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Chapter Text

Driving a War Rig again was satisfying, Furiosa had to admit. She might have been feeling a little cooped up in the Citadel of late, and now Toast had mostly taken over the day to day running – with the support of a council – Furiosa could do these runs again.

It'd been a run of the mill guzzoline run, and when she rolled back through the gates of Home, she was content to let the unloading fall to the work crews and go up to hand off the trade ledgers.

Not ten minutes later there was a great shout from outside, and a war pup came to get her, panting something about an intruder.

Furiosa was feeling her knees, after going up and down the newly hewn steps of the Citadel twice inside half an hour. When she came down to where she left the War Rig, there were three wounded War Boys – one of them with a broken arm, and one with an ugly headwound – and an unconscious man on the ground. Blood was streaming from a headwound and his arms were tied tightly behind his back.

"To the Infirmary," she directed the wounded crew members. "You, what happened here?"

"He was hidden out in the hold, Boss," was the explanation. "Attacked us when we got to his spot behind the food crates and discovered him."

Furiosa had a sinking feeling.

She slowly knelt next to the man, just out of immediate reach. He was wearing a muzzle made of some kind of metal mesh, the holes just about big enough to stuff little bits of food through, but no way to bring a cup to his lips. It had been welded to his head. Judging by the length of his hair and beard and the places that had been rubbed raw on his face and head, he'd been wearing it for a while.

She wished she was more surprised when she recognised Max. He looked pale – he must have been kept indoors and only recently escaped – and a lot thinner than she remembered him.

"He speak at all?"

"No Boss. Just growling-like."

She sighed, thinking of the man who was finally remembering what it was like to be a person again, by the time he left them, only to have it taken away again.

Should have tried harder to get him to stay, she thought. But there hadn't really been the opportunity, and he'd needed to make his own decisions.

"Bring him to the vault."

Old Joe didn't keep prisoners as such, or at least none Joe would have called prisoners.

Even if there had been prisons she wouldn't have wanted Max in one. But he and the Citadel denizens needed to be safe for now, and she figured he'd need the privacy until he could get himself together.

Once she'd done her supply run, she went to the vault, discovering that the work crew had locked him into the inner vault.

She also discovered that she had overestimated his state of mind. He was still tied – she should have told them to cut him loose, the straps were far too tight – and he snarled at her when she came through the door.

Shit.

She'd thought to treat his new headwound plus the older, infecting ones she could see, assess how to go about getting that nasty muzzle off of him, get him some food and water. Looked like it was going to be a lot harder than she'd thought.

"Hi Max. Not looking so good there," she began, circling him a few steps to put her supplies behind her. "You remember me? Remember where you are?"

He shook his head, but she thought it was more to try to shake off the blood that was running into his eyes. The mute look of suspicion didn't give her much hope that he recognised her.

"I need to have a look at your head. Will you come here so I can help you?"

Nope, that wasn't happening. She had to try though.

"If you come here I can treat your wound and free your arms. And see about getting that damn thing off your face."

She remembered the effect those last words had had on him the first time, almost a year ago. There was nothing now though, just a snarl.

Furiosa sighed, trying to decide on an approach. She needed to treat his wound, ideally all of them but at the very least the one that was bleeding heavily. She needed to get a good look at the muzzle so she could figure out how to get it off – she'd brought a file, but at present she wasn't going to wield anything remotely weapon-like around him.

Most of all, but especially if she couldn't get the muzzle off right now, his hands needed to free so that he could feed himself from the food she'd brought.

Ideally he'd let her do these things, but she was worried enough by the bleeding that that wasn't a primary requirement for her course of action anymore.

The decision was taken out of her hands when he decided to lunge at her. Hands behind his back, weak and probably dizzy from blood loss, and he charged at her, trying to headbutt her.

There was a brief struggle, but ultimately she was healthy and well fed and he was... pretty severely injured and didn't have the use of his arms. She evaded his move and put her metal hand on his shoulder, a tighter grip than her flesh hand could have done.

He growled and spat like a feral thing when she worked him to the ground as carefully as possible, controlling his weight so he didn't drop on his face like a sack of stones. He immediately tried to roll away, so she grimaced and put a knee between his shoulderblades, pinning him down with just enough weight to keep him in place.

"Believe me, this is not what I had in mind for a reunion," she told him, resigned to the fact that she wouldn't be seeing anything of the Max she knew – at least for a while.

He had needle marks in his neck, over the veins. Had he been picked up by some dirtbag in Gas Town and become a blood bag again? God, this guy had the worst of luck.

She pulled up the med box and went to work on the head wound.

"We've been doing OK here," she told him conversationally, leaning in to examine the headwound. "Took us a while to make peace around us and for people to stop trying to take the Citadel, but we're getting roots in the ground now..."

She kept talking, knowing he wasn't getting any of it, but feeling the better for doing it. It made her feel more like somebody taking care of a sick friend and less like somebody fixing up a thing.

She poured some water over the head wound and cleaned out the grit as gently as she could. He was growling and snarling, but when she poured more water she heard him slurp. He was trying to drink from the puddle of bloody water that was forming.

"Urgh. Don't drink that, I have clean water for you in a moment," she sighed, but he wouldn't stop, so she let up her weight and moved him to the right, away from the puddle. "Sorry, this is gonna suck."

The blood clotting powder stung like nothing else – she remembered it well – and there was nothing to be done but hold him still while he howled.

"Sorry. Sorry, I'm doing my best... sorry," she murmured, gritting her teeth. Getting through this as fast as possible was perhaps the kindest thing. She didn't know if she could stomach to do this again. So much had already been done to him against his will.

She desinfected the other wounds within easy reach, having to put more weight on him to keep him from rearing up in his pain and desperation.

"I am so sorry."

He was already weak, but finally he was exhausted, breathing harshly with his muzzled cheek pressed against the hard floor. She laid a gentle hand in his neck while she examined the muzzle. Welded onto his head. Welded! It hadn't been intended to come off again, and he had a thick, tangled mess of beard under it, almost obscuring his mouth. She didn't think boltcutters could do it, it was going to need to be an extended session with a metal file and some very careful bending. It was nothing he was even remotely ready for now.

She was still hoping he'd come back to himself and realise she was trying to help him. That would make it so much easier to solve the muzzle situation. Maybe food and water and sleep would help and he'd be able to cooperate tomorrow?

She sighed, exhausted from the day and this miserable task both.

"I'm gonna untie your hands," she told him. "Stay down, okay? I need you to stay as you are."

She'd thought to cut the ties, but she didn't even want to bring a knife in his reach, so she untangled the cargo straps the work crew used for this, picking out the knots with her weight still on his back.

His hands grasped weakly at nothing when she finally freed them. His wrists looked terrible, but mostly from older scrapes and bruises. It wasn't so bad that she wanted to re-open the painful chapter of wound treatment right then.

She put her hand in his, just for a moment, and squeezed gently.

"Max, I'm gonna go now," she announced softly. "I'm leaving water and food, and I'm going to have them clear out the greater vault so you can use that space. There's a little pool so you can wash your face, and I'll put a blanket there too."

She considered clean clothes, but she doubted that in this state of mind he'd be willing make use of them. Maybe tomorrow.

"Stay down, okay?"

He made a garbled, incoherent sound.

"I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have, and that's what's going to happen if you come at me again. Just stay on the ground until I've left."

She squeezed the back of his neck, slow and firm, in the way that touched on some old instinct to make animals and people go still. It worked on him too, some of the furious tension eased off.

"Okay. That's good, Max. There we go."

She'd packed the med box as she finished with the contents, so it was a matter of easing her weight off him, then letting go of his neck and quickly stepping away from him. He drew his arms under his torso, grunting in pain, but he did indeed stay on the ground until she closed the inner vault door.

Furiosa leant her back against the outside of the door and tipped back her head. She really hoped that the next time she opened that door, she was going to find her friend in there.

Chapter Text

It was almost midnight by the time the work crew had finished clearing out the greater vault, ridding it of everything that could be used as a weapon. (She'd had to make them do another sweep with higher standards, well aware of how creative Max could be when he truly believed himself trapped).

They cleared out, waiting by the big door, while she went to the inner door, a little on edge. He had his hands free now, and a couple of hours in the small inner vault might have frustrated him.

Furiosa had laid out things for him at the pool. Two blankets, some old but clean clothes, a chunk of the enriched bean paste they all ate – soft enough to stuff through the muzzle, and a jug of water. She suspected with the muzzle the easiest way for him to drink would be to pour water in a bowl and bring his mouth to it, so she'd brought a bowl too.

She cautiously opened the door, stepping to the side so she wasn't silhouetted in the light. If he was ready to attack she didn't want to present such a clear target. If he was confused and fearful, she didn't want to loom.

"Max?"

There was a startled grunt.

"You can come out here now, all right?"

Her eyes were still adjusting to the dim light, and she finally saw him in the corner, blinking like he'd just woken up. He looked... out of it. Had they had him on some type of drugs?

She hadn't caught wind of anything about an escapee while in Gas Town, nor had any of her crew. Maybe he'd timed his escape for the presence of the rig. That meant that whatever they'd been dosing him with probably hadn't made its way out of his system yet.

His headwound looked like it had stopped bleeding, though it was hard to tell with the way his face was caked with blood from before. His fingers were bloody too – from touching his head maybe, or--

"Oh Max," she said sadly, seeing the bloody fingermarks on the inside of the door. Looked like he'd busted his fingers open trying to scratch around the edge of the door. It had seemed best to leave him alone to calm down, but now she wasn't so sure.

He lunged to his feet, and she backed away from the door, hoping to avoid another confrontation.

"There's water and food out here, and stuff to get clean," she said, trying to assess him as he came into the light of the greater vault. His eyes didn't quite track, flicking around the room in a restless pattern, constantly coming back to her.

"And I have more wound powder if your head starts bleeding again."

He flinched. She guessed that was good – at least he was hearing her and at some level understanding her words.

"I'm not going to do it. I'm going to leave it here so you can do it if you need to, all right?"

He grunted, eying her warily, and Furiosa forced herself to leave him to it. All her presence was doing was adding stress. There was a lookout outside who could see most of the vault through the windows, so she could be warned if something was wrong, or at least more wrong, with him.

"I'll come back tomorrow to see how you are, okay? Nobody else will come in here, just me. You're safe, Max, and as soon as you..." she trailed off. What was she going to say? 'As soon as you're sane'? 'As soon as you stop behaving like a feral animal'?

"As soon as you're well again," she settled on, "you can walk right out of the door. I promise."

Chapter Text

It was a long night talking to Capable, Toast, Dagne and Cheedo, and she didn't get near as much sleep as she might have hoped. The sisters wanted to see Max, but Furiosa finally convinced them to wait until he could ask for them.

"He's not lucid. You know what he was like the first time we saw him? Like that, but he's not even talking. It's not safe, Capable."

She didn't think Max would kill any of them, not intentionally – back then he hadn't killed her even though she'd tried to blow his head off twice only moments before. But she wasn't willing to bet any other life but her own on that theory.

Eir, the Vuvalini healer, listened patiently and agreed that it sounded like he'd been on some type of drug. She prescribed as much of the salty broth they had at meals as he was willing to have – fluid to help his system pass the drugs, plus salt and minerals he was probably in desperate need of.

"Make sure they cook it a while in an iron pot," Eir said. "If they tapped his blood he'll have anemia."

She left her prosthetic off this morning, knowing it might look intimidating. Plus, she expected to spend most of the day sitting around, so there was no need to be uncomfortable.

She conscripted a boy to carry the tray with the water and broth jugs and the two cut up pastries she'd charmed out of the cook. Once she'd agreed on a knocking signal with the guard outside the vault, she went in, got the boy to put the tray of pastries on one of the benches close to the door, and sent him back out so she could be locked in.

Max was nowhere to be seen, but the things by the pool looked used. Food eaten, the blankets gone, presumably to some strategic nest. The ground was wet around the pool, so he might have cleaned up a little. That was something. Last night she hadn't been so sure he would have the presence of mind – or the desire – to get clean.

Furiosa resisted the urge to go look around, and settled on the bench next to the pastries. She'd brought a book, what had apparently been one of Angharad's favourites.

The pastries smelled really good. That was the point, but she'd had her morning meal and they were tempting her.

She was well into the first chapter before she saw any sign that Max was still in the vault. He'd probably been watching her, but now he finally came down the steps by the high arched window, a little graceless in his descent.

He looked less bloody; a vast improvement. From the looks of it he'd used the blood clotting powder on his headwound again, and she was glad she wouldn't have to.

He approached in fits and starts, a few steps forward only to freeze again. He sniffed the air, apparently unable to resist the pastries. She'd left him plenty of food overnight, so she didn't think he was hungry as such, but she doubted he'd had anything that smelled this good in a really long time.

"Would you like some?" Furiosa asked, not looking up from her book. She indicated the tray.

He grunted softly, but made no move to come closer, and she did her best to ignore him. After a while she gave in and took one of the eight squares of pastry for herself. It had a delicious crunch and a dried tomato filling.

Max made what she could only describe as a whining sound.

"Stop torturing yourself," she told him gently. "I brought them for you."

She forced herself to focus on her book and ignore his slow, hesitant approach. He was apparently fighting some inner battle. When he finally darted forward and snatched up two of the pastry squares, she smiled at her book.

He snarled and retreated, and she thought he might be waiting for her reaction to his 'theft'. She took another square and ate it slowly, sighing in pleasure.

"Mm, that was good. I'm full now," she said, feeling like she was performing a play for a particularly unappreciative audience. "The rest is for you."

When he finally felt safe enough to try one of the pastry squares, pushing it awkwardly through the mesh of his muzzle, he made a wonderous sound. She looked at him from the corners of her eyes.

His eyes were wide, and as soon as he tasted the filling he slowed down, tearing it in tiny pieces to make it last.

"They're good, aren't they?"

He flinched, like he'd forgotten she was there for a moment. Furiosa turned back to her book.

"These are for you too," she said softly, indicating the tray.

It took a while, but he came back to get the other ones, less furtively this time, hopefully beginning to trust it wasn't a trap. She was pretty sure he stashed half of it away somewhere, but she was trying not to make him on edge by watching him.

He came back for the jug of broth, then went to where he'd stashed the bowl and poured some so he could drink. She tried to ignore the slurping sounds, rage inside her firing up all over again at the sight of a man forced to drink like that. She made a mental note to search the gardens for something like a hollow reed.

She was at chapter five when she noticed him scratch and worry at the muzzle, his injured fingers smearing blood into his rough beard.

"Max," she pitched her voice low and gentle. "I can get the muzzle off. Will you let me do that for you?"

He stared at her for long, silent minutes. Blinked and rapidly shook his head, then stared some more. Finally she pulled the short, blunt metal file from her pocket and showed it to him.

He grunted and surged toward her, and she tried not to let her instincts force her into a more defensive stance, just held it out to him. He snatched it from her hand and retreated.

A few minutes later she heard the sound of brief bursts of frantic filing, interspersed with muttered curses and grunts. His hands were in no state to be doing this and from the looks of it he couldn't get a good angle, so he was abrading the skin of his jaw.

His hair and beard were both grown long, messily sticking through the mesh of the muzzle, and that couldn't help.

"Max, do you know who I am?" she asked, and he paused in his filing attempts to glare at her. She kept looking back, making eye contact for the first time, and he finally gave a grunt she thought might be affirmative.

"Do you think I would hurt you?"

Wrong question, she realised to late. She'd hurt him yesterday. It might have been in his best interests, but she didn't think that mattered much from his perspective. He gave no response.

"We saved each other's lives a dozen times over, when we last met," she continued. "I'd like to help you now. What do you think would happen if you let me work on the muzzle?"

He stared at her, hands stilled, and doesn't move or blink for what feels like an eternity.

"Give it some thought," she said finally, turning back to her book. Something at least seemed to be getting through to him.

Chapter Text

Half a chapter later she saw something moving on the edge of her field of vision, and it was the metal file landing on the packed dirt floor.

He was standing ten paces away from her, the file on the floor in between them. She gave him a questioning look, and he looked from her to the file and back.

"All right," she said softly, putting the book aside. If he was ready to interact, she was willing to follow his lead.

She moved slowly, not wanting to startle him. He gave a grunt when she got to the file, and she nodded, slowly sinking to her haunches to pick it up, her eyes on the floor. Making herself vulnerable to him.

He moved, and she forced herself to stay where she was.

The touch was unexpected, his grimy, bloody fingers tracing the brand on her neck, and the tattoo Eir had given her over it. The ornate, curly mark of Swaddle Dog covering the urgly brand of Immortan Joe. Not rendering it invisible, nothing would be able to hide those raised welts, but reclaiming it.

A jolt of adrenaline shot down her spine. It was more from being touched there than from being touched by him, but he withdrew his hand with a soft sound in his throat.

Furiosa took a deep breath and picked up the metal file, holding it loosely, slowing rising to her feet.

He was standing two paces away, watching her with barely contained tension, like he was going to vibrate out of his skin.

"Hey," she said, finding a gentleness within herself she hadn't thought to possess. "Please let me help you."

He seemed to be bracing himself, expecting her to come for him, so she waited until he made an impatient noise and stepped within her reach.

He was on the balls of his feet, his body seemingly suspended between fight or flight. Furiosa looked the brace over and then gestured to the side of her own jaw.

"I'm going to file through these parts here. Then we can bend out this part," she gestured to her chin, "and the whole thing should come off over your head."

He grunted.

"Yeah? Can I start?" she checked again, and he huffed a breath, maybe just a little bit impatient.

She slowly put her left arm on his shoulder, stub braced against his jaw, and began to work with her other arm.

It went slowly. She'd brought the best file they had, but the muzzle was some kind of hardened steel that barely seemed to be affected by it, and it was an awkward position to work in. When she paused after some time to stretch her shoulder, feeling the joint pop, Max watched her carefully. He was still tense, but it no longer had that sense of fight or flight desparation to it. Just a man forced to accept touching he'd prefer to avoid.

He made a thoughtful sound and walked over to the bench where she'd been sitting. Giving her a long, careful look, he sat down.

Furiosa nodded, understanding the concession for what it was – he wasn't comfortable sitting while she stood, it made him vulnerable, but if she stood next to him the work on his muzzle would go easier.

She filed for a moment, then decided she didn't like how close the tip of the file came to his skin at this angle, and fished a piece of hard leather from her pocket. It was the size of a the palm of her hand, and she could slide it between the muzzle and his skin, so she didn't risk injuring him.

By the time she was halfway through the first strut of the muzzle, Max's eyes were closed, his breathing calmed, like the repetitive sound and motion was lulling him into a kind of trance.

She was loathe to break it, because he seemed like he needed the rest, but her hand was beginning to cramp up and she'd been standing for two hours now.

"Max?" she said softly, slowing her motions.

"Hmm?"

"I need a break, I'm sorry."

He grunted and held out his battered hand for the file. She sat down on the bench and helped him find the right groove, and he made slow, obviously painful motions while she stretched out her hand.

Furiosa stared at the muzzle and frowned. Two hours of work and that single strut was now weakened enough the boltbutter would clip it. It was going to take weakening two more of those things before she could clip them and bend the muzzle enough to get him out of it. Maybe calling in backup was justified.

"The Sisters would like to see you," she said, musing. "And they would certainly help you too. Would you like me to ask--"

He turned to her with wide, startled eyes, and scrambled to his feet.

"You don't want to see them?"

A grunt.

"You don't want them to see you like this?"

Affirmative grunt.

"All right, I'll keep them out of here until you ask for them, okay?"

That seemed to calm him some, and Furiosa sighed. He might be working with her now, but it would take some more time to get the Max she remembered back.

Chapter Text

She helped him wedge the file into a crack in the wall so he could move his head against it, and left him for a while. He didn't seem to notice when she told him, fiercely focused on sawing at the muzle.

She went away half because her hand needed the break anyway, and half because she needed to decompress a little. In the vault, caught up in the immediacy of Max's fear, it was hard to think beyond getting the muzzle off.

"Hello my dear," Eir greeted her when she got to the infirmary. "How are you doing with your fool?"

Something in Furiosa's face must have given the older woman an answer, because she put down the instruments she was putting in the newly built steam cleaner and came over. Furiosa gratefully sank into the forehead touch, tipping her own no-longer-greased forehead against the older woman's deep brown skin. She needed a little bit of the patient strength of the Vuvalini for herself right now.

Eir was never the first to disengage from this touch, offering it as long as it was wanted, and Furiosa took a long minute to rest in the older woman's warmth. She herself did her best to be what she thought of as a Mother in the Vuvalini tradition – not in blood, but in purpose – to the Sisters and the other younger people in her care, and it was an unsought for relief to have such a Mother herself.

"He's very..." she hopped up to sit on the examination table, legs dangling, and made a vague gesture. "I don't even know."

Eir went back to the instruments, just busying her hands.

"He recognise you?"

"I think so, but it's hard to be sure. The muzzle is partially blocking his eyes, and he was never good at eye contact."

She sighed, thinking back of that first hour in the cab of the War Rig with him, twitchily gathering all the guns. How spooked he'd looked when the girls had dealt with Nux, his expression and body language saying that he fully expected to be next getting thrown off.

"You forget he came here," Eir said. "Sounded like he planned his escape around knowing when your convoy would be there. Maybe he knew he'd get help here."

"Or he just saw the only option," Furiosa sighed. "He's cooperated some, but it could easily be because I offered help with the muzzle."

"How is that going?"

"Slowly. I'm going to bring in the boltcutters and see if we can compress the struts to speed up the filing."

"But he hasn't spoken?"

"Grunting and gesturing."

"Hm. Are his pupils the same size?"

"I think so, but I can try to get a better look. He does communicate a little. My shoulder hurt, and he sat down while I stood, so I could work at a more comfortable angle."

"That's something," Eir nodded. "Shows he's keyed in to you. Try and talk to him as much as you can, even if he don't answer. Is he drinking the broth?"

"It's messy, he has to pour it in a bowl, and there is a lot of beard under that muzzle."

Eir made an irritated sound and rummaged in a drawer.

"I should have thought of that before. Aha, here."

She handed over a short length of plastic tube that could be used as a straw.

"And if you think he'll let you use it on him..."

She held up the Infirmary's prized pair of blunt-tipped scissors.

"If he will, it'll make eating a bit more dignified even if we don't get the muzzle off today," Furiosa nodded, accepting the tool. "Thank you."

Feeling considerably better, she went to the kitchen to get meals for Max and herself, and then collected the other things she wanted before heading back to the vault.

He wasn't there when she got back, and even after she dismissed the boy who'd helped her carry stuff it took ten long minutes for Max to show himself.

Furiosa resigned herself to doing a lot more reading, and settled down next to the small pile of tools. She was not a fast reader, there were eleven chapters to go. All right then.

It was only about a page later that she saw something move at the edge of her vision. Capable said Furiosa was no longer as on edge as she had been, and that was probably true, but it still took effort to relax her hand on the book and let Max approach.

She remembered Eir's advice.

"Hey Max. I brought us dinner," she said a little awkwardly, slowly looking up. "And some tools."

His eyes were on the boltcutters, and she wondered if he was remembering the first time he'd seen her hold one, when she'd been trying to take off his head with it.

"I don't know if they'll go through that strut yet, but I thought we could try," she said softly. "Do you want me to try?"

He stared at her for what felt like minutes, eyes never quite on hers. Then he finally made an assenting noise and moved closer, flicking his eyes from her to the boltcutter and back.

He moved slowly once she picked it up, telegraphic her motions.

"Wait, I'm going to pack this with leather," she murmured, and he tilted his head so she could push the piece of tack leather under the muzzle to protect his face. "I also brought scissors. We could get rid of all this hair, make eating easier for you."

He grunted softly, watching as she carefully positioned the boltcutters on the strut they had weakened the muzzle.

"Hold still," she said unnecessarily. She very slowly brought weight onto the arms of the cutter, trying to go as controlled as possible, but she was using all of her strength when finally the strut was clipped through with a loud snap. Max flinched away, and the business end of the boltcutters thumped onto his shoulder before she could rebalance them in her grip. She laid them aside.

"Fuck, sorry."

He visibly steeled himself, forcing his breath to slow, and allowed her to look at the muzzle.

"OK, I'll have to file that sharp point down before you try to move your jaw, but this is progress. Do you want me to try on the other struts? I won't be able to get through, but it might give us a start on the filing."

He gave an assenting grunt and moved his head into position for her.

She gave it her best, but couldn't get through the other two struts. The blades of the boltcutters dug in a little though, so there was a good starting point for filing.

"Hang on," she said, repositioning the piece of leather to cover his lips and chin. Why had she not thought of this before?

He watched her with wide, wary eyes as she clipped out the piece of mesh in front of his mouth. He still wouldn't be able to get a cup close enough to drink without the straw, but eating would be easier.

She thought about clipping the entire front of the muzzle. It was doable, but it would leave him with a ring full of very sharp points around his face. She didn't think that would help him sleep.

She put down the boltcutters and he handed her the file, and she spent some time filing the sharp points so that he wouldn't hurt himself on the muzzle.

She got up to stretch out her shoulders, and with her back to him asked

"Do you want to eat first or work at it some more?"

He grunted an answer, and she assumed he must have pointed, but she couldn't see it and made no effort to, just waited him out.

"Eat," he finally said, gravelly and hard to understand, but definitely a word. Furiosa finished stretching, and managed to wipe the satisfaction from her face before she turned back to face him.

Chapter Text

"Do you want me to trim your beard first?" she offered.

He thought about it, and she waited him out. When he finally decided he wanted her to, he allowed her to cup her metal hand around the side of his face to steady him.

She carefully angled the scissors between the muzzle and his skin, occasionally pausing to pluck pieces of matted beard from under and around the metal. It wasn't exactly a neat job and there were parts of his cheeks she couldn't reach, but when she was done his mouth was free of hair and he looked a little bit more like the man she remembered.

He actually stayed near her to eat, this time. They sat together on the long bench, the tray of food in between them. It was almost.. normal.

"What happened with your back?" she asked softly. She hadn't noticed it before, but he was bleeding slightly, blood soaked into his shirt and dried there. "Can I look at it?"

He hesitated for a long moment and then undid the ties holding the shirt closed.

Furiosa sucked in a sympathetic breath when the shirt stuck to his skin, the blood-stiffened fabric slowly peeling away.

She had known he would probably have a tattoo from his time as blood bag, but she'd never seen it. It was large, upside down, and scratched all to hell where he could reach it, like he'd done his level best to get the letters off of his skin.

His back muscles were corded with heavy tension, his breath forced deep and slow. Given what she suspected might have happened to him, it must cost him to let her see this.

"Can I put something on it? I have a balm that will help it heal."

He grunted as assent, and she unbuckled the straps of her arm, putting it aside. She didn't like the idea of putting her metal hand on him in this moment. It felt too much like a restraint.

When it was bare she put her nub on his shoulder, steadying him while she smoothed some of Eir's precious aloe balm over the inflamed skin.

The first touch made him jolt, but she flattened her palm, trying to give steady, soothing pressure, and he began to breathe again.

"Did somebody see this?" she asked softly. "Is that how you ended up as a bloodbag again?"

He nodded, and she grimaced, glad he couldn't see her face.

"If you let it heal... you could let Miss Giddy put a tattoo over it. She did one for me."

"Hm."

he turned his head to look at her, apparently interested, and she nodded. Tugged at the necklline of her top a little and turned her back to him so he could see.

He moved very slowly when he reached for her, and she smiled at how gentle he was, at how he was showing her how he needed to be touched. She, trained to it by the regular, sudden hugs from the girls, wasn't usually in danger these days of planting an elbow – or a knife – into the ribs of whoever touched her unexpectedly. At least, in the Citadel, where she felt safe.

"It's all right, you can look," he assured him, tugging her top so he could see the top of her back.

It had taken weeks. Miss Giddy had taken careful tracings of her back, the lines of her muscles and shoulderblades and the position of the brand and the old tattoo.

Furiosa had sketched the silhouettes of trees and huts she remembered, the little waterfall. And then she'd written down all the names she remembered from back then, and all the names of the last of the Vuvalini. They filled the sky above the landscape silhouette, the Swaddle Dog clan sign rising above it.

Miss Giddy had positioned everything so that the letters of the old tattoo, so callously put on her when she was 17 and dismissed from the vault, disappeared among the names. She knew that if you knew where to look you could see that the trees were covering something, and the names Valkyrie and Angharad couldn't quite conceal the thick black 'infertile' underneath, but it was hers now, she'd made it into her own.

He grunted thoughtfully, tracing a single rough fingertip along the lines, and she tried not to shiver.

"Hm. Maybe," he finally said, voice like he'd gargled gravel. He backed off and put his shirt back on, and they got back to work on the muzzle.

"I'm going to try the boltcutters one more time, all right?" she said, seeing him nod in the dim light. Outside it was fully dark now. They'd gotten through the second strut, and she was eager to have him out of the damn thing before she left.

"If we can't manage it now, it's going to have to be tomorrow morning."

She had her arm back on, and she brought as much power onto the boltcutters as her new prosthetic could stand. Paused, tried again on the same point of the muzzle, and on the third try it finally, finally cut through.

He hissed and immediately put both hands on the muzzle, trying to get out of it. The sharp points she'd just cut scored red lines against his jaw.

"Wait, Max," she hurriedly put down the boltcutters. "You're going to – let me, all right?"

She covered his hand with hers, stilled his frantic motions.

Of course the metal didn't want to bend.

She ended up clipping a line across the mesh of the muzzle, then sitting him down on the ground while she sat on the bench, bracing the muzzle between her knees. An incredibly vulnerable position to allow himself into, but the best they could think of that wouldn't mean wrenching his neck.

Her new prosthetic was a little more delicate than the old one, a little lighter, but it still had powerful hydraulics. It was stronger than her flesh hand, and when she had figured out the angles, the right way to use that strength, the muzzle finally, slowly, bent open.

"Okay, let's try now."

Max tucked his chin and she placed the pieces of leather around his jaw, and with some gentle angling the muzzle came up from under his chin. The tip of his nose scraped open and some beard hair got pulled out, but a few minutes later it was finally, finally off.

Max flung the damn thing as far across the vault as he could, and Furiosa laughed in relief.

Chapter Text

She really wasn't sure what she would find the next morning. If being without the mask would help him remember how to be a person rather than a thing – she tried not to get her hopes up.

Good thing too. There were ripples in the pool when she came in, but no sign of him for the first ten minutes.

When he finally came to share breakfast with her, he hummed a greeting, which made her smile.

"Good morning to you too, Max."

He looked – it was to early to say good, but not too early for 'so much better'. Maybe it was just that she hadn't really gotten a good look at him the night before, or maybe he felt so much better – and slept so much better – without the muzzle that he looked different.

"I brought clippers," she said, indicating the hand clippers she'd brought. They had electric ones up in the infirmary, the ones she used for her own hair, but that was a little beyond him, she'd thought. These handclippers probably wouldn't give as neat a result, but she doubted he'd care.

He looked at them with interest, picked them up and compressed them a few times, watching the blade move over the comb. It would made a pretty decent weapon if he felt the need to have one. She didn't think he was still in that place, at least not toward her, but it was still a tense moment until he grunted and held them out to her.

"Yeah? What do you want clipped?" she asked.

He indicated his face and hair, and when she didn't respond, just kept looking at him with a politely questioning expression, huffed a breath that seemed to have some amusement in it.

"All of it," he grunted.

"Gladly," she smiled. "I'm looking forward to seeing Max again."

He actually rolled his eyes at that, and Furiosa couldn't contain her grin.

She moved up to a higher part of the ledge, where he could sit in front of her, his head reaching her shoulder height. He held himself stiff and away from her legs, and she rested her nub on his shoulder while she started with examining his head wound.

It didn't look terrible. Eir would prescribe direct sunlight. Furiosa hoped that he would soon feel ready to meet other people, maybe even leave the vault. Then she could bring him up to the gardens.

She spoke softly to him about life at the Citadel, how Cheedo was turning into a hell of a diplomat and how Capable and Toast were leading the Citadel, about Dag's baby.

"Name?" he grunted.

"Angharad, but mostly everybody calls her the Daglet," Furiosa smiled. "She's a handful. They're all still looking forward to when you want to see them."

It didn't seem to alarm him as much, this time.

While she talked she took her time to cut out the matted clumps of hair and beard, and used the blunt scissors to get everything shorter, combing his hair with her fingers to make sure it wouldn't snag on the clippers. By the time she was done with that, his body had relaxed, his torso leaning against her knees.

"I'm going to use the clippers now," she murmured, caught up in the strange, trusting intimacy of the moment and not wanting to speak out loud.

He hummed his agreement, and she started at his jaw, angling the clippers carefully and snipping off a swatch of hair. Cut by cut she revealed the lines of his face, the curve of his lips. He made a soft sound of content when she held his ear out of the way to go up along his temple. She could feel the way his ribcage expanded and then eased against her legs, a deep breath easing out of him.

She worked slowly, a calm rhythm of the snickt-snickt of the clippers and the brush of her nub over his head to get the cut locks of hair out of the way. By the time she put down the clippers his eyes had drifted shut. She wasn't sure if he was asleep or just relaxed, but she didn't want to break the moment just yet. She ran her hand over his newly shorn hair, slowly brushing the cut hair away, then just kept doing it, enjoying the feeling under her palm, the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the way his face had relaxed.

The sun shone down on them both through the windows, and the heat made her a little sleepy. When finally her hand stilled, coming to rest in his neck, she felt Max's broad hand cover hers. He tilted his head to blink back up at her.

"Furiosa.... hey..."

His voice was low and warm, and she smiled down at him, relieved and relaxed and helplessly endeared by him in this moment, by the newly revealed lines of his face, by the way he was sleepily looking up at her.

"Hey Max. I'm glad you're here."

"Mmm," he agreed, leaning into her touch.