Danse doesn't bother to respond verbally to the smoking question, but the promptness and the heartfelt noise of appreciation with which he accepts the cigarette suggests the affirmative. Smokes aren't easy to come by in this place, and he tries to have enough dignity not to bum them from others too often, but if Deacon's offering before he can ask, he won't argue.

(He can pay Deacon back if they ever get home, he supposes. Nora owes him a whole damn carton of Grey Tortoises, if she's inherited the ones that used to be on his desk along with the rest of his worldly possessions on the Prydwen. There's no sense thinking too hard about any of that here.)

Deacon's plans for the noble Wienermobile get a sharp side-eye, because 'safehouse' is precisely the kind of terminology that sets off the mental I should be doing something about this alarms that Danse hasn't yet had time to take the batteries out of. A safehouse for who? he thinks, realizes it's probably clearly audible, decides he doesn't care if it is or not, but doesn't externalize it.

"A weapon rack would be a good thing to prioritize," he concedes, sizing up the space. "Not that the mattress wouldn't be, but the convoy has beds if you don't mind bunking with strangers for a while. You're going to want backup guns first."