If Danse had hoped this wouldn't awaken anything in him, he would be disappointed now. (It had not occurred to him to hope that at all, but now it's too late in any case.) He's not even trying to correct Deacon's technique or anything, just watching this muscle-straining labor in slightly stunned silence, though as ever, Deacon provokes a response with ease once he starts talking again.

"I have no idea what any of that even means," he hollers back. This is a man who somehow managed to remain completely unfamiliar with the concept of baseball no matter how often it was brought up in the Enclave propaganda being blasted around his hometown, Deacon. Temper your expectations.

But the football metaphor isn't necessary for him to get the actual point, and he prepares himself, zipping up the thick waxed-cotton suit as far as it will go and readying himself to catch the thing, needing to step into the room to do it, but just protected enough from the steam and the heat to grab it securely in his arms and carry it outside to let it cool safely on the floor.

Danse isn't one for laughter under almost any circumstances, and not more than a brief dry little chuckle when he does, but the relief in Deacon's laugh after the ordeal they've been through is contagious now, as much a release valve as the one letting the steam shoot from that pipe and then fade away. When Deacon rejoins him in the hallway, Danse grabs his hand in a rough, triumphant clasp, the kind that would be the precursor to pulling him into a brotherly hug if either of them were that kind of guy, and claps him on the shoulder before letting him go.

"I could never have done this on my own," he admits, as readily as he always does when he thinks a situation merits it.