driftfleet | Action/Voice | Dated October 6th | this didn't remotely fit on a mingle sobs

Who: Max and you.
Broadcast: Voice (see down a ways)
Action: SS Marsiva and SS Starstruck
When: October 6th, and it spans through the following week as well.

[Closed to others on the Marsiva if desired! October 6th]

[Max is spit up by the Marsiva a bit earlier than his other counterparts. Not much earlier, but he figures it might have to do with what they left behind on the planet -- but not before a nightmare of twisted images, of shadows he can't quite place and memories of his youth, of his adulthood, of what he lost that had made him less than human for a very long time. He's fortune; he knows how to handle the feeling of vivid nightmares and paranoia, of fears and iciness in his stomach. Perhaps it says terrible things about his way of life before the fleet, but death and the sense of dread afterward feels like living.

He wakes up in the Marsiva's healing deck, laid out on one of the cots with a sort of sensation that he's been pumped full of drugs, his body is so exhausted. He tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed to sit up, and it's a herclean effort aided only by the fact that he's been dealing with an ineffectively shit leg for twenty--

He staggers and collapses, arms braced on the bed, as he glances down. No brace. No anything, actually, from the thigh down. Terrible whispers caress his ears as he flat-out ignores them as he always does in favor of reaching out to touch the loose fabric of an empty pant leg. Alright. Alright, alright. It's not there. It hurts, but it's not there. Okay. He blinks hard, and reassesses the situation, pushing it all out of his mind for the moment. So his leg's gone. There's nothing he can do about that right now, other than work around it; it's just a step above the day it'd gotten shot. Work around it.

He looks around, sweat beading his brow and a constant chill shivering his body. At least they were nice enough to give him back his normal clothes, right? A copper-skinned woman holding an older man's hand passes his peripheral vision before he takes note of the pair of crutches leaning neatly against another cot. Time to see if anyone else is here, he supposes. But really, his heart is thrumming for the sight of Furiosa. If he's here, then surely she would be. There's really no logical reason why they would pick someone like him over literally anyone else to return to life.

He ventures forward, sluggish but determined to not be a sole survivor.

He refuses the thought.]

[Starstruck, October 6th]

[There's a pop on the bridge, a little spray of confetti.

Max is just as disoriented as ever when he is abruptly dumped into one of the chairs. He curses, foul words that should never be uttered by a civilized man, tiredly wiping confetti out of his slight beard and feverishly pale forehead. Now that the complete turmoil roiling in his gut over the survivors is a bit more appeased, the terrible, awful mental problems are just a drop in the bucket -- the physical, he could do without, but he's used to it. Really, he hasn't mentally processed losing his leg. Could they not have dropped the crutches in with him?

Pop, clatter. One crutch falls in, and then another, clacking loudly across the room.

...

He growls under his breath.

But on the bright side, his comms device is with him. So he just settles for wearily stamping in the voice command with his finger, vision too swirling and hands too jittery for text. Alright, so. Don't think about the dying part, or the fact that people really do just come back to life at all here, just work on the information part:]

[Voice.]

M'back.

What happened after the planet went out?

[What a wonderful public speaker. You missed this, right?]

[And again, Starstruck action.]

[And yes, eventually he can be found in his room. He's not in bed like he damn well should be, but he has at least gotten himself a wheelchair so that he's not just fumbling and collapsing on a sickly single leg. Or worse, sometimes he's not in his room. Sometimes he's in the cargo bay with Rock the dog (what a good dog), patting his head distantly and looking at the spot where his shuttle, newly resurrected, resides. He grumbles a little more, discontent with the fact that he can't actually use the damn thing in his current state to hide out.

The leg that isn't there anymore hurts. But he finds something... he can't quite explain in the absence. Something illogical for any other person than himself. A sort of... strange relief. Hell if he knows how to explain, so he just sits, patting the dog's head, lost in a swirl of thoughts. If he falls asleep in his chair, you'll be kind and not startle him, okay? It's not like he's got the energy to swing at you this week.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ she's not quick to pull her hand away from his face. the light touch against his forehead transforms, almost thoughtlessly, into a palm against his cheek. it's a maternal gesture. protective and caring. ]

And they can bring you back. But not it.

[ curious, really. and horrific -- but she doesn't let herself access that part of her heart just now. peggy crouches low to get a better look into max's eyes. her free fingers bite onto the wheelchair's arm. ]

[He closes his eyes, the nausea at least distanced by the pressure of her hand. Furiosa had given him a familiar comfort, too, when he was hurting -- dying. And isn't that just the most fucked up thing. He swallows dryly, eyes burning, and for what reason he still hasn't completely figured out. He's not going to cry in front of Peggy Carter. His de-aged self had already made that mistake once. The little spitfuck.]

... Saw it was a useless, busted piece of shit, anyway...

[The leg, he means. And yet there's a layer of loss in that mumbled reply, because as much as he feels a new freedom from that fucked up leg, he's also had that stupid fucking leg for over forty years. Helped get him mile to mile, right?

He glances up at her, his world a sort of dizzying wave that drifts side to side; everything Peggy says is under water, thrumming in and out in clarity like the a thumping heart. His foggy brain has left his guard down more than usual, he'll admit; he reaches up and clasps a hand over hers, and easily he's honest and open -- and maybe that's because... well, he almost never got a chance to be, anyway. Figuers death would be a good way to say what's what.]

Back home, I looked for it. Dying. Death.

Slate's wiped... Don't need to look for it anymore.

[Boy, that's fucked up, too.

He knows. But it's a good kind of fucked up. That's all he can offer.]

[ he's talkative. odd, that -- but perhaps it shouldn't surprise her near as much as it should. peggy's never had any reason to expect the expected from him. she tenses (briefly) under how his hand finds hers. and something tight in peggy's throat urges her to say something. for chrissakes, carter, say anything. ]

You have no idea how relieved I am to hear it. [ or else he's got a notion. holding this crouch causes the muscles in her legs to begin twitching. or maybe that's weakness settling in.

-- weakness like the raw reminder of the day they feted michael's deployment. bright smiles and queasy stomachs and the brother never came back to her. what would she have done, if max had stayed lost as well? she handles a great many things with aplomb. but not loss. never that. ]

Here's to clean cuts and fresh starts. Max.

[ maybe she cups his cheek like a mother might. but hen she raises her chin and presses her lips to his brow -- a brief, haunted kiss -- it's done as a sister might do so. in this moment she is far far far from captain.

it doesn't feel so awful. ]

Edited 2017-10-16 19:01 (UTC)

[Max is by no means a fan of emotional moments -- that much is obvious by now, despite how often they seem to fall into this sort of thoughtful song and dance. He grumbles and leans back after it's too late and the mark of a Carter is stained on his brow, but the grumble is a harmless one, a flimsy shield to mask the fact that this situation is so far outside of Max's usual range of vulnerabilities. It makes it almost normal. He rubs his forehead and looks skeptically at her.

Less hauntings around her, this time.]

... I'm older than you, you mother hen.

Edited 2017-10-16 19:41 (UTC)

[ she's always been good with languages. deciphering max's grumbling is just another dimension to that skill. from the very first rumble, she knows she's safe in her affection. and when she leans back, when she stands up, she gets a brief glimpse of her lipstick on his forehead before he smudges it all away and the colour diffuses over his brow.

but she knows it's there. ]

Yes, yes. You're terribly old. [ understand that however you like, fella. ] And you're terribly fond of me. I know it.

[ because that's how she's choosing to crack open this tension and this tragedy. ]

Besides, I was due my revenge.

[ -- from when he was a dog and damned well licked her face. ]

[He's a weary and huffy mumbler, knowing -- magically, intuitively, easily -- what she's referring to. Forget that that answers the question of fondness. He blinks slowly like he's stuck in slow motion (because blinking takes energy, alright?)]

You ever gonna let that go?

[ her expression stays softened. the fondness is certainly mutual -- and it's never more obvious than in moments like these: those exhausted, threadbare hours after tragedy and trauma. ]

If our fortunes had been reversed, if I'd been the one transformed into a dog, would you ever ever let it go?

... Prob'ly not.

[At least he's honest, right? His gaze slides to the side and his eyelids flutter again, much like a man right out of surgery and still drugged up on painkillers. Except the pain is very real still, very annoying, a constant heartbeat in his head and muscles and ghost leg. He still fights it anyway, because he'd rather not leave Peggy to herself when he could help it.

On the bright side, he seems capable of trusting her around him when he's sleeping.

Not an easy feat.]

... Thinking I'll... try sticking around in here.

[A shaky scarred hand moves to touch the edge of the bed.]

... Too tired to drag myself into a shuttle.

[ -- he's tired.

peggy clears her throat. she brushes away sentimentality, or the worst of it, and puts her pragmatic poise back into place. she see the tremor in his hand and she's quick to intercept it -- curling her fingers into his palm and in so doing offering him a hand up. ]

Here. Let me help.

[ it's an order. she'll put him to bed. ]

[Max doesn't say please very often, if at all -- Wasteland courtesy -- but he does grip her hand back, albeit with a huff and a look that screams only because I really can't move. He feels like a small pup or kitten, all out of whack and wobbling toward his every destination. It's terrible. But despite it, he knows Peggy's learned a thing or two about dragging a man up and around, even with her smaller frame. It's all in the knees, right?

Also, it's an order. But whatever.

He can barely summon any power to pull himself up, so he hopes she gets the idea that he's trying to stand up on one leg right now. He just needs a little boost in power, a little leeway with gravity. Something tickles his ear, and he mumbles at it: shut up, though by now Peggy's learned when things are and aren't directed at her instead of the mouthy shadows on the walls.]

Action/Voice | Dated October 6th | this didn't remotely fit on a mingle sobs

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