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Max is tired.
Everything's been hard. He was held captive as one of the hostages against Ash, and only Jessica and Ash's quick thinking got him out. But he is out. And he's tired.
He's not tired of Jess, though, or Michael, or Eiji. Or Ash. He could never get tired of his family.
In a way, that makes it harder. Seeing Ash not fully trust him. Seeing Ash behave the way he does now, somehow younger and more vulnerable than he was before. And he's always been young. He's always been vulnerable. Not in the way that so many people have seen him vulnerable, but ...
He's a kid. God, he's just a kid.
Ash is staying with Max and Jess through his recovery after his stab wound, while they figure out if he's going to Japan or if Eiji is coming back to the States. There's no doubt that those two will end up together again; not to them, and not to anyone around them.
But Ash—fucking hell, Ash. This kid ...
Max hears a noise, late at night. He's not quite sure what it is, just that it wakes him up. Jess is still next to him, and his first instinct is danger. But then—Ash. It's probably Ash, or maybe Michael. Just getting up to get water, maybe. It takes him only a moment to reassure himself that it's just a family member, and he makes a mental note to tell Ash about this—how easy it becomes to tell yourself you're safe. How all it takes is time.
Max starts to get up, just to check on the noise and make sure the kids are okay. Jess stirs, but she looks tired as fuck, her hair all sorts of tangled around her.
"Go back to sleep," Max murmurs to her softly, tempted to kiss her hair.
"Don't have to tell me twice," she says, rolling over.
Max snorts, shaking his head as he gets fully out of bed and heads out toward the living room. There's a shadow in the kitchen, when he gets there, with all the lights still off. It's a slight shadow, tall but thin, almost impossible to sense in the night. Ash, then. Max wonders how he heard the kid at all, with how quietly he's moving.
"Ash?" Max calls softly.
"Shit," Ash hisses. "Shit shit shit."
"Hey, it's okay. What's going on?" Max flips the light on, but that might have been the wrong move, because—
Ash drops to the ground, cowering from the light—from Max, rather—bringing his hands up to block his head, his face. "I'm sorry!" Ash cries. "I'm sorry; I'm sorry; I'm sorry."
"What? Hey, why are you—?" Max takes a step toward Ash. Another mistake.
"Stay away from me!" Ash says, voice a panicked mess. It's not even loud—he probably won't wake Jess or Michael. He just sounds ... scared.
Max crouches down a few feet away from Ash, trying to get on his level instead of towering over him. "Hey. Hey, kid. Do you know who I am?"
Ash nods, surprising Max. Does he really? Does he think Max is someone else, or—?
A terrifying thought occurs to Max, suddenly. Is Ash afraid of him, even knowing who he is?
"It's me, okay? It's Max, right? Your old man," he tries to joke, not sure if that's the right move either. Given Ash's experience with fathers ...
"I know who you are," Ash says, somewhere between snapping at Max and just mumbling in terror. "I'm just afraid of what you'll—do. To me."
Max blinks. "I'm not going to do anything to you."
Ash doesn't uncurl at all. He stays, cowering away from the light, from Max, from everything. From everything that could hurt him—so, everything.
What are you so afraid of? Max wants to ask. But he knows the answer: Everything. Everyone.
Max tries to keep his breathing, even his heartbeat quiet enough to not scare Ash. "What do you think I'm going to do?" he asks.
"I—I don't know," Ash admits. "But I'm afraid of it." Then, a little quieter, "The uncertainty is just as bad."
"I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're worried about."
"... Why wouldn't you?" Ash asks. He asks it like a genuine question. Like he really, truly doesn't understand why Max wouldn't hurt him.
Max pauses. How the hell does he even approach this? "Why would I?" he asks, hoping to logic Ash out of this.
"Everything," Ash whispers. Then he gestures with one hand to the kitchen counter, keeping his other hand curled around his head, protecting himself from an imagined incoming blow.
Max glances up toward the counter, but can't see anything from where he's crouched down. Slowly, oh so slowly, he stands up.
Ash flinches almost violently back, and there's a thudding sound as his body—hopefully not his head, at least—hits against the cabinets behind him. Max winces at the sound, not so much because of the volume, but because ... Oh, Ash. That must have hurt.
Trying not to focus on that for now, Max looks at the counter again. He's not sure what to expect, and when he glances over the counter—nothing looks out of the ordinary. He blinks, then looks over everything again. What is Ash talking about? There's just a butter knife out, and some toast with a box of margarine next to it. Everything else is exactly where he left it, like Ash tried to move as little as possible as he made a single slice of toast. It occurs to Max that he probably heard the toaster go off. That must have been what startled him awake.
He hopes it didn't scare Ash.
"What's wrong?" he asks Ash again, confused at what the hell could be messed up here. Why the fuck Ash thinks he needs to be hurt over—?
Oh. Shit. Over making food? Fuck. Fuck!
"I'm sorry," Ash insists.
Max's stomach lurches.
"Is it because of the toast?" he asks gently.
Ash winces, though not as violent as his last reaction. He's right, though—Max is right. That's what's bothering Ash.
Holy shit.
Max swallows. He's still standing over Ash, but he's a few feet away, at least. He always feels uncomfortable when Ash is on the ground right in front of him. It seems to happen more often than he'd like, especially these last couple weeks while Ash has been here.
He wonders if Ash does it intentionally. Putting himself at someone else's feet. Max regrets even thinking that, in a way—he has to reassure himself that he doesn't mean that any of this—that anything is Ash's fault. Just that ... it's what Ash has come to expect.
Max tries to steady his breathing. He's angry, but not with Ash, and he can't let Ash know that he's upset. He can't let Ash think that he's the cause.
God, this is so fucked.
"Hey, Ash? Come on, kid," Max murmurs softly. Tries to keep his voice even, controlled. Careful. Nothing that could scare Ash. Nothing that could hurt Ash. "Sit down at the table, okay? Please."
Nodding sharply, Ash gets up with jerky motions—so unlike his usual smooth movements. He slides a chair at the kitchen table out slowly, lifting it up a little as he does so that it doesn't make a sound as it moves. He barely pulls it out at all before slipping into the chair, pressing himself between the back of the chair and the edge of the table. He folds his hands into his lap, looking like he's still expecting ... something.
Max doesn't want to think about what.
Moving over to the counter as intentionally and slowly as he can manage, Max butters the toast. For Ash. He brings it over to Ash, setting the plate down in front of him.
Ash looks up at Max, panic in his expression. His eyes flit between the plate and Max, like he thinks this is some sort of trap.
Oh, kid, Max thinks. Please, just eat.
With slightly shaking hands, Max brings Ash a paper towel, folded in half like a napkin. Ash still looks skeptical.
When Max picks up the butter knife, Ash closes his eyes, hissing out a sharp breath.
Biting back a curse aimed at Golzine—Foxx—God himself—and grinding his teeth, Max cuts Ash's toast in half, diagonally to make little triangles. Easier to eat.
"Do you want the crust cut off?" Max asks.
Ash carefully opens his eyes. "I—huh?"
"The crust," Max repeats. "You want me to leave it on, or do you prefer it off?"
Ash blinks. "It doesn't—matter?" he says, asking it like a question.
"Then choose."
"D-don't inconvenience yourself," Ash mumbles. "This is already too much."
"Okay." Max won't push it. Not tonight. "Do you need anything else?"
Ash tilts his head, clearly confused. "Huh?"
Sighing, Max nudges the plate just a little closer to Ash. He steps back, taking the butter knife with him and placing it in the dishwasher.
"W-wait—" Ash stammers.
"What is it?"
"What—do I—owe you?" Ash manages. "For this. What should I—"
Max tries for a reassuring smile. "Nothing, kid." You've paid this world more than enough.
"I can—!"
"Good night, Ash."
"I'm sorry ..."
As Max walks away, he hears Ash's pleading devolve into choked sobs.
But when he wakes up the next morning, Ash is fast asleep in his room—formerly the guest room. And when Max checks the kitchen, the toast is gone—nowhere to be found, with only the paper towel in the trash. The plate is placed neatly in the dishwasher, crumbs still clinging to the plastic.
Max can't help but smile. Rest, Ash. I hope you understand, one day.