[ Danse has noticeably less of a sense of humor when he's sensing some kind of threat, which is probably something the Brotherhood drums into its initiates from the jump. Plenty of threats in the wasteland. Plenty more still, to the Brotherhood alone. If one is accustomed to receiving deferential treatment from folk by virtue of the Power Armor and sheer presence of the army at one's back, Len has to imagine that constant surveillance is the next best alternative. ]

Right, yeah. [ He casts a cursory glance back over one shoulder for a moment, to the old military truck in the distance. ] The doc.

[ Len shrugs with his eyebrows, hands braced on his hips. The tone he keeps is conversational, nary a twitch in response to the concrete wall of intimidating eye contact that Danse seems to be trying to elicit. ]

Look, if you're wondering about whether you've worried him, then yeah, you have. He was pretty convinced you wanted to put a laser through his skull and I had to talk him down from panicking about it, 'cause I don't believe you're the kind of man who does that without good reason and solid evidence.

[ The scant space between them decreases as he pushes in, tapping the backs of his knuckles against Danse's chest. The normal human discomfort in maintaining eye contact in such close proximity doesn't seem to faze him, even with the difference in height. ]

So maybe you quit beatin' around the bush and tell me what you're actually concerned about, so I can tell you that you're wildly mistaken, and you can make good on that offer of a drink you once extended to me.