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Description
"You told us you'd return in a month," she hisses coldly. "It's been three, Rockatansky. We thought you were dead. "
Max looks away and shifts further off his left foot, hoping Furiosa won't notice.
She notices. "What happened to you?"
Max sighs shortly and reaches down, slowly lifts the leg of his pants upward, just up to his ankle. All that can be seen is blood, frozen in a dried river downwards onto the top of his boot.
"Ran into a rogue party on my way back. Got busted up by one of their cars while trying to escape, but they got me. It was some of your warboys that finally came and ganked 'em."
Furiosa doesn't react with shock or horror - she's seen far too much like this in her lifetime for it to be disturbing. Instead, she just massages her forehead with her hand. "We thought you were dead," she repeats in a mutter.
Max watches her expression. Every now and then her wild green eyes will flit up angrily, shining with what might be tears, as hard as it is to believe, and squinting against conflicting emotions.
He does all he can think to do when she's mad at him like this. He pulls his arms out of their petulant cross and, just barely, opens them outwards.
"I'm sorry," he grunts. To anyone else his voice would be unemotive and blank, but he knows that she can read his rumbling murmurs.
With a shaking sigh Furiosa lurches forward and lands square in her friend's chest, wrapping her arm and prosthesis around his shoulders and burying her head among layer upon layer of sand-dusted clothing. In return, he pulls her in closer, placing a gentle hand on the back of her scruffy head and another over her lame arm.
"No more, Max," she whispers shakily. "No more leaving."
"No more," he agrees, nodding gently against her temple.
"I need you here."
"I'll stay," he says. Just that - he doesn't mention that, while imprisoned, she and the girls were all he could think about, that he'd wondered day in and day out whether or not they were worried. He doesn't mention that, even before his capture, he'd park on dusty plateaus and watch the sunset from the hood of his car, overcome with the unfamiliar pang of homesickness. And he makes sure he doesn't mention that on the worst evenings of this he'd curl up in the backseat of the car and snivel into the upholstery because dear God, he didn't know it was possible to miss someone this intensely.
No, Max is silent as usual, but he doesn't really need to say any more than he already has. He knows Furiosa can read it all in his shaking arms, wrapped tightly around her wiry frame as she hides herself against his beating chest.

whoops
as y'all know i don't ship these two romantically but by GOD do i love the idea of them hugging the shit out of each other

Description
"You told us you'd return in a month," she hisses coldly. "It's been three, Rockatansky. We thought you were dead. "
Max looks away and shifts further off his left foot, hoping Furiosa won't notice.
She notices. "What happened to you?"
Max sighs shortly and reaches down, slowly lifts the leg of his pants upward, just up to his ankle. All that can be seen is blood, frozen in a dried river downwards onto the top of his boot.
"Ran into a rogue party on my way back. Got busted up by one of their cars while trying to escape, but they got me. It was some of your warboys that finally came and ganked 'em."
Furiosa doesn't react with shock or horror - she's seen far too much like this in her lifetime for it to be disturbing. Instead, she just massages her forehead with her hand. "We thought you were dead," she repeats in a mutter.
Max watches her expression. Every now and then her wild green eyes will flit up angrily, shining with what might be tears, as hard as it is to believe, and squinting against conflicting emotions.
He does all he can think to do when she's mad at him like this. He pulls his arms out of their petulant cross and, just barely, opens them outwards.
"I'm sorry," he grunts. To anyone else his voice would be unemotive and blank, but he knows that she can read his rumbling murmurs.
With a shaking sigh Furiosa lurches forward and lands square in her friend's chest, wrapping her arm and prosthesis around his shoulders and burying her head among layer upon layer of sand-dusted clothing. In return, he pulls her in closer, placing a gentle hand on the back of her scruffy head and another over her lame arm.
"No more, Max," she whispers shakily. "No more leaving."
"No more," he agrees, nodding gently against her temple.
"I need you here."
"I'll stay," he says. Just that - he doesn't mention that, while imprisoned, she and the girls were all he could think about, that he'd wondered day in and day out whether or not they were worried. He doesn't mention that, even before his capture, he'd park on dusty plateaus and watch the sunset from the hood of his car, overcome with the unfamiliar pang of homesickness. And he makes sure he doesn't mention that on the worst evenings of this he'd curl up in the backseat of the car and snivel into the upholstery because dear God, he didn't know it was possible to miss someone this intensely.
No, Max is silent as usual, but he doesn't really need to say any more than he already has. He knows Furiosa can read it all in his shaking arms, wrapped tightly around her wiry frame as she hides herself against his beating chest.

whoops
as y'all know i don't ship these two romantically but by GOD do i love the idea of them hugging the shit out of each other