#sergeant rl-3

【FO3】 ONE HEADCANON FOR EACH COMPANION + GOB

Butch Deloria has Native American ancestry on his mother's side. He took her surname at birth due to the lack of known father, and the Deloria's apartment has ancient, rotting books: journals and diary entries, cookbooks and poems that have been handed down Ellen's family since the original Delorias entered the vault. The ability to read and speak the language was lost some generations ago... but Butch would occasionally drag them out from under his mom's bed and look at them. It helps him feel less out of place and like he belongs despite his broken family — and he wishes dearly he could read the messages left for him.

Charon radiates heat like a furnace. He is the best hot water bottle to have in the harsh DC winters; if you can get close enough to siphon it. Even sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, (again if he allows it) is enough to fight the worst of any chill. However this also backfires in the sweltering summers — Charon will constantly grumble and scowl, hair matted to his head with sweat. He doesn't let it affect him in the field, but you can bet once the coast is clear and he is safe, that sticky shirt is coming up to wipe at his forehead.

Clover loves flowers. She's learned to broadly identify most flora native to the Capitol Wastes, and what is edible or dangerous. However she can't help but collect any blooming flowers she finds — they're too beautiful to leave somewhere so dead and cruel. She'll plant them in little boxes outside the Wanderer's home or vase them in a window with sunlight. Clover takes very gentle, meticulous care of her plants and makes an effort to always try to learn more about them. At least her time in Paradise Falls allowed many afternoons of reading.

Star Paladin Cross likes watching her brothers and companions sleep. It may be creepy from an outside perspective — and she will refrain if anyone voices discomfort — but knowing that those in her care or those that she holds dear are resting peacefully brings her great relief and peace of mind. Seeing the steady rise and fall of another's chest as they sleep is almost meditative to her and she will happily guard over them all night with minimal distractions.

Dogmeat can eat just about anything without getting sick. It doesn't matter if its meant for human consumption or is stuffed with bones. It will be gone. He can also open closed doors; even vault ones that require the use of a control panel. Nowhere is private from him. That sock will be his.

Fawkes loves reading books to anyone that will sit and listen to him. He has so much knowledge he wishes to share, so many theories and interpretations of literature works that he yearns to discuss with someone that cares. Fawkes adores Agatha's music too, and to him no evening is better spent than listening to 'Zigeunerweisen,' sat with a loved one and reading Charles Dickens or Virginia Woolf aloud — stopping every so often to comment on the text and ask the other for their opinion.

Gob is a tactile person; he would never shy away from Carol's hugs, makes sure to put kisses and cuddles in every letter he sent home, and would put a warm, gentle hand on Nova's shoulder after every rough shift to let her know he's there. Physical touch, be it aggressive or comforting is the best way to express emotion to Gob. He won't hesitate to bring those close to him in a quick embrace upon greeting and when leaving — and he will sit there for hours with loved ones that are upset, cuddling them, rubbing their back or sitting shoulder-to-shoulder as a grounding presence. If he was to fall in love, his partner can be certain he will run to greet them at the door upon their return like an excited puppy; they will be kissed and twirled around... and he will cackle like a love-drunk fool.

Gob is terrible at lying. He can't do it; he clams up, can't maintain eye contact, stutters — the lot. So every touch he gives, warm and loving, or cold and distant, he means wholeheartedly.

Jericho has a weak heart — both literally and figuratively. His age and health are catching up to him, and the toll of morality has started to kick in. He's trying (somewhat successfully) to quit smoking, hoping it'll ease his painful coughing fits, and increase his endurance. Not much boils his blood more than feeling useless... and having to stop and catch his breath so often really bothers him.

He also has quite the soft spot for the meek and helpless; especially if they're female or children. He can't bring himself to kill fleeing innocents anymore — and if the wounded find a stimpak being tossed into their lap — he will huff and roll his eyes, insistent it fell out of his bag.

Sergeant RL-3 will wake his companions up at sunrise like a giant metallic rooster. He will blare, he will not accept pillows being tossed at him or hiding faces away from the sunlight. He will rip blankets off and snip at heels until they get dressed and ready for the day. Tardiness will not be tolerated, soldier.

Even better if he has the ability to play the Reveille bugle call.