It's not so much that Danse lacks a sense of humor so much as that he'd never have allowed Deacon to see it before, anyway. Jokes have historically been for people he doesn't need to uphold a spotless Brotherhood reputation in front of. And then, once that ceased to apply, he might have said they were for friends, and that had gradually loosened to allies, and then further still to 'people I can be sure I won't have to kill,' and then he'd found himself making some kind of deadpan 'handyman' pun and a morbid joke about the Institute to Arcade and all bets had been off from there.

He doesn't think he really has friends here. Not like he did back home, however few they might have been after his exile. It's nice to have a generally harmonious community, as the drifters seem to be, but it's not the same kind of thing, doesn't make him feel less individually isolated even when the local magic is making everyone's thoughts vibrate together like a hive. Deacon's wording is a precision strike exactly where and when he needs it most, and he blinks at it, projecting that surprised warmth around him like a tangible aura for a beat before he collects himself again.

All right. Friends, then. Here, where neither Brotherhood nor Railroad exists, either at peace or at war.

"I don't know if there's going to be much to claim," he says dubiously, leading the way inside on instinct as if still taking power-armored point to defend a squad. There might be feral ghouls lying in wait. One never really knows. "Usually we've got to find anything good the old-fashioned way." Looting abandoned buildings, et cetera, the usual. Standard wasteland pastime. It's one of the only normal things about this place.

"Speaking of which, I've got a box of Twinkies in my truck. You're not going to find those in the mess hall here."