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They lie underneath the war rig. Praetorian Jack is a wall of warmth by her side. Furiosa looks up at the underside of the great machine and remembers, a lifetime ago, stashing supplies here in preparation for her solo return to the Green Place. That girl thought she was ready, but with everything that Furiosa has learned since, it seems mad that she ever thought she’d make it across the desert.
She might not even make it there now. Not even with Jack at her side. But they have to try.
Their hands are tightly clasped, and he lifts their shared fist to his mouth, brushing the skin of her fingers against his lips, then pressing a tender kiss to them. Furiosa closes her eyes to the sensation, then gently pulls their hands to her own mouth to whisper a silent prayer against his knuckles. She rolls over to face him and he mirrors her, raising his free hand to tuck her hair back behind her ear.
They’ve taken off their shoes and jackets, but that’s all. This time it had been Furiosa’s turn to throw on the brakes. After Jack had agreed to go with her, it was like some kind of barrier had lifted within him. He’d panted raggedly and pulled her into his lap – untucked her shirt and slipped his hands beneath to finally touch her bare skin. He’d set free a pitious cry, and the sound had ignited Furiosa’s body like a flame to a pool of guzzoline.
But when they’d agreed this, they’d agreed it as a goodbye, and that idea had dug its claws into her mind. Furiosa wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Jack, and to do so felt like it would be a terrible omen for the journey to come. So she’d stilled her impatient hips and pressed gentling kisses to his face and brought her own hands up to hold his hands tight against her body, right over her purring heart.
Furiosa had still been trying to think of how to articulate why she wanted to wait when Jack took a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded. He understood. Instead of taking his hands out of her shirt, he slid them around to her back and pulled her into a tighter embrace. An embrace that said later, superstitiously hoping to guarantee a later.
Now, he gazes at her face with half-lidded eyes and traces her jawline with his fingers, a soft smile on his lips. “Tell me what it’s like,” he murmurs. “This place we’re going.”
Furiosa will never get tired of hearing him say “we.” She’s liked it ever since the first time she heard it – everything we take on together – even though she resented her softness for it then. Now it hits her ears like a blessing.
“It’s a place of many mothers,” she whispers. “Peace and plenty. A green place.”
Jack closes his eyes, smiles beatifically, brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. “Many mothers,” he husks reverently. He opens his eyes again, expression inquisitive. “Kiddies too?”
Furiosa tries to remember. It’s so long ago now. But she remembers having no shortage of friends her own age. Especially little Valkyrie, her dearest. “Yes, lots.”
He contemplates that for what feels like an age. Then, in a slightly cracked voice, like he’s accessing something old and rusted, he says, “Sounds like where I came from. Not so much peace and plenty. But more kids born back then. Less born half-life.” He pauses, then adds: “I was the eldest of seven.”
Furiosa’s eyes widen in amazement. Jack seems pleased by this reaction, tucking his head in a little closer to hers as he shares more of his precious secrets.
“After mum and dad died, I looked after ‘em all.” He chuckles. “My little tribe of ruffians. That’s who I was, Fury. I was a big brother.”
And she can see it so clearly: Jack, a steady presence orbited by chaos. Suddenly his preternatural patience – his calm in the face of every storm – makes all kinds of sense. It’s a lovely picture. But before she can bask in its warmth, a cold knife of realization cuts through.
That’s who I was, Fury. I was a big brother.
Was.
Jack is crying. Silent, so it’s not obvious at first, but then she catches the dim light glinting off the tears as they carve paths through the dirt on his face. And then Furiosa is weeping too: weeping for her mother, and her stolen childhood, and for little Valkyrie left all alone, waiting for them to come back. She weeps for Praetorian Jack, who was a big brother but isn’t any more. She weeps for this sorry excuse for a world, and she weeps for everyone in it.
They cling to each other and cry themselves dry. The outpouring of grief wracks their bodies, but like a sandstorm passing through the desert, it heals the landscape it leaves behind: wiping away tracks and smoothing over the dunes.
Eventually, through a hoarse throat and cracked lips, Furiosa mumbles, “We might not make it, Jack. We could get lost. We could get killed along the way.”
He’s pressed up against her back now, his own parched mouth pressed against the nape of her neck so that she feels it when he replies, “I know.”
Something about how calm he sounds tickles her. “I ‘spose you think you’ll be off to Valhalla.”
He huffs a laugh that stirs her hair, and he uses that as an excuse to smooth it down again, caressing it with his fingers. “Never bought all that. But I reckon there must be something, after. This can’t be it.”
“No halls of glory for you, then?”
“Don’t need ‘em.” He strokes her shoulder. “I like to think when it happens, I’ll just walk out of the Wasteland and go somewhere else. Find all my brothers and sisters waiting for me there. My little ruffians.”
Furiosa tries to picture it. The end of the desert. Her mother, waiting with a smile. Jack’s right; Valhalla can’t compare.
“If we get separated,” she tells him firmly. “Let’s meet up again there.”
He presses his mouth to her skin so she can feel his smile.
“Yes, my Fury. I’ll meet you there.”