Archive of Our Own ^beta

Quiet moments weren't good for Max; they allowed him too much space to think. His thoughts went a mile a minute regardless of what was going on around him, but when there was nothing else to listen to, the quiet ones were that much easier to hear.

The built-in speakers of their old CRT were completely busted after one too many impromptu trips to the hardwood floor (which subsequent trips had not yet managed to fix). Sam sat on one end of the couch and tried to read the lips of the actors of some noir film (or maybe the color mode had just given up) – Max sat at the opposite end and had lost interest ten minutes ago. He was currently poking about a hole in the upholstery, slowly widening it (an ongoing project he'd been chipping away at for months now). He sighed.

"Do you ever miss your Max, Sam?" He didn't know what kind of masochistic urge compelled him to break the silence and ask. Sam's face went through a series of microexpressions before he turned to face him.

"Sure I do, little buddy. ... Though I wish you wouldn't say it like that. You're my Max, too, you know."

He wasn't Sam's Max – that was the whole issue. Something growl-y rose up in Max's throat.

"Is 'the Max that got turned into an eldritch horror and blew up in space' better?"

Sam frowned, and Max wanted to bite his own tongue off.

"... Sorry."

Somehow, Sam still entertained the original question.

"... Y'know, I think I missed him even before the eldritch thing."

"Huh?"

"I mean... With the psychic powers and everything." Sam made a slight movement with his hand and looked up at some bullet holes near the ceiling. "You were a powerful little thing, Max. Already God-like, really – just not particularly eldritch. I don't think... I don't think I could've kept up. You were picking up all those toys so fast you were practically running circles around me – if it had continued I don't think," a short pause, "... you would've needed me anymore," he finished, his voice suddenly dry and barely above a whisper.

At this point, a few different feelings were fighting each other for control of Max's higher functions. There was that scratchy one inside his chest – the one that wanted to tear out every ounce of Sam's Max from Sam's consciousness, then there was an indignant ball in his throat at the notion that he wouldn't always need Sam regardless of timeline and supposed almighty-ness, and finally he felt the beginnings of an ever-expanding hole in his stomach as he thought of his old Sam. Yeah, Max was pretty much a deadweight too, once the electromagnetism really started to take hold.

Ultimately, all three were at a stale-mate, and Sam still wasn't looking at him; he wasn't particularly looking at anything.

"Between your brain-napping and the tumor, I barely had time to breathe," Sam continued, and Max didn't think he was actually talking to him anymore. "Soon as you defeated that delusional doll, I thought we'd just go back to the office, order some donuts and do nothing for a while – thought you were indestructible. ... And when that didn't happen, well, I had already gotten you back once – why wouldn't I be able to do it again?" His eyes were shinier than usual at this point, Max noted.

Sam was quiet for a while, then started, and stopped just as quick. He drew a wavering breath.

"... Wish I could'a said goodbye properly, that's all." He rested his chin on his hands as he did nothing about his tears, not even bothering to blink.

A fourth feeling, one that had decided to take a battering ram to Max's lungs at the sight of Sam's sad puppy face, finally won out and rattled his voice loose.

"Aw, Sam, don't cry." Max clambered gracelessly into his lap, reaching up to dry his face with his thumbs. Sam leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him in a surprisingly tight hug.

"Thanks for saving me, little buddy."

Max let himself wrap his arms around his partner's neck in return.

S'pose a 50% success rate isn't too bad.