Chapter Text
He has a room of his own, here. A small one, to be sure-- barely enough room for a bed and a footlocker, a little end table with a lamp, and himself-- and not part of this fortress’ original design. The floor, ceiling, and two of the walls are stone; the other two walls are made of salvaged wood, nailed together with more of an eye to structural stability than pure aesthetics. But still. It’s his own room. His own quarters.
It was one of the near-infinite number of things that didn’t make any sense, when he was first brought here.
He’s still not sure it makes sense-- not what he’d ever considered sense, before-- but he’s more or less caved to the internal dream-logic of the Castle. Everything naturally tends towards chaos; civilization brings order, which means civilization is inherently artificial, which means, apparently, that you sometimes have to accept that it’s being made up as it goes along.
He said something like this to Michael, once, and Michael pointed out that they were both “made up” by humans, that their own bodies and minds represent an improvement, in terms of order and beauty, on the naturally occurring human body.
Michael has a lot of self-esteem, for a synth. It must be different for coursers. Or for synths who didn’t accidentally join the Brotherhood of Steel after their memory wipes.
So: this room, built by humans, in this fortress built by humans, housing himself, built by humans, and his--
--he isn’t sure what to call him, still. Lover? But that sounds ridiculous, and anyway, it seems likely that there are technical qualifications for the title, ones that he isn’t sure they’ve gotten to yet. Sometimes he worries they’re going too slow. That Michael, while outwardly the soul of patience and gentleness, is actually growing very tired of Danse's hesitations. Or, on the other hand, that he is about to wake up on the concrete floor in Listening Post Bravo and marvel at his own sleeping mind, its capacity to conjure up a reality where Nora Bowman reappeared in his life, subdued his tormentors without harming them, declared herself his honorary mother, and introduced him to another synth, a physically splendid male specimen, who immediately took charge of him and eventually began kissing him.
How likely does any of this sound, really? How likely does it seem that Michael is standing in here--
--there’s barely room for both of them to stand, at least one of them should really be on the bed, but Danse is still waiting for Michael to indicate what he wants. Maybe he’s tired-- he doesn’t get sleepy, but he does get tired, and he looked half dragged to death when he got home, although the interlude in the library with the rest of the family seems to have revived him a bit-- and doesn’t want anything, just to tell Danse to lie down, pull his blanket up over him, maybe kiss him on his scar. Where it makes him shiver, still, every time. Michael’s lips warm on his forehead, and the hot flare of memories, every time, a formless blur of pain, fear, humiliation, and helpless misery, lasting for a second, then fading into nothingness. Not nothingness: their opposite. Peace--
--smiling at him.
I missed you.
He wants to say it, but what if it sounds too needy? It already goes against the grain for Danse to be the one left at home, in comfort and safety, with the civilians and the children, while his-- while someone else goes out and braves the wastes, without him. He understands why it’s necessary, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. Being left behind. But it also doesn’t mean he should say it. Whine about it.
“I missed you,” says Michael, his voice husky, and his arm’s around Danse, pulling him close. Not too hard, not too fast. He doesn’t use his strength to handle Danse roughly; he did, once, gripped Danse’s arm a little too hard to put him where he wanted him, and Danse whimpered, wordlessly, and couldn’t quite answer when Michael asked whether he was hurt.
Michael wasn’t impatient with him, though. He says he understands; he says that, as a result of Danse’s treatment by the Brotherhood, whom he calls “your former associates,” Danse has been conditioned to respond in certain ways, which is neither his fault nor his failing, simply a fact, like his scar. Michael says synths, like humans, are highly responsive to behavioral conditioning. Courser training was also heavily dependent on it. Although more scientifically calibrated for the accomplishment of its goals. That’s partly why they’re moving slowly. They’ve both been conditioned not to respond well to sudden moves.
Michael’s lips make his heart beat faster, when they touch his skin-- his cheek, the line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his lips-- but they don’t frighten him. Or if they do, it’s a completely different kind of fear than the sick, exhausted terror he’d known since the Prydwyn’s demise. It’s a blood-pumping, thrilling fear, the kind that makes him feel he’s glad he’s alive after all. That if he does die, after this, it will have been worth it.
“I missed you,” Michael says, again, close to his ear, his breath hot there, and it’s as if a watershed of feeling has been reached; Danse starts shaking. They’ve already established that’s not a danger signal, though-- he freezes and whimpers, when his conditioning is confusing him, but he doesn’t shake or cry-- so Michael doesn’t stop what he’s doing; he says, one arm tighter around Danse now, holding him close against his own body, “Did you miss me?”
“Yes,” Danse whispers, hoarsely, and his hands come up to grip Michael’s arms, making fists in Michael’s sleeves, clinging a little. It’s all right. It’s the right answer. Michael doesn’t ask him trick questions, doesn’t try to confuse him on purpose, or embarrass him, leave him bewildered. People used to do that a lot, even when everyone thought he was a human, even when he outranked them. He knows he’s a little more literal-minded than most people. He could feel people being impatient with him, with his seriousness, his singleness of focus. He could feel it with Nora Bowman, too, at ArcJet, just before she turned him down.
Michael is different, though. When Michael wants something of him, it’s always clear what. Michael wants him to be brave, and good, and he’s starting to think, based on the strong positive responses he’s been getting from Michael, that maybe he actually is both of those things. The way he used to think that he was (at least, even if he wasn’t quick, or witty, or persuasive), before everything changed.
“I missed your company,” says Michael, and his lips kiss Danse’s neck, just under his earlobe, “and your body. Lie down.”
He helps Danse, who’s still shaking, and whose fists are a little tightly clenched on Michael’s shirt, to obey. He’s gentle, patient as Danse unclenches, and he puts Danse on his back, which might mean a certain kind of touching, or it might mean just talking, Michael beside the bed and Danse under his blanket until he nods off, except that Michael just said your body, which means--
“I'd like to see you,” says Michael, and then waits.
He knows this is difficult for Danse, which means both that if Danse says he can’t, or doesn’t want to, it’s all right, and that if he can, Michael will be especially proud of him. For doing something difficult, to give Michael pleasure. And he can; he even wants to. Not just to please Michael-- although that, too-- but because he wants Michael’s eyes on his body, wants to hear his breath quicken a little, the way it does, sometimes. The way Michael looks at him-- it isn’t the same as being naked in front of the Brotherhood, his genitals swinging as he crawled, his rear thrust out like an animal’s, the vulnerability and indignity and ridiculousness of his exposure. All those years, without respite. Never allowed to cover himself, even just for a moment. To hide.
He doesn’t have the poise or verve to make this a striptease. He doesn’t want to tease Michael, anyway; he wants to please him. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Michael’s breath hitches in his throat, and Danse unbuttons faster, his fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons.
Michael helps him slide his arms out of the sleeves, and then waits a moment, to see if Danse will reach for his jeans now, but he doesn’t-- would rather not; he’s already being brave, and he thinks maybe it’s all right to be a little less brave than the maximum amount, on any given occasion-- and Michael doesn’t seem to mind. He reaches out and runs his hand over the hair of Danse’s head. It’s gotten a little longer than the Brotherhood kept it, but he tries to keep it clipped reasonably close, for neatness’ sake. Military style, Nora calls it, although she’s more military than he is, now, and her own hair is growing out into an untidy crop of spikes and tangles.
“Thank you,” says Michael. “May I touch?”
There are things he doesn’t ask explicit permission to do any more, although he still does them gently and carefully, and if Danse pulls away, he stops immediately. Kissing, above the neck. Touching, ditto. Touching above the waist, through clothing. Before touching anything that would normally be covered by Danse’s clothing, though, he still asks.
“May I turn over?” Danse asks, because he’s already shaking and his nipples make him nervous-- it isn’t that it doesn’t feel good, when a touch brushes past them, but he’d rather they weren’t a factor at this exact moment; he’s already feeling a little overstimulated, just from his exposure, and Michael’s gaze and voice-- and Michael says, “Of course, dear heart.”
Dear heart. It’s such an odd, old-fashioned endearment, and his actual beating heart speeds up every time he hears it, as if it knows its name.
He rolls over onto his stomach, folding one arm under his pillow to prop himself up slightly, so he can still watch Michael. Michael reaches out a hand and touches him, his naked back, with a flat palm, and he shivers hard and gasps.
“You’re magnificent,” says Michael, and his fingers crook, his nails scratching lightly over the surface of Danse’s skin. Danse moans aloud-- it feels so good that it must be a sin, or at least a protocol breach. He’s a synth, a machine, made to serve the Institute as a slave; why would they build him to be capable of feeling like this?
But his moan, his shivering, are speeding up Michael’s breathing. And Michael is everything he should be. If he’s pleased, this can’t be wrong.
“I love to hear your voice, Danse,” Michael says, his own voice a little ragged. “Under my hand.”
When Michael says it, his name doesn’t feel like a lie.