arcade's face, it's hard not to pick up on the glance, and it's more flattering than flustering, welcome in its already-admitted mutuality.

Their proximity on the bar stools is still perfectly casual, unremarkable, but when it's the closest they've gotten since that afternoon in the woods--and when his mind still loves to call up the vivid memory of that contact whenever his thoughts drift too far from their discipline--it piques his body's interest, faintly raises the dense hair on his arms. It makes him feel bold enough to pursue that line of questioning a little further, with interest that he can admit now is prurient as well as genuinely curious. He just has to clear his throat a little first. ]

More so? What are they extra sensitive to?

[ He knows what to rule out, but he really can't guess otherwise. His eyes sweep over the scales currently visible to him, not lingering, but intent. ]

Well - temperature, for one.

[ But that feels self-evident, at this point, too. The rest of him seems to be the same, these days. Ruled by the ambient temperature wherever he is - or his desire to be somewhere it suits him better.

The faint pink flush that crosses his face this time is perfectly mundane, only tinting his skin a darker shade. He focuses on his glass, shrugging a shoulder in a way that is not at all casual or smooth. ]

And touch. Pressure. Luckily, I have an easy enough time avoiding that.

[ He glances at Danse again, a self-deprecating smile flitting across his lips. ]

Generally speaking.

[ Under most circumstances, this would get a little breath of amusement, just a reserved acknowledgment. He means to do that now, but all of his reactions are just a little more outsized than usual, and it gets something closer to a genuine chuckle. ]

Of course. With some notable exceptions.

[ Testing the waters with a little bit of teasing, but Danse can never sustain that sort of thing for long anyway, and he's contemplating that phrasing more seriously on a slight delay as he uses the automated bartender to rustle up a bottle of lukewarm beer. He's not picky about what kind. ]

Obviously those circumstances would have been...better avoided, but...you make the sensation itself sound like it's painful, somehow.

[ And this strikes him as an unexpectedly sad thought, if true. ]

I suppose if it's a kind of oversensitivity you're not used to. I had headaches for weeks after my hearing started to act up.

[ Arcade lets out a huff of breath that was maybe meant to be a laugh, but sounds too quietly embarrassed for it. He focuses more intently on the glass in front of him, now less than half full. ]

If it was painful, it'd be a lot easier to explain.

[ Less weirdly mortifying, at any rate. This time, the pink creeping into his complexion is only in his skin. ]

Oversensitive is a better word for it, I guess.

...Oh.

[ Unlike that laugh that had been a little bolder and louder than Danse had meant it to be, that "oh" is soft as comprehension dawns, quiet and a little startled, accompanied by a swallow and a mirroring flush to his cheeks and a shift of his weight on the barstool.

He can turn his eyes away for a minute, and does, the better to try and assuage some of Arcade's embarrassment, though there's only so far that effort can go after the visible, audible strength of his own reaction to this idea. ]

Well, you... [ He has to clear his throat slightly. ] You certainly don't give any indication of it. Nobody would ever know.

[ Arcade laughs, though there's nothing loud or bold about that sound, either. ]

Like I said, it's not exactly difficult when most people just sort of naturally avoid it. And I don't invite it.

[ Both of which he's used to, already, so it's convenient all around.

Though the thought does bring up another, tailing behind it in a narrow wake of concern. ]

...And you don't have to worry about anything, you know, the other day— Everything was way too numb for it to really matter.

I was...going to ask, yeah.

[ There's a minute relaxation of tension in his shoulders at this assurance, because the same thought has occurred to him in the same moment, but the explanation makes sense as well. ]

I mean, not that I would have had any room to talk, but I'm glad that wasn't making it worse.

[ He toys with his beer bottle, thoughtful, and takes another drink of it before looking back over again. ]

I don't know why you'd say people naturally avoid it, though. It's obvious that you're not a touchy-feely kind of guy, the lack of inviting it is why people don't do it, but...that's respect, not aversion.

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