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Max turns himself upside down on the couch, ears brushing along the ground of his and Sam’s shared office. Bleary eyes stare vacantly at the glowing static on the television. He turns again, this time laying on his side towards the T.V. Nope. He spins backwards and tries to hop onto the back of the couch, face planting in the process. Dark clouds gathered in the darkening sky and rain pelted the roof and window frame. Sighing heavily, he briefly wonders for the nth time that night when Sam would be home. Damn, he was supposed to be back an hour ago! What could be keeping him? Max could think of a million and one unlikely outcomes of what could’ve happened to his partner. Instead of picking apart the exact likelihood of each one, however, he resided to picking himself up from the floor and heading toward the bedroom. Maybe a nap would keep him from worrying. Worrying. Why was he worrying? Sam was usually the one to worry.
A bright flash came from the window, lighting up the bedroom in an eerie white glow, followed by a loud clap of thunder, sounding deafeningly loud in the silence of Max’s intruding thoughts. heart pumping, Max jump-climbs up to his bunk, bundles himself in his blankets, and lets his head hit the pillow, maybe a little too hard. The dull ache, while succeeding in filling his head with something other than what could possibly be happening to Sam and the bad memories brought on by the unfortunate choice in weather, still resolved to make his sour, ever worsening mood even worse.
Sleep came slowly and, unfortunately for Max, with consequence. His dreams were filled with hypothetical ‘what if’s’ and an uneasy feeling sat deep inside his belly. Flashes of light behind his eyes, the hard feeling of rain against his chest, and the coppery smell of blood coating his senses. Tossing and turning, he awakes; gasping, eyes wide, glossy, and glancing around wildly. He shoots up from the bed and his hands fly to his chest, resting on his pounding heart. He breathes deeply and tries to gain control over his rapidly thumping heart. Gulping down the rest of his panic, he tries to remember his dream. Unfortunately, Max only feels uncontrollable rage, sadness, and an unwelcome feeling of loneliness, but nothing else comes to mind. Nightmares? Since when does he have nightmares? He tries to think back to the last time he awoke like this, but comes up empty. He thinks it was probably middle school and having a terrible memory sure doesn’t help things.
His sensitive ears pick up the most minute sound from the other room. He perks up and grabs his Luger from his inventory. Surely, the ensuing fight from whatever broke into their office will put his mind at ease, as all violence does. Grinning, he jumps through the doorway and starts to shoot blindly.
“Woah, hey!” Through the mental haze of Max’s violent tendencies and the physical haze of gunsmoke, Max sees a cowering brown and blue blob. As the rest of his post nightmare fuel wears off, he realizes that the figure he mistook for an intruder was Sam! Why wasn’t Sam the first thing he thought when he heard such a not-so-suspicious-anymore noise? Max grins even wider, launches himself off the floor at his husband, and slams his forehead directly into Sam’s. Sam grips onto Max’s hips as they come crashing to the floor.
“Oof!” Sam starts as he lands hard on his butt. “Holy newly hooved horses horsing around at a gala, Max! What in the world was that about?” Sam’s arms hung loosely around the lagamorph’s waist while Max’s clung tightly around Sam’s neck. Sam heard the telltale clackity sound of what could only be Max’s gun clattering loudly to the floor. Sam feels Max’s grip tighten slightly, almost enough not to notice. But Sam notices. “Max?”
Max immediately pulls back with a grin that looks a tad too forced for Sam’s liking. “Sorry, Sam! Just…” Max takes a minute to think up an excuse. “Missed ya’ is all.”
Despite Max’s best effort in quelling Sam’s unnerve, he looks entirely unconvinced by Max’s lackluster excuse. “Ya’ sure that’s all it was, little buddy?” Sam says, obviously concerned by the sudden bombardment and seemingly subsequent backtracking of Max’s emotions.
Was Max going soft? He didn’t much like to think about what they had come to calling “the accident”, but not talking about it meant not coming to terms with it, which Max notes was beginning to take a toll on his mental health. While not usually one to speak so openly about his emotions and feelings, he had to admit that talking through things with Sam would probably, most definitely, undeniably, make it go a lot smoother and ease the lagomorph’s mind. That didn’t mean Max was going to do it, though. That sure to be rough conversation could wait a while.
“O’ course, Sam. Can’t a man just miss his husband?”