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Chapter Text

Nux sat on a stony bench with his chin against his chest. His legs were shaking slightly.
Everyone was returning to their normal duties: a small squirmish between the haul crew and Buzzards was more everyday business here than any kind of real event. Nux couldn't tell if the jitters were part of the after-effects of banging his skull real good or if he was angry at himself, for everything he messed up that day. It was his luck that Immortan himsef hadn't been riding with them that day. It had been miserable. Worse than mediocre. He tried to keep the pervasive thoughts away by concentrating on making Cricket laugh.

They heard the running footsteps approaching and looked up to see Puck dashing at his direction. Nux perked up immediately, had to grab a hold of the edge of the slate of rock he was sitting on. Puck's small white-and-black-painted face was hard to read. He stopped in front of Nux and leaned his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Nux grabbed his elbow immediately.

” How is he doing?”

Nux had seen their car, hauled in the back of the transport rig, back to the citadel. Apparently the engine was still there and in one piece, but they had successfully exploded the whole hood and half the front of the car clean off. His car, his precious car. Nux hadn't had the chance (nor the stamina) to go and check on his precious rubberpaw yet in the repair bay. He had instructed his brothers to check up on it and clean it as good as they could but he himself wanted to be there to actually put it back together and running. If it was possible. The Sick Boys and Organic had been adamant to keep him in the sick bay, what with the banged-up skull and the blood loss and all. He was bleeding out precious blood pumped into him and that was just a complete waste. The bleeding from his ears and his nose had already stopped, and he was left with a blinding headache, and he still felt a bit dizzy and swimmy in the head, but he had gotten it easy, hadn't he.

He had thought it was a brilliant idea to take the pups with them. It was supposed to be just a fun little fuel run: haul some greenies to Gas Town and return back to the Citadel with tanks full of guzzolene. A small armada of cars had been sent scouting to secure the way. Nux had been anxious to join them. He knew exactly how sick he was becoming, and that he should embrace every chance he was offered to die gloriously in a battle. What could be a more chrome way to ride to Walhalla than to die in the Fury Road?

Instead they had picked a whole other group, and Imperator Furiosa, who was in charge of the haul, had put him and Slit in the rear guard duty. She had softened the blow with the suggestion they took some pups with them to train for the real thing. The thought of having some pups on board had actually cheered Nux up a bit. He had immediately picked Cricket to ride with him. He had grown accustomed, and attached, to this small thing who kept him company while he was being fueled up in the blood shed. Cricket was a happy pup and good company in the depressing soundscape of the surrounding sick bay, especially at nights (the deathly quiet mixed with the occasional bone-chilling wailing of someone in the throes of some nightmare of dying soft). Besides Cricket wanted to be a driver one day. He hardly reached the wheel and the pedals at the same time though. Cricket had been over the moon when Nux had told him about the haul run. It also meant that Joe himself would send them off with his blessings. The pups would get to see Immortan himself, front and center, when the convoy with it's escorting vehicles would take off. It still made Nux's insides feel warm.

And then cold. He knew that it was an exceptional honor for a pup to die in the Fury Road, and he should not even allow himself to think like this.

When the explosion went off, he hadn't even stopped to think twice: he hadn't thought at all. He had just grabbed Cricket by the back of his too-big cargo pants and scruff of the neck and thrown him off the car. He still can't fathom how it was possible. He had acted purely out of instinct, the instinct screaming at him save the pup. The next thing he knew was that the car bucked and threw him off the lancer's platform like a bundle of rags and he landed, skull first, and the impact was bright blue and white and then, just black.

There had been an ambush of a small group of Buzzards: not a real threat but enough to cause trouble. Their group accompanying the War Rig had been returning to the Citadel, maybe too confident in the wake of the scouts, and since the trip to the Gas Town had been uneventful, they had trusted that the rest of the trip would be alike. They had been only a few clicks away from home; the Buzzards were becoming bold, attacking them with such small numbers and venturing over to their territory. Maybe they just wanted to mess with them.

Nux was grateful that they didn't attack on the way to Gas Town. That's when he had let Cricket drive half the way there. Cricket had been in front of the car with him. Slit had been incessantly bitching about how Nux let everyone else drive their car but him. Nux had told him that was because literally anyone else was a better driver than Slit, literally, even the small pups were more skilled than him, a rock jammed on the accelerator was a better driver than him. Slit had told him to fuck off with so many words and climbed on the War Rig, leaving them defenseless, which usually was a serious offence. Nux kind of wished that Imperator Furiosa, who was profoundly awe-inspiring and actually scary as all hell, would have noticed and ripped Slit a new one. She didn't though.

Slit stayed in sight and made rude gestures at Nux and Nux was happy to have both his hands free so that he could return the favor. Cricket was lauhing in stitches. None of the escorting crew was taking this peaceful haul trip very seriously. Nux had managed to lure Cricket's mate Puck in to their car and had Puck pretend to be their lancer for a while, until Slit had had enough of arseing around and jumped back into his station. He had actually let Puck stay back there with him until Gas Town, where he had finally tossed the pup back into the War Rig. There, Nux had promised Slit that he could, in fact, drive back home, just to keep him from moaning for the rest of the trip. So, when the attack happened, Slit had been in the cab of their car, and Nux and Cricket were standing in the back, eyes squinted against the bright and the wind and just enjoying the ride.

Maybe he had heard the scouts on top of the Rig shout a warning. Maybe no-one noticed anything until the Buzzards were already on full attack, and the first hit was on their unsuspecting car – just a random escorting vehicle, not even in the front of the convoy but safely in the back – because they had pups on board. The explosive had hit from below. Maybe Slit had steered into some kind of hidden explosive in the ground. Nux still couldn't understand how he managed to throw Cricket off the lancer's perch before the car leaped into the air. Maybe there was another explosion after the initial one. He could not remember, his memories of the incident after that felt like they had been ripped to shreds with a blast from a sawed-off shotgun.

Many small hands on him, grabbing him by the shoulders and trying to prop him up – high, distressed voices in the distance, calling his name. His mouth, eyes and nose full of dry, choking sand. Can't see or hear a thing. His whole head hurts like it had been laid on an anvil and hammered into a new, unpleasant shape. Careful hands wiping his face, his eyes first, then his nose and mouth. A rag being pushed against his face. He feels burning inside his face, a searing hot liquid building pressure behind his eyes and inside his nose. He is bleeding profusely from his nose.

Cricket is the one holding the rag against his nose and still wiping the sand off his face. Three pairs of other hands are holding him up in a sitting position. Imperator Furiosa's voice: she's asking if the war boy is in one piece. He hears the vicorious shrieks of his brothers in the distance, somewhere a small engine screaming it's last. Nux thinks he hears Puck answer her yes. Imperator orders the pups to get him in to the nearest car and to the Citadel; then she runs, Nux can hear her retreating footsteps pounding the ground. She's running with the War Boys to check their exploded car, where Slit is. Slit is in the car. Slit, Immortan damn him, if he got to Walhalla before him, Nux thinks, half drowning in his blood pouring down his throat, disgustingly thick and sickly sweet. The pups are pulling at his arms and pushing at his back to get him up on his feet.

The world is a blur of red and blue and the spatters of black and white, his mates and the cars a dizzying caleidoscope of shapes in his stinging eyes. The world tilts and spins in his eyes and in his head. He feels like throwing up immediately after getting upright. And there he goes, he throws up, a foul mixture of blood and tummy acid. The pups don't care, they keep coaxing him towards the nearest car and one of his brothers is there to steer him inside the car and lays him flat on his back in the back of the cockpit, propping his feet up against the nitro tank. Apparently, while he was out cold and eating and breathing sand, the battle had been over as soon as it had begun. Nux feels too shitty to care much about his sad mediocricity though. Mediocre or not, it feels much better to be horizontal than vertical.

Nux wipes the gritty muck out of his eyes and sees Cricket climbing in after him. He has bloody scrapes all along his shoulder and arm and half his face, and his brown eyes are brimming with tears that have washed white streaks down his dust-grimy face. Worry hits Nux like a fist into his abdomen. Is the pup all right? He tries to ask, but his tongue is all woozy, and Cricket just stubbornly shakes his head and worms himself in to the small space between Nux's head and the back door of the cab, and lays Nux's head on to his lap. Admittedly, it feels a lot better than the hard floor against the banged-up back of Nux's skull.

Cricket sniffles a little. He's trying to be hard, Nux can tell that even through the haze of his pain and nausea. Nux reaches his hand to pat the pup reassuringly wherever he can reach. Tells him that this is all wrong, as he was supposed to look after Cricket out in the Desert and not vice versa, and that Cricket shouldn't worry about him. Cricket tells him to lay still because his ear is bleeding. Nux hadn't even realized. Cricket, however, had been stationed to the sick bay long enough to notice such things. Nux wonders dazed, if it's a bad sign, the bleeding. He's bleeding out precious refueled blood and it feels like such a waste. Cricket holds a wad of cloth against his bleeding ear and holds his head still, and the car starts and jerks into motion. The battle is definitely over, then. He hasn't heard a word about his car or Slit. What will they leave behind in the battlefield, except the scavenged corpses of the Buzzards? He tries to ask the driver about it, but the roaring engine drowns his words and he feels too sick to shout any louder, and Cricket is already shushing him.

The motion feels like falling endlessly and without any destination. It makes Nux feel violently ill, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and concentrate on Cricket's gentle small fingers running across his forehead and his quiet comfort and whispered words, that he'll witness Nux if – and Nux considers, if the first words Cricket ever said to him, at the sick bay, forty-five days ago, when the Organic Mechanic brought the skinny little pup to his bedside, will also be the last he'll say to him. He doesn't want to die like this. The thought fills him with despair, cold as the eternally sweating stones in the bottom of the caves where the sun doesn't ever reach. But he just says, don't worry, little brother – and then it's just fear, and nausea, and motion sickness and fear until he, by the grace of Immortan, passes out and only comes to after already being dragged in and laid out to a slab in the Blood Shed.

The bleeding finally stops. Maybe his skull hasn't been smashed to smithereens by the impact after all. The nausea still lingers, and his head feels like it's been filled with wet sand (it's not a good feeling). Cricket keeps him company, after his own wounds have been attended to. That much Nux demands of the Mechanic, who rolls his eyes and sighs exasperated but checks on the pup and announces that he's completely fine and only in need of a good wash. It's Nux, with the help of Puck and the tiny twins, Nut and Bolt, who had been riding with Imperator in the War Rig and who had ran to Nux's aid with Cricket, who carefully clean the long, grime-filled grazes on Cricket's arm and side and face.

Sitting up makes Nux's head spin sickenignly but he needs to do this. He needs to take decent care of Cricket.

Cricket and Puck carefully take him to see when they hoist the car up. He ends up puking twice and spending the rest of the time by the small opening in the thick stone wall peering at the dock dry-heaving – being upright just isn't something he exels at right now, but he needs to see his car. It's missing half of it's front, both front wheels and the whole axle missing probably – then he spots it, it's been stuffed inside the cab that looks like it has been torn open by giant hands. By a miracle the engine seems to be inside the engine bay, mostly intact. Nux feels strangely proud, since he was the one who put that particular engine together. He has accomplished something sacred. He has helped create an engine eternal. He crosses his hands and breathes the salute, and the pups join in, heads bowed. Nux suspects they don't know what they are saluting, but their devotion is sweet nevertheless. Then the pups usher him back to his bed, waiting to get a refill of full-life blood, and there Nux remembers – Slit had been driving the mangled car.

Slit, he says, breath suddenly catching in his throat, not knowing if it's because he is hopeful or afraid. Puck says he'll go ask someone. Someone ought to know what happened to Nux's lancer, who should not have been driving at all, but standing on the lancer's perch on the back of the vehicle, in the spot, where Nux and Cricket were when the explosion tore at their car.

Wrong, mistake, failure, failure, failure. Nux's heartbeat drums a tattoo Nux doesn't want to hear inside his already hurting head.

All he had done all day was one mistake after another. He should not have taken the pup with them – he had put Cricket in grave danger, however blasphemous it might be to think like this, but the pups, they were new and they should not rush towards Walhalla –
and their doctrine was, you shall not inflict any harm upon your little brothers, and you shall not purposefully put your brothers in the harms way, for it is not your judgement but Immortans, who Rides Shiny and Eternal.
He should definitely not have let Slit drive home. He has to grab his skull, throbbing in pain, with both his hands and bow his head down and silently curse, and beg, because he fucked up big time. If only Immortan might have some mercy and be forgetful towards his fuckups.

Cricket carefully pulls at his braced hand until Nux lets it fall limp, then slips the needle in the vein on the inside of his wrist, with steady certainty, obviously used to this work. He might want to be a driver one day, but he was already a skilled Sick Boy. He straghtens the tubes as the older Sick Boys haul in the chained full-life and Cricket leads him by the hand to the free fueling station. The bloodbag mumbles quietly and indistinctly as they drain him. Maybe he's praying too. Cricket stands in watch for a while, checking that the blood flows evenly, until he crawls next to Nux and presses against his side. Nux wraps his free arm around the bony shoulders and hugs the pup close, resting his cheek on top of his head. The presence is comforting.

Cricket says he's glad that Nux took him with him to the haul ride. Nux says he's glad that Cricket was there with him. Which is, in retrospect, a little white lie. Then he adds that he's glad, that Cricket is with him, now. Which is not a lie. Cricket puts his arm around Nux's back. Then they just sit there, Nux half-leaning on his small companion and Cricket stoic, calm, serious in his duty. Quietly studying at the lumps jutting at the junction of Nux's neck and shoulder. Nux introduces them. Say hi to my mates, Larry and Barry! Cricket looks up at him, dark eyes pondering, if Nux is teasing, then cracks a wide smile. Pulls a pencil out of one of his several pockets and they draw stupid faces at Larry and Barry until Puck's running footsteps alert them. Nux drops the pencil.
Puck's running like someone had doused his rear end with flaming nitro.

” He's alive,” Puck is panting.

The constant humming-ringing in Nux's ears swells, drowning any other sounds and the world seems to gently pull away from his senses.

” Oh,” he breathes. Doesn't know if he's relieved, or disappointed in behalf of his lancer, who could have ridden to Walhalla, shiny and chrome, but who was apparently alive – at least alive, but how? He had seen their car, or, what was left of it.

” He took some shrapnels and bled out a lot, but Organic fixed him!”
Puck sounds awestruck. At first Nux thinks it's because of the Organic Mechanic who fixes flesh. Then Puck points at his stomach and draws gruesome lines for their imaginations to see.
” He was all torn up here, and down here, and then he got stapled there, and there, at least four times! Four chrome staples!” Puck's eyes are glowing, he is so excited about the apparently very chrome staples. He's holding up four fingers to their faces. ” Organic wanted to sew them, but they said, that Slit had asked for the staples.”

Suddenly Nux grins. Slit would ask for staples, wouldn't he? Slit is definitely alive and, apparently mostly, in one piece. Nux feels dizzy and ill and yes, definitely, relieved. It mixes with the ebbing and flowing nausea and stops Nux from laughing out loud in fear that he'd end up puking all over the place again.

” Sorry, Puck, looks like my lancer's post is not free yet, then,” Nux grins at Puck, who doesn't seem to mind but keeps on gushing about the gory and undoubtedly, not just a little embellished details of Slit's amazing story he heard from the War Rig Crew and other War Boys. Of course Slit has to one-up Nux in the aftermath of the surprise attack. Nux looks at Criket, who's drinking in Puck's animated story. He nudges him a little.
” Are you disappointed that you got stuck with the mediocre, soft dying one?” Nux asks with a small smile.
Cricket looks up to him, a little surprised, almost baffled.
” No! Never.” His small face is so earnest it makes Nux's chest hurt a little. Puck finally slows down and sits next to Nux, listening to their exchange. Cricket jumps up and stands facing Nux. His eyes dart nevously towards Puck. Nux thinks that whatever Cricket has on his mind he doesn't want to share it with Puck, and it's unusual.

The Organic Mechanic barges in to the refueling bay and barks at the boys to haul the bloodbag back to the cages, since he's gone all quiet, to recover. Cricket jerks into action and removes the needle, and Puck springs on his feet and gets tossed out of the Blood Shed altogether, since it's not his post at all. Even the older boys who come to lug the bloodbag away, find the faces Nux and Cricket drew on Nux's tumors funny. It lightens the mood, since Cricket is suddenly so glum. Organic snorts at the sight of Nux's freshly decorated lumps.
” I can tattoo them for you if you want.”
It cheers both Nux and Cricket up.

” What a waste of ink, but hey,” he grunts as he straightens his back after a moment of work.
” Everyone is happy to see some friendly faces, huh?”
He winks and limps away with his machines, another pup lugging the huge battery of the tattooing gun after him.

Cricket is still there, sitting next to Nux lying down and wiping the seeping blood of the fresh faces of Larry and Barry. Nux isn't any use for anything since every time ge gets up, the low humming in his ears gets deafening and the world turns sideways and he just pukes, so he's been confined to a bed till morning. Nux is worried if he'll be better then, but he keeps on a happy face, because of Cricket. The pup is so quiet, so serious, almost vibrating with something he needs to say but does not dare. Nux can't come up with anything to encourage him to talk, so he just lies still and tries not to be sick again so that at least Cricket doesn't have to clean up after him.

The refueling always makes sleeping easier, though. The night fevers aren't so bad after some fresh blood. The cave-cold fear inside his core seems to be melting away. The fear of dying – or not-dying – he doesn't even know, which. He knows he has to die, it's the only way to Walhalla and riding eternal. He wants to go to Walhalla, that much he knows. Why didn't he want Cricket to get there, then? It would have been so easy. One bright blast, witnessed by their brothers and Imperator Furiosa herself, and her crew. Instead, he's here, laying useless and sick as a mutt, and Slit is somewhere, recovering from the shrapnels, and neither of them have died gloriously. The worst is the thought of Cricket dying and that makes the cold and empty chasm inside his stomach crack and inch further open. He is being unfaithful. His thoughts are blasphemy. He knocks his head against the stony slab once, to get the thoughts to stop, to get them out of his head, but the impact sends a bile-green lightning bolt of pure concentrated nausea and blinding pain right through his brain.

Cricket is quick to fold a piece of cloth and slip it under Nux's head, while Nux keeps his eyes firmly shut and tries to will the world from throbbing and spinning and cheerfully encouraging him to just spill his guts all over the floor.

Cricket's small, cold hand rests on his shoulder. He should wrap himself in a blanket, the night was going to be cold without the warmth and comfort of his brothers piled around him. Nux had never thought how lonely it must be, the burden of witnessing, standing in guard of someone probably dying, in the empty refueling bay or in the occasionally overcrowded sick bay (that was, however familiar, always slightly depressing). Without opening his eyes, Nux gathers the edge of a blanket into his fist and haphazardly pulls it over the shape that must be Cricket, sitting behind his back with his legs crossed.
” You should keep warm, little brother. It's going to get cold as a Rock-rider's colon.”

Cricket snickers obediently and spreads the blanket over Nux, too. He didn't really need it, the hot and cold of ebbing and flowing nausea washing over his clammy skin, but is grateful nevertheless.
” And sleep. I promise I'm not going to die this soft.”
” The Organic Mechanic said I should wake you up if you fell asleep,” Cricket points out.
” Fork the Flesh-mangler. We're sleeping,” Nux announces and grabs Cricket by the neck by surprise and wrestles him down, finally making the pup laugh a real, happy laugh. Nux holds him in a gentle chockehold, daring to open his eyes a little without feeling too sick and is happy to see Cricket's eyes meeting his, glimmering gleefully. And then watch the glimmer die, and the gloom, strange and too dark for such a young one, creep into his features once again. This time Nux is sober enough to find at least one word.
” What,” he says, quiet, fighting the nausea to keep his eyes open and answer Cricket's stare. His eyes are like black holes to the moonless and starless night.

” Don't be angry at me,” Cricket peeps, his voice unusually small. It's Nux's turn to look puzzled. He releases Cricket from his grasp.
” Why in the name of The Eternal Engine would I be angry at you?”
” Because I don't want you to die,” he says in a barely audible whisper, eyes terrified, and Nux knows, he's fearing a divine retribution, a lightning bolt to strike him dead for such blasphemy. He is gripping at the muscles in Nux's shoulder so hard it almost hurts, nails as white as his painted hands.
All the thoughts topple over each other inside Nux's already battered head. What can he say to the pup? That he agrees, that he still isn't sure if he wants to die either, but he is sure he doesn't want Cricket to die, that they are both brothers in their blasphemy, too?
He purses his lips and stares, maybe too long, because Cricket's serious mouth starts to tremble slightly.

” It's all right,” is all Nux manages, and he pulls the pup into a hug, letting him bury his face against his shouder. ” I'm not angry.”
It's so little he has to offer for this scared pup. In the unusual silence of the dim and empty Shed, they are alone together against something unfathomably huge, and dark, looming outside the stone walls and wanting to find it's way in.
” Like I said. I'm just … happy you are. Here. With me.”
Cricket nods his head vigorously against his shoulder, face hidden away, gripping tight with his skinny arm across Nux's chest.

Nux stares at the ceiling for a long time after Cricket has finally relaxed against his side, snoring ever-so-gently and sprawling, like the small pup he is, across the bed.

Chapter Text

          Nux had been bedridden for days. It was horrible. Without Cricket it would have been impossible to live through.

For three solid days after the accident he couldn't stand up on his own two legs without puking his guts. The humming sound in his ears got worse. His eyes refused to focus properly. At times the persistent headache threatened to split his skull in two. Every night he fell asleep nauseous and sweating in fear that he might die in his sleep. Cricket was his comfort, kept helping him up and cleaning after him, sleeping by his side at night and generally just believing that he would get up and be well enough to actually – not die soft in his sleep. Those three days were the longest Nux could remember. Time seemed to stretch into infinity.

Puck and the tiny twins visited his bedside regularily, telling him that his brothers had already started to piece and weld the car back together and it wouldn't be long till it was fit to ride again. Nux was torn wether to be over the moon or down in the doldrums. It was his car, and he should have been the one to fix her up, and he was just fucking useless. The Organic Mechanic refused to let him go to their sleeping hall and kept him at the Sick Bay, under surveillance, probably sure he'd die there. Easier to handle the dead bodies in the sick bay.

That night was worse than any before.

Nux curled to his side, curled up into a tight ball, knees to his chest, facing the wall. Not even the comforting, small shape of the pup equally curled up against his back eased the cold inside his stomach, twirling in icy tendrils like toxic mist. His eyes behind the closed lids were stinging and he was happy he was facing the wall, because he could feel the hot tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and running down his temple and the side of his nose, burning like acid. He laid there, pathetic and motionless, to not to wake and scare Cricket with his weeping.

He hated himself that moment enough to wish he would die in his sleep. Better a soft death than this – this uselessness and – loneliness, like he had been abandoned and forgotten like a broken and discarded piece of trash.

Strangely enough, he's feeling significantly less shitty in the morning. In every sense. He can actually sit up and feel only slightly light-headed. The hum is still present in the base of his skull, but at least he could hear when someone spoke to him.

Cricket is overjoyed. It makes Nux feel even better. The pup must have been bored out of his little skull, standing in guard of his pathetic meat bag for four days straight.

It was good to see Cricket's grazes and wounds heal though, first gradually scab over and leave only slight, pink scarring behind, since Cricket kept picking the scabs even though Nux tried to convince him not to. Cricket argued that the scars would look cool.

Nux decides that he was well enough to go to the pools and wash himself thoroughly, finally. The thought of the cool water makes him smile. Cricket wants to walk him to the pools but Nux wants to send him off, wanting that the pup would think of something else for a while than his sorry arse.

Cricket stares at him with those black, bright eyes of his, worry written all over his features. His white paint is worn and patchy and the black around his eyes smudged all over his cheeks. It's as good an excuse as any to send him to get it redone, and Nux manages to appear authoritarian enough to get Cricket going – dragging his heels but going nevertheless.

The flesh-mangler follows him with a surprised look when he pushes past him on the cavern's opening.

It's obvious that he'd not believed Nux would stand up on his two feet ever again. Then he just slaps Nux across the shoulder blades and almost makes him topple over. Apparently he is satisfied with what he sees.

” Back on your feet, boy? You never know with skull injuries. But good, good,” he shrugs, grinning behind his shaggy beard. Nux shrugs too, hiding a self-satisfied little grin and then focuses on getting to the pools.

It turns out his legs aren't as steady as he would have liked them to be after all. He feels the wall with his outstretched hand to keep his balance, keeping his eyes focused (as focused as they agree to be) to the distance, where he knows the pools will be waiting. He walks through the maze of caverns, slowly, like a half-dead thing (that he probably is) but gritting his teeth, and feeling stronger with every cheer he gets, passing his brothers, many of them apparently as surprised as the Organic Mechanic was, to see him up and about. He gets many pats on the back, several headrubs and a few happy headbutts (that feel absolutely, indefinitely terrible, but he's too giddy to let it bother him).

He's alive. He's alive to not to die a soft death. Walhalla is still waiting for him to die a warrior's death. Immortan will see his glorious sacrifice and he will ride eternal, shiny and chrome.

By the time he staggers to the pools, he is grinning from humming ear to humming ear, despite being so worn-out and light-headed that he has to sit down to stop his head spinning long enough to manage to wrestle his belts open and the pants off himself. He leaves the clothing in a bundle on the ground and wades in, his hand against the wall again, trying to keep steady. The water feels shockingly cold, making everyhting shrivel, like his skin everywhere was trying to climb up his muscles and escape through the top of his head. Still, it's a welcome change to the numbing pain-nausea-humming-loneliness in the sick bay. Nux draws a deep breath, as deep as he can without feeling like coughing, and submerges himself in the water completely.

The strange buzzing-humming that has resided itself in the base of his skull seems to reverbrate under the water's surface. The coolness feels wonderful against his sand-and salt-stained face and closed eyelids. The dream seems to float over him, like a wave traveling through the water engulfing him.

He'd been too sick to think about anything other than his miserable state, the miserable state of his car or poor Cricket stuck with him. So, he hadn't been expecting any dreams, but since he spent most of those immobile, empty days sleeping, exhausted just existing inside his pain-wrecked head, the dreams came nevertheless. There were no pain in his dreams. The persistent humming was nowhere to be heard. In some of his dreams he even was outside the sick bay. In some dreams Slit was there with him.

He comes up for air, feeling the water running in streams and droplets across his face and shoulders and back, and it all feels wonderful. He opens his eyes, blinking the water out of his vision, and Slit is crouching on the edge of the pool, resting his arms against his knees, staring at him with a crooked smile on his face.

” Well. I see your mediocre little meat-sack is still among the living,” he says. Feels like Nux hasn't heard that gravelly voice in ages.

” I could say the same about you,” Nux retorts. He measures Slit with his eyes. There is something about the cocksure posture of his lancer that betrays something of pains still lingering, and he's trying to hide it. His war paint is impeccable, whereas Nux's is beginning to be completely gone. Nux feels strangely naked, facing his brother's stare.

” I have some pretty chrome scars to remember that wee spat by. Where are yours, brother mine?”

It is so very Slit to always, always twist the knife if he got to stab it in.

” I have a fucking terrible pain in my skull, can't stand proper, can't see proper, can't hear proper, and someone is always singing a tuneless tone inside my head since the 'wee spat'”, Nux deadpans, challenging Slit to say something, anyhting at all to that. Slit cocks his eyebrow. Shifts a little.

” Yeah, they told me you broke your skull falling off the lancer's perch.”

Nux starts to slowly rub the remainders of lingering white clay-paint off his chest.

” Puck told me you were bleeding out of every hole in your head. Said you were kept in the Blood Shed so they could fill you up when you were running on empty.”

Slit is still staring at him, like he was measuring Nux with his good eye, squinting slightly, cocking his head. Nux answers his stare as well as he can with his still slightly unfocused eyes and – something inside his chest, stirs drowsily, uncoils, warm and feathery against his heart.

” To me Puck told you got some really chrome staples on your stomach. Let me see the scars, then.”

Nux nods slightly with his chin, signaling for Slit to stand up so he can see his torso, and Slit obeys, straightening his back a tad slowly – either to make a show of it or possibly telling something about his state of recovery. The scars – the wounds – are almost as gruesome as the scarred, jagged lines cut across his cheeks. There are four bigger ones, lacerated diagonally across his stomach, haphazardy stapled shut and slowly healing, masked with a layer of white on angry, still protruding edges, and a bunch of smaller cuts, making the skin of Slit's stomach appear a mangled, harrowing mess.

Nux can't help but be impressed. Slit can see that on his face and manages a smug grin.

” Messed up some of my earlier scars. But the staples are a nice touch, don't you think?”
He taps at his cheek with his forefinger, and Nux, he laughs, just happy to see Slit being, well, Slit.

” My car did that?”

” Our car,” Slit corrects. ” That, and the small surprise the Buzzards had left on the side of the road. There was some kind of a small explosive that went off when we drove over it.”

” How's the car? Have you seen it?” Nux fights the urge to grab Slit's arm and squeeze.

” Have seen it, it's going to be shine. You'll be all over it in no time.”

Was Slit trying to be friendly?

Nux tilts his head and tries to read his mate, who has, despite his loud bravado and obnoxious temper, always been a challenge to really interpret.

He's not standing exactly straight. It looks like an invisble weight is pushing his shoulders slightly off-kilter, the right shoulder lower than the left. Somehow it makes his cocksure pose look humorous, more approachable. He's not wearing any of his usual garments, not the vambrace nor the glove, nor his ratty black scarf, nor any shoes. Wearing just his cargo pants and all his old and new scars scattered across his painted skin, he looks … almost like an slightly overgrown mishandled pup, with his bare forearms and hands and long neck exposed.

” You're never driving again, though,” Nux sees necessary to point out.

Slit bursts into roaring laughter.

” Oh, fuck off! You're never riding on the lancer's perch again, you're fragile as an egg!”

” Whatever, you're still a shit driver,” Nux grins. ”We're good then, huh?”

Slowly Slit lowers himself down again, balancing on the balls of his bare feet, obviously a bit careful of his mauled right side, still giggling.

” Come here, you scrawny little bag of bones, ” he chuckles, gesturing with his hands.

Nux wades closer, not even stopping to think, and he doesn't care why Slit is asking.

” You look like a joke with your leftover war paint. Can't have that shit on my driver.”

Slit tsks and turns Nux around by his shoulders, cups his palms and pours water over Nux's head. Starts to rub his head and back with his palm. Just like any bathtime - brothers helped each other out.

” Did you come to see me?” Nux asks, his voice sounding strained in his ears, swallowing, even though his throat is dry. He's glad that he has his back turned on Slit. Slit is silent, keeps rubbing, efficient hands, purposeful movements.

” No.”

Nux nods. It figures.

” I saw that little brother of yours running around and made the assumption that either you were up on your feet or dead. Came to look for you.”

” Cricket was with me the whole time. He's a shine pup,” Nux says slowly.

” Undoubtedly,” Slit concludes, for a change not disagreeing with him on principle.

His hands seem to have forgotten their purpose. They rest on Nux's shoulders, thumbs rubbing small circles against the muscles on the back. Palms relaxing warm against the curve joining his shoulder and neck. Then moving slowly, first cupping the swell of his shoulders, then running back up, up along the sides of his neck.

Nux breath catches in his chest. His heart feels like it's sinking inside him, sinking into the cool water that's lapping around his waist. Slit's thumbs are behind his ears – they're almost touching the source of the arduous humming sound, smoothing over the ache and noise, his forefingers on Nux's temples, sliding down until touching the sleek, raised scars that run along the protruding curve of Nux's cheekbones. Nux's throat feels like it's closing up. He has to force himself to swallow, and it hurts.

Nux feels a movement – Slit is sliding down, sitting carefully on the steep edge of the stony pool, immersing his feet in the water. Pulling Nux closer until he feels Slit resting his forehead against the top of his head, his breath a cool breeze against his wet, stubbly scalp.

” You need a shave,” he says, low.

Nux can't do anything else but nod, a terrifying, choking lump blocking his throat, making even the simple task of breathing a strife. He'd speak, say something, but the words muddle in his head and dry on his tongue.

His fumbling hand finds Slit's ankle underwater – a surprisingly delicate structure of bone and tendons under skin, Nux's long fingers easily wrapping completely around it. He feels like he needs something to hold on to to keep upright. The wet fabric of his trouser leg falls limp as death over his hand.

” Puppy,” Slit says. Nux looks up, confused and wary.

” Get out of the pool.”

He nudges his chin slightly to signal to him to get up. His eyes gone dark – dark and full of stars like sky on a clear night. Nux stares, not being able to look away. Slit stares back, his expression strangely stiff and pinched. The way his mouth – his lips - move when he hushes him. Nux's limbs feel odd, weak and useless. This isn't – usual. This. Whatever this is. This quiet. Nux can't wrap his brain around the fragile moment of – he doesn't know what it was. Too quiet to comfort.

Slit dips his hand in to the water and hesitantly rubs at the base of Nux's ear with his wet thumb. Lets his tumb drag down the side of Nux's jaw. Then pulls his hand away like he didn't know what to do with it.

” Good enough. Get up, ” he then says. Gathers his feet, his trousers dripping, and gets on his feet, dusting the back of his pants.
Nux tries to gain control of his feet and arms, suddely tired and reluctant to move properly. Slit's looking away and picking up his cargo pants, and as Nux pushes himself up from the pool with shaky hands, he tosses the bundle of black at him.

When the water stops carrying his weight Nux feels like he suddely weighs a ton. The humming sound inside his head is loud and nauseating. His thoughts are falling apart again. It's difficult to get the pants on, to figure the belt buckles. When he's done he looks at Slit's direction and he's looking back at him, his face still stiff, lips pursed together.

Now Nux hears the others – the excited sounds of a group of their brothers on their way to the least crowded and smallest of the pools in the upper floors of the Citadel. They pass the noisy, happy pack on their way towards their sleeping quarters.

Slit actually walks him over to their cots, pulls the blanket over him when he lies down and tells him that Cricket will be there soon, and that he will go fix the car.

” Oh, no, not you,” Nux grumbles. Slit doesn't take the bait.

” Be seeing you,” he says, lingering on his bedside.

” Don't wreck my fucking car,” Nux tries weakly.

” Get off my fucking back, or get back on to your scrawny feet and do it yourself,” Slit finally snaps. Nux stares at him defiantly despite the world swaying disgustingly around the pale shape standing next to his bed.

” I'm gonna,” he says. ” Just watch me.”

” I am watching you,” Slit sneers. ” You look like bird-pecked shit. Go to sleep.”

Nux frowns. Slit pats his shoulder patronizingly before he just seems to vanish into thin air while Nux blinks his blurry eyes.

He curls up into a ball, and falls, dizzying, nauseating, head over heels, asleep.