Max has no idea where the fuck he is.

He is on a bed, surrounded by walls, with an arched open doorway across from him. Indirect light filters in through it, down a long hall.

His back is throbbing, and his mouth feels like he's been eating sand.

It smells strange here.

Not bad. Not wrong, but strange. Distantly familiar. He turns his head, scanning the room. There are words written on the wall, large and white, but his vision is hazy and he can't read them. Footsteps sound from out of sight, and a silhouette darkens the door.

"Hey, you're awake," a deep, but feminine voice greets him.

He relaxes immediately. "Fury."

"Why do you call me that?" she asks.

He blinks a couple of times, thinking. "Furiosa sounds like a title."

It is the name her mother gave her. It is the only name she's ever had. And yet, here in the Citadel, it has become a title. The reverence with which most of her people use it has turned it into something else.

From his lips, 'Fury' suits her just fine.

She moves to perch on the edge of the bed, and he cranes his neck to look at her, unwilling to test his injury. It hurts enough as-is.

"The doctor gave me this to give you for the pain," she hands him a glass bottle with fluid in it. "Go ahead and drink it all. It's diluted, and there is more where it came from."

He takes it with a shaking hand and tips it sideways just far enough to drink without raising his head. He makes a face, but dutifully drinks it all, throat bobbing as he swallows. She takes the empty bottle from his hand when he is done.

"Where am I?" he asks. His voice sounds like tires over gravel.

She slides off the edge of the bed to sit on the floor, leaning to rest her mechanical arm on the bed, with her chin on her forearm. Their eyes are on the same level now, and he doesn't have to crane his neck.

"The doctor didn't trust you around the patients at the infirmary. Wanted to restrain you. Again." Max stiffens and she reaches her good hand across to squeeze his forearm. "I wouldn't let him, so we moved you here. It's quiet. The only people who come here are the Vuvalini, and they won't bother you."

There are so few left anyway, she thinks sadly.

"What is this place?"

Furiosa raises her head, turning to lean it back against the wall as she looks around the sparse accommodations. There is a single bed; a luxury in and of itself; which is currently occupied by Max, a wide, low dresser against the side wall, and a chair by the door. A heavy-duty hook hangs on the wall over her head, and there are words painted on the wall above the bed.

We are not things.

She left them there as a reminder of what they fought for, of what they wish to become, and not return to.

"This was the vault. This is where Joe kept his wives," she replies, and a myriad of emotions colour her words. Anger. Sadness. Regret.

Guilt.

She lets herself feel all these things for but a moment, then gently closes them out. They have no place in the future she is building.

"And now?" Max asks, and this is the important question, and he knows it. Otherwise he wouldn't have had to ask three questions in order to get the answer.

"This?" She makes a sweeping gesture with her good hand that encompasses the entire room. "This is my room."

This place wasn't a part of the tour.

He closes his eyes, and she can tell that sleep is dragging at him once more. He looks so pale. A smile teases at the corner of his mouth. "People will talk," he jokes.

She doesn't rise to the bait. "Let them," she replies. His tiny half-smile grows just a little wider.

She raises to her feet. "Rest, Max. You're safe here."

"You'll be nearby?" He almost hates himself for having to ask, but she seems to be able to calm him in a way nothing and no one else does. For some reason, she draws out the part of him that is still Max.

He is not afraid of the dark, or of enemies, or of the ghosts of the dead that haunt him.

He is afraid of himself.

He trusts her to be strong enough to take him on if the darker part of him surfaces, and he trusts her to be able to call him back from the abyss.

Like today.

So he asks if she will stay so that if he wakes as someone else, she can call him back to himself.

She is tired. It has been a long day. It is always a long day here at the Citadel, where so many rely on her. She is pulled in so many directions.

So she unbuckles the belts around her waist and slips out of her mechanical arm, hanging it on the hook next to the bed. She takes out the two guns and three knives she keeps hidden on her person at all times, and stashes them in their places in her room. A knife and a gun go under the mattress. The other gun goes in the holster nailed to the back of the dresser. Another knife gets stabbed into a slot on the wall, its hilt protruding behind her prosthetic. The last knife goes in the bottom drawer.

She lays down on the bed next to him. His face is turned towards her as he lays on his stomach, bare back showing black words and a white bandage. This position is painful enough. Any other would be unbearable. She is on her side facing him, her half-arm beneath her. She reaches across and takes his hand. "I'll be right here."

His eyes drift closed, and his face goes slack. It is the most peaceful she has ever seen him.

That night, she sleeps with her back to the open doorway for the first time, because he will need to see her face when he wakes.

xxxxxxxxxxx

For some reason he can place the elusive smell before he even opens his eyes.

It is green.

It is the smell of growing things, and humidity and photosynthesis.

And hope.

His back is screaming at him again. Why do gunshot wounds hurt so fucking much?

But he wakes with the smell of hope filling his lungs, and for the first time in forever, he feels peace. This space was used for awful things, but she has taken it back and infused it with life and purpose.

He wonders if that's something she does just by being. He almost chuckles at himself for having such deep thoughts before so much as opening his eyes.

She is there, beside him. She's long since discarded her grasp on his hand, but he can feel the mattress move with her breathing, and even without that he just knows.

It was like that from almost the beginning. Even when they were trying to kill each other, they seemed to know where the other was, and what their next move was. The uncanny skill came in handy when they moved on to killing other people.

He finally breaks the moment, opening his eyes.

Morning light filters in past her sleeping form. Her shoulder rises and falls as she breathes, and he remembers a time when she gasped painfully for every breath. Not so now. Her face is peaceful in repose, eyelashes brushing her cheeks. Her mouth is slack, and she is drooling, ever so slightly. He smiles.

And once more the moment is broken, as her eyes snap open.

She makes a liar out of his earlier thoughts as she is holding a knife against his neck before he knows what is happening. If pressed, he would claim the sedatives have slowed his brain.

He blinks at her, unable to move, and sees the precise moment when her conscious self overrides her reflexes. The knife is withdrawn, and stabbed back into the wall almost viciously.

She takes a long breath through her nose as her eyes close. "Sorry for that," she says, feeling that the words are inadequate. She invited him to stay here so he could feel safe, not so she could threaten him herself.

"No," he replies, "It's alright. I get it." And he does. There is no blame in his eyes. A hint of admiration, perhaps, but no blame. "I…um…ah…"

She has to bite her lip to keep from smirking. Max does have this habit of forgetting how to talk. The man can convey more meaning through a grunt than most could in a conversation.

"Can you tell me where the… And help me get up?"

Ah. Bathroom. She helps get him sitting up, and by the time he is standing, he is covered in sweat and breathing like he just finished a knock-down, drag-out fight. He leans his weight heavily on her, taking stuttering steps and breathing through gritted teeth.

The terrifying thing is that this place actually has a proper bathroom. With a toilet and a sink and a shower, and running water. She leaves him to manage on his own, regretting the decision when he hasn't come back out or made a sound in five minutes. Finally she goes to test the door, and it opens before she reaches the knob. He is leaning on the wall just inside, and she carries even more of his weight as his support on the way back. She wishes she thought to put on her prosthesis for this. An extra hand would help.

They finally get him back to the room and he all but falls onto the bed, face first. She lifts his feet, one by one, moving him a little farther into the middle of the bed.

He knows where the smell of green comes from.

Outside her bedroom doorway, beneath a curved glass dome, is an indoor jungle of green. The space is filled with plants: tomatoes and cucumbers and raised beds overflowing with vegetables and hanging troughs that spill their bounty over the side to hang like curtains towards the ground.

But now he is back to lying face down in Fury's bed. He is so exhausted from the short trip that he can't bring himself to move, even though his stomach feels like it's gnawing on his backbone.

He ignores the feeling, long since accustomed to it.

"I'll be back in a minute," she says, patting his shoulder before shrugging into her prosthetic as she leaves the room.

He drifts in a pain-filled haze of half-dream, and low murmuring voices hover in his subconscious. She returns. "If you're up for it, I'm having food brought up. And more painkiller."

He nods without opening his eyes.

"I need to check your wound. Clean it and change the bandage."

He winces. That part always hurts.

Her retreating footfalls tell him she has left the room. She returns again, and he pries one eye open to see that she carries a basin and has a small satchel strung across her shoulder. She sets the basin on her dresser and drags the chair next to the bed. She moves the basin to the chair, and sits on the bed next to him.

He lays still as she unwinds the bandage from his midsection, sliding her hands beneath his abdomen rather than asking him to sit up. Despite her gentleness, even the slight jarring is enough to send pain screaming up and down his back.

He cries out softly through clenched teeth. "Sorry," she says as she pulls a cloth from the basin of water and cleans around the wound. It is red and puckered and angry, but the redness has not spread, and it is beginning to close already. She pulls out a small tin, lifting the lid and swiping a generous portion of ointment. She gently rubs it over and around the bullet hole.

He cries out and writhes and there are tears streaking down his cheeks. "Almost done," she whispers. She presses a new pad to the wound, wraps the bandage around his stomach once more, and ties it. The cloth and the soiled bandage go into the basin and the water turns rust-coloured.

His back is clean and she frowns at the blood that is caked into the waistband of his pants, finally shrugging to herself. There is nothing to be done for it now. She won't take from him the last line of defense that is his clothing.

Perhaps tomorrow she can talk him into changing them himself.

Someone clears their voice in the doorway, and one of the war pups, Archer, she thinks, comes in, carrying a tray of food. "Thank you," she says with a smile, and the boy's eyes grow wide and his face tinges pink as his leader deigns to speak to such a lowly creature. She trades the basin for the tray, and the boy disappears.

Max watches the exchange, noting that the people seem to have shifted their worship to the former Imperator. She accepts the adulation with grace and gentleness, showing them a different way.

She's good at that.

Fury hands him the bottle of liquid painkiller first, and he gulps it down like he's dying of thirst. He rests for a few minutes as the pain lessens.

"Are you hungry?" she asks.

He nods.

"Well, this isn't going to be pleasant," she says, seeming to address the empty air in the room. "If we get you rolled to your side, can you eat like that?"

"Think so," he replies.

She rolls him, ever so gently to his side. It still hurts like a hot poker to his back, and he needs a couple of minutes to breathe through the pain before even thinking about eating.

He is halfway through the meal when they appear.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The three huddle together just beyond the tunnel that is their former prison's door, the long hanging baskets of produce at their back. Capable has already gone ahead, carrying a green duffle bag and a dirty black leather jacket. She faced this fear long ago, on her own, and the place no longer holds her mind prisoner.

The others have not set foot inside since their return.

The heavy vault door is gone, taken down and cut into pieces that now make up part of the wall that defends them.

Still, the tunnel is dark and crowded with memories.

They do not want to come here. Ever.

But Max is here. The man who showed them that men need not be vicious brutes. All the more potent after seeing how truly violent he is capable of being. The man who helped them reclaim their home, then faded away like the memory of a dream.

The Dag takes the first step, her hand clinging to that of Cheedo. Toast stands behind them, arms crossed over her chest and face like a thundercloud. Finally she crosses the threshold, jaw set. Having made the decision, she marches past the other two with a determined stride.

She stops at the other end of the tunnel, dumbstruck.

It gives the other two a chance to catch up, taking hesitant steps like they expect Joe himself to jump out of the walls. The Dag strokes her protruding belly as the child leaps around, agitated by her nervousness.

The baby could come at any time. He will grow up free of the influence of his father and his brothers.

Or she. The thought gives her courage, and she steps out next to her sisters.

They are all struck dumb.

The piano and chandelier are gone, moved somewhere down below. So are the books, now stacked neatly along the wall of the classroom, also down below.

The beds and the sheets are gone. Even the bath built into the floor with the clear running water is gone, now filled with fertile soil and overflowing with green.

The whole room is overflowing with green.

Dag's face lights up, and she spins around with her arms out, laughing.

The other two stare at her like she's lost her mind.

She takes their hands, one of each, and leads them further into the room. Her smile could light the entire Citadel.

"Don't you see? It's the green place. It's here! It's ours, and it's here, and we made this!" She lets go and spins around again. "He can't touch us here. He can never touch us again because this is ours and we took it from him!"

Toast's face slowly relaxes. Her sister is right. There is nothing of the pain and oppression they suffered here. Even the smell is different. Here there is life, and it has forced out the pain. She doesn't have to fear this anymore.

Cheedo can still see the place it was, in the walls and the glass. Sometimes she misses the luxury that she lived here. But she long ago came to the decision that it was not worth the sacrifice. This life is hard, but it is also good. It is hers, and she gets to choose.

It looks better in green. She breaks into a grin.

They turn as one to the little room off to the side.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Capable appears first, beautiful and serene and quiet. She sets the duffle on the floor where the chair had been, and gently drapes the jacket over it.

Max takes a bite and nods to her, silently thanking her for bringing his things. She sits down in the chair, next to the bed. "Welcome back," she says simply. "One of these days you're going to show up here without being injured first, and the world will implode in surprise," she adds.

He nearly spits out his food, wincing in pain as laughter jars his back.

"Please don't make him laugh," Furiosa chides her, but mirth dances in her eyes as she speaks. She secretly agrees with the Sister.

Laughter sounds from outside the room, a joyous, triumphant sound.

Capable sits up, and her face looks victorious. "Finally," she whispers.

She meets Furiosa's eyes, and they hold a silent conversation. "So they've come," she says.

"Finally," Capable repeats.

Max looks back and forth between the two women, clearly missing something. And then they appear.

Toast's hair is longer. Cheedo looks taller, braver somehow. Dag looks like a walking globe. They hover at the threshold for a moment, then trickle in.

"I like what you've done with the place," Toast says. She smiles at the white words above the bed. She painted those herself.

Capable raises from the chair and points imperiously at Dag. She nods acknowledgement to the red-haired woman and takes the seat. Her feet are throbbing anyways.

Capable sits down on the floor by the dresser. Toast remains standing, leaning her hip on the same dresser, and Cheedo stands next to her.

Max lays his fork on the plate and pushes it away, settling down into the mattress. Furiosa takes it, handing it to Capable before pulling her feet up on the bed and sliding backwards to rest her back against the wrought iron footboard.

"You look terrible," the Dag says, meeting Max's eyes.

Her belly is blocking half the room. "You look ready to pop," he replies.

She stares down at the fabric stretched taut over her stomach, somehow looking beyond its surface to the child beneath. "I was thinking of naming him Max, but I'd like him to learn to speak using words someday instead of grunts, so I had to find an alternative."

Max smiles, and it is breathtaking.

But he is also pale and the wrinkles around his eyes betray the pain he's in.

Capable stands. "We'll come back when you're feeling a bit better."

His eyes have drifted shut, but he nods.

The women file out, and he feels the mattress shift as Furiosa follows them. He opens his eyes.

"I'll be right back," she promises.

His eyes close once more, and he is asleep before she reaches the doorway.

The sisters stare around the vault, still awed at the change. "How is he really?" asks Cheedo.

"Tired, and sore. He should be fine in a few days."

"Might be good for him," replies Toast. "Actually get him a few days' rest."

Furiosa secretly agrees with her.

Capable meets her eyes, gaze serious and piercing. "No sign of relapse?" she asks.

"Relapse?" Cheedo interrupts.

Furiosa draws them away from her room and towards the glass dome. "I thought we lost him yesterday."

"If his condition is that serious, why isn't he in the infirmary?" Toast asks angrily.

Furiosa sighs. "You remember when we met him, with a muzzle on and dragging Nux and a car door?"

"Yeah," replies Toast, impatient to find out what this has to do with her question.

"Yesterday, when they tried to dig the bullet out, he was like that."

"Oh."

The sisters' eyes grow wide as they realise the implication of what Furiosa has said. "I thought I might have to put him down right then and there."

Capable covers her mouth with her hand. She'd known about his reaction, but she didn't know it had gotten that bad. "Shit," she whispers, and it is jarring because she never swears.

"How has he been since?" asks Cheedo.

"Fine. One second he was a raving feral, the next he calmly asked me why he was tied to a table." She laughs, and tears leak from the corners of her eyes because this is the first time she's been able to speak of how close she came to losing him, to people who understand.

Capable is the first to hug her, and soon she finds herself surrounded by women, their arms around her and their cheeks resting on her shoulders.

It is odd. The Sisters touch each other all the time. They are a unit, different yet one. Furiosa has always been separate from that. It is rare that anyone touches her.

She lets them comfort her, needing the understanding and the touch. Needing to be allowed to be vulnerable, just for a moment.

The sisters understand. This does not mean she is weak. This means she is human. They love her all the more for it.

Capable speaks up, "We'll make sure everything keeps running in the Citadel. Stay with him."

They all nod and slowly release her. None of them wants to see Max return to what he was before Furiosa anchored him to this world. And she doesn't get enough sleep. Ever. A couple of days rest would do her good.

And show her that the life they've built here will not collapse if she takes a day or two for herself.

Furiosa laughs again, but this time it is a sound of joy. "This morning, I pulled a knife on him. Not used to waking up next to someone."

"How did he react?" asks Toast.

"Confused. No damage done, in any case. I didn't realise by bringing him up here, he'd be in more danger from me than the other way around."

They understand what she is trying to say, that since yesterday, he had been Max. That they shouldn't worry for her safety.

So they don't.

They say their farewells with gentle touches to her arm and back, and tell her to have them summoned if she needs anything. And then they are gone.

She sits down at her workbench in the corner and eats everything on the plate the war pup left there for her before she uses the washroom, splashing water over her face.

She returns to her room, standing in the doorway and watching him sleep, and smiles as his snores echo off the walls.