(Paladin) Danse (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
androidvictoriam) wrote2025-06-17 06:31 am
androidvictoriam) wrote2025-06-17 06:31 am
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. ]
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.