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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[ "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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