"I don't recall asking you to assess anything about my backside."
The moon in this strange world may be warping them all into monsters, the vehicles they drive may be appearing miraculously out of the ether, but the real incomprehensible magic at play here is that Danse is actually joking--with actual innuendo, however tame. He's begun to adjust to being flirted with around here in a way no Brotherhood subordinate would have dared, and the humor comes just a bit more naturally now. Maybe the stick wedged up there is more of a ruler than a yardstick these days.
He doesn't expect it to be anything more than a joke, or received that way even if it were; Deacon's reputation might involve some things Danse finds unsavory, but philandering isn't at all one of them. He's caught off-guard by the picture of himself--not of his own imagining--that flickers briefly into his mind as he brushes past: not indecent, fully clothed, but clean-shaven and unscarred, hair parted differently with a little shock falling in his eyes. He doesn't think he's looked anything like that since Rivet City, and even then, his face was more torn-up than that.
He looks sharply at Deacon, who doesn't look like he's been caught out in anything he shouldn't, but when does he ever? It's possible he wasn't even the one thinking it, though why anyone else within echo-range would be picturing Danse like that, he doesn't know. Maybe someone's just reflecting on how the gouge carved out along his cheek mars his features. If he lets himself get distracted by it now, the bizarre sausage truck is never going to get off the ground, and then he'll feel obliged to let Deacon ride shotgun with him, and that is enough incentive to have him climbing into the driver's seat to get the project underway.
It works after all, even after a harrowing moment when it looks like the yanking might just make it all worse, and the Wienermobile finally stands tall and proud once more. Danse hops back down out of his truck, meaning to assess it from this new angle, but he can't help letting his attention drift back to Deacon instead. Why was he picturing something like that? It's going to eat at him now.
"Well," he says, loath to actually bring it up, "there you go. Wonder if it's comfortable on the inside."
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The moon in this strange world may be warping them all into monsters, the vehicles they drive may be appearing miraculously out of the ether, but the real incomprehensible magic at play here is that Danse is actually joking--with actual innuendo, however tame. He's begun to adjust to being flirted with around here in a way no Brotherhood subordinate would have dared, and the humor comes just a bit more naturally now. Maybe the stick wedged up there is more of a ruler than a yardstick these days.
He doesn't expect it to be anything more than a joke, or received that way even if it were; Deacon's reputation might involve some things Danse finds unsavory, but philandering isn't at all one of them. He's caught off-guard by the picture of himself--not of his own imagining--that flickers briefly into his mind as he brushes past: not indecent, fully clothed, but clean-shaven and unscarred, hair parted differently with a little shock falling in his eyes. He doesn't think he's looked anything like that since Rivet City, and even then, his face was more torn-up than that.
He looks sharply at Deacon, who doesn't look like he's been caught out in anything he shouldn't, but when does he ever? It's possible he wasn't even the one thinking it, though why anyone else within echo-range would be picturing Danse like that, he doesn't know. Maybe someone's just reflecting on how the gouge carved out along his cheek mars his features. If he lets himself get distracted by it now, the bizarre sausage truck is never going to get off the ground, and then he'll feel obliged to let Deacon ride shotgun with him, and that is enough incentive to have him climbing into the driver's seat to get the project underway.
It works after all, even after a harrowing moment when it looks like the yanking might just make it all worse, and the Wienermobile finally stands tall and proud once more. Danse hops back down out of his truck, meaning to assess it from this new angle, but he can't help letting his attention drift back to Deacon instead. Why was he picturing something like that? It's going to eat at him now.
"Well," he says, loath to actually bring it up, "there you go. Wonder if it's comfortable on the inside."