Deacon's relationship with the Brotherhood is complicated. Back in the Capital Wasteland, he'd seen them do actual good for the community, would even venture to call himself aligned with their missions, but up in the Commonwealth, things had been a bit different. More bigoted.
This is considered in his mind, sure, but when Danse asks, however incredulously, if Deacon really wants to know who he trusts, his lips contort in a sort of expressive shrug and he nods, because he has already thought Danse was a stand-out man from the Brotherhood. A good person. One would even venture to say a pal. And given his recent predicament, his association with that faction mean very little, anymore.
Thoughts of Danse not trusting Deacon, should they be projected in his direction in any way or form, have no impact. Because why would they? Deacon's well aware that he's a liar. It had started out as a defensive mechanism, continued on as a tactical means to an end, and become just a force of habit. He has no idea why he even does it these days, just that he can't stop.
Deacon watches, arms folded and eyebrow raised, as Danse answers in the most soldierly way possible, like he's debriefing him or delivering a tactical report.
"So no parties on Saturday nights, I guess," he replies, "Sounds like one big dysfunctional family. The kids must love you," he smiles, teasingly, then moves to root through the drawers where Danse is pulling the chain, looking for anything else that might be useful; hooks, carabiners, hitches, whatever else they may need to get the job done.
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This is considered in his mind, sure, but when Danse asks, however incredulously, if Deacon really wants to know who he trusts, his lips contort in a sort of expressive shrug and he nods, because he has already thought Danse was a stand-out man from the Brotherhood. A good person. One would even venture to say a pal. And given his recent predicament, his association with that faction mean very little, anymore.
Thoughts of Danse not trusting Deacon, should they be projected in his direction in any way or form, have no impact. Because why would they? Deacon's well aware that he's a liar. It had started out as a defensive mechanism, continued on as a tactical means to an end, and become just a force of habit. He has no idea why he even does it these days, just that he can't stop.
Deacon watches, arms folded and eyebrow raised, as Danse answers in the most soldierly way possible, like he's debriefing him or delivering a tactical report.
"So no parties on Saturday nights, I guess," he replies, "Sounds like one big dysfunctional family. The kids must love you," he smiles, teasingly, then moves to root through the drawers where Danse is pulling the chain, looking for anything else that might be useful; hooks, carabiners, hitches, whatever else they may need to get the job done.