Food and Substance headcanon
The Brotherhood always had a strict dietary regiment with the goal of keeping its soldiers in tiptop shape. Food from the wasteland, Capital or Commonwealth, was largely prohibited as it they couldn’t guarantee the radiation levels were safe enough to eat. Such food could lead to radiation sickness, or worse, turning their soldiers into ghouls.
The food in the Brotherhood was never great. I was never meant to be great, it was meant for nutrition to sustain an entire military. Under Elder Lyons, it was at least palatable.
With Maxson things changed. Maxson is not a logistics-minded leader, preferring instead to focus on presence and appearances worthy of an organization that would rule the wasteland. With all their resources being poured into building the Prydwen, food and supply issues became more of an issue.
The quality of food plummeted and everyone found themselves eating Salisbury steak every day to meet their daily protein needs.
While out in the field, however, you were expected to take your chances on what you could find.
Danse liked LRRO’s for that reason. He’d been in the Brotherhood for close to 20 years. The Salisbury steak had always been a cornerstone of Brotherhood dining, but it was nothing compared to the last 4 when Arthur Maxson became elder. Long Range Reconnaissance Operations gave him the opportunity to taste something else, ANYTHING else. (If he were lucky, he’d get a box of Fancy Lads snack cakes to himself, though he’d never admit to liking such a thing to his squad).
They’d find various canned foods or 200 year old Yum Yum Deviled Eggs to eat. None of it was GOOD per se, but at least it was different. If Danse were being honest, the concept of food being “delicious” was foreign to him before trying his first Fancy Lad.
The first time he had a Fancy Lad was by way of peer pressure from Proctor Teagan, the Prydwen’s supplier of all things contraband. It brought a tear to his eye. He was riddled with guilt afterwards for being a hypocrite. He was ashamed, but from then on it became part of his supply along with the bottles of Buffout and hard liquor.
Teagan didn’t judge. He knew everyone’s vices. He was their supplier after all. He knew what chems, alcohol, contraband food, and even porn all of the high ranking members of the Brotherhood preferred. The only ones who didn’t partake were Kells and Quinlan.
Truth be told, Danse was Teagan’s best customer. He always paid up in a timely manner. His requests were so mild, and downright wholesome, that they were the easiest to fill. For such mild vices, Danse also went through the greatest amount of care to be discreet.
Danse didn’t think he deserved luxuries and felt a deep sense of shame for indulging himself. He made a point of not knowing who else did what he did. The fact that he was doing it was enough.
The Buffout was for his performance on the field so he could better protect his squad. The cigarettes were to calm his nerves. The increasing amount of bottles of hard liquor were to numb himself when he drank alone in his quarters (he really needed to find a way to get rid of all of the bottles piling up in that crate in the corner). The Fancy Lads, well, he just needed to taste something that wasn’t Salisbury fucking steak.
The Fancy Lads were the vice that irked him the most. The rest he could explain away for practical reasons. Those infernal cakes were strictly pleasure.
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When you're out in the field with Danse, he's always professional. He takes a utilitarian approach towards food. You find yourselves rummaging through the ruins of Boston looking for something to eat. You're famished. Anything would be good right about now.
You come across an unopened refrigerator from before the war. You open it up. Lying on the shelf are two boxes of Salisbury steak. A look of vague exasperated disappointment passes over his face. It's so brief you wonder if you imagined it.
“Outstanding,” he mumbles though his heart isn't in it, “let's break for lunch.”
You eat your meal in silence. Towards the end, you slip him a Fancy Lad snack cake from your stash. He's alarmed and curses himself inwardly because you know his secret and he doesn't eat these things in front of anyone. Then that alarm turns to delight because he can't think of a better chaser after choking down another slightly irradiated steak with what has to be an absurd amount of sodium than one of these heavenly cakes.
He gobbles it down vaguely wondering if Maxson ordered you to offer him one as some kind of test, which he just failed. He doesn't care. At least he got something other than Salisbury steak.
Nothing happens. Maxson doesn't suddenly appear in some "gotcha" moment. You both enjoy your dessert in peace.
Ad Victoriam.
