Work Text:
Maxwell stands on the deck of the Zephyr, wind tousling his perfectly coiffed hair. Exhaustion seeps through his very bones, his knuckles bruised, bereft of adrenaline to keep pain and tiredness at bay.
Still. There had been much progress. He had glimpsed Zood's sister, Zern, beyond the twisted horizon. And they had acquired two new members of the crew. Was it impolite, to say that one of them intrigued him far more than the other?
He sees Torse standing at the other end of the deck, looking up at the horizon, gore plastered to his iron limbs. He sees also the crew of the Zephyr looking at him from the frightened corners of their eyes, unsure as to safety, wary of the war-made man despite his golden heart.
It surely was uncomfortable, to have dried blood spread about his limbs, to see the fear in people's eyes when looking at him. Maxwell couldn't do much about the latter, but he would be a poor host were he not to offer at least the chance to be clean to the guest on his ship.
“Torse,” he says, tone too severe, unmodulated by gentlemanly politeness. “You ought to be cleaned.”
The robot turns to look at him, golden glow in his visor directed pure at Maxwell's face.
“What I mean,” says Maxwell, “Is that it can't be comfortable, to be so covered in blood. And - my crew seem to be uncomfortable with it.” No mention of Maxwell's own desire, to feel limbs made of iron rather than flesh, to spend a moment alone with maybe the one member of the crew who would not deride him for his learnt lack of whimsy. Maybe that was why Gotches were meant to stay on the ground. They could not survive the joy of the skies. They were not meant for it.
“It is a rather unpleasant sensation,” says Torse. “If you would help me remove it, I would be grateful."
Hands around damp wrists. The movement of metal under skin. The soft whir of mechanics, the air between them small and warm. Maxwell cannot deny the appeal, even as familial disapproval would want him to.
“Of course,” says Maxwell. “There should be cleaning supplies around here somewhere. Follow me.” He gives a curt nod, and heads inside. For a man made of so much iron, Torse's footsteps are surprisingly light. “Will water bother your workings?” he asks, as he ducks his head into a maintenance cupboard, draws out soap and beeswax metal polish, a fine wire brush and a bundle of steel wool.
“No,” says Torse. “No more than blood, and it would be a poor warrior who would be felled by gore.”
The first time Maxwell had seen himself bleed, he had almost fainted. He had trained himself out of that reflex, staring at the split between his knuckles for hours until the lightness passed. Never again. Why a boy of twelve had been so determined to be able to fight like that, he could not say. But it had served him well - better than any other lesson his youth had taught him.
“True,” is all he says, and he peels the gloves off of his hands, revealing bruised knuckles. And then, “Sit.”
Torse sits. No argument, no comment on how Maxwell should be more polite or more whimsical.
“I apologise,” Maxwell says, anyway, “If I come across as abrasive. I do not know why it happens. People often seem to take issue with my… tone.”
“I find no issue,” says Torse, with calm, steady inflection. “You are doing me a kindness by cleaning me. You do not have to help, if the sight of me disturbs you.”
Maxwell's hands freeze where he is wetting the sponge, in a bucket of warm water. He'd brought Torse into the ship's meagre washroom, in the hopes of some privacy, and a lack of cleaning to be done later. “You do not disturb me,” he says, around a tongue that is suddenly thick in his mouth. “It is only blood. I have been covered in it often enough.”
Maxwell takes the sponge, and layers water over the cast iron plate of Torse's shoulder. There is silence, broken only by the gentle ticking of gears, the beat of hearts, both clockwork and flesh. The blood is long dry, spots of rust having developed underneath it. Maxwell runs the sponge over it again, hoping that soap can penetrate the layer of gore that is caked on to his new companion.
“The water isn't too cold, is it,” he says. It was intended to come out more as a question. As always, his way of speaking fails him, just slightly.
“No,” says Torse. “I have… limited sensation. Cold, heat, pressure. No pain. No pleasure. Or - none that is physical.”
Maxwell hums. “Can you-” he almost doesn't say it, nearly cuts himself off in slight embarrassment. “Can you… feel things? Not physically. More… khm.” He clears his throat, awkwardly. “Humans find comfort in touch,” he says. “Even if the touch itself is not particularly special.” He works the sponge down Torse's bicep, russet water dripping off of him. “Brushing each other's hair, for example.”
“Your touch is comforting,” Torse says. “Even if I am not designed to take comfort from it. It has been… too long, I think, without companionship.”
Maxwell feels his cheeks colour, and is all of a sudden grateful that he is standing behind Torse, unable to be seen.
“I hope you can find it here,” he says. “For however long you choose to stay.”
Torse doesn't respond, but the golden glow in his chest seems to brighten, and he shifts his arm a little to allow Maxwell to clean the underside of it. When the last of the blood on the arm is gone, and only a couple of spots of rust remain, Maxwell takes his hand and runs it, gently, along the metal bicep. Torse is… fascinating, to look at, to touch. Intricate metal design, capable of delicate motion and brutal force in equal measure. There's still blood on his hands - hands that Maxwell has, for some unknown reason, been avoiding cleaning. It seems almost too intimate, to wash someone's hands for them, to clean the creases between their knuckles and the lines in their palms.
“Is something amiss?” Torse asks. “You have stilled.”
Maxwell clears his throat. “No. I- khm. I have not met your like before. You are… interesting. Apologies.”
A whirring like a laugh emanates from Torse's chest, a gentle, subtle noise. “No need,” he says. “I too was fascinated by humans, when I first met them. I would be happy to teach you more about my workings, as I did to Comfrey Macleod.”
An image flashes through Maxwell's head, of Torse, chest plate stripped off, underneath him. Of fingers delving between delicate metal gears. Of how it would feel, to be knuckle deep inside someone, not through an orifice but through surgery, through maintenance.
“Yes,” he says, through a strangled throat. “That would be… useful to know. May I clean your hands?”
Why he thinks that working between the joints of Torse's knuckles will make this moment between them feel less charged, less intimate, is anyone's guess.
“Of course. Thank you,” says Torse.
Maxwell kneels in front of him, like a supplicant to an altar, and takes one of Torse's great, wrought iron hands between his own. He lays the hand across Torse's thigh, and works his sponge between the knuckles, trying to loosen the layers of gore gumming up the joints. He slides the wire brush between the creases of Torse's knuckles and palms, dislodging the grime that his sponge cannot reach, revealing smooth shining iron underneath.
“Tell me if this becomes uncomfortable,” he says. “I can't imagine that a wire brush between your joints creates the most pleasant sensation.”
Torse tilts his head at Maxwell, considering. “It rather is, actually. I do not get itchy, but Comfrey Macleod explained the sensation to me once. This is how I imagined an itch being scratched would feel. It is… soothing.”
Maxwell's hands still on Torse's wrist, as he scrubs away a tiny spot of rust. His knees are starting to ache. He doesn't really care.
“Well,” he says. “I'm glad. There are certainly worse sensations in the world.”
“I imagine so. Better ones too, I hope.” Torse is still looking at him, and Maxwell is still on his knees, and Torse's hands are clean of blood and rust by now but Maxwell hasn't let go yet, doesn't know if he's knows how, sort of wants to stay in this position for another hour, day, week, with this quiet, careful robot who breathes through gears and looks at Maxwell like he would never grow frustrated with him due to a lack of politesse.
“There are,” he says, once his heart feels slow again. “Standing on the top deck in the sunrise. I- Hm. I will show you, when we are done.” He doesn't mean to offer it - to offer Torse the better sensations the world has to offer, but as he moves the sponge to Torse's great iron feet he cannot be embarrassed about it.
“I would like that,” says Torse. “I imagine there are many things about Zood I have yet to appreciate.”
Maxwell doesn't reply, doesn't feel the need to, just works his way around Torse's joints, cleaning away blood and rust and smoothing on a layer of wax polish with a rag, leaving behind cold, clean iron, and the faint scent of beeswax and honey. He would like to take his time with it more, but a fear has taken over him that if he stays here much longer - if he gives himself too much a chance to plaster bare hands to Torse's metal skin - he will lose all pretense of gentlemanly manners. It would be terribly unbecoming of him.
“Done,” he says, after another half hour of silence, and he stands and presses the tin of polish into Torse's great palm. “Take this,” he says. “Maintenance is important. I would hate to see you rust.”
“It would make me a less efficient warrior,” says Torse, nodding. Of course that would be how he sees it - this all being to make Torse a better fighter, a better asset. Had that been how Comfrey saw him, just a tool to be used, a warrior, a fighter, instead of a friend?
“I imagine it will be more comfortable,” is what Maxwell says. It is far too early to ask such questions. And sometimes it is easier to define oneself by such a singular purpose. “Even outside of battle. I… do not wish you to think we see you only as a fighter. To think I see you as that. The rest of the crew shall become accustomed, in time.”
“Thank you, Maxwell,” says Torse, standing too. “It will be an adjustment to seeing myself outside of battle. Even with the golden heart. I… feel you may understand this better than most.”
Maxwell nods. He feels he may too.
“It gets easier,” he says, after a beat. And then, “Come. We should be able to catch the sunset, still.”
Torse follows dutifully, the glow of his visor bright in the evening's dying light. Maxwell brings him to the top deck, away from the other members of the crew, from prying eyes, from any disturbance. Zern is still just visible above them, but their travel has made her blurry and indistinct. The sun is painting the scattered clouds pink, orange, gold, and the light reflects off of Torse's newly polished chassis, rendering him golden as well. Maxwell is aware that he should soon be off to sleep - he is likely a little concussed, and the mushroom spores cannot have helped him much. And yet:
Torse says “It's beautiful,” his gaze directed over the edge of the ship, taking in the first sunset he has seen from the sky, the first one where he is level with the golden candyfloss puffs of cloud. “I am glad to be able to appreciate such a world.”
Maxwell thinks a few moments of lost sleep might be worth this. “It is beautiful,” he says, and as far as anyone knows, he is talking only about the sunset.