Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

sam couldn’t remember the last time it was this hot out. felt like he was a steam-in-the-bag piece of broccoli. they were probably still putting out all the fires.

though, sam’s happy to take it as a victory, given that the fires weren’t max-related after a week of... well, otherwise.

the smoke rising up from the sewer grates, however, weren't necessarily not max-related. he looked so happy tearing up that ceo’s underground bunker. at the end of the day, though, the tnt was sam’s idea. at first, he thought it’d be nice to finish it off with a bang. that was, however, until he remembered the last time a case finished off with a bang.

which, incidentally, was last night. boy, it’s hot.

despite it, the dog could rule out heatstroke, much less sleep deprivation, as he retained enough cognitive ability to internally question the odd patches of ash he saw on max’s fur. he tore the place up before the blast, so anything from the fire shouldn’t have touched him, even as he played hopscotch over the still-smoking grates.

not to mention, sam smelled smoke on max when he hugged him earlier.... that morning? god, felt like weeks already. smelled some kinda grease, too. not like a whataburger-that’s-bribing-the-health-inspector kinda grease, but rather... motor oil? max usually drank that stuff, as opposed to bathing in it. guy always hated dirtying his fur, ironically enough.

it didn’t make sense. at this rate, though, sam’s not surprised. for all he knows, common sense left the building, seconds before it was crushed in the path of a passing lago-thulu-zilla.

as they continued trudging along whatever street they were trudging along on, sam observed a nearby tv showing news of the rescue boats still making rounds. he knew that the remains of this universe’s max had to go somewhere after exploding. guy was too big to just vaporize. sam knew what was resting in the new york harbor.

but he didn’t know how to feel about their.... collecting him, though. he was grateful to superball for even ordering the fleet of boats, but would max have wanted that? would he have even cared?

if sam thought about it for long enough, he would remember all the times max had joked about where he wanted to meet his maker (and promptly kick ‘em in the nads). all the times he joked about how he wanted his final resting place to be open-air and secluded, to accommodate for all the flowers, anthrax, and pipe bombs.

but right now, sam didn’t have that kind of brainpower onboard. enough to look around and waddle from one place to the other like a penguin who just learned about four lokos, sure, but not enough to think about all that.

sam was just.. exhausted. the dog could feel it in his bones, behind his eyes, beneath his feet. he didn’t know the last time he felt so wired, yet so tired.

it made him cringe to think about how he’d have to muster up whatever perkiness he had left to catch up with max, who... was about 20 feet behind him, now.

“max?”

sam heard a noise in reply, which sounded not unlike max, with all the varying tones of max, but sounded very much like a neutered zombie and could very well have been a neutered zombie.

the way max drug his feet along, bobbing with each step... it was unmistakeable. no, he wasn't a zombie. but he looked so fatigued that he wasn’t even raising his arms to move his drooping ears out of his face. he just tilted his head.

that’ll wake sam up.

“max!” sam ran over to him, but it ended up being less of a run and more of a brisk jog that only made him look silly. wasn’t that far of a distance, but sam suspects the adrenaline of this past week won’t leave him for at least a month. if even.

“mm-ok.” max mumbled. sam took a knee to meet his eyes, but upon closer inspection, the dog may as well have kept standing. he frowned at max’s clear struggle to keep his eyes open.

“i, mm. i feel inclined to.... to disagree. little buddy. you smell like the 26th... transformers movie and look like some nuclear reactor’s quirky and be-plagued opossum mascot.” sam's not gonna pretend to stifle his yawning.

he couldn’t help but furrow his brow at how max’s hands seemed to tremble. if max actually got to maim the perp, sam wouldn’t have thought twice about it. max’s agitated brand of post-brutality euphoria never failed to endear. but the paramedics got to him first. damn them and their underfunded stock of life-saving medical supplies. oh, max was looking up at him now.

“sam. ....’s bright out. my eyes hurt. i’m worn out, dunno why. i hate it.” guy had a weird whiny mumble tinting his voice. ew. despite all the detective work they’ve done over the years, sam couldn’t begin to place max’s expression of.... soporific annoyance and blunted misery?

the sun wasn’t that bad, right? sam knew why he was tired, but he wouldn’t have put it past max to be at least alert, if not obnoxiously fired up. guy seemed fine when he stepped out of the elevator.

but sam was fed up at this point. not with his buddy, not with the boats, just... fed up in general. time to go home. if the zoning officials have anything to say about it, then they can kiss his revolver’s shiny handheld ass.

after sam would throw it at them in a blind rage, of course. he’s saving the bullets for their next game of municipal russian roulette. picnic at the local retention pond. blindfolds on, safety off, charceuterie plated. when your bullet-laden fish goes belly-up, take a shot!

sam gently reaches for max’s hand, and he can feel the trembling even then. concern filled the dog's stomach like week-old sushi.

“you don’t think the subways are wrecked, d'ya? ....don’t know of a taxi driver that wouldn’t faint or develop a new perspective on religion at the sight of us.”

"that happened last night, sam."

"...hm, guess it did."

Chapter Text

the subways still worked. sam wasn’t really sure why that surprised him. everything else in the city was in a state of disrepair, so he guesses that the fully functional subway kinda stuck out. no security though. nice.

the pair hopped the gate, or rather, sam hopped the gate with max tucked under his arm like a sack of potatoes. guy was too short to clear it. sam would’ve spent more time thinking about how cute that was if he wasn’t already spending that mental energy avoiding eye contact. in new york, that was already kinda standard, but this felt different. scattered groups of people leered at them as they walked past. sam figures that the staring directed in his direction were only because his little buddy had crawled higher and taken refuge atop his shoulders. max must have been the reason they were there.

and honestly? sam would’ve been pissed as all hell about their glaring if he had that kind of energy. it wasn’t that he didn’t understand-their office had already been busted long before max even got powers. sam’s been there.

but max... he didn’t deserve that. sometimes he did, but not this time. at the end of it all, sam wasn’t sure whether or not max was aware of his situation or if he was even conscious at all. part of max was, sure, but not all of him. that tumor had been there from the beginning, and turning into a lagothulu didn’t make it any better.

hell, it got worse.

throughout the entire past week, his not-so-little buddy had looked as though he had been possessed, like he was held hostage in his own body. he wasn’t himself. the situation had the air of a botched summoning. (sam would know, given the people he’s worked with this past week.) the only part of max’s brain that sam even got to see was one that despised him...self.

at first, sam found it easy to separate max’s superego from... well, max. but the more sam talked to the guy, the more uncomfortably familiar he had felt. the overdramatics, the brash enthusiasm, the dry snark. it was all right there. it had made sam feel uneasy, given the way he talked about...himself. whether he realized it or not, max’s superego was an important part of the rabbit. and for him to hate max-his complete self-with that much passion, to the point of trying to kill him...self..

it made the dog question what went on inside max’s head on a normal day. sam thought he knew, but he guessed it was never the whole truth. and that felt worse than anything else.

a twisting ache in sam’s stomach made itself known, and it wasn’t just because he was thinking about freud.

“sam... think we’re here.”

in their obnoxiously dazed wandering, they ended up making it to the loading area. the wafting smell of dried garbage and rat piss was almost comforting as the oncoming subway rolled to a stop.

the normalcy of the ride was so intensely normal, it made sam’s fur stand up straight. they didn’t usually use the subway- it was too loud and crowded, and they had rat piss at home anyway. but this was quiet. just them and the clinical haze of the overhead fluorescent light.

the light in question was far brighter than that of the sun, somehow. it made max’s fur seem to light up while he slept. made sam feel all crawly. he’d shaken the rabbit off his shoulders when he sat down, expecting him to blearily wake up, adjust himself, and go back down. but no, he was.. just chilling there, still.

guy’s kind of in an upside-down somersault, with his head and shoulders on the seat and his legs weirdly bent above him, with one foot hooked on the top of the seat, and the other kinda tucked into his chest. arms splayed out, naturally. kinda like a jacked-up pillbug. max’s leg softly bobbed up and down in waves as he breathed. it gave sam a clear view of the little patches of fur on his arms and legs that grew a little different, as though they’d been brushed in a different direction, and the small patch of gauze on his upper arm. the spots of ash and grease. the dark circles loitering under his eyes. the army of bandaids crowding his hands and fingers. the odd twitch from his left wrist.

sam didn’t even know where to begin, so he let his little buddy sleep as he felt the silence begin to press on the middle of his chest.

he felt a sense of understanding when he looked at max, and for both of their sakes, he wished he didn’t.

Chapter Text

with max still sleeping atop his shoulders, sam climbed the stairs back up to their street, looked up, and noticed the clouds were kinda cotton-candy-lookin. hm. sunsets weren’t always this nice. or at least, they were always this nice, and sam just hadn’t seen one in a very long time. he couldn’t bother caring. at least he was finally getting some sleep when it was nighttime. couldn’t remember the last time that happened. he looks to his right- stinky’s is open? well, sam can’t say he’s surprised. he always appreciated grandpa stinky’s endearingly irritating sense of drive. except right now, of course, but sam’s patience has been running on fumes as long as his pineal gland has. not like he’s hungry, anyways.

sam holds onto max’s legs as he leans back, kicks the building’s door open, and climbs the stairs. oh, that feels terrible.

the lack of power to the building explained the darkness, but it also smelled like a shootout in a fish market as the dog opened the office door. oh god, the fridge. they never cleared it. luckily, the window opened with little resistance as sam hurled out the fridge’s well-ripened contents and looked the other way. he thinks he almost heard a disgusted screech from the ground, but he was whistling too loudly to hear, and the window’s already closed, and max is snoring. oh well, nothing but strangers out there, anyway.

despite his consistently-wafting mcdonald’s-on-fire smell and swamp breath, max looked awful sweet dozing off on his shoulders like that. and max was down, too- hasn’t so much as moved his head since they got on the subway. sam wondered what had made him so tired. he hasn’t truly slept for a week, yet he’s more coherent than his ragdolled little buddy. enough to trudge to their bedroom, at least. sam passes by a mirror, noting how max’s little paws are hooked on the brim of his hat. he looks quite innocent, and sam has to internally stifle a chuckle at the thought. far from it. far, far from it.

doesn’t mean he can’t pretend, though.

gently, he begins to pry max off his shoulders, getting on tiptoes to set him in the top bunk. but his hat goes with him, along with the first intentional sound he’s made in hours. it’s a weird, kind of put-off, “mmmMmMmmghhhgm” sound. max, eyes still glued shut, lazily flings sam’s hat behind him and still manages to knock an ornate porcelain urn right off the dresser. sorry, mr. spatula.

for someone so wiped out, max’s vice-like grip on his ears is just as strong as it was when they interrogated richard simmons that one time back in the ‘80s. the restraining order’s still hung up somewhere here, alongside all the other framed achievements. damn, this guy’s not lettin’ go.

“max, c’mon now.”

“MMMMMghhghghghGhhGhgmmm.”

“...max.”

the rabbit had no reply, only burying his face in the back of sam’s neck and crossing his arms over his chest.

“...okay.”

as sam drew up the sheets and ditched everything but his pants, button-up, and living backpack, max snuggled up against sam’s chest, his hold on him softening from something you’d see on wwe to something on wwf.

sam wrapped an arm around him, rubbing his thumb over the back of his neck. even if max had let go of him, sam’s not sure how well he would’ve taken to sleeping alone anyway. shutting his eyes, he focused on how max felt in his arms. the security it gave him made sam feel like he was sinking into the sheets. as if he were sleeping on play-doh or something. sure smells like it. how’s his fur still so soft, hm? he’d use that rhetorical to flirt if he were awake enough to eke the sentence out. his bones felt heavy in an endearingly morbid kinda way.

.....and yet. and yet.

despite everything, the dull annoyance of sleeplessness began to make its presence known. somehow. it was the same irritating agony sam felt when the irs dared to pay a surprise visit. or when that one goon-what was her name-oh yeah, the insinkerator, decided to test them three separate times within the same week, after continuously escaping into the prison sewer systems and returning to her plan of taking over the city with a reanimated amalgamation of everybody’s shredded-up food waste. somehow, that never landed her in prison-it was the copyright infringement. go figure. it was the same type of drawn-out, bothersome pestering sam had felt when another one of his plans to save max hadn’t worked. the overarching pressure of not having succeeded yet, with stakes so high that sam couldn’t afford to lose, and he wasn’t sure how much time he had left, but he knew it was running out, but he didn’t know when it would just end already, cause it’s not letting up and everyone is looking at him for solutions, and the entire country’s gettin’ pissed off now, but he’s not the quick thinker, max is the quick thinker, sam’s long-term, drawn-out plans won’t work cause hell, max might just die in the middle of one, but he didn’t know when, and sam just knows max is hurt and scared, but,

“sam.”

felt like he stuck his head in tar as he drew open his eyes, re-adjusting to the present day. night. hadn’t even been five minutes. he was met with his partner’s gaze, locked on him with a precision that made him feel so exposed, despite how bleary his little eyes looked.

“c’d feel your heart beatin’ a mile a minute, sam.”

sam didn’t know why, but max sounded so guilty. almost as if he were pleading. all sam could do was stare at his little buddy as he moved up in the bed, reached towards his face, and stroked at his ear. how did he do that? max always semed to catch him off guard. at times like these, sam felt as though max was reading every one of his thoughts like an issue of cosmopolitan. or tolstoy. the rabbit’s keen sense of intuition always took others by surprise, and sam held it in the highest regard. more so than his use of some magic toys. any day.

after max had scooched himself up, sam’s snout was now pressed up against his chest, and the lagomorph gently maneuvered his snout to rest atop it. sam’s head moved with his chest, and he could feel max deliberately adjust his own breathing. made it seem like he was on a boat, but not in the way that’d make you lose your lunch. the nice way that made sam lose his train of thought and forget half of his overly specific vocabulary. made him get all droopy, especially when max stroked his head like that. sam’s eyes drooped shut again as he felt max’s hand get heavier.

that’s quick thinking for you.

Chapter Text

max didn’t remember when he woke up. he was dreaming, and it was dark out, and then he was awake, and it was still dark out, and now he’s on the floor, and he felt the same throughout, like he’d just been awake the whole time.

what he does know is that he ain’t moving from his spot any time soon. it’s just him right now.

and no, he wasn’t confused. obviously, their surroundings were the same as when he saw them last, and his partner was the same as when he saw him last. nothing had changed, and nothing probably would in the immediate future.

but the way max felt and the way max probably should feel right now are two totally different things. felt no different than what happened the other night. he doesn’t know what to call it. he wouldn’t be surprised if he closed his eyes, opened them, and found himself back there. right now, it all felt the same, and max still didn’t know how to fix it. talk about consistency.

max noticed a window, observing the idle twinkling from surrounding buildings, his chest feeling strained from the dread. the floorboards felt rough and familiar underneath his feet, and it made him dizzy. the blanket still smelled of gunpowder and sam’s weird old-timey cologne, and it terrified him.

not for the first time in his life, max’s brain and heart were having a standoff, and both of ‘em had secret nuclear arsenals of indeterminate size. he’d get giddy at the potential for mass carnage if he didn’t feel so disappointed in himself. he didn’t want to feel this again. the world was crashing down, and it was so normal.

max wished he could convince his adrenal glands to shut the hell up, but he knew this haywire deja vu wouldn’t let that happen. max scraped the floor with his claws, annoyed at how his paws were somehow still jittery as he pressed his back against the bed frame. even if it was all over, the near-impossible possibility of it happening again still meant that it could happen again, so that meant it was not all over with. and that meant it never would be, so the lagomorph won’t let up. the thought of killing him twice made him feel sick.

he couldn’t accept that. wouldn’t. didn’t care how stubborn he needed to be. he could be stubborn. he’s max. hell, if he could be stubborn enough to send the manhattan school board a detailed plan on how to combat bullying by dedicating part of the curriculum to all the uses for napalm every day since july 10th, 1997, even as president, he could do this. or was it ‘98? who knows. who cares! max didn’t. hey wait, why didn’t he just write an executive order for that? whatever.

to max’s relief, sam was still knocked out above him. damn, he snores. from what max had gathered, sam had worked so hard to save the city from that cthulu-lookin’ whatever-the-hell. not that he figured it out from the source, mind you. sam sounded sick of the case. he gets it. in his position, max would be snoring like a rhino too. not that he’d know, though.

max made an attempt to save sam, but clearly, that didn’t do the trick. yeah, he stalled and stalled to figure out more plans, but it wasn’t long enough. mustered up enough presidental authority to convince linky to hold his fire, but obviously not enough. vetoed every piece of paper that he saw with sam’s name on it, but not quickly enough.

...oh, okay, he’s never calling him ‘linky’ again. ew.

max had tried every plan he could think of to get giant sam back to still-freakishly-tall-but-relatively-normal sam, but given how things ended, max was just too stupid to make it happen. by the time he watched the maimbots take off, his head was screaming and it hurt to move, but surely, he’d felt worse. he could have done better. he could have, say, had just one more conversation with yog-soggy that would have told him everything he needed to know, or thought of one more talking point that would convince the military that this was all just some publicity stunt, and they would’ve backed off. he could have worked harder.

but no, he decided to be selfish, and if he hadn’t, then maybe he could have saved him. he wasted those chances on stupid shit that didn’t work, and that was what killed him. he was so useless, it even frustrated himself. out of nowhere, the suits decided it was worth it to unanimously impeach the only thing standing between them and the power to bomb the hell out of his best friend. only time he’d ever seen the entire government manage to get along. of course it was over this. screwing over innocents was what they did best, regardless of whether or not the innocents were on the brink of a electromagnetic explosion that would have destroyed every power grid on this side of the atlantic.

so many times, max had slipped up. it cost sam his brain, his health, and it was only a matter of time until it cost the life of the only person who he understood-and vice versa. it didn’t matter who pushed the button, because max was the one who allowed it. he put himself before his sick and hurting best friend because he didn’t push himself hard enough. he killed him.

as max reached for his gun, he reflected. maybe it was good that he didn’t feel any different. this way, he’d be alert. if max can protect sam by spending every night reliving the time he killed him, he’s happy with it. be able to keep sam safe, for once. hell, if someone so much as looks at him funny, they’ll receive a free pair of lead dentures. max briefly loosened his grip on his gun enough to turn off the safety, not moving from his post on the floor. or at all, really. before, he was willing to do anything for sam, but now? he’d do everything.

he sunk his claws deeper into the floor.

max’s crushing internal monologue was interrupted by some high-pitched-sounding something or other. the edge of the sheets tickled the side of his face as they moved. made him feel confused. but he didn’t move a muscle, because who cares about how max felt. max didn’t matter anymore, not after everything he did to him. the only thing max would ever care about was protecting his best friend, and caring for him, and is that whining?

betraying himself, max turned around and found his train of thought interrupted at the sight of sam leaning over the bed to look at him. the whining stopped, but he didn’t miss the way sam held every other breath.

“whatcha up to down there, little buddy?”

“oh, just thinking of all the ways we could imbue our tax returns with napalm. we could spread it on there like butter, or stamp it onto the envelope while we pretend to be whiny romantic poets from the 17th century!”

“it’s cute when you use words like ‘imbue.’”

max managed a cheeky grin and almost turned away again, but not before deciding to engage his brain for once in his life. sam’s claws weren’t usually out like that. and the way his tail hung low and kinda swept the pillow was unnerving.

“you were conked out for a good while, sam. snoring sounded like some busted craigslist bagpipes. ya ever heard of breathe-rights?”

“depends, you ever heard of hear-rights? i sleep sounding like a choir of idyllic baby-faced angels, i’ll have you know.”

“sam, i’ll have you know i do know- or at least i would know if you weren’t awake right now. what happened, did krueger finally make off with those dollywood tickets you’ve always dreamed of?

“....guess so.”

even for a few seconds, the silence permeating the room nearly made max choke.

“you know, max, if you, uh, keep laying claim to the floor there, we’re not gonna get back our security deposit. lord knows we don’t want that.”

“the landlord hasn’t given up yet? guess he’ll learn one day.” feeling slightly embarrassed, max pried his claws from the floor. jeez, how’d he bury ‘em so deep? he shakes out his paw for a second while sam gives a half-effort chuckle. at his joke, at max, at the situation, he didn’t know. but before the dense silence could repollute the air, the bedsprings filled the space instead.

wordlessly, sam got out of bed, joining max on the floor. the lagomorph was caught off-guard upon looking over to see that sam was holding his gun, too.

“...max.”

“yeah.”

“we’re not gonna be able to go back to sleep, are we?”

“...no, sam, i don’t think we are.”

“well-“ sam abruptly got to his feet- “come on, then.”

max didn’t understand, but allowed sam to lead him through their room, to their office, making a quick stop to grab his jacket, to the hallway, and then the stairs, and then the roof. the light pollution painted the night sky with a shade of orange that max could never seem to lodge a complaint about. despite this, max was jolted with a reminder of the panic from earlier. it hadn’t magically gone away just because he decided to get distracted.

sam sat down at the edge of the roof, silently observing the city below. as max joined him, he pointed somewhere below. “ah, yep, there’s one.”

max turned to look, eventually spotting it- a hapless random robbing an old vhs store. heh, as if they’ll get anything from that kinda joint anyways. despite himself, max began to notice a mirthful joy he hadn’t felt in a while.

“sam, i think someone deserves some off-the-record punishment for such a poor choice in robbable stores.”

“i couldn’t agree more, little buddy!”

recklessly firing at the thief made max’s chest feel light again. it’s been too long since sam and max inflicted some petty hedonistic justice on the world’s do-no-gooders. he found himself giggling under his breath, and not even in that high-pitched way he’d do to annoy sybil at his monthly I’m An Unlicensed Public Servant And Also Your Friend So Don’t Friggin Charge Me therapy appointments when her questions got a little too specific. nah, he felt this in his chest. it had been so long that this kind of joy felt unnatural.

if he tries hard enough, he can almost convince himself that nothing ever changed.

they made a night out of it, eventually taking turns and making trick shots, competing for the first to land a hit on that yuppie’s lightning rod one block over. teach her to shill 9-buck mini donuts in this part of town. such highway robbery fits right into the freelance police’s blurred scope of justification.

they indulged themselves for an hour or so. felt like minutes.

now it was max’s turn again, and as he scanned the city for targets, he began to feel uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t name, and it made his stomach stir with frustration, so he ignored it. he didn’t want to ruin this one thing. they were so happy, right in this second. he doesn’t want to destroy that again. he’s destroyed enough. his pounding heart mocked him as he made an effort to block it out. after all, it was his turn.

max prided himself on being a naturally good shot. he’d aim at the general direction of his target, fire whenever, and he would be dead on the money every time, just like that corrupt ceo who tried to pocket all those piles of charity donations back in ‘99 for his supposed foray into internet-based multi-level marketing. whatever the hell that meant.

max always felt that describing a ceo as ‘corrupt’ was kind of redundant, though. right now, he begins to suspect that another redundancy would be calling himself ‘squirrely.’ can’t seem to keep his arm steady. eventually, he dropped it with a frustrated growl, which petered out quickly enough. can’t catch his breath, either. if there’s one thing max has remembered tonight, it’s that there’s a lot he can’t do. why’s sam leaning closer?

the sudden warmth answers his question pretty quick. max instinctively wraps sam’s jacket around himself, closing his eyes and selfishly relaxing into the comfort of its heaviness and mortifying odor.

“i don’t blame you, little buddy. it’s chilly enough to make satan himself shudder.”

the way sam smiled down at him made max’s lungs rot, and it took all of his willpower to look away. max breathed in the thin silence, feeling less inflamed than what his track record’s shown thus far.

“yeah, but that guy doesn’t even wear clothes, sam.”

“that’ll make two of you, then.”

sam appears in his peripheral vision, and max found himself wondering what he was thinking. usually, max just knows. or at least, he thinks he knows. but sam felt unreadable right now. but not in a bad way. like when you’re looking at cool art from some weirdo and you have no idea what the weirdo was thinking about when they made that cool art, and how it was probably some garbage-ass metaphor for how much they hated the government or how they wanted to marry some hot lady they saw walking down the street or the 800th tribute to stanley kubrick or something.

he didn’t mind thinking about sam as if he were some kind of incomprehensible abstract art. sometimes, sam was a piece of incomprehensible abstract art, in his own way. max was no critic.

sam’s jacket is very heavy and it’s making him sleepy again. he’s surprised it happened so fast. max sees the sky start to turn purple as he takes in the city. his eyes are getting heavy too. the pressure on his back feels good. he’s really tired. even now, his body still aches. there’s a burn on his shoulder that bites him if he moves his arm too fast. max has done so much since getting here, yet it feels like all he’s done is sleep. he worked very hard to get here. never stopped working. not once. max wonders if he slept at all when he was fixing the elevator. he’s too tired to remember.

“despite everything, crime still never sleeps. go figure. good thing we’ve got enough of a watertight moral code to maintain a horrendously inconsistent circadian rhythm, huh?”

“..mm.”

“didn’t know you were feeling so literal tonight, max.”

“nah, m’ my own political party, sam. i’m talkin’... dj goin’ all night....... turning couches into.. mm, bonfires. dj gettin’ pissed cause somebody spilled vodka on his setup. now the, mmm. the dj needs more... turntables or some shit...yeap.”

“sure.”

“sam, i think you’re tired. and i think we should.... go back t’ bed.”

“can’t think of a reason not to, little buddy.”

“good. ...sam?”

“mm?”

“why does the chrysler building have bite marks all over it?”

Chapter Text

“why does the chrysler building have bite marks all over it?”

upon hearing that, sam’s chest grew just that much tighter. it felt as though an invisible hand had grabbed his chest and squeezed; like a supersized ghost had him in his clutches.

sam followed max’s gaze to the skyscraper he’d asked about, realizing that absolutely was the case.

the dog let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

“well. that was you, little buddy. well, not you, per se-“

“don’t say per se, sam.”

he heard max chuckle at his own joke, but sam didn’t need to look at him to know that max’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

the silence that ensued could very well have crushed them if enough time had passed. luckily, sam’s mouth decided to go faster than his brain. talk about a last-minute upset.

“even now, i still don’t know what to do.”

“about what, sam?”

max damn well knew what. sam also knew that max damn well knew what, but didn’t feel an urge to call his bluff. maybe later. but not now. now’s a bad time. or maybe they should’ve already had this conversation, and it was now a bad time because the moment’s passed.

was there a moment to begin with? did anything even pass? despite the glaring lack of a maxthulu rampaging through the city, sam felt as though things never ended.

even now, he half-expects a new b-list villain to swoop in out of nowhere and hurt, kidnap, or otherwise antagonize his little buddy. he three-quarters-expects his little buddy to do the same to himself.

this whole time, his partner was a universal constant. max always ended up fine, with a cartoonish, almost rubbery skull that could absorb any kind of blow.

that same skull was now resting at the bottom of the atlantic, blown to bits not unlike dollar store confetti.

pulled the carpet right out from underneath his feet.

“…good question, little buddy.”

the last few weeks had taken many, many things away from the two of them. the neighborhood, for one, as most of everybody moved out. running water. a crackless road. heh-heh. sam’s sense of stability. lately, moving around just felt…. uneasy. breathing felt uneasy. he used to feel settled into his bones, but now it’s as if his skeleton walked right back into the closet. sam wonders if it’ll ever come back.

unless they’re shooting wildly at crooks, somehow never running out of ammo, sam liked planning things out in his head, taking time to prepare for whatever may come their way. but now, sam supposed he’s living… well, “in the now,” as the kids put it. hell, even his definition of ‘now’ felt vague and up for artistic interpretation. it gave sam a new appreciation for whatever the hell andy warhol was doing. at least warhol knew what he was doing. sam couldn’t relate to that anymore. what the hell was happening to his ear?

he shifts his gaze to see max wiping at it with his paw. he looked focused on the task. deep in concentration. witnessing max display some form of attention span only confirmed to sam that his long-held understanding of the world has, in fact, completely jumped ship.

max looked back up to sam, making eye contact. he looked settled, yet timid. slow, yet hesitant. none of those adjectives felt right when sam applied them to his partner.

“you had gunpowder on your ear. made you look all weird and charred. sorry.”

apologetic? apologetic?

if sam hadn’t felt burdened with a sudden-onset existential funk, he would have otherwise felt an indignant sense of confusion on the lagomorph’s behalf.

before he developed psychic powers, sam generally hadn’t felt the need to be concerned for max. concerned for other people because of max, sure, all the time. but he always thought max’s knack for emotional repression was deep-seated enough to render him invulnerable to the moody miasma of the world.

but that was then. this was……. if it’s not ‘now,’ what the hell else is sam gonna call it.

he thought about the last time he would have even seen max with the kind of guilt currently on his face. sam was met with the reminder that he’d seen max with the expression only a few days ago.

he had looked at his be-webbed paws, if you could still call them that, and he looked up to sam, and he looked so sad. the fire coating his head made him look so bright and yet so dim. max looked so big, towering over him like that. but then he waved and all of a sudden, his partner looked so small. he died a walking contradiction. couldn’t say it was out of character, at least.

sam used to understand many things about the world as undeniable fact. when max died, those facts turned into questions. then, max came back, but somewhere along the way, his little buddy lost the answers.

for the love of god, they’re detectives, you’d think this would be easy, it’s what they did for a living.

but then again, sam doesn’t remember the last time they paid rent.

sam feels the sun rising, and the brightness pisses him off. guess he’s still a few hours behind on sleep. if not days.

something rubs against his shoulder, its size and malleability akin to an undercooked kidney bean.

max’s face is tucked in his arm, the lagomorph still cuddled in his jacket. his paw rested on his forearm, holding it so gently that sam almost didn’t feel it there. guess the sunlight must have been bothering him too. sam picked him up, meandering back inside. he wasn’t asleep, but kept quiet. in his arms, he looked soft, vulnerable, innocent.

yep. nothing made sense anymore.

Chapter Text

as sam carried him back to the office, max found himself befuddled. right now, he didn’t love himself enough to think of a less dweeby word to describe it.

when they were on that case earlier, max had never felt so energetic in his life. later, he passed out on a subway. then he woke up panicking. after that, he fired a bunch of rounds at back-alley vhs crooks, and now, he’s back to being drowsy again.

well, he wouldn’t call it drowsy per se,-oh god now he’s thinking it-because max isn’t going back to sleep any time soon. doesn’t know if he wants to, even.

it doesn’t matter either way. regardless of what he wants, his body has completely jumped ship. shifting positions took his breath away. the burn on his arm was, uh. burning. even with the half-assed gauze on, it hurt.

a lot of places hurt. his fingers, his feet, his stomach. he thinks he sprained his ankle on the way here. his chest felt like it was vacuum-sealed with one of those weird machines where you’d, like, put your leftovers in this bag and it would suck out all the air in the bag so it would preserve the food if you left it in the freezer for a few odd months.

it was hard for him to breathe. wait, shit, the fridge. well, wait, the office didn’t smell like God’s Mistake, so sam must have thrown it out the window already.

(you know, God’s Mistake, the compost market that local fishermen like to set up on the docks, every second thursday of the month. max was never one for gardening, but he thought all that compost smelled great scattered throughout grand central station. made for great incognito people-watching.)

(max hoped his alternate self used the same hiding spots. guess he’d have to ask sam.)

he was still snuggled up in his jacket, and he loved it, and it made him feel awful. how ass-backwards is it for a murder victim to hold their killer safe in his arms?

max wanted to walk so he could freeze and give sam his jacket back. but it’s like his body’s stuck, he can’t move. he was so, so tired, but also way too awake. jesus, couldn’t he just pick one already?

it didn’t make sense. none of this shit made sense.

at the same time, max doesn’t know what he expected. it’s not like he spent the last week scrambling through a slew of alternate realities or anything. he woulda taken anything if it meant there was room for him and sam.

oh, he’s on the bottom bunk again. he hadn’t realized sam set him down, still resting in his jacket. did sam even know how selfish he had been? apparently this universe’s max had turned into the same kind of monster his sam had been, and knowing himself, he must have given sam a hard time.

sam was hurting, he knew it. his partner had that freaky stare about him, where it looked like he was focusing really hard on whatever it was he was looking at, but he was also not really looking at anything. whenever sam would get like this, max could never tell what he was thinking. now, max didn’t feel like he deserved to even guess.

max watched sam return with some stuff in hand. max watched him wordlessly take his right paw, holding it for a moment. his paw was so warm as it enveloped his own.

max felt sam gently rub his knuckles with his thumb. slow, deliberate. for him. it felt so nice and it made him nauseous. max remained still, meeting his gaze. it felt like sam was staring directly at his soul. like sam already knew what max had done to him.

“you look vaguely rough, little buddy.”

max killed his best friend and he’s allowing that same person to care for him, this isn’t fair, it isn’t what he deserves, max can’t keep on manipulating him like this.

“how long’s that bandage been on your arm? looks like it needs to be changed.”

he has to tell him. he has to tell him. he has to tell him.

“is it okay if i clean you up a ‘lil?”

“i did it.”

sam’s brow furrowed. max knew this was the last night of happiness or even normalcy the two of them would ever share, and max was watching it degrade into nothing in real time, and it was all his fault.

“huh?”

“i killed you. i blew your ass to smithereens, i did it. i could have saved you. there could have been a way, but i didn’t think of it. nothing i did worked. it cost your life.”

max maintained eye contact, he wouldn’t dare look away, but he wasn’t seeing sam, he was seeing sam.

“i wasn’t smart enough to think of something.”

he saw a specific rock in momma bosco’s lab that sat behind one of the max cloning tanks. he saw papierwaite hunched over a desk, surrounded by spellbooks, searching for one that would do something.

“even with all the help, i wasn’t able to-“

he saw superball’s face tense in discomfort as he told max about the military’s plan. lincoln as he turned away, outright refusing to listen to him. the faces of congress as they passed the movement to impeach.

“i couldn’t stop any of it.”

the last maimtron, impaling his best friend. the remote control resting on the table, with its big red button mocking him.

“i did it. i had to, but i still did. it was all my fault.”

sam had looked down at him and waved goodbye, just like sam’s doing, right in front of him. the grief in his eyes, it was just like what max saw in his face now.

“…max.”

he mouthed an ’i’m sorry,’ but the words couldn’t come out. up until now, he’s been a stranger to feelings of guilt and remorse; they never really crossed his mind. but now?

it was as though max didn’t exist anymore. the weight of his actions, it was all he could feel now. it had crushed him. all that was left of him was what he did, and he deserved it. he knew he did.

“….oh.”

max knows that sam will be upset. he knows that soon he’ll hear that little puppy whine and little choked breaths, and it will have been all his fault.

“how long has it been for you?”

“a week,” max whispers.

“….oh, max.”

sure enough, max can just barely hear a quiet whine come from the back of sam’s throat. sam looked so hesitant, almost taken aback. max didn’t blame him.

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry i did it. i could have done something else, but i didn’t. it’s because of me, i did it.”

he started to hear the dog’s breathing hitch, unmistakable.

“for the love of god, max-”

max watched him scramble next to him and sharply reach out. sam’s arms were enveloping him, holding him so tight.

“-shut up! shut up, shut up.”

max obeyed, laying still as sam began to cry into his chest. his sobs had never sounded so loud before. except that one time in 2007 when dolly parton canceled a show in times square due to a rabies outbreak and inclement weather. but this was an even deeper pain, somehow.

he reached out and held whatever parts of sam he could reach. max rubbed the back of his head with his thumb and wrapped his other arm around sam’s shoulder.

it felt wrong for max to do so, and it felt like he didn’t deserve it, but dammit, to see him hurting like this, he just couldn’t take it.

max felt his best friend tremble in his arms as his chest began to grow damp.

“i’m sorry, sam-“

“stop apologizing, it wasn’t your fault! it wasn’t-“

max didn’t understand. he didn’t want to.

“it wasn’t your fault, max, you tried your-your damndest, and they kept telling you how unlikely it was-“

sam nuzzled into his chest, holding him even tighter. it felt like he was determined. to do what, max didn’t know. his breathing shook, sounded so heavy.

“-and you kept getting reminded that they couldn’t just keep trying forever, and you kept trying to think of something you could do, but none of it, it didn’t-“

sam’s own whine interrputed him, the whine in turn being interrupted by more sobs. max could hardly hear his partner’s voice under his breath, but luckily, he had a pair of big-ass ears.

“…it wasn’t your fault. please.”

if max wasn’t at a loss for words then, he… sure as hell was now. it was all he could do to hold sam as tightly as sam was holding him. how did sam know? why did sam know? was sam reading his mind? was he developing psychic powers again? was he going to turn into a monster again, would he have to kill him twice? max’s blood ran cold.

in that moment, max’s mouth decided to move faster than his brain. the familiarity of it was almost a relief.

“..sam, don’t go.”

almost.

sam pulled back to look at him again, eyes so red and glazed-over. he held max’s face in both of his paws and max clutched his wrists.

sam gently pressed his forehead against max’s and closed his eyes. max did the same.

sam then reeled back and smacked their heads together like a rock-holding neanderthal trying to make fire.

“friggin’ christ, the hell was that for?!”

sam settled his snout into the crook of max’s neck. max wrapped his arms around sam again.

“i’m not going. i don’t want to. i’ve got the safest place in the world right here.”

safe. with him, sam felt safe. max couldn’t cry, even if he wanted to. the tears just didn’t come, they haven’t for a week. longer than that, even.

but as sam nuzzled further against him, max realized this was the closest he’d gotten yet.

Chapter Text

sam kept snuggling into max for a little bit. he’d rub the lagomorph’s back and plant little kisses wherever he could reach. his face was still all puffy and hot, but it felt a little better against his partner’s chest. max kept huggin’ him too, even scratching that one good spot behind his ears, using his claws juuuuust so. if sam found himself leaning into the touch, he didn’t care, because for once, this made sense.

eventually, he’d made up his mind. after gaining the willpower to pull away, sam looked at max with a somewhat stern gaze, taking his paw, kissing his knuckles, so max knew he wasn’t necessarily angry.

“little buddy. listen to me now, alright?”

a little nod.

“so you blame yourself, and you think it’s your fault. and no matter how many times i tell you it isn’t, you’re not gonna believe me right now, are ya?”

a little shake.

no, sam wasn’t angry. he was determined. to do what, well. sam had a pretty good idea.

“okay. then i wanna tell you something different that’ll hopefully get through that thick skull ‘a yours.”

his little buddy, he looked so despondent. he wouldn’t change all of that today, he knew that. but maybe he could chip away at it, little by little.

like that jawbreaker max had 5 years ago. chewed at that thing for months, mold be damned. and he finished it! said the emergency course of antibiotics was nothing but a testament to the art of sheer willpower. and well, max was nothing if not stubborn.

“i forgive you, max.”

“….sam-“

“i. forgive you.”

damn if sam wasn’t stubborn too.

a beat of tense, heavy silence between them, neither party breaking eye contact. an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. heh, some things never change.

sam took both of max’s paws in his own. he kept his voice low, but soft. determined.

“you wanna apologize to me? then here’s what you’re gonna do. you’re gonna sit right there and you’re gonna tell me what hurts, and you’re gonna let me patch you up.”

his partner adopted a hesitant, muted look of surprise.

“and it’s not because i feel obligated to, or like i have to. i know you can do this yourself. but you listen to me, okay? i want to.”

max’s gaze dropped, observing his paws in sam’s.

“would that be okay?”

it felt alien to see max so timid. but sam understood, now. after all, sam was in the same boat.

his buddy kept his gaze low and took a slow deep breath. then sam saw a little nod. the dog felt his tail slowly begin to wag and didn’t care.

he brought both of max’s paws up to kiss them again. he couldn’t help it, knew his little buddy was weak for that kind of stuff. sure, you’d expect it from sam, and you’d be right.

“thank you, max.”

but only sam knew how max blushed whenever he pretended they were in casablanca, but instead they stayed together and weren’t in danger, or something like that, and that they were in new york instead of wherever the hell they were, and come to think of it, sam doesn’t remember the last time he’s even seen that movie.

oh, whatever. seeing the sun catch his husband’s face made sam forget what made that flick so special to begin with, anyway.

“can i see your arm? looks like it hurts.”

max acquiesced, and sam began unwrapping the gauze. when he got to the deepest layers, max grimaced and his ears twitched. looking at it, it was no wonder. it was a small patch, but the fur was all singed off around it, and it looked all red and gross.

“ew.”

“yeah.”

“whatdja do?”

“i was fixing the elevator and something, like, sparked. i dunno. got outta the way before it could take out my arm or something, but it still kinda nabbed me. don’t remember how exactly. sybil patched it up for me.”

sam winced on his behalf.

“did you change it after that?”

“no…..i had bigger priorities.”

“you’re lucky you’re so cute, otherwise i’d nag you about it.”

“i’m sorry.”

sam leaned forward to kiss his cheek, nuzzling in the fur. he whispered, “apologize again, and i’ll smack you with my revolver.”

max leaned into sam’s snout, just slightly. “using the barrel or the handle?”

sam noticed the corner of max’s mouth turn upwards at the idea of senseless comedic violence, and he kissed him there, too. “the barrel, of course. more weight in it.”

“…you spoil me, sam.”

sam planted another kiss and then went to work on max’s arm. he hated the way max’s little face scrunched up like that. he took his time, spacing everything out to give max time to breathe.

“i know it hurts, not even in the fun way, but you’re doing good. just keep breathin’ for me, ok?”

a terse nod.

sam cleaned it, applied some ointments, and wrapped it back up. max breathed in and then out, leaning against the headboard.

“better?”

“yeah.”

“good. where else, doll?”

max paused for a moment and then looked at his left ankle. he tried turning it slightly, but winced, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“okay. what happened here?”

this continued through the morning. sam went through every injury, fixing him up the best he could, gently holding him in his paws as he learned how the injuries got there to begin with.

in the end, it gave him a clearer picture of what max went through to get here. the injuries, too, then made sense.

max traveled through so many parallel universes, as many as he could get his hands on, just to find one with room for him. for a week straight, jesus, he must have worked so hard. oh, no wonder he was so exhausted.

he sat back against the headboard, put his jacket back around max’s shoulders and scooped him in his arms. for the first time in a while, he felt the shining hand of clarity begin to slap him silly.

this whole time, sam thought max was the answer just… because. he thought max filled in all of sam’s gaps, and vice versa. thought that max just being there was enough. sam thought that was just the natural order of things.

but now, he felt stupid. why would max, of all people, understand, let alone care about things such as nature and order. he wouldn’t know the answers, as those kinds of things were obviously beneath him.

no, thought sam. max wasn’t the answer.

max was his answer. and it was because he wanted to be.

max chose to approach his life as though it were a game of scrabble. max chose to fire recklessly at crooks as a means of self-fulfillment. max chose to jump on his shoulders at will, to brush dust off his jacket whenever he saw it. max made his life a carnival of hedonism and senseless brutality because he wanted it to be, and he chose to do it with sam.

max chose to sacrifice himself to save the city, to gain every chance at saving sam’s life, even if it meant throwing everything else away. and when blowing him up was the only choice left, he then decided to fix the elevator, to scramble through god knows how many universes, all for the sake of being with him again.

that must mean..that sam was his answer too. max buried his face in sam’s chest, placing his paw over his partner’s. sam held it. he chose max in kind.

after everything they went through, they chose each other. the affection he felt in that moment damn near clogged up sam’s coronary arteries. sam wonders if the world will make sense to him again. if max’s guilt will lighten up.

he thinks so. it’ll take a while, a long while. maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of their lives. sam decided that he wanted to believe in it.

“max.”

“hm?”

“i love you more than anything else in this world and all others. including, but not limited to, alternate dimensions, exoplanets of known or unknown status, nightmare zones and its many derivatives, afterlives of varying forms, as well as wyoming.”

“oh, fuck off.”

sam felt max hold his paw just a little tighter.

Chapter Text

time, the insufferable asshole he is, eventually begun to pass as the world continued on.

after a few days, the power came back, despite the city seeming to have abandoned their building. they’re glad their answering machine didn’t combust once it turned back on, though. so many people had called.

sam started listening to the myriad of messages left the night it happened.

despite having just given birth, sybil was somehow among the first. against all odds, she never stops working. little mary has safely entered the world at 33 pounds, 8 ounces. sybil sounded so proud. and as gross and weird as the whole ordeal was, sam found himself feeling the same. give her a week, she said, and she’ll be available for counseling, free of charge.

the commissioner called, but not with a case, not just yet. sam couldn’t actually tell what the commissioner was calling about. all he could get out of the frenzied messages were that him and his wife were going into hiding in some unnamed island off the coast of greenland, but not too far off the coast, because his wife hates water, and as such, they had to plan their underground bunker very carefully, lest she claw their wallpaper to shreds. he’ll deny he ever knew them. but give them a week, he said, and he’ll follow up with more leads and bounties as it related to the city’s ever-festering criminal underbelly.

then, a message from superball. as president, he wanted to give his deepest condolences, sir. he wanted to make it clear, on no uncertain terms, that he too was still mourning, sir. give him a week, he said. he didn’t say why.

after the power, their hot water heater came back on, bafflingly enough. ol’ rusty kept chuggin’. or was it ol’ bessie. ol’ steamy? sam didn’t remember, but it felt so good to take an ol’ shower that sam realized he didn’t care one ol’ bit.

he lingered upon stepping out, with an innate urge to take a breath and savor the relief of being clean(er). it wasn’t until max walked in to grab something that sam sensed it was the perfect time to start shaking all that water out. despite max wailin’ like a banshee and nearly snapping his jaws on sam’s leg, not unlike that of a military-grade alaskan bear trap, he led sam out to lay down on the bottom bunk, face down. and before sam could verbalize any desperate, embattled pleas for his life, he felt a brush-the good brush-begin to rake through his fur, gently combing out all the tangles. it was followed by the feeling of tiny little claws gently, softly, scratching at him, lingering at the spots that made him start kickin’ his leg like he did as a pup.

“now don’t you feel bad for getting me all drenched?”

sam had every intention of mauling his little buddy in an embarassed rage, he really did. but in the midst of all the scratches, he thinks he lost his train of thought. or rather, max redirected it himself. sam didn’t mind.

flint moved back in, eventually. the sight of max caught him off guard, and they watched him kind of stand there in shock for a minute, all dumbfounded and what have you. but when he got over it, he surged forward, scooping max into a big, crushing hug and spinning him around in circles. real uncharacteristic for a seasoned, rough-around-the-edges p.i. like him, but at the same time, the affection made max purr, so who’s counting? at the last second, flint redeemed himself by reaching in his back pocket and pulling out a big-ass, old-school bottle of whiskey.

“well, i won’t lie….i was saving this for a funeral gift. but while you’re here, hey, might as well!”

they all took a shot, and oh, it tasted terrible. flint, of course, looked none too bothered. god, he was cool.

suddenly, it was five days since it happened. then six.

max had his own shower and sam returned the favor, blow-drying his little buddy so he wouldn’t get cold. sweet thing looked like a dandelion, if dandelions could kill you in twenty different ways, all of which violated the geneva convention, thank you very much. sam kissed his cute little nose.

by now, max’s ankle had healed up, but sam still carried him to bed regardless. forgive him for feeling a little overprotective. he brushed through max’s fur, trying not to vomit when he got to those cute little folds behind his ears that harbored god knows what, and then changed the gauze on his arm. the burn looked better, it’s almost done healing.

sam rubbed at max’s shoulders, his ears, his paws, his back, anywhere he looked like he needed it. and boy, he needed it. for someone so small, he felt as hard as a rock.

“the release of lactic acid throughout the interstitial spaces of my various muscle groups is agonizingly blissful, sam!”

“it’s cute when you use overly specific medical jargon. now get your claws outta the mattress and stretch this leg out for me.”

on the seventh day, superball and his team had finished cleaning up the harbor.

max’s remains were buried in a coffin of lead and concrete, at an unmarked location in staten island. superball said it was due to the radioactivity. sam thinks it’s to avoid the cultists, mortal enemies, conspiracy theorists, and political rivals that would have liked to see an open casket.

(later that day, sam noticed they’d gotten a new voicemail. despite being immortal, it was clear that papierwaite and norrington weren’t exactly experienced in comforting someone through a loss. but sam appreciated their promise to ward off the cultists.)

sam thought that would be all superball’d tell them, but before hanging up, he rattled off a list of numbers that sounded a little too specific. the dog grabbed a sticky note.

“sorry about that, sir. i think my seasonal allergies are acting up. my coughs don’t usually sound that monotone. this phone will self-destruct in ten seconds. see ya.”

and here, sam thought superball’s affinity for burner phones was just a fun little quirk of his. heh, go figure. sam chucked it out the window, and the resulting boom ended up taking out a neighbor’s mailbox. guess he’s still got a decent throwing arm after all.

the next morning, they agreed to get it the hell over with. they marked superball’s coordinates on an old paper map, grabbed the keys, and set off.

maybe it was due to it being 6 am, or maybe it was just them, but the drive over there was quiet. max had his head stuck out of the window, his eyes closed peacefully while his lips flapped against the wind, putting his teeth and gums on proud display. gross.

in his borderline-paranoid monotonous fervor, superball neglected to tell them that this forest was partially made up of… wetlands. sam sighed, resigned, and rolled up his pants while max hopped on his shoulders.

beautiful morning, at least. it was quiet. birds sung the day’s praises while young sunlight pushed through the trees. nature’s glory mocked him openly as sam fought through ankle-deep sludge.

it was beautiful, and annoying, and it made him feel at peace, and it made him wanna punch a wall just to feel something.

not the most inappropriate place to lay max to rest.

sam growled as he felt a mosquito land on his ear. max, who had somehow kept silent this whole time, shooed it off and returned to getting some target practice out of those same birds. the dog felt a surge of pride, as even with his husband’s gaze tilted from leaning on sam’s hat (and squishing it, no less),max was a damn good shot. the trees loomed over them, and from down here, it looked like they never stopped.

eventually, they hit solid ground once more, and ew, now dirt was caking to his wet paws, sticking to ‘em like elmer’s glue in the mouth of a kindergartener. they continued onward a little longer, stepping over a fallen log, pushing past some moss, backhanding a squirrel who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and admiring the forest’s various streams and tributaries, viscious with runoff and decade-old pizza boxes.

eventually, they were met with.. well, more woods. no picturesque clearing, no sunlight breaking through the trees to adorn this one specific spot. it wasn’t perfect or planned, but it wasn’t bad, either. it was just a lot of forest junk everywhere, as was intended. not even evidence of any digging, or footprints, or tractor tracks.

a strong sense of neutrality washed over sam, almost leaving him dizzy.

“i think this is it, little buddy.”

folks who hiked around these parts wouldn’t even think to go here. park rangers saw no necessity in snooping around here. contestants on survivor wouldn’t even bother gathering dubiously poisonous berries here. there was no path. and deep underneath his feet lay his dead husband, who was amazing, and terrible, and a disturbance to the peace, who almost took himself out in a blaze of glory, but at the last minute decided to save everyone.

sam knew that a marked grave would be a bad idea. he didn’t hold it against superball. max’s grave would inevitably be trashed, protested upon, or otherwise disturbed. flowers would be planted, and destroyed a day later. shots would be poured out alongside lighter fluid. a dedicated place to honor max’s memory would inevitably become aflutter with peace, violence, contemplation, and catastrophe.

but at the same time, what could be better?

from atop his shoulders, max wrapped his arms around sam’s head, and the latter allowed himself to close his eyes. max took off his hat, passing it to him as he rubbed sam’s forehead with his thumb. the lagomorph sunk his weight into the back of his husband’s head as sam heard a gunshot. he moved his arms back, and when sam opened his eyes, there it was.

max’s headstone was a nine-millimeter hole in the ground. the residual smoke rose up and whispered his name. the bullet was still warm from the blast.

sam felt a weight slip off his shoulders, but max just stepped to his right side and said nothing. the silence was so imposing, it polluted sam’s lungs. what do you say to this? where do you even begin? how do you comprehend that an entire person’s life, their remains, their impact on this godforsaken world, their tangibility, their vocal chords, their puffy little tail, their endearingly fatal maw, their shattered, corrupted, little yet enormous body has been closed-off, hidden deep, deep under the earth? sam’s vision doubled and grew fuzzy, while his nose got all clogged-up and gross. how do you even begin to answer that question, much less accept it? the dog heard himself softly gasp.

“hey, sam?”

“yeah, little buddy.”

“….smells like bird shit out here.”

sam stared at him for at least seven seconds.

and then, he started cackling at the top of of his lungs.

he stumbled backwards, fell on his ass and laughed with his entire chest. already running out of breath, he wheezed with every laugh and every sob, and the sound only made him laugh harder.

max laid down next to him and smiled, horrifying maw displayed to the sky.

“you-you crack me-ah, shit-“

max rested on his husband’s chest, even though the force of his sobs and laughter were jostling his head to hell and back.

the lagomorph didn’t care. max had already been to hell and back twice. wasn’t exactly foreign territory.

they stayed like that for a while, intimidating the trees from below just as much as the trees attempted to do the same from above.

-

time continued his annoying rampage through their lives, and before they knew it, it was noon. max had taken to terrorizing an anthill, while sam didn’t need psychic powers to see a late afternoon headache in his future.

he sat up.

“you ready, little buddy? if we’re quick, we can harass that diner in queens into serving us the early bird special.”

“with the pickled trout?”

“as if you had to ask.”

“oho, i’m game! er, just….”

max had turned away.

“just, uhm, gimme a second.”

max stepped towards max’s grave, looking almost unsure of himself. he looked up at the sky and then down at a spot right next to where he fired a just short time ago.

as sam made his way over, the lagomorph sunk to his knees.

and then began to dig with a fervor about him usually reserved for calls from the commissioner and unwatched late-night jepoardy reruns. he was almost frantic, he grabbed at the ground underneath, throwing it behind him, as though it personally insulted his ability to induce nausea in any nun within a 20-foot radius.

and then he stopped.

sam settled on both knees to max’s left, waiting for him to elaborate in some way, shape, or fashion. max rested his paws on the ground, looking into the hole he dug, and didn’t say a word. a low, heavy breeze ran over their heads as max took in a deep breath and released. to sam, it sounded the same.

the rabbity-thing closed his eyes, reached behind his back, and pulled out a very familiar-looking cardboard box.

the air was cold and thick as it settled into sam’s lungs.

inside the box lay a few of scraps of gray fabric, all scorched and worn. he saw a handful of 38-caliber bullets. a necktie, tattered and covered in ash, its stripes almost indiscernible.

suddenly, the air seemed to carry an aftertaste of pine and stale root beer.

“i, uh. didn’t tell you. didn’t really know how.”

max stared at the box’s contents, his ears falling to his sides.

there were many words in the english language that a person could use to describe max.

destructive. cataclysmic. hedonistic. audacious. subversive, entangling, obstinate, enigmatic.

but until now, innocent never really came to mind.

max was distinct. he was archetypal of his own self. he invented his own personhood and ran like mad with it, rejoicing in his disregard for the revulsion of the general public.

but in this moment, max didn’t look like a lagomorphic antagonist of all that was wholesome n’ pure. he didn’t look like a spitfire vigilante who rained bullets whenever he damn well felt like it.

max looked like a person who was grieving. max was a person who was grieving.

max squeezed his eyes shut and hugged sam’s inventory close to his chest. he rested his little head on the box, almost curling into it.

despite everything, max was a person. and he had been carrying that box with him this whole time, no matter where he went.

silently, sam reached into his own inventory, retrieving a spare ball of yarn and the lid to his own box—something the dog never thought he’d have any use for.

sam set the items in his own lap and waited.

eventually, max pulled back and he looked up to sam, seeming to breathe very deliberately. his gaze flickered from sam’s face to what he was holding. his mouth opened as though he were about to say something, but then then he closed it again. his jaw almost chattered as he snapped it shut.

his little buddy clutched the box still, looking at nothing in particular as he wore a… sort of conflicted expression. sam immediately understood it, as he’d once lived in that feeling for a week straight. drowned in it. max had, too.

this was all you had left of him. and you know what’s gotta be done now, but you don’t wanna let go.

sam put his paws over max’s,
feeling them tremble. he held them for just a second.

then, deliberately, wordlessly, sam took the box. max didn’t stop him. he placed the lid on the box, took the yarn, and slowly tied it shut.

sam felt a heavy reverence humming in his nerves. it ran so deep, he almost didn’t recognize it.

the dog leaned down and gently laid the box on the floor of the hole max had dug. he cupped the dirt with careful paws, pushing it back into the earth. from behind him, he heard max’s shivering breaths, hushed and quick, now higher than the wind.

sam pat the top of the dirt upon filling the hole. he stood up, hat in his other hand. he then took his revolver and fired a shot into the ground, in just the same way.

sam turned to the dry-eyed detective behind him, offering a hand. he took it, and through the touch, sam felt that max’s whole body was shaking now, to where he could see it in his ears.

being some kind of vague, cartoon-animal-lookin’ things, it was oftentimes hard to tell how agonizingly middle-aged the two of them were. that is, unless, they opened their big fat mouths to try and quote something modern. but right now, max wore single every one of his years on his face.

he looked so weary. it felt so dissonant and wrong, but then again, what about any of this didn’t?

sam was internally remarking on how he could cut the tension with a butter knife, or some kind of industry-grade chopstick, when max abruptly decided to cut him off mid-thought to go ahead and do it himself.

instead of a flimsy metaphorical instrument, however, max’s weapon of choice was the barely-used whiskey bottle from flint, and rather than cutting the tension, he elected to grab it by that, uh, what was it called, it was that long narrow part near the bottle cap. max slammed it against a tree in front of them with as much force as his little body could muster.

which was, to say, a lot. his grunt of effort came out sounding more like a scream.

the shattered glass decorated the ground before them like dollar store confetti. it almost seemed to glow in the sunlight.

“..so much for an unmarked location, huh, little buddy?”

max kept his back to him as he unceremoniously tossed the remainder of the bottle towards everything else they’d adorned the graves with.

“heh, yeah, better watch…. your, your step-wait, yeah-“

whatever that sentence was supposed to be, max let it wither away, and sam wasn’t about to pick it up for him. instead, he gave max the ensuing silence and was returned with his little shoulders just beginning to tremble. in the back of his mind, sam almost hoped to see it. the dog couldn’t stand to see him hurting, of course, but he also knew max couldn’t shoulder that kind of grief forever. there isn’t a person out there who could.

his partner turned around, and sure enough, his eyes were shining with ‘em. seeping into his cheeks, dampening his jawline. the tears dripped off his face quieter than a leaky faucet racking up your water bill.

sam put his jacket around his shoulders and scooped him into the crook of his left arm. max smelled like charbroiled roadkill with a side of fried kimchi. he felt his husband’s body quake with each sob, each little hiccup and gasp for breath.

he never took max to be a quiet crier, let alone a quiet anything, but as he clung to his jacket and shoved his face into his shoulder, sam figured his body made up the difference. those long ears, those sharklike eyes, those build-a-bear-esque shoulders, those razor-point disembowelers he called claws, they were burdened with everything that mere words couldn’t show. which, all things considered, usually wasn’t much, the loudmouth he is, heh. but right now… oh, it almost felt like he was writhing. in all his unflappability, the sweet thing didn’t stand a chance, not here, not against this. no wonder he felt so tense.

sam just held him, firm and secure in his arms. he gave max the kind of anonymous silence most people need for these kind of tears. the lagomorph sucked in air as though he’d almost drowned.

hell, it wasn’t far off from the truth.

max kept his head tucked securely against his husband. and then sam began to hear what sounded like an ambulance, if someone punched a hole into its siren making it sound weak and off-key. and then it grew louder. and louder.

sam didn’t move. he held his little buddy and kept him steady as he wailed. the sound came from deep within his little chest, packed and crammed, built up over time and never let loose until now. it was a shredded, helpless sound.

sam had never heard such a noise come from max until now. he almost couldn’t recognize his voice.

they stayed that way for just a little longer before sam took his legs in his other arm, carrying him off bridal-style as he started walking them back to… wherever the hell they came from. they’d lingered long enough.

as sam waded through the marsh, he wanted so badly to soothe him, to kiss at that furrowed brow and run his knuckles along his back, but that could come later. sam could not get rid of what max was shouldering. sam could help, but at the end of the day, the job of breaking down was max’s job, and max’s alone, and god, sam’s just so relieved that he’s finally able to do it. right now, the only thing his little buddy needs to worry about is the arduous, pain-in-the-ass task of crying it all out. sam’s got him.

so instead, he focused on making their way back to the car, and how the hell the u.s. government managed to sneak a two-story building’s worth of concrete underneath a state park to begin with, and how oddly heavy his ankles suddenly felt, god damn it, he forgot to roll up his pants.

max continued weeping into his shoulder as he unlocked the desoto. sam continued to hold him tight with both arms as he placed a brick on the gas pedal, leaned back, and positioned his feet on the steering wheel, 10 and 2.

suffice to say, they took a rain check on that diner in queens.

by the time they got back to the straight and narrow, max’s sniffles were barely audible, save for a few odd gasps. sam still didn’t let go of him, though.

even though max was apparently a quiet crier, he still had a reputation to uphold, and sam was never one to leave a stone unturned. so he raised his gun to the sky, firing all helter-skelter. that’ll drown out damn near anything else, and at any rate, the neighbors should know better than to get too comfortable. a lil’ reminder never hurt anybody.

max nuzzled in closer, planting a few kisses at the underside of his jaw.

“goin’ soft, doll?”

“what can i say, sam? y’always had a way with sporadic an’ reckless gunfire. put a guy right to sleep if you’re not careful.”

“whatever you say, chucklehead.”

it wasn’t even 5 yet, but right now, sam kinda liked the sound of that. didn’t seem like max was about to protest either. yeah, they needed to do this, but that didn’t change the fact that it left them exhausted. again.

and for the past week, shit, that was the story of their lives. too scared to go to sleep, and when they couldn’t ignore it anymore, a damn nightmare woke them up, and it made ‘em too scared to go to sleep again. the freelance police were so tired of being tired.

but after today, sam felt different. that isn’t to say he felt great, let alone remotely good, or anything but drained, but… different. who knows, maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe that pile of orange mold in the corner of their bathroom would finally gain sentience, hatching a plot to enact revenge after 14 years of torment. or maybe max would learn about the home shopping network.

no matter what the case may be, sam chose to believe that tomorrow would be somewhat easier to bear than today. and that today was easier than yesterday. and the day before that. and the day before that.

he chose to believe in the lil’ puffy-eyed bastard nestled in his arms, because that bastard believed in him just as much.

he parked (read: crashed) the desoto into the side of their building, carrying his husband out of the smoldering mess. he carried him up the stairs, across the hall, past flint’s office (“thanks again for the whiskey.” “you finished it already?” “helluva day, pal.”), and into their own.

he felt a hand unclip his holster, placing it on the coat rack. the thing accidentally fell, and wouldn’t ya know it, sam forgot to turn the safety back on, and one round later, their next case was that of cold-blooded murder. the victim? a bright young (read: at least 30 years) c.r.t. television. like they were gonna watch it anyways.

as max started fiddling with his tie, something caught the corner of sam’s eye.

sam chuckled low under his breath as he realized what he was looking at.

“well, won’t you believe it.”

he opened it, and woooow, even the half-eaten food was replaced.

max lifted his head to take a look for himself and snickered.

“damn, superball’s good. …mmm, but not too good.”

“ya don’t say?”

“hah, yeah. look at the shelves, sam. and look deep inside yourself, and then ask this question to the first emotionally convoluted entity that returns eye contact: would we really keep a fridge that spotless?”

sam feels his face indulge in a loving smirk as he carries max off to bed. he doesn’t even need to think about the answer.

“no, max, i suppose we wouldn’t.”