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"Take what you need."
The Fool startles, caught eyeing the greens spilling from the gutted war rig, already picked over by the Mothers. Only after she says the words does she realize their rarity, in this wasteland. Has anyone ever made him such an offer?
"'s a lot," he says uncertainly.
She turns to the Mothers, sees them on the next dune, joking with the girls as they load the bikes, then glances at the Fool's, panniers empty.
(She thinks to last night, after she had let sentiment get the better of her and made that stupid, stupid offer to him, Val had asked her whether he was coming, frowning with something like sympathy at her answer.
"We can't..." Val began haltingly. "I know you said he's good. But we only have so many bikes. And if he's not..."
Furiosa had sighed. Bikes were precious. The wasteland was cruel. The Mothers weren't, but they owed the Fool nothing.)
In the present, Furiosa ponders that she and the Fool have likely saved each other enough to stop counting life debts owed. But still...
"Load your bike," she tells him, not mentioning that the bike was given to her, nor that she's left her generosity unexplained. The girls will understand; they'll let her double up.
He eyes her, squinty in the desert sun. Assessing. Then he grunts, grabs a head of lettuce.
Turning away, Furiosa watches the others. Behind her, the fool makes achy, stiff noises as he bends, collecting the greens. He's in her six. It doesn't bother her like it should.
No, best that he leaves. It's not just hope that's a mistake. Trust, too. But why does she struggle to remind herself of that, with him?
(She thinks of hands, broad, strong on her own, working together to guide the wheel of the rig. Of a shoulder, stilling at her command and steadying her final shot. Is that trust? She wouldn't know.)
As she's thinking, the Fool makes a questioning noise, and Furiosa pivots, watching as he licks his lips, eyes skittering up to her, then away, while he slowly draws up words from whatever deep well he keeps them in. Clearly, this is important. Maybe even...? No. She shakes herself. As she waits, something coils in her stomach; suddenly she's holding her breath as she waits for him to say...
"The water, too?" he mumbles, jerking his head at the tanker.
...oh.
"Yeah," she replies, unable to meet his gaze. Foolish. She's so damned foolish. Two fools. There's probably humour to be found there, if she didn't feel like she'd just been punched in the gut.
"F-Furiosa?"
She freezes. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to her that he’d learned her name. Reeling, she turns to him.
"Thanks," he says. Weighty. Like he hasn't said it in a long time.
Furiosa's throat spasms. She nods. Walks away, failing not to wonder if in another place, softer, this would be something.
But her world isn't soft. So she can't be, either.