Work Text:
Rick Hunter answered the door around 2 AM. He staggered from bed with a colossal yawn, his bare feet padding over the cool metal floor: rap rap rap, the fist was insistent, anxious. Eyes half-open, Rick groggily promised the caller he would answer the door, of course he would answer the door, he was coming as fast as he could…he was mumbling. Gripping the handle he cracked the door, peering into the artificial night with a wince.
"Rick? Rick, hey. I was wondering if I could talk to you about something."
Max stood in the foggy light of the drilling yard. His blue hair was remarkably untidy, his azure-tinted glasses perched at the tip of his nose. He was dressed in sweat pants and shirt; his arms were gripping each other, crossed protectively over his chest. He looked eager, impatient, exhausted.
"Max. What an early surprise." Rick opened the door, rubbing at his eyes; Max slid inside silently, moving like a shadow. Rick groggily sought out the light and flipped the switch with active reluctance.
"Oh! Nice hair, Rick, really nice." Max flashed a hesitant smile, holding up his hands. "Listen, I'm sorry for the late visit. Really, I'm not much of a night bird myself."
"You do know we have patrol at six." Rick sat at his narrow coffee table, suppressing a deep yawn. He glanced to the right, to the left; his quarters were tidy, orderly, well organized. He kept a critical eye peeled for a stray sock, a balled-up pair of pants, anything that would undercut his authority. He still outranked Maximilian, and he knew that pulling rank might be his only potential escape from a multi-hour confessional. "Seriously, Max, I know why you're here. Miriya, right? You want to talk about Miriya."
"What? Oh, yeah, right. How'd you know?" Max stood in the middle of Rick's quarters, his glasses shining, reflecting the light from the overhead fluorescents. His body was young, and boyish; even when at rest he seemed in a constant state of motion.
Rick eyed the coffee machine with a subdued longing. Was it even worth it to go back to bed?
"Lucky guess. Come on, have a seat. Tell me what's on your mind."
Max nodded, joining him at the table. Though restless, dark rings orbited his eyes; the blue enamel of his glasses enhanced rather than concealed. "Today," he said, stabbing the table with a finger. "Today, when I introduced you to Miriya, you were angry, Rick. You said some things…well, maybe it's best we don't repeat them. You know what I'm talking about."
There was a desperate earnestness in Max's voice. Rick shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the fog dispersing in his mind. Dreams were forgotten, the desire for sleep pushed aside. He forced himself to full wakefulness.
"People say things sometimes," he replied, clasping his hands on the table. "You know that, Max. My best friend sits down across from me, tells me he's getting ready to marry an alien who tried to kill him not two days ago…well, it all sounded a bit crazy. It is a bit crazy." He winced as he spoke the words, and began contemplating coffee anew.
"That's not what I'm talking about." Max began drumming his thumbs together. It was a nervous action, one that had doomed him to numerous lost games of poker. "You said she was the enemy. You said it like it meant something. Like she was a monster, or something to be afraid of."
Rick blinked. He rose, plucking a mug from a bin beside the sink. "I'm making coffee," he said, the words forced, mechanical. "Would you like some, Max?"
"Yeah, sure. I haven't been able to fall asleep anyway."
Rick filled the filter. He filled the pot with water.
"Coffee won't make me go away," Max said.
"No. It'll make things easier to deal with." Rick flipped the switch, reveled in the resultant gurgle and trickle of water. "Max, I said what was on my mind. I'm not the only one. A lot of people on board think you've gone completely mad."
"I haven't gone mad!" Max yelled, slamming his hands on the table. A mug wobbled, gradually settling; Max's fingers were white against the wood. "I'm in love, Rick. I'm in love with a woman that everyone is telling me I should have killed. I don't want to hear it from you."
"Fine. You won't hear it from me." Rick kept his eyes focused on the brewing coffee, his back to Maximilian. "I don't understand why you're so angry. I gave you my blessing. I said she was a beautiful girl."
"She is beautiful," Max said. He slowly curled his hands into fists, small and white against the dark swirl of oak. "But that's not all she is. She's a Zentraedi pilot, an enemy who's killed dozens of our men. I know that, Rick, and so do you."
Rick felt a deep throbbing at the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes, suddenly loathing the light, the coffee, the gentle and persistent hum of the ship. "It's a little early for riddles," he said aloud, casting a weary look over his shoulder. "Yes, I know that. I know she's an ace, that she's probably killed friends of mine. What I don't see is why I can't say that, but you can."
"You saw her, and you just walked away." Max's voice was smoldering. "You were rude to her. You didn't talk to her. You acted like an idiot, Rick. I know you weren't just taken in by a pretty face. It's what Ben would have done."
Rick froze. The sound of Ben Dixon's name hovered in the air, laden and cold; Max never mentioned Ben's name, never reminisced or lamented. "I didn't want to make a scene, Max. We were in public." He pulled out a chair, sat at the table, met Max's gaze.
"We were in public before she showed up," Max replied. His body had become suddenly, impossibly still; Rick had never seen him sit with such rigid precision. He was always tapping his feet, or squirming, or sticking out his tongue in childish concentration. This Maximilian was a man, a fighter, the Veritech wunderkind. Master of modern warfare. Kills in the hundreds. Rick suppressed a shudder.
"War is a strange thing," he said aloud, clearly. Straightened his back, tightening the knot of his hands, Rick assumed an officer's pose; the coffee was forgotten. "Max, we go out there and fight ever day. We kill every day. I've seen this war do some insane things to people. I've seen it make people hate, kill, and lose their minds. So why couldn't it make two people fall in love, after all?"
Max was taken aback. "That's really touching," he said, voice acidic. "Rick, you're lying. About everything. You hate the Zentraedi and what they've done to us. You hate Miriya."
"I don't know Miriya." Rick's hands squeezed tighter. He wished he had something to hold; a piece of paper, a pencil, a watch. "War is arbitrary. Roy used to say something like that. You can shoot at each other for days on end, fight and die, but then it's Christmas and everyone comes out of the trenches. You sing and give each other presents. The next day you go back to fighting." He sat back, unsure of his explanation, uncomfortable in his sentiments.
"I don't think the Zentraedi are big on Christmas," Max replied. He looked coiled, a predator ready to pounce. "Rick, just let me explain myself. Do you know why I love her?"
Rick felt a sneer tug at the corner of his mouth. "I can think of a dozen reasons," he said, hating the sound of his own voice. "Was it the green hair that lured you in? The waist? I suppose she could just have the most perfect hands."
Max reached into his pocket. After a moment he withdrew a knife, a slender razor-sharp knife. Rick watched uneasily as he laid it on the table. "This knife cut me," he said, baring his wrist. A thin red scab had formed on the unblemished flesh, still raw. "She challenged me to a duel, and she fought better than any man I've ever faced."
"And this makes you sentimental?" Rick laughed, laying his hands flat on the table. "That's what you want in a woman, Max? Someone willing to kill you?"
"I want someone capable of taking care of herself!" Max was on his feet, and red with anger; Rick had never seen him truly incensed. "My parents died in the Global Civil War. Why? Because my dad thought the pantry would make a decent bomb shelter. Then we spent a whole year in space, saving Ben's life again and again…until he died. He died, Rick, you remember? Even Roy Fokker died, and he was a legend. Legends aren't supposed to die, right?"
Rick joined Maximilian, standing and enraged. Fresh thoughts of Roy bubbled to the surface; flying the Skull 1 was still a fierce pain to him. "I don't want you bringing Roy into this. Forget it. As for taking care of herself, that's all well and good, Max. Find someone who can hide when bombs fall. But don't find someone who will probably slit your throat the second you fall asleep!"
Max grabbed the knife. With one quick motion he buried it in the coffee table, the blade parting the wood effortlessly. "Miriya made it her quest to kill me honorably," he said, still gripping the quivering hilt. "She had to kill me when I was ready for her. She needed to best me."
"And she failed. You're the better man. And this was a new coffee table, Max." Rick closed his eyes, calming his voice. "So she can win in a fight. She can survive. That's all you want in a wife?"
"I love her." Max spoke the words decisively, completely. He released the knife, regarding it with an air of angered regret. "I've been in love with her ever since I fought her. Remember that battle armor I tangled with back on Earth? That was her, Rick. I loved her before I ever saw her."
"Oh? Good thing she turned out to be a girl, I suppose." Rick bit his lip, appalled at his own words.
"And she loved me. Though she didn't know it." Max stared at the knife, fixating on it; he slowly eased back into his seat. "Her people don't know how to love each other. They just know how to fight. That's what they were created for. So for her, coming after me, seeking me out to kill me…she loved me as much as I loved her. Without ever seeing me."
A strange silence settled over the table. Rick felt his stomach turn over once, twice; he realized with a sickened pang that he was envious. Maximilian spoke with utter assurance, with complete devotion - it was alien to Rick, an inexplicable fire he could scarcely emulate. His own sense of love, of dedication, was a confused morass, and a source of constant anxiety; he bowed his head over the table, heavy with weariness and jealousy.
Max's face crumbled with concern. "Rick?" he asked, reaching across the table. He caught Rick by the sleeve of his nightshirt, and tugged worriedly. "Rick, are you okay? Listen, I'm sorry, if anything I've done is crazy this is it, I'm sorry about the table -"
"Do you want some coffee?" Rick stood, gathered two mugs, poured the liquid silently. He placed a cup before Max, the porcelain slick beneath his weary fingers.
"I - I guess we really won't be going to sleep, huh?" Max exhaled, picked up the mug and drank. His hands shook visibly.
"I think you mean it," Rick said. He stared at the buried knife, toying with the rim of his mug. "I think she is a beautiful girl, Max. And I think she must love you." Images of Lisa Hayes and Minmei clouded his mind; he took a sip of coffee, the bitter black drink cleansing his thoughts. "I think that marrying you is her special way of defeating you," he said through a swallow.
Max chuckled, hesitantly, taking a sip. "Is it bad that I find that romantic?" he asked in a small, wondered voice. "I mean, Rick, she's everything. I barely know her and she's everything."
"You're willing to slay tables for her love. I know she's everything to you." Rick set his mug down, suddenly and violently exhausted. "Max, I want you to marry her. I want you to bring her here tomorrow night. We can all go out to dinner. I can apologize."
Max nodded, his own head drooping with tiredness. "People say she must be a monster," he muttered at the table. "But how many Zentraedi have I killed? Does that make me a monster?"
Rick cracked a genuine smile. "I think you were meant to be," he said, peering at his bedside clock. "Just leave it at that."
Max was slumped against the table. His eyes fluttered; he was falling fast asleep. "Rick, I think I'm going to be the cook. I'll be doing all the dishes. Will we have kids? CAN we have kids? I'll need an apron."
"A wedding present. I'll keep that in mind." Rick watched as Max began to snore, softly. He reached out and toyed with the dagger; it wiggled slightly, but refused to budge. He decided to leave it, perhaps permanently. A good conversation piece.
He picked up his mug, draped a thin blanket over Max's body, and drew up the blind on the quarter's one window. A false pre-dawn was gathering outside; the SDF-1 computers played synthesized cricket sounds over concealed speakers. Rick sipped his coffee and glanced at the clock. They flew in three hours. He stood and watched the false sunrise with hope.