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There is entirely too much blood staining Gotch's quarters, and Van can’t make heads or tails of it. She hadn’t even meant to snoop around, honest — just, nobody could find him around the decks anywhere, and it’s pretty hard to disappear off a bloody airship, especially when it’s already in the bleedin’ sky.
So, sue her, she’s looking through Maxwell Gotch’s quarters, frankly astounded at how much blood she finds. It’s on the floor, on the bedsheets, trailing between the two, when she looks closer. A bundle of clothes on the chair in the corner, upon further inspection, is actually a bundle of bloody scraps of cloth.
She knows he’s a “gentleman fister”, whatever the hell that means, but this seems excessive for bruised knuckles. Van’s got her fair share of stained shirts that she hasn’t managed to get clean, but this looks more like—
“Oh!” The door opens with a bang and she startles backward. “Van!”
“Gotch,” she says, “I’m sorry to intrude, you’ve been missing for hours—”
“No, no, I understand, that’s quite alright,” he stutters.
Van’s heart rate starts to slow and, as it does, she takes in the sight in front of her. Gotch is in a state of distress, worse than she’s ever seen him. Worse than Katur, somehow. His hair is dishevelled, as if he’s been pulling it almost out of his skull; he’s shirtless, carrying the garment under his arm; worst of all, his face is worn, his cheeks tight with frustration and fear.
“Are you— Maxwell, are you alright?”
“Yes!” The answer is immediate. Lying, then. “Definitely, yes. Never been better.”
“Can I ask about all the blood, or are we pretending it’s not there?”
“Blood? What— What blood, Van?” He walks to the bed and sits down gingerly. “I’m perfectly fine. And there for sure is not blood all over my bed.”
Van pauses. Not her business to press on if he doesn’t want it. “Right, then. I will leave you to it, Gotch.” She moves to leave and notify the rest of the crew that their benefactor has not been somehow kidnapped out of the sky.
“Van, wait, I—”
“Yeah?” Van turns, her hand on the doorknob.
He’s looking away, at the pile on the chair. He won’t meet her eyes. “I, ah, I don’t—”
“Gotch, if it’s something we’re not talking about, you know I’m good for it.”
He laughs softly. “I do know that, yes.” He swallows hard. Fills his lungs. Makes a decision.
“When we left Gath, we didn’t know much about one another. I didn’t have to tell you a lot about myself—” he sees Van’s look and clarifies— “my personal self, you know. And there’s so much that’s easier to just pretend it isn’t there.”
Van grunts in agreement. She knows that well.
“And my routine and my tonics were working, so there was nothing to tell, really. But I must have missed a day, or my physiology changed when we crossed into Zood, I don’t know.” He makes a frustrated sound; he’s beyond worked up now, frustrated with some invisible spectre. “I don’t know why it didn’t work. I’m not ever going to know.
“Van, I don’t know how to say this to you. I haven’t had to do this before.”
“You’re doing fine, lad. ‘M just listening.”
“The blood is from my—” Maxwell chokes. “All the blood is from my courses. They started again and they weren’t supposed to. The doctor in Gath said— She said they wouldn’t come back.”
Van only has one thing cross her mind: his preoccupation with his form, his physicality. Oh. And it clicks. Gentleman fisting. Revington man. Honor and cheating and rules.
The curse of the seventh Gotch.
How could she have said those words to him? Without knowing him? Knowing what he was carrying, hiding away just as stolidly as her own tentacle?
“Well, then, we’ll see how we can get that sorted,” she hears herself say. Can’t gape at the boy like a bleedin’ idiot, not when he’s bared his heart this way. “Not right to have your body work against you when we’ve already got enough hunting us right now.”
Maxwell — because he is Maxwell right now, she sees the young boy again, not full-grown Gotch, who insists on wrestling dinosaurs and will not submit nor use a gun, but the child who’s been told to stay on the ground, dammit — Maxwell looks very small on the edge of the bed. He still won’t meet Van’s eyes.
“You hear me, Gotch? We’ll get this sorted and we’ll get things set for— for in case something happens again.” A thought strikes her. “Have you talked to Olethra about any of this?”
He splutters momentarily. “That’s not the same thing at all!”
“It’s not, you’re right,” Van grants. “But it’s someone who knows in a different way than the rest of us.” Maxwell seems abashed but still won’t look up. Best to back off for now and solve what's in front of them.
“Gotch, what can I do right now, right here, to help you get comfortable? Are you in any pain?”
Maxwell shakes his head ruefully and scoffs. “No, that tonic worked fine, of course.”
“Can I help you clean up at all? ‘M pretty good at getting blood out of things.” Honestly, Bert is better, but Bert won’t be seeing all this. Not unless Maxwell asks.
“That would be—” He stops himself again to take a sharp breath. “Yes, Van, that would be a huge help.” Another breath. “Can you show me how you do that? Is there a secret?”
So Van finds herself in the laundry, explaining the different chemicals and scrub methods she and Marya and Comfrey and all the others used to treat the exact same stains.
Pappy and Monty would have a good understanding, as well, with all the wounds they’ve taken and given over the years. But Van feels a special sort of protectiveness over Maxwell. She did before, too, but it rears its head fiercely now. Her rowdy fighting lad. The Max. It’s only right she continues educating her fighting pit partner.
It’s not like she’s particularly shocked by the information itself, nor would the rest of the crew be; the surprising bit is how thoroughly Maxwell has scoured any pieces about this corner of his past from his life. Which, Olethra’s dad might interject, is absolutely his right. Just impressive considering how much time they all spend stuck in one another’s spaces.
And whoever termed it the “curse of the seventh Gotch son” has got a bleedin’ tick for a brain. She kicks herself again for telling him to his face that he’s cursed. There’s no such thing. There’s only living your life, or dying trying.
The rags, sheets, and undergarments come out a little worse for wear, but not to an unusual level for the adventuring already taking place. Van and Maxwell scrub up the scant remnants left on the floorboards, and soon, his quarters are returned to the usual neat state of a resolute boarding school boy. Gotch’s quarters, once again.
“You’re not going to— nobody’s going to know, are they?”
“Gotch,” Van sighs. “It’s not my information to share. This stays with us unless you decide otherwise. And there’s nothing requiring you to do that. But I can promise you that nobody here will treat you differently. If you tell anyone, that is. And if they do, they’re going overboard, we don’t need them anyway.”
Maxwell is quiet another moment.
“You think with all the strange shit we’ve seen, this is any odder than a ship growing from trees, or a zebra that sleeps during the day? A bleedin’ scientist switching bodies with a primate?” Van grips his chin as they both kneel on the floorboards, forcing him to look up at her. “It’s just you, living your life, Gotch. ‘N that’s nothing to be ashamed of, so long as you’re doing it on your terms.”
He nods once, sharply, and Van lets go. “I’d better go tell the crew you’re not dead.”
Maxwell barks out a laugh and stands. “I can do that myself. I’d better eat something, anyhow.”
“Right you are.”
“Van,” he says. Pauses again. His hair is still rumpled, but his face is less taut, less fearful. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, Gotch.” She grins. “You’d help clean up my murder scene, too, after all.”