Danse can't entirely tell if Deacon's suffering from some kind of head injury or minor oxygen-deprived brain damage, or if he's just fucking around as per usual. It's Deacon. He'll go with the latter.

(He does wonder, momentarily, if he actually does taste like seafood. Not that he thinks anyone else around here will have occasion to find out anytime soon, and he sure as hell hopes this whole fishy business is temporary, so he puts that train of thought aside.)

"I had to resuscitate you. You weren't breathing. At least not before you fell back in." It does sound weird, but also kind of like the least weird of the weird things that have happened today, so he's not going to dismiss it out of hand.

"It wouldn't be impossible. I can breathe." But considering that the gills that have developed at the base of his neck are flexing as he says this, it's clearly not quite the same thing.