[Fine, she almost finishes it, almost waves off the concern, but it feels so disingenuous with Max. Of course she'll be fine, she's always fine because this always happens.
She makes a friend, he leaves her when the first chance to save himself comes up. She finds a father figure, watches him die in front of her. She escapes from Jakku and is immediately saddled with a destiny that leaves her wanting to run straight back to the dull, meaningless life she had in the sand.
This is normal. This is how it always goes. She should be used to it, but it's never hurt her quite like this before.]
[Which immediately begs the question, how much sympathy can she take before she bursts into tears? She hasn't cried over this yet, she doesn't want to cry about it, and she knows that she won't be able to hold it in forever.
But being alone in her cold ship has felt terrible ever since Tommy left and his return just reminds her of that even more.]
Alright. I'll be there soon.
[But she takes awhile, trying to compose herself, center herself, find the switch that will turn all of this off. Tommy has a son and she has lost her home so many times over at this point that she can't even tell which way is up anymore.
When she knocks on Max's door she looks a little pale, but her shoulders are straight and her chin is lifted up in a stubborn showing of her ability to make it through whatever will come next.]
Duo is usually an extremely well-behaved dog. He never rushes the door (in fact he's trained to stay out of sight when Max answers it), but he gets a look at her and squirms his way out from under the tarp, and races to her. He doesn't jump on her, but he does insistently bump his head and nose against her hands.
Max is a little more reserved. He frowns at his dog and opens the door wider for her to step in. This place is not his sanctuary (Furiosa's bed, Eggsy's cabin, those are where he goes to center himself) but this garage houses the only home Max has: the Interceptor. It's not finished yet, but it's recognizable. The room smells strongly of grease and motor oil and old coffee, the patented smell of a mechanic's lair.
When he touches her shoulder lightly, he leaves a smudge of engine grease behind. Oops.
For all that, all the very deep and very genuine concern though, there's no pity. There is nothing in Max that is even capable of pity anymore, anyway, but especially not for a friend. It's just that some pain you know too well to have words for, so all that's left is touch, and open air to fill if she needs.
She doesn't mind the smudge, hardly even notices it there. And it's funny, in a way, because engine grease for a car doesn't smell that different from grease she would use in the Falcon and that's a comparison that makes being here even more soothing.
It's Max, though, that makes her feel a little less on edge, and Duo's cold nose against the palm of her hand. She doesn't smile at either of them but her shoulders relax, she leans over a little to give the dog a proper pet, and Max doesn't ask her how she is and it's the best thing he could have done.
"You're working on your car?" She asks him, looking over at it and making that the focus of their conversation rather than broken, haunted men and the fact that she's still in love.
Max takes his cue from her and leads her over to show off the welded metal, the pieces that have been salvaged from around the Barge and the ports they've visited.
"It's home," he says, "People ask why I don't have the Admiral give me things."
But he has to do this himself, with his own two hands, the same way he's made the others.
"First one I had, they made it for me. Put it together from cars run off the road, cars driven by men we hunted."
"I work on the Falcon, too," she admits, reaching out to run a hand over the metal of the hood, feeling a little more grounded once she does. "It's kind of pointless when it's not a real ship, but it's- it makes me feel better."
Knowing her skills aren't languishing, knows she's making this representation of something she loves so much be the best it can be.
She moves around to look, leans in under the hood and reaches out to run her fingertips along the engine parts, the fan belt, things that match and things that absolutely do not between her world and his.
"I have something that's sort of like Furiosa's motorcycle," she says, voice a little muffled by how close she's leaning into the engine. "No wheels, though. It sort of hovers off the sand a few feet."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[He and Tommy weren't friends when Tommy was a relatively decent person. But more importantly,]
Worried about you.
[So he'd reached out to her before anything else.]
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[Fine, she almost finishes it, almost waves off the concern, but it feels so disingenuous with Max. Of course she'll be fine, she's always fine because this always happens.
She makes a friend, he leaves her when the first chance to save himself comes up. She finds a father figure, watches him die in front of her. She escapes from Jakku and is immediately saddled with a destiny that leaves her wanting to run straight back to the dull, meaningless life she had in the sand.
This is normal. This is how it always goes. She should be used to it, but it's never hurt her quite like this before.]
I don't know what to do.
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Could come over.
[To the garage, for once, a place he hardly ever lets people visit.]
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But being alone in her cold ship has felt terrible ever since Tommy left and his return just reminds her of that even more.]
Alright. I'll be there soon.
[But she takes awhile, trying to compose herself, center herself, find the switch that will turn all of this off. Tommy has a son and she has lost her home so many times over at this point that she can't even tell which way is up anymore.
When she knocks on Max's door she looks a little pale, but her shoulders are straight and her chin is lifted up in a stubborn showing of her ability to make it through whatever will come next.]
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Max is a little more reserved. He frowns at his dog and opens the door wider for her to step in. This place is not his sanctuary (Furiosa's bed, Eggsy's cabin, those are where he goes to center himself) but this garage houses the only home Max has: the Interceptor. It's not finished yet, but it's recognizable. The room smells strongly of grease and motor oil and old coffee, the patented smell of a mechanic's lair.
When he touches her shoulder lightly, he leaves a smudge of engine grease behind. Oops.
For all that, all the very deep and very genuine concern though, there's no pity. There is nothing in Max that is even capable of pity anymore, anyway, but especially not for a friend. It's just that some pain you know too well to have words for, so all that's left is touch, and open air to fill if she needs.
no subject
It's Max, though, that makes her feel a little less on edge, and Duo's cold nose against the palm of her hand. She doesn't smile at either of them but her shoulders relax, she leans over a little to give the dog a proper pet, and Max doesn't ask her how she is and it's the best thing he could have done.
"You're working on your car?" She asks him, looking over at it and making that the focus of their conversation rather than broken, haunted men and the fact that she's still in love.
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"It's home," he says, "People ask why I don't have the Admiral give me things."
But he has to do this himself, with his own two hands, the same way he's made the others.
"First one I had, they made it for me. Put it together from cars run off the road, cars driven by men we hunted."
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Knowing her skills aren't languishing, knows she's making this representation of something she loves so much be the best it can be.
"Do you ever drive yours in the Enclosure?"
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"Know how to drive something like this?"
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"I have something that's sort of like Furiosa's motorcycle," she says, voice a little muffled by how close she's leaning into the engine. "No wheels, though. It sort of hovers off the sand a few feet."
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What matters to Max is speed and maneuverability, after all.