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."
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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.
no subject
"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.