driftfleet | OTA | recovering from a pitfall (and being stuck with you-know-who)

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max rockatansky

OTA | recovering from a pitfall (and being stuck with you-know-who)

Who: Max Rockantansky and you!
Broadcast: N/A; action only
Action: Just a quick Starstruck log for Max!
When: April 1st and the few days after that.

Max eventually gets back to the Starstruck after his tumble into the mines -- and Beverly's hesitantly accepted medical assistance. But his brace is broken and he's been put on... temporary bedrest. Sort of. Kind of. Look, he has at least agreed to use the crutch until he could get his brace back in order, okay? And yes, Beverly will probably have follow-ups for his leg. He's not willing at all to do anything invasive with it, but... he's listening. More than he has before. There's a plus, right there, to having spent two days down in a toxic mine shaft with no mask and a gimp leg. He sleeps a little bit, but even after all that's happened, he's restless and quick to get back up on his feet.

He hadn't let anyone treat his other injuries, but they were much more minor. His the forehead gash under a bandage needs to be stitched. He's got bruises the size of fists on his torso from his miserable tumbling. And goddamn, he is tired. He stops by in the bathroom of the Starstruck and slowly pulls off his shirt with a pained grunt, revealing the sad patchwork of scrapes and purple mottled shapes. Ramse had been nice enough to get him heat pads -- he's slowly administering them to his shoulders and ribs. He can't reach the marks on his back, intermingled with black ink, but it's a start.

Once he treats himself (or potentially gets help, because lbr, he's sick as a dog), he's quick to hobble himself into the cargo bay despite said nausea and spreads out a collection of scrap metal, bolts, straps, and welding equipment. He can be found repairing his knee brace there with Rock under his leg, propped up on the dog's shoulder blades as Rock slumbers. He looks tired as hell, but at least he's not going off all over the planet like he had at the ice one.

Apparently he's pretty good with a welding gun; the end result is something a bit like this, mish-mashed between Tadashi's and his own slight modifications. It's functional, will keep the knee steady. Feel free to say hello while he's focused; we all love to interrupt him while he's busy, right? Or maybe you'll find him sitting in a chair, cycling through Rock's many dog talents: sit, lay down, speak, stay. He seems a bit less restless compared to the other times he's been confined here, but then maybe he's just really, really glad to not be stuck in a goddamn tunnel. Or maybe there's a tension eased there thanks to Beverly managing to treat him without anything horrible happening this time. Either way, a sick and limited Max busy with his usual routine is a contented one.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

-- They really had to stop meeting like this. Peggy walked into the communal bathroom space, but found her favourite mirrored section blocked. (Yes, she had a favourite. Stop judging.) There was Max, bare-torso'd and beaten up worse than usual. In his reflection, she could see his stubbled jaw. And Peggy came to the hard realization that she still wasn't accustomed to seeing him without his caveman's beard.

More importantly, she saw (not for the first time) that bandage on his head. It seemed to be seeped with more blood than when she last saw him. So -- when Peggy deposited her toiletries bag on the counter, she turned half-way to ogle his state.

"Good God, man. You're not stitched up under that gauze, are you?"

For whatever reason (common sense), she'd assumed the bandage hid finished needlework.

Max gives a sigh that pretty much translates to, "Peggy is here to give me a hard time." Lately it seems like quite a few stubborn, stern figures are apt to do it, but he finds that it's far harder to not listen to Peggy than it is the other commentators on his state of -- everything. He glances back achingly toward the agent, eyes rimmed with the tired beginnings of a restless sleep prior.

"Was gonna do it now." He nudges aside the annoying crutch he'd been using, but he moves sorely, like someone getting into cold water on an only mildly warned afternoon. "Didn't want her to get near my face again." The doctor. She'd helped with the knee. That was progress enough.

He blinks and shakes away something only he sees. Picks up his small medical kit he's gotten set up from his time collecting supplies. His hands are unsteady, the rest of him burning a bit with fever. Nothing extreme, nothing a little medication and sleep can't fix, but it's hardly made him the steadiest in the fleet.

Few details are too small to notice -- especially when Max isn't the sort of man to hide his winces and his glares. She witnesses his frustration, and takes note of his unsteadiness. And then it's her turn to wince at the thought of his uncertain hands threading stitches through his skin.

Gently, she intercepts the medical kit. Peggy doesn't wrestle it from him, but she does grip its corner with an even pressure. As though she won't yank it from him, but nor will she let it be yanked from her either.

"Maybe I should help."

Why. He always wonders. Why?

These people are always there, always making him ask the questions he evades on purpose.

Max looks from her hand to her face owlishly, brow furrowed like he doesn't understand, like he's at a loss for a moment. It's ridiculous that he doesn't get it by now -- after what so many say, anyway -- but he's not someone he can like; doesn't know why the offers are there, when he can hardly stand himself. And yet Peggy has made it abundantly clear that she worries. Maybe she wouldn't say as much, but it's there.

He simply clears his throat, and in a moment of hesitant, strained trust, he pushes the medical kit over to her completely. There's a comfort in knowing she knows how to defend herself. He hopes she'd hurt him good, if he did anything stupid in one of his episodes.

He nods, looking at the counter.

It's just a needle. It's just Peggy.

It'll be okay, Max, someone says, not his own voice. It's gonna be okay.

"I know," he says firmly, quietly.

He isn't talking to me. Stiffly, she turns and places the kit on the counter. She reminds herself of his odd and ill-directed habits. His words reach her through the filter of whatever voice he's answering in his head. By now, she's sussed out that there must be a few rattling around between his ears.

Peggy hooks her thumbs under the kit's latches, and springs it open. All she needs is inside: precisely what she might find in a war-era aid kit, but with a few odd and futuristic additions. But she's no doctor, and no futurist at that. So she sticks with what she knows well. Alcohol swab; thread; needle. Peggy sets these aside before giving her hands a well and thorough wash.

"You'll need to sit lower than me. Go," she gave the order in a gentle voice but a steeled tone. "Fetch us a chair. The one from my room will do."

Fetch a chair she says.

"Mm. I'll get it."

He's a sad little mess. But he's not about to mention that he's slow and unhelpful right now. Nope, no sir, he's Max "The Road Warrior" Rockatansky, and he needs no help. He can do it himself. Clearly. Just nods like it's totally a simple task he can do as is. He slowly pulls himself to stand straighter with the lip of the sink, and then tucks his crutch under his armpit with a bitten back grunt and starts his ungainly limp to find a chair.

................ B R B.

Certainly, it may take him a while. And certainly, it may hurt. Peggy isn't frigid to that understanding -- and her heartstrings are tugged. But in the end, it's better to let him suffer through one chore than to baby him through both. It's a wide leap for the pair of them that she should even stitch his wounds. Why risk one foothold by demanding another?

While he's taking his time, Peggy makes the most of hers. She keeps her work area as sterile as possible. It's a far better workspace than the European front. Less dirt. Less blood to begin with. And when she threads the needle, it's with an old skill she'd feared she'd lost since the war. But basic training floods back to her fingertips with little prompting.

Max returns in, as expected, an extended time -- but he has at least done his damnedest to be fast on his foot despite that. He's broken out into a bit of a cold sweat but he puts the chair down triumphantly (or, well, triumphantly to someone out there watching) between the two of them and plops down in it without any grace whatsoever. It's the way of Max.

He looks up to her as he likely prepares, and there's no tension or suspicion in it, just a quiet expectation that she'll do what she's said she will. It's not the same -- not like the tooth. It's not some strange metal contraption in his mouth, yanking and tearing. It's just a simple head wound, albeit ugly. Might scar a little, but it's just -- stitches. And this is just Peggy. It's not a problem. If he's gotten far enough to let Beverly treat his leg, he's certainly shot past this.

"Sit," she greets him with this single word. But then it feels too reminiscent of the mutt who, having predictably perked up when Max was making his burdensome journey across the ship with one chair in tow, had followed him here and now promptly sits at Peggy's command. Whoops. She clears her throat, " please," she tries again. "Have a seat."

Sitting heavy-limbed in the chair, he raises an eyebrow at her.

Dryly, he replies, "Gonna ask me to roll over next?"

... What, it's funny.

"Depends," she answers in a light-hearted voice, "would you do it?"

Peggy doesn't often touch Max. Apart from what's necessary and a handful of tense moments, they respect each others' personal space. But with a mission in mind, she wastes no time in tucking a bent finger beneath his chin -- something of a lever by which she might move and adjust the angle of his head. All the better to examine his cut, it would seem.

"If I get to sleep mid-roll."

He flinches under her touch, but it's mild, and he looks patient though unwilling to look at her directly while she works. He's always had a hard enough time with eye contact, but... it's even more difficult when it's this close, this intimate. And for someone like Max, her sewing up a wound is a very, very heavy task allowed. Especially on the heels of him hurting someone at this proximity. But it's also important to remember just how long it's been since someone has touched him with the same breed of kindness. Even on the Fury Road, Furiosa and the wives had never laid their hands on him in any way like this. That's not how it worked.

The wound is an ugly mark. He'll be extremely fortunate if it heals clean.

... Then again, Max is an extremely good healer, as the tattoo suggests.

He holds his breath.

"We should only be so lucky," she chirps dryly. Lucky to sleep at all -- but perhaps that's an old and outdated sentiment. After all, Peggy sleeps plenty. There's nothing to disturb her sleep quite like back home -- nothing except dreams, and those are often more bittersweet than disturbing. She does her level best not to show how devastated she still feels in the wake of both Jim and Steve's departures. Peggy smiles more. She snaps less. But the tension never leaves her brow -- not even now, as she dabs gently at Max's wound with a clean and warm and wet cloth.

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