It is strange, having so much time and space to herself. She sleeps, and she doesn't pull a weapon on Max again. He sleeps, and heals.

He sleeps a lot.

So she spends time at her workbench, puttering away and tinkering with her prosthetic. She has two aside from the one she usually wears. One is a similar spare, and the other is an attempted improvement on the current design. With middling results. She hasn't had much time to work on it since becoming the Citadel's de facto leader.

So she tweaks, and tinkers, and when she hears him stir in the next room, she returns.

The third day, he starts getting up and taking short walks around the vault. Sometimes she joins him, others she stays at the bench, plotting out improvements for the Citadel's food production. It is always a concern.

He stops to speak to Defiance and Tessa when he passes them as they tend the plants here. They are the only ones permitted within the vault, the last private space left in the Citadel. They have earned the right to their own company.

Furiosa had tried to give them the room, but they wanted her to have that bit of space for herself. They prefer to sleep beneath the stars anyways.

The older women are friendly, wise, and downright impish when they speak to him. For all of their distrust of men, they accept him, and he seems to enjoy their company.

It is strange to see him seeking conversation.

That day she finally talks him into relinquishing his pants to be cleaned. The clean ones she gives him fit, but he pulls at them like they don't feel right.

She wonders if he's been wearing the same clothes for so long that he's forgotten how to wear anything else. It would explain his attachment to that jacket.

A shirt would get in the way of her changing his dressings, so he's still going without one. The Vuvalini eye him up teasingly. He is adorably awkward in the face of their regard.

He is the antithesis if every man she has ever met.

He is nice to look at, Furiosa admits somewhere deep inside where she doesn't have to think about the implications of such thoughts.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She wakes gasping for air, the fingers of a barely-remembered dream clawing at her.

The sound wakes him. The pain has receded to a dull throb, so he sits up.

He does not try to touch her.

She sits up, leaning on her good hand, eyes flitting unseeingly around the dark room.

"Fury," he says. "It's alright. You're safe. I'm here."

The voice penetrates her panicked haze, and she is confused.

Waking alone and afraid is familiar to her, almost like an old friend.

Waking with someone next to her offering words of comfort is such an alien experience that she wonders if she is still dreaming.

Her eyes close, and she draws a long breath. "Max."

"Yes," he replies. "Are you alright?"

She nods. "Just need a minute."

"Want to talk about it?"

Her head shakes negative. "I don't remember it anyway."

He lays back down on his side, propping himself up on his elbow with his chin on his hand.

She stands and leaves the room without another word.

He waits, facing the door.

A couple of minutes pass and she returns, with droplets of water shining on her face and in her hair. She lies down facing him.

He lays a hand open on the bed between them, giving her the option to accept his comfort or not.

She takes it without hesitation, leaning in to press her forehead to his fingers. He waits for her to meet his eyes again before he places his hand on her shoulder, pulling gently towards him.

She provides no resistance, easily sliding across the space so that their clasped hands are pressed between their chests. His free hand wraps around her, resting gently between her shoulder blades.

She lets go of his hand to place hers hesitantly on his waist. She's never done this before.

He goes up on his elbow, raising her head to slip his arm under it, letting her head rest on his bicep. He's done this plenty.

A long, long time ago.

Despite the fact that their bodies are pressed together from knee to chest, he is holding her loosely. She could easily roll away, and she knows it.

"Sleep," he says, and his breath feathers across her forehead. "I've got you."

She relaxes, knowing that he expects nothing of her but what she is giving him here, right now, in this moment.

It is a novel experience, to be this close to someone and not have them ask, or choose to take. Her fingers play with the edge of his bandage for a moment, finally to splay over his skin, gripping gently.

He still smells of grease and sweat. It is pleasant and familiar, but she will have to arrange a bath for him tomorrow.

It is such a mundane thought to have at this moment that she smiles to herself, closes her eyes, and sleeps.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Max wakes alone.

He wonders briefly if last night was a dream.

It wasn't, he finally decides, but he's not sure what exactly sways him to that conclusion.

He sits up. Her prosthetic is gone from its place next to the bed, and the knife she greeted him with that first morning is not in its slot on the wall. He doesn't hear her at the workbench outside.

He doesn't hear anyone outside.

There is a plate of food and a folded pile of clothes on the dresser. He grabs the clothes on his way to the washroom, eager to be back in his own things.

One glance in the mirror convinces him he's too dirty to wear clean clothes. He fills the sink with cold water, even though he knows that there is hot available. He's not sure how the former ruler did it, but the man ensured his wives lived in the lap of luxury.

Too high a price to pay for being the bastard's breeding stock.

Max shakes off his thoughts, throwing a ratty old towel down on the floor and taking his clothes off. He tosses them into a pile by the door. They were clean two days ago when he got them. Now they are dirty from simple association with him.

He takes a cloth and washes himself as best he can using the water from the sink. He would use the shower, but he refuses to waste such a valuable resource. He's pretty sure it's a bad idea to get his wound wet, besides.

He has to drain and refill the sink three times before the water stops turning brown when he rinses the cloth.

He is as clean as he's going to get, and cleaner than he's been in years. Eying the scruff that's gathered on his face over the last few weeks, he grabs a pair of scissors from the counter behind him and trims it as short as he can get it.

Blue eyes greet him from a dark, tanned face. He looks like Max again.

He uses the smallest towel he can find to dry himself, and pulls his clean clothes on.

They feel different when they're not caked in sand and dust. It's unnerving. He collects all of the soiled clothes and towels and places them in the hamper outside on his way out.

His back has started to itch, and he knows that's a good thing. He's healing.

His boots and knee brace have joined his duffle and jacket in the corner. He pulls on the boots but leaves the brace on the floor. He doesn't need it for walking, and has no intention of getting in a fight or running for his life today.

There was a time he would have put it on anyways.

Maybe sleeping in a bed surrounded by four walls is making him soft. Or maybe it's sleeping next to a woman that's doing it.

Or maybe he just feels safe here. He does retrieve a handgun and two knives from his bag. Safe or no, he's not going anywhere unarmed.

He carries the plate to Fury's workbench and wolfs down his food standing up, then sets off in search of the Citadel's leader.

It is a strange journey.

There is no one to direct him, so he finds himself wandering familiar halls, accompanied only by his memories.

A dark hallway, pipes and green above. A room, sadly devoid of his car.

He misses his car.

Shadows of the past linger at the edge of his vision. Bald spectres in white paint and running for his life. Jumping, then being clawed and dragged back to hell.

But it is empty now. He wonders where everyone is.

He finds the cage lift guarded by two bald men. War boys. Or former war boys.

They all look the same to him.

And yet, beneath the white paint, there is calm where madness once resided.

Fury's doing.

She's good at that.

One of the men looks him up and down. "Good tah see ya up 'n about," he says.

"Lookin' for Furiosa?" the other asks.

Max nods.

"She's down in the infirmary," the man informs him.

Max's heart beats faster. "Anything wrong?" he asks, too casually.

The war boy grins. "Naw. Go see for y'self!" He opens the door to the lift and Max has to take a deep breath before stepping inside. He doesn't like to be contained.

And it is literally a cage.

The door closes behind him with a ring of finality, and Max watches the ground far beneath him move as the war boys shift the lever and the lift shudders its way down.

His gaze shifts to the walkways, noting the volume of people scurrying back and forth. Many of the pitiful creatures that lived below, desperately scrabbling for the drops that Joe let forth at his whim, now live atop the plateaus. They tend the plants and crops, helping to provide for all who live within the walls.

At the bottom, a heavily-armed young woman he doesn't recognise opens the door for him, nodding towards the infirmary when he asks for directions.

He could find the place by himself, but it is quicker to ask. He is driven by an urgency, a need to know why she would abandon him so thoroughly after sharing the unexpected intimacy of the previous night.

He hopes he hasn't scared her off. He would trade every kind touch just for her friendship.

It took her all of two days to change his entire existence.

There is a crowd outside the infirmary, and he can hear screams from within. His heart drops to his stomach, and he pushes his way to the door.

The man there looks him up and down, squints for a second, then his eyes go wide. "Go on in," he says. "Furiosa is inside." Max doesn't recognise him as the doctor who took the bullet out.

Max offers a silent prayer to a God he doesn't believe in that it's not her screaming. Guilt swamps him at the selfish thought, and he amends it to ask that the person be alright, regardless of who it is.

The screams are definitely female, and he has to fight off his memories.

The screams of a woman, in this wasteland, are always a herald of horror.

He's seen more than enough of that to clog his mind and drive out his sanity. He clings to it with tenuous grip as the screams drag out the part of him that forgets his name.

Then they stop, and he wishes they would start again. The lack of sound holds more finality than its precursor.

The cry of another sounds out in the silence, and a cheer goes up behind him.

No longer blinded by his demons, he looks around the room to see smiling faces. Hugging, embracing.

Suddenly it all makes sense.

Toast emerges from a room in the back. Her smile is both peaceful and triumphant, and her eyes meet Max's as she speaks. "It's a girl," she announces to the room, but her eyes remain locked with his.

A girl. He sits down in an empty space along the wall as Toast goes back in the room. Congratulations and happy noises reverberate through the room. He stretches his legs out in front of him, content to remain distant from the rejoicing.

And he waits.

Toast appears once more, making a beeline to him. She grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet. "She wants to see you," Toast informs him, dragging him through the crowd to the door. She gives him no chance to refuse, and he follows with a faint smile. The woman's determination has not been dulled by her change in situation.

The room is filled with women. Max realises that he is the sole man who has been allowed into the sanctuary, and is both humbled and terrified at this knowledge.

The Dag is sitting in a bed set against the middle of the far wall, right across from the door. She is pale and exhausted, and already she is defiantly protective and proud of the bundle snuggled into the crook of her arm.

The women move back, allowing him passage to her side. "Max," the Dag says reverently. "Look at her. Isn't she beautiful?"

She is red and wrinkly and her face is all scrunched up, but Max agrees. Wholeheartedly. That little bundle of hope is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

It breaks his heart.

He swallows hard, willing back tears of happiness for her, and sadness for a man who no longer exists.

"I'm calling her Verdant," the Dag announces. She meets his eyes and nods, acknowledging the pain and happiness she recognises there. "It means 'green'."

He knows that, but this moment is hers, and the name is perfect. He speaks the last out loud, and his voice comes out rough.

The women crowd around the bed again and he moves back until he can lean against the wall. Furiosa is across from him, and he is almost mirroring her posture exactly.

She is a part of this, and her eyes flash in triumph to say so, but she is also on the fringe.

The women coo at the writhing infant, and Tessa helps Dag to get the baby suckling. Dag looks past the Sisters and the Vuvalini to meet Furiosa's gaze. "This is what we fought for," she says, and her voice rings out with truth and determination. "Our children will not be warlords, and that is thanks to you."

Furiosa nods acknowledgement, and her eyes go shiny. "Our daughters will be free, and our sons will not throw away their lives for nothing," she continues. "Angharad would be proud of what we've built here."

Suddenly the emotion of the room, combined with the grief of long-ignored memories and the abrupt crush of guilt at his part in Angharad not being here today is too much for him. He levers off the wall and bolts out the door, not quite breaking into a run.

He wades blindly through the crowds and past people, searching desperately for someplace to be alone. He finds it in the shade between a boulder and the sheer rock wall, rests his hands on his thighs, and vomits.

He is trying desperately not to see the faces. A dark-haired woman. A blond boy. A willowy woman with long blonde hair and a round protruding belly.

His voice comes back to him, taunting. "She went under the wheels."

There is nothing left in his stomach, and still it heaves, lancing pain through his back.

Out of nowhere, a hand rests on his shoulder. A voice sounds, driving out the rushing in his ears and his own dispassionate recounting of Angharad's death.

"Max. I'm here."

Fury does nothing but stand next to him, stroking her thumb back and forth over the rough fabric of his shirt. She says nothing more, silently bearing witness to his grief.

His stomach slowly stops trying to expel nothing. His breathing slows in increments. A headache is beginning to blaze behind his eyeballs and his back throbs like it did two days ago. He stands, and the hand falls from his shoulder.

"I'm tired," is all he says, his eyes cast to the ground.

She leads him back to the cage and closes the door with herself on the outside. "I'll join you in a bit."

He understands that she has her responsibilities, but her absence hurts like a physical wound as he takes the lift to the top and staggers back to her quarters.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She left the room rather suddenly on the heels of the retreating Max, and expects to be chided for it when she re-enters the room. Instead she receives sympathetic looks.

"He okay?" asks Dag, gazing lovingly down at the infant suckling at her breast.

"It was all a bit much for him. He's headed back to the room." Somehow it's too intimate to call it her room when he's sleeping in it.

To a woman, they all nod. Each of them has their own trauma, and each of them has fallen apart, in their time. They understand that it is not weakness.

"You look exhausted," says Capable, flashing Furiosa a knowing look. She and Max were twined like lovers when Capable came to fetch her for the birthing.

Furiosa just nods. "Bad dreams last night. Didn't sleep well."

Capable raises an eyebrow in response, and earns herself a warning glare.

"You should ask him to stay," she says.

Furiosa's eyes widen. "He knows he's welcome to," she replies.

Capable shakes her head as her eyes bore into Furiosa's. "It's not the same as hearing it. Maybe he needs to hear it."

Furiosa shakes her head. Max is a man of few words. He doesn't need it said out loud.

"Or maybe you need to say it," Cheedo adds softly.

Furiosa's eyes drift closed. Ah. There it is. The truth of the matter. She needs to speak the words. Knowing that it won't make a difference. Max is going to leave. The only question is how much time they have before he does. And whether he ever comes back.

But now that it's been said, she knows it is true. She needs to say the words, simply because they need to be spoken.

Defiance shoos them all out of the room so that Dag and Verdant can sleep. Furiosa speaks with a few people on her way back to the lift, putting out minor fires that have arisen in the time she's been remote.

She finds Max fast asleep in her bed, and for the first time notices that he's once again fully clothed, and clean. He's even trimmed his beard, and he looks years younger. She crawls in next to him and he reaches for her without waking, his subconscious already accepting her presence. She presses her ear to his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat through his shirt lull her to sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She is still there when he wakes.

It is eminently preferable to the alternative.

Sometime in the night he turned onto his back. It's nice to be able to do that again, and that familiar twitch in the back of his brain tells him it's time to move on. He ignores it in favour of tightening his arm around the woman sleeping with her head on his shoulder.

Her hand rests over his heart, splayed out and relaxed. Her breath is warm against his neck.

This is nice.

Relaxed will get you killed in this world. If he stays, he'll go soft. He wonders distantly when he started to think of staying.

If you can't fix what's wrong… you'll go insane.

But here in the Citadel, she has fixed what is wrong. She has built a home for thousands of people.

Himself included, if he'd ever allow it.

He knows that.

But he doesn't trust himself not to lose his mind and hurt people. Doesn't trust himself to be strong enough to save the ones he cares about.

A year ago the ones he cared about numbered one.

Now, he needs two hands to count them.

Hope is a mistake. They are too many to keep safe. One day he will fail them.

It is better to be on his own.

Tell that to the arm that's currently wrapped around the most important person on the planet. The heart that beats into her palm. The lips he presses gently to her forehead, too much of a coward to risk her reaction while she's awake.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

She wakes slowly, floating in a cocoon of warmth and safety. Her hand flexes, and her fingertips catch on the fabric of his shirt. She shifts as she feels the warm body next to hers. The arm that's wrapped around her tightens on her hip, and his other hand closes gently around hers. Finally her eyes drift open.

His blue ones are already looking into them. "Good evening," he says.

She looks around, judging by the quality of light seeping down the corridor to her room that it is, in fact, evening.

They must have slept the day away.

She notices that he is laying on his back. "You must be feeling better."

"Mmm," he replies, and it is as good as a yes.

His stomach growls, breaking the moment.

She sighs. "I should get up. See if my Citadel has crumbled in the last three days." He is past needing her with him, and they both know it. Time to go back to work.

She sits up and goes through the familiar motion of strapping on her arm. He leans on his elbow and watches, fascinated by the process that is second nature to her. She buckles the last belt and pulls on her boots. "I'll see if there's food around."

She leaves the room. He is sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his own boots when she returns with a plate of food in each hand. He takes one from her, balancing it on his lap and digging into it like he hasn't eaten in days.

He doesn't know how long it will be until he'll get to eat like this again.

Max is surprised when she takes the chair by the door instead of perching on the bed next to him.

He is used to being the one to create distance.

"You could stay, you know." The statement drops like a stone in the room, depriving it of all sound.

He looks up from his plate, finding her already looking at him.

He wishes she hasn't said the words out loud. She doesn't need to. She knows that.

A flash of anger tears through his chest, that she would shake the foundations of their relaxed camaraderie.

And yet, as her eyes calmly look into his, he realises that she has said them because she needs to.

Just like last time.

You're more than welcome to join us.

No. I'll make my own way.

The conversation hangs in the air between them like they're still standing next to the War Rig in the darkness.

She remembers being disappointed at his reply, but confused at her own feelings. Why should she even care what some nameless drifter wants to do with his life? Then not blaming him for wanting to be away from her. All she'd accomplished so far by chasing this fantasy was to get one of her charges killed and lead them all from luxury to a desolate wasteland devoid of hope.

She shakes off the memory. This is not a desolate wasteland. This is a home. He deserves to rest. To stop punishing himself for his past sins.

She knows he's not ready for that.

Instead of reiterating his intention to go, he says simply, "I know."

She had been afraid to speak the words. Afraid they would drive him away, never to return. She realises now that no one can make Max do anything he doesn't want to. He will continue this pattern of ranging out on his own and returning to lick his wounds, until he either gets himself killed or decides to stay.

"I have work to catch up on," she announces before leaving the room.

When she returns, just after daybreak, he is gone.

As she expected.

The only sign he was ever there is the woven grey bracelet on the dresser, and the familiar comforting smell when she lays down alone in the bed hours later. She feels his absence like her missing hand, and yet there is something of him that yet lingers in the room. Some part of him remains.

She puts the bracelet on her wrist the next day. It becomes the one thing she never takes off.