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Eventually, Max has to admit that he's been coming back just because he wants to be back.
He has salvage in the back of his car to trade, of course, but there's nothing he needs to give them- no rare seeds, no hollow-eyed children in the footwells, nothing to patch into the touchy electrical grid- and there isn't anything he needs from them- his car runs well enough, he hasn't hurt himself worse than scrapes and bruises, he's got enough guzz to get him halfway past the horizon.
There's just him and the Citadel that hasn't felt like a prison in a year or two, the girls with their easy smiles and newly calloused hands, and Furiosa.
Max doesn't know if it's as obvious to them the way it seems to be to him, fidgets and feels as if he might drive off the slowly ascending lift to get away. Furiosa's waiting for him in the open garage bay- she usually is, catches sight of his car and waits for the next lift rise to bring him up.
He pulls into a parking slot when the people on the platform clear off and gets out, his hands empty.
She doesn't quite smile, something not unlike nervousness in her eyes, but her hand is warm against the back of his neck when she dips their foreheads together. Max keeps his eyes open, stares at her face so close to his, the solidity of her head cradled in the palm of his hand and her breath fanning out in the distance between.
The first time she'd pulled him in like this, shared this piece of her clan, he hadn't really thought the gesture would be so intense. But it is, so much so that some days he can't hardly stand it for a second, having her skull in his palm and this closeness without violence. But today he sinks into the touch, breathes in oil and clean sweat and fumes from the idling engines, feels her forehead against his like he's getting strength from it.
“Hey,” Furiosa says when she finally pulls away, her eyelids fluttering open. There's black on her forehead- not the war paint she sometimes still wears but just grease from working in the garages- and there's probably some on his own skin now, too.
“Hey,” he replies, voice rough in a way he'll blame on wasteland dust.
“You shaved,” she says, just enough of a teasing lilt in her voice to excuse the way her flesh hand comes up to stroke the back of a finger along his jaw. He can't remember if she'd been making little touches like that for a while and he's only just now aware, or if it's new.
Max shrugs and resists the urge to either duck his head or press into the touch that's already slipping away. He's been better about things like that, remembering he has a body to be taken care of and that there are more options than letting his hair grow unchecked.
There's a routine for when he visits, and it doesn't frighten him so much anymore to think about the fact that he's come back enough times for there to be a routine. Furiosa greets him and if he isn't shuttled off to the infirmary or judged too nervy to be any sort of company, she leads him up through the winding paths of the Citadel to the mess hall, as if he doesn't know the way on his own by now.
It's not that he's starving; it's hard scraping up a living in the wasteland but he is good at it, knows what plants can be eaten and which animals are likely to be found, knows where and how to trade when he's got his head screwed on straight. But there's no food like Citadel food, fresh and green and best of all eaten alongside someone he trusts with his life.
He's in too early for the evening meal but there's always something up for eating, always a few people on the benches even if only to shoot the breeze. Furiosa makes no move to leave him alone to eat, though she only pours herself a cup of sun-brewed tea.
“Gardens open?” Max asks once he's filled a plate, willing to sit in the mess hall but thinking he might want the stillness of the garden, away from even these few diners.
She sips her tea and hums, and he follows her through the hallways until they're stepping out into sunshine, the glare of it off her metal arm dazzling his eyes until he has to blink away spots.
Dag is on another spire, he ascertains, and the greenthumbs tending their plants quietly melt away to give the illusion of solitude. There's a meeting spot with a small patch of grass- real grass, green and plush underfoot, an extravagant show of prosperity getting it to grow in this wasteland- but Max is loathe to crush it for something so trivial. He sits on the ground in front of one of the tumbled boulders that dot the garden, legs stretching out into the shaded green lanes of growing flax.
Furiosa sits on the rock itself like he was hoping she would, her legs bumping against his shoulder as she settles.
Neither says anything, the only sound the wind rustling through plants, the creaking of windmills and cranes. Max passes up half the peach that had been on his plate and her fingers lightly touch his when she takes the fruit, and he imagines the taste of it on her lips.
He hadn't had the time to think about it the last time, when he was leaving and she'd leaned in and pressed her mouth to his and he'd jerked back, startled. She'd apologized and he couldn't say anything at all, mind a blank buzz of surprise, doesn't remember getting into his car but found himself driving.
Now though, now he's had time to turn the thought over. To think about what it means that she kissed him, to think about what it means that he wishes he hadn't run. He's never denied that she's a beautiful woman, beautiful the way a storm on the horizon is beautiful, a force of nature. He just never thought he'd noticed it like that, didn't realize that he's grown so attached that he's contemplating what it would be like to kiss her and not run, to have her and share himself in turn.
It came to him slow like that, the awareness that it's not just idle appreciation or what he might feel for anyone who could fall so easily into step with him, but rather that it's the sort of thing that's lodged deep inside of him without his knowledge and without any desire to dig it out. The realization was terrifying and he kept trying to run from it even knowing it was as futile as trying to outrun his past, but he spent too much of the last month out on the road wishing he was back here with her to deny it forever.
Max leans his head back so it rests on the stone just against her leg, the leather of her trousers creaking infinitesimally under his ear as she adjusts to the touch.
“Buzzards are splitting up north,” he says, not much wanting to talk but feeling like she's likely to leave if he doesn't give her a reason to stay.
“Any word on why?” Furiosa asks, and sinks down the bolder a little so more of her leg is in contact with him, settling in like she knows he doesn't want her to leave.
He shrugs. “Same as always.” Looking to pick over a new area, to see if there's anything better outside of their accustomed patch of sand.
She hums in response, and passes down her emptied cup for him to add to his licked-clean plate. “Toast thinks she's fixed that valve problem on the upflow pipes,” Furiosa says after a pause.
It's his turn to hum, feeling like always a little glow of pride when he hears about how well they're doing, how they're solving problems and making things better. Max thinks about what he can offer up next and comes up with nothing, his mind wanting to fixate on the idea of Furiosa and how she's right there, close enough that he's feeling the heat of her body against his, real enough that he doesn't even need to question it. He draws his right knee up close, runs his fingers along the stitching he'd needed to add to the worn seam.
He's thinking about doing something- looking up at her and finding something to say, reaching out to touch her leg instead, standing so he can run away entirely- but he doesn't get the chance.
A Free Boy whose name he doesn't know skids to a stop a few paces away, hands stained grease-black and hair looking like he might have been running those hands through it. “Furiosa!” he says, eyes a little frantic, “They need you in the 'Shop.”
His eyes land on Max for a second, but his presence hasn't been anything to take note of since the early days of life after Joe.
Furiosa breathes out a barely-audible sigh before pushing herself off the rock, stepping carefully over Max's outstretched leg. She twists and looks down at him, silent question in her eyes. He's welcome in the garage, knows where the tools are even if he doesn't know everyone who uses them.
Max shakes his head and tilts his chin, urging her on without him. She holds his gaze for a moment longer before turning back away, following the Boy as he explains with expansive gestures just what it is that's gone wrong this time.
He stays in the garden a little longer, until the parts she was touching don't feel cold without her anymore, and then he sets out to return his plate and see if he can't find one of the girls.
At first he slept in his car, or a guest room they set aside for him. But too often Max found himself roaming the hallways, wracked by nightmares or visions or memories, only to find himself at Furiosa's door where there's at least the illusion of solace.
Eventually he just started bunking down there from the start, slipping onto the mattress to press back-to-back with her as they slept, covering each others' blind spots; a reassurance from both sides.
Sometime in the past year she gave him a key to the lock, and he thinks about the look on her face when she handed it over as he uses it to unlock her door now.
He doesn't think she's ever done something like that before, given someone a way into the place she feels safe enough to sleep, and he hadn't wanted at the time to acknowledge it beyond the convenience of being able to let himself in when she isn't around.
Her room is a sort of controlled chaos, the bed a nest of blankets with her sleeping clothes slung over the footboard, her workbench partitioned into sections in a system only she's able to know. Furiosa has precious few personal items, most everything serving a purpose, but there are decorations strewn about anyway. The water pitcher was painted by Cheedo and Toast, the bright topmost blanket woven by the surviving Vuvalini, her spare arm gleaming like a piece of art from its peg on the wall.
She passes on just about everything he's tried giving her, but there's a little metal cat he cobbled together from tin and aluminum tucked up on one of her shelves, the books she likes to hear him read out of stacked carelessly in the corner, a plant that found no use in the gardens but now creeps vines along the edge of her window.
Max had felt like he was disturbing things at first with his presence, before he realized that if she wanted the bed while he was already in it she'd shove him over, if he was making noise while she wanted to sleep she'd cuss him out, if he was hurt or sick she would refuse to let him drag himself out of her room to curl up somewhere else. She'd given him a place to be without seeming as if it was any inconvenience, like she'd merely tidied up a bit and the space was right there waiting for him.
The lantern is unlit and the sun is setting and he knows his way around the familiar room well enough for the encroaching darkness to be restful. He'd wiped down his face and hands earlier and while the thought of getting clean all over is appealing, he didn't manage to get to the wash room and now that he's here he doesn't foresee himself leaving again until morning. He kicks his boots off his feet, slides his pack to the floor and hangs his jacket on the peg he doesn't remember being installed but has been using since before he had a key.
He slides off his brace and sets it next to the workbench for him to work on later, sheds his shirt and slings it over the line that runs in front of the window to air out. He should do the same with his leathers but the soft pants he would normally sleep in in are packed away somewhere, and the effort of finding them seems too great.
Instead he sinks down to sit on the bed, slipping further sideways until he's stretched out on the blankets, slightly sour from constant use but holding just enough of Furiosa's day-to-day scent to calm some part of his mind that's grown used to it being a sign of safety.
Max isn't sure when he falls asleep but he wakes when the door opens, golden-yellow torchlight spilling in from the hallway as Furiosa steps through. He doesn't startle, doesn't move much except to hold his heavy eyelids halfway open, watching as she moves around the room quietly, getting ready to sleep herself.
The wasteland isn't a place for modesty and they've been naked around one another often enough that there's no hesitation when she strips off her shirt and starts unwinding the fabric holding her breasts in place. He's never watched before, never wanted to invade her privacy, but she knows he isn't asleep and so he pays some attention to the way the moonlight from the window washes her already pale skin white, how it gilds silver on the lines and curves of her body as she twists and reaches for her night shirt to pull back over her head.
It isn't much of a surprise that her eyes catch on his when she goes for her shorts next. “Hey,” she whispers, voice soft in the dark of the room.
Max blinks slowly at her and makes a vague noise in reply, then attempts to stifle a yawn behind his hand. She smiles a little, fond, and slips onto the mattress besides him a moment later.
She turns so her back is to him, the way they always sleep- the way they start out sleeping, anyway; the mornings have seen the both of them in a wide variety of positions- but for once he doesn't mirror the movement.
Instead he keeps looking at the back of her head, her neck where she'd scarred out the old brand, the slope of her shoulders. After a minute Furiosa reaches out with her foot, lays it carefully against his leather-clad shin. Grounding herself against him in a new way.
Max falls asleep watching the way her chest expands and contracts in the soft moonlight, daring himself to bridge the gap between his hand and her spine.
He wakes in the morning with her head pillowed on his chest, legs tangled together. He has a handful of her shirt in his grasp, his arm threatening to turn to pins-and-needles where the pressure of her laying on it is heavy against him.
Waking up more often than not without nightmares, without the ingrained need to attack, is something he's slowly gotten used to. It doesn't seem so strange anymore when it happens, his body remembering what it is to lay next to someone who doesn't mean him any harm.
Max keeps himself still and lax until he feels her stirring, her eyes blinking open and limbs stretching out, slow and luxuriant.
He realizes that he's staring at her when Furiosa croaks out a hoarse “What?”
He shakes his head and loosens the grip of his hand until it's pressed open-palm against her back, a small smile twitching onto his lips at the suspicious look she's giving him. Her eyes are a little red around the edges and he's pretty sure there's some dried drool crusted in the corner of her mouth, and he can't believe that he gets to see her like this, gets to be so trusted by her.
Max takes his free hand and tips her chin up, the idea that like this she's functionally shorter than him enough to amuse his morning-slow brain, and tilts his head down until he can press their lips together.
For a moment Furiosa allows it, her eyes sliding shut and her mouth kissing back, but then she pulls away. “You don't want this,” she says.
“Yes I do,” he disagrees, hand sliding to rest against the side of her face, cupping the expanse between jaw and cheek.
She sighs. “Max, you ran when I kissed you,” she says. Her hand is pressed to his bare chest, her legs pulled just far enough away that she can't feel that he's woken up hard like he only ever does when he's in her bed. And that might have been a sign from his subconscious he should have paid more attention to earlier, might also have been one of the things to have emboldened her into making a move.
“I was startled,” Max says, “Didn't see it coming.” He really hadn't, and he regrets that his reaction was so abrupt, that he couldn't summon up any other action than to run.
Furiosa searches his face, her eyes bright and intense in the morning sunlight, piercing. “You ran and you stayed away,” she says.
He hums, unable to defend the fact that he had. “Needed time to think,” he says, “Then I-” he takes his hand off her to gesture into the air- “ran into some trouble.” Max resettles his hand on the cap of her shoulder, neutral enough territory.
“Trouble,” she echoes, and it isn't like he doesn't run into trouble often enough for it to be a surprise.
“Mhm,” he hums, “D'you know that story, 'Romeo and Juliet'?”
Furiosa quirks an eyebrow at him, but nods.
“I helped the 'Juliet' get away,” he says. It was a bit more involved than that, started with him just looking to trade before diverting to inter-gang-politics and ended with him ferrying a love-struck idiot in the middle of the night to the settlement she'd promised her lover to meet up at. Happier ending than the real thing, and he'd been paid in real Gastown tokens for his troubles.
The corner of her mouth ticks up into a smile, and she gently drums her fingers against his side. “No poison?” she asks.
“Not this time,” Max replies, glad of it.
But far too soon, whatever lightness had crept in because of the story leaves her and she slumps against him a little further, expression subdued again. “I was afraid I ruined us,” Furiosa says, just above a whisper.
He shakes his head and says fiercely, “Never.” Even if he hadn't wanted to be with her like that, he can't imagine that it would be enough to drive him away entirely, that it would have come between the trust and respect they've built together.
He doesn't know how to prove it to her, how to reassure her that his initial reaction isn't how he feels. Furiosa lays against him and scans him with her eyes, searching, and he holds himself still for her. Relief grows in her expression at whatever she finds and her gaze flickers between his eyes and his lips as she begins to lean in close, movements slow.
Max closes the distance and kisses her gently, out of practice with how long it's been since the last time he's done this but getting back into the swing of it quickly. Like riding a bike, he thinks distantly.
Her lips part against his and he deepens the kiss, uncaring that their mouths are morning-sour, wanting to take advantage of the fact that they're both just there.
Furiosa makes a noise that sounds like she's been holding it back for too long, her hand stroking over the skin of his side, curling around his ribs, her left arm hooking around his neck. He pulls back just a little and she nips at his retreating lips, then ducks to mouth at the side of his throat, pulling a groan out of him when she tests the skin there with her teeth.
He coaxes her up further, closer to being at the same level as him so he doesn't have to keep cricking his neck to kiss her, and she rolls her hips against him as she goes, pressure and friction against his dick even through his leathers. The kisses they're exchanging are growing more and more heated, hands not just lightly exploring but caressing and groping, and he wonders if she's getting revved up, if she's getting wet for him.
Her skull rests perfectly in his hand as he holds her close, and Furiosa sighs against his mouth. She then abruptly tugs with her hand hooked around the base of his arm, closes her legs around his thigh and twists her hips so he's rolling, hand slipping off the back of her head to crash into the mattress so he doesn't entirely fall on top of her.
She looks up at him a little bit victoriously, and Max kisses the smugness off her expression. It doesn't mean much to flip a man over when he isn't putting up a fight.
He runs a hand along her side, from the curve of her hip up to the swell of her breast, curls his fingers around the shape of it and feels her push up into the touch. He isn't sure how far she wants this to go, isn't entirely sure if he knows for himself either, but his heart's beating a fast tempo and he can hear her breath hitching, and when he circles a fingertip around where her nipple's peaked through her shirt she moans and widens the angle between her legs.
It's easy to settle himself between her thighs, the mattress soft and forgiving under his knee, and rock against her just enough for them both to feel it. Furiosa slides her hand down his stomach and he thinks he's at a disadvantage already having his shirt off.
Max moves away from her breast to tug at the hem of her shirt, asking permission for her to let him take it off. She grabs the fabric away from him and wiggles out of it, very nearly smacking against his face in the struggle, and tosses the shirt carelessly aside once she's free of it.
He's seen her naked before- had seen her by the moonlight just the night before- but the morning sunlight is streaming in to illuminate everything and he has permission to look, permission to drink in his fill. He's overwhelmed for a moment by the reality of it, that Furiosa is underneath him and sliding warm skin against his, that he wants to be here more than he's wanted anything that isn't bare survival in a long span of time. He leans down but instead of kissing her again he rests his forehead against hers for the moment, trying to center himself to this new reality.
“Hey,” she murmurs, on the edge of being a question.
Max nods his head, opens eyes he didn't realize he'd closed. “Hey.”
Her mouth curls into a smile and she tilts her head, lips brushing against his. He kisses along her jaw, down her neck, kisses the hidden curve under each breast before sucking a nipple into his mouth so she arches up with a gasp.
He breaks away to lean his weight back on his legs and runs his hands down her body, mapping the scars and imperfections on her skin, the shifting of muscle over bone. Through the thin fabric of her shorts he can feel the heat, the dampness of her gathering at the crux of her thighs.
Furiosa rolls up into the touch, rubbing herself against his hand with a quiet exhalation.
“You should touch me,” she says, voice husky, legs spreading a little further in invitation.
He doesn't really need to hear more than that, slides his hand down the front of her shorts against her skin until he encounters hair and he slows, careful as he traces out the seam of her pussy. She's wet against his fingers, slick and warm and inviting as he explores her folds. Max finds her clit and circles around it, aware suddenly that his fingernails are probably a little more ragged than is ideal.
She bucks her hips up and his fingers slide down to her opening, and she's somehow hotter and wetter inside when he slips a fingertip in. The fabric of her shorts hampers his motions but he angles his finger to stroke along the front of her cunt, her walls fluttering against the touch.
“Get these off,” Furiosa hisses, startling him just the slightest bit into retreating until he realizes that she's pushing at the waistband of her shorts.
He very much agrees that not having the cloth there is a good idea and assists, getting a bit distracted by the length of her legs as he pulls the shorts down them. Max runs a hand down her thigh, feeling the powerful muscles there twitch under the contact, and presses a kiss to the soft skin on the inside of one of her knees.
Her eyes are dark when he looks at her, her mouth parted and red.
“You need to get out of those pants and fuck me,” she says, leg tapping against his side where he's still holding it.
“Thought maybe I'd, ah, lick you out,” Max says, because between her thighs like this he's close enough to smell the pussy he was just fingering and it's making his mouth water at the thought of tasting it; he wants very much to fuck her but he also wants to just make her come, wants to see and hear and feel her let herself go for him.
“Fuck,” Furiosa breathes in reply. “I'm holding you to that, but after you get inside me.”
He can't argue with that and leans away with only a little reluctance, letting go of his hold on her leg to pull off his own pants. He's so hard he's leaking, smearing the inside of the leather as he frees his trapped dick, feels heavy and aching in his hand.
In the process of detangling his legs from his trousers he ends up sitting on the edge of the bed, Furiosa getting up from the mattress to press along his side, left elbow crooked around his neck and hand running down his belly until his dick is wrapped in her fingers, and the noise he makes at that touch is swallowed by the kiss she presses to his lips.
Max goes without protest when she pushes him down to the sheets and straddles him, kneeling with legs on either side of his stomach so his dick just barely brushes up against the curve of her ass. She bends down over him and he fondles one of her breasts, brings his other hand to where her pussy is pressed wet and warm against his skin.
Furiosa cants her hips into the touch with a quiet noise for a moment but then pulls away, shuffles down his body and takes his dick into her hand again. She gives it a pump and he groans at the feeling of it, and her cheeks are bloomed red and her eyes dark and hooded. A moment later she's shifting so that it isn't her hand that's touching him but her cunt, and she starts sinking down onto him centimeter by centimeter.
He stares down and watches himself disappear into her, then at the sound she makes flicks his gaze up to her face again, tilted back while she breathes out a drawn-out sigh. She feels so good around his cock, slick and tight and hot, that when he's buried to the hilt they both need a moment to adjust to the feeling.
Her mouth is lax, lips parted red and swollen, and slowly she slides her eyes back open.
“Hey,” he says, voice nearly rough enough to hurt his throat.
“Hey,” Furiosa replies, breathless and dazed, and without any further warning starts moving her hips against his.
He bites back a shout and brings his hands to the flare of her hips, encouraging and steadying the movements she's making. She only rocks at first, barely moving at all aside from how her pussy flutters around him with every motion, but then starts picking up momentum, those strong legs of hers flexing as she pulls away and sinks back down.
Max rolls his hips up into the rhythm she's setting, slow and intense, almost urgent despite the lack of speed as if it might be taken away at any moment. She clutches her muscles around him and moans, and with every slide away she curls in a little more, drooping down towards him.
He shifts his grip from her hips to just holding onto her, arms wrapping around her middle, a hand splayed flat to feel the slide of muscles along her spine as she fucks herself on his dick.
She presses gently on the underside of his chin with the scarred end of her left arm and he lifts his head, looking at her directly even as his eyes try to dart away, feeling like he's being opened up under her gaze. Furiosa has a look of deep concentration on her face, mouth panting and a trickle of sweat winding down from her temple, and he wants in equal measure to last for however long she wants him to and to come immediately from how she looks and feels as she moves against him.
It's something of a relief that her eyes drift shut, all the more so when she curls up so much that her forehead comes to a rest against his and he realizes that he's never been closer to her than he is now, that her face is centimeters away while he's inside of her, so similar to and so different from the greetings they usually exchange.
She breathes out his name and threads her fingers through his hair and Max tilts his head up to kiss her, sloppy and panting. A moment later she's moaning, the walls of her cunt squeezing around him in waves as she grinds her hips down against his, and he wonders when was the last time he saw anything as beautiful as her face as she comes, skin flushed and her bright eyes thrown wide as if in surprise.
He loses the battle against coming before she's even finished twitching, groans and fucks up into her wet heat as he spills.
Furiosa rocks against him for a further few seconds before he's soft enough to slip out and then she collapses against him, sweaty skin sliding and sticking a little.
His nose is buried in the curve of her neck and he mouths at the skin there idly, licking the salt from her skin as they catch their breath. It occurs to him that she came without either of them touching her clit directly and Max feels a swell of stupid male pride at that, a little amazed and wondering if it's a fluke or if he can work to repeat it.
She tugs on his hair a little and he pulls away from her neck. “Max,” she says, a hint of some sort of emotion behind it that he isn't going to attempt to put a name to, and then her expression turns ever so slightly playful. “Max,” she repeats, this time pointed and a bit sly, “Weren't you saying something about using your mouth?”
He hums, and slides his hands down until he's grabbing the cheeks of her ass, tugging her up until she comes to kneel right over his head, her dripping pussy centimeters away. Even knowing it's coming Furiosa lets out a small noise of surprise when he swipes his tongue out. He smiles to himself to hear it as he starts to lick her, laving up the mess and sucking at her lips and trying out different motions around her clit.
She rolls her hips down against him, presses firmer and closer until he has to regulate his breathing, surrounded by the taste and smell and feel of her cunt. Max slides his hands up and down what parts of her body he can reach as he works, until she grabs up one of his hands and he needs the other to steady her as she shudders and comes above him with a low moan.
He backs off a little to let her recover, kisses softly over the entrance of her cunt where he can feel her muscles spasming against his tongue.
Just as he starts sucking on her clit again there's a sharp knock on the door and he freezes, Furiosa likewise going entirely rigid.
“Max, you up yet?” Capable's voice calls through the door.
Furiosa swings her leg up over him and slides off to the side to sit on the mattress. He takes a moment to try and clear his throat, remembering that he'd told Capable the day before that he would be by early to see the little aviary she's working on.
“Gimme a few,” Max says, his voice thick and scratchy and hopefully nothing that can't be passed off as sleep-heaviness.
“Sure!” Capable chirps back at him, and then, “Oh and Furiosa, they're looking for you in the garage.”
“Thanks,” Furiosa calls, apparently unruffled by the interruption.
He can hear Capable's footsteps as she walks away back down the hall, and he wonders- if that noise travels through the door so easily, what might she have heard from outside of it.
Furiosa looks down at his face and his concern must be showing because she lets out a quietly breathy laugh. “You know they think we've been trading paint since before I gave you a key,” she says.
He did not know that, and grunts to inform her of such. Max hauls himself upright off the mattress and starts wiping at his face, covered with traces of her and probably just getting further smeared around rather than actually cleaned.
“Hey,” she says softly, and he turns to her. “You're not going to run, are you?”
Some part of him remains terrified about this development, reminding him of his world burning to ashes once before because he'd dared try and be happy. He takes a deep breath and he looks at her, as cautious and world-weary as he is but already having taken the risk of opening up for him, because of him, and the parts that want to hold onto this are louder than the parts that want to run.
“No,” he says with a shake of his head, “Not from you.”
Some tension leaves Furiosa's frame and she smiles at him, relieved, and it isn't so difficult to give her a cautious smile back.