Work Text:
Magnus wakes up on the floor, having apparently fallen asleep mid-montage. Taako is conked out on Hurley's beat-up couch, either in a deep sleep or a deep elven meditation (he'll never say which). Merle is sleeping a few feet off, humming "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" in-between his snores.
He stays still for a second and takes a deep breath in, scared by how much it feels like the Hammer and Tongs. It's not too much; there's no dry scent of wood shavings swept under furniture, no creaking upper floor that lets him know if someone is about to come downstairs, no shadows cast on the ceiling from a stupidly huge fireplace. What gets at him is the sense that things are made here, and that's a harder kick to the gut than any smell or sound or sight.
Magnus turns his head to the side and looks at the scrap pile, all that's left of the battle wagons Hurley had taken apart to make her prize-winner. Every now and then during the montage, he'd seen Hurley go over with her fists on her hips and stare at it for a while, then sift through to find an old part to give a new life to.
He thinks it's just a really strong memory when he sees her approaching the scrap pile again, but she glances over and says, "Hey, you should be asleep."
"Back atcha." He sits up and runs his fingers through his beard a few times, then his hair. "Everything okay with the wagon? The core, and everything?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah," she says. She wipes her hands on her worn-in jumpsuit; the sleeves and legs are much too long, so she's rolled them up into thick donuts at her wrists and ankles. "Yeah, it's fine."
"So why are you still up?"
Hurley sighs, then gives him a funny little smile. "I always do this," she says. "Ever since the first time I worked on a wagon for a race. I finish up everything I have planned, and then I wanna make it better."
The monster form of her wagon is imposing under the single work lamp she has poised over it. The hood is up, and the shifting lights of the arcane core flash onto a wall covered in neat rows of tools. It's not pretty to look at, maybe, but Magnus had gotten a look at its guts, and he knows there's no way it could be better.
"Want me to have a look at it?" he says. "Maybe we could brainstorm. I'm-"
"Vehicle proficient," she says. "Sure. Just- let's keep quiet, I at least want the dudes who are gonna be hurling magic at people to have some sleep."
It's just like he thought; Hurley has made a masterpiece. She still looks frustrated, so he asks her to walk him through the process of building the wagon. Julia used to do that for him. He'd finish something the night before an order was due or before the day came to submit something, and he'd look at it and realize that it was a hunk of garbage, and that it would do more good in a fireplace. Julia never talked him down, never tried to placate him, she'd just say, "Tell me how you made it."
And now that's what Hurley's doing, pointing out components and miming the way that different parts are working together, telling him about how this came from a sloppy job she'd won in a pink slip race, and that was something she'd had to buy on her miserable salary. She talks about the long nights of sketching and building and tearing apart, the times when she'd almost scrapped the whole thing because she thought it would never work.
"But it does work," says Magnus, after she's been silent for a while. "It works really, really well."
Hurley doesn't say anything, leaning against the side of the wagon and kicking the heel of one boot against the toe of another. He can't quite see her face. "I think I know that," she says. "But I don't know if it's gonna be good enough for Sloane. I don't know if it's good enough to save her."
Neither does Magnus. "Good" and "good enough" are different things. Julia had never quite been able to talk him into believing that "good" was always good enough.
"You know-" Her deep inhale shakes a little bit. She blows it back out quickly and squares her shoulders. "I realized something kinda scary while I was building this. I'd rather die than lose her."
"I know what that's like."
Hurley smiles and looks at him. Her eyes are shiny. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Who's your person?"
"I lost her."
The smile cracks off of her face. There's not horror in her eyes, or sadness, or even pity. Just understanding.
Magnus straightens up and closes the hood over the core; the weak light of the work lamp makes her face hard to see again. "Look, I know we can be assholes," he says, "and I wish we knew how to stop, but I want you to know that… I'm gonna do everything I can to help you win this thing. I'll do everything I can to help you fight for her."
"Thank you." Hurley looks away, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a keychain. She loops it around the rearview mirror: two glossy black feathers dangle from a brass chain. "Good luck charm," she says, and covers her eyes with her hand.