Chapter Text
Furiosa’s day had been hectic so far, and she was grateful. She had too much on her mind, with Max’s return and Dag giving birth, and diving headfirst into the Citadel affairs allowed her to think straight. She had gathered part of the Council to tell them the Gastown news, and done her everyday rounds to check the whole complex was working as it should. Furiosa thanked the Mothers for counting on loyal, talented people who wanted to make a better place of the former Immortan Joe’s fortress. The Sisters, with their limited knowledge and experience of the outside world, were a constant source of surprise for her. They were all smart women who were eager to learn, and each one had a specific set of skills which were simply going to waste during their time as Wives. Angharad had been right. They were not the decorative things Joe had made of them. Each of those girls was their own person, and Furiosa felt a mix of pride and awe watching them blossom.
Toast had told her she’d gone to fetch Max, when Furiosa stopped at the kitchen for a quick snack. To the Imperator’s surprise, the girl hadn’t made any crass comments. Furiosa reckoned it would just be a matter of time for Toast and Dag to respect him like Capable and Cheedo did; in the meantime, she’d have to make sure they left him alone. Toast’s confrontational attitude could very well spook him away, and Furiosa wasn’t taking the risk. She’d realized, after sending Toast after him, that maybe it had been a bad idea; but he’d returned, hopefully unscathed. Things were under control.
The Imperator thought briefly about paying a visit to Dag and the baby, but decided to leave it for later. The girl was probably sleeping and under careful watch. Furiosa tried to find useful things to do and stay away from the garages, but it was mid-afternoon, she had finished her rounds, everything was running as smoothly as possible and there was really no reason not to go there and check the work on the new Rig.
At least that was what she told herself she was going to do.
Furiosa prided herself on the fact that she had a level head and was able to rationalize, compartmentalize and analyze things. She wouldn’t have survived her times as a Wife and later as an Imperator, if she had her feelings take control. She felt, and she felt strongly, but she had learnt to bury any kind of emotion very deep and not let them surface. Hell, she had to sacrifice most of her crew on the Fury Road. Some had survived out of sheer luck, such as Ace. But although she would never regret her decision to go against Joe, she still lamented having betrayed her War Boys and used their loyalty to achieve her goals.
Max had barreled into her life as a tanker truck, however. Furiosa told herself repeatedly that they had built their trust out of circumstance. But the truth was that, looking in retrospective, she and him had established a strong connection that defied rationalization. She remembered, many weeks after their return to the Citadel, having locked eyes with him when he was chained to the front of Nux’s car, a bloodbag and an ornament. It was a fleeting moment, but she remembered the despair and madness in his eyes, having been robbed of everything that was him – his blood, his clothes, his car, his dignity. She had no time to pity him then, but she wondered, while she lay on her bed and her sides burned like liquid fire, where he had found the willpower to fight back for his humanity.
He could have shot her in the head. He could have stolen the Rig, after she told him the kill switch sequence and gave him the wheel. He could have left them in the middle of the bog, instead of coming back with guns and ammo, after his confrontation with the Bullet Farmer. He could have just ridden away and left them to cross the salt, instead of coming up with a plan to take them back home.
He'd done nothing of that.
And he’d saved her life.
Sure, he had walked away, and despite Dag and Toast’s resentment, she tried to see things from his perspective and couldn’t actually blame him. Sure, he could have been of use, and he would have been more than welcome to stay. But he had been quite clear when she’d invited him to accompany them through the salt. She could still hear his quiet “I’ll make my own way” in her mind, and she could still feel a pang of disappointment every time she thought of it.
Furiosa had hoped for his return, not daring to expect it. She had pondered, more often than she’d like to admit, if she’d ever learn of his fate, if he’d end up buried in sand somewhere in the wasteland and she’d never know. She’d wondered why she cared. She’d told herself it was a matter of gratitude and even started to believed it, but over the last couple of days he’d managed to turn her thoughts and feelings into havoc again. Damn him.
She did not expect to find him having a conversation with Ace, of all people. Ace, who still refused to talk to her. Ace, who still glared at her every time they crossed paths.
Furiosa was dumbfounded. She could have imagined Ace questioning Max’s loyalty. What she did NOT see coming was that her former sidekick was still so conditioned into following Joe’s rituals, he’d salute Max as an Imperator.
He wasn’t even wearing the scarf. Damn Ace and his powers of observation.
She hadn’t meant it that way. She had given it to him to keep him safe. She knew the Citadel Imperators were respected and feared. She reckoned the scarf would keep him out of trouble.
She didn’t want to think she’d meant for him to take something of herself.
Furiosa's mind was going a hundred miles a minute, and she stared blankly at Ace's retreating back. He and Max had been so caught in their conversation; they hadn’t seen her approaching. Max’s look was a mix of puzzlement and anger. He looked ready to bolt. She suspected he would have, had his car not been entirely dismounted.
He jumped when he saw her. His expression softened a bit when he heard her voice.
“I think I owe you an explanation”, she said, holding out her hand. “Come with me?”
Max hesitated for a second before slipping his hand into hers, but followed her, not saying a word.
It was going to be a very difficult conversation.