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Chapter Text

Miraculously, somehow, they make it out of Katur. 

They’re all beaten up and disheveled from the fight as the submarine putters through the water, propellers mostly functional from whatever scrap fix Marya and Kocka had managed to piece together at the temple. 

The mood as they head back up to the surface is somber with the weight of the almost-success of the Eyeless Hand and the troves of information they’d discovered in Comfrey’s lab.

Maxwell, for one, is exhausted, even as his mind runs a mile a minute. He stands in the submarine, trying to process all that just happened. He flexes his hand, feels the bruises and bones grind together from where he’d made his hits.

The rest of the crew is scattered around in various states. Daisuke’s stripped his broken dive suit and shirt off, Monty checking on his ribs where a large purple bruise spreads across the old man’s abdomen. 

Olethra is curled in her mech, visors tinted in a way that he can’t see inside. She was quiet as they loaded back onto the ship, which was concerning, but Max files it away to remind himself to check on her later. 

Marya is piloting them back up to the surface, Kocka curled in her lap. Her goggles, with their shattered lenses, are still perched on her forehead. 

A glance over at Van finds her staring out the window at the back of the ship, towards the portal, new arm resting against the obsidian mirror. The tentacles curl and flex as the ship gets further away, the warm orange light dimming with distance. There’s a far off look in the bosun’s eyes. No one has mentioned the change, all of them more focused on killing the Eyeless Hand and keeping the beacons lit. 

And the beacons are lit, Maxwell knows, being powered by Torse’s golden heart, shoved into the engine. Torse kneels at the back, disanimated, powered down, visor dark. 

Maxwell stares at the iron spikes coming off the man’s shoulders, at the hand that had gripped his so firmly in handshake. I have never felt a stronger hand of flesh. It hits him now, seeing his friend frozen.

As if on autopilot, his feet move towards the automata. He reaches a hand out, hesitates, then carefully takes the iron heart out from where he’d seen Torse store it when they first met. 

Max holds the heart gently, tracing a now-gloved hand over the ridges, staring down at the iron. 

“You’re not going to put that in right now, are you?” Monty asks softly, from just behind him, coming to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“No,” he responds, almost a whisper.

He wants to, though.

Wants to know that Torse is alive and functional, wants to hear the ticking of the heart beating between the man’s iron ribs, wants to be able to talk to him again, to learn more about where he comes from, his family, his culture. Wants to know him.

“We’ll get him back,” Monty promises, giving his shoulder a squeeze, before he heads off to check on someone else.

They’ve got a few more hours before they’re back on land, and Maxwell is tired, bone deep weariness settling in as the events of the day settle in. 

He lowers himself to the ground, leaning against Torse’s body, the cooling metal pressing into his skin. Torse’s heart is tucked to his chest. 

Max closes his eyes and drifts.

—

The rest of the crew of the Zephyr is there to meet them when they arrive back some amount of hours later, to some shouts and whistles. 

Max maneuvers both himself and Torse’s body, strapped to his back, onto the ship, careful of corners. The automaton is by no means light, metal ridges scraping and digging into his back, but he makes it to the workshop without incident. Carefully, he lays Torse down onto the workbench.

He finds himself slumping into Marya’s chair, the wheels rolling back with the force of how hard he sits. He can hear the crew thumping on the deck above, moving around and getting things back on board from the submarine.

Max doesn’t want to go out there, go face the crew and pretend like everything is fine when it seems like it’s all going to shit. He leans forwards on his elbows, runs his fingers through his gelled hair. A few strands fall out from where they’ve been slicked back, but he can’t be bothered to care.

The few hours of sleep he’d gotten on board the sub feel like seconds. He’s still exhausted, accentuated even more by the emotional weight of what the hell happened at the bottom of the sea.

He drags his hand down his face, chin coming to rest in his palm as he stares at the workbench. At Torse.

Maxwell wishes that he could say Torse looks at peace as he lays on the workbench, but mostly, he just looks still. Empty. Hollow. 

Something in Max’s heart feels empty, too.

The thought of what they’d found at Katur comes to mind, the timestamps and the documentation of his father somehow managing to be worse than Maxwell had ever thought was possible, as low as a bar that he’d set for himself. 

He’s angry, feels the rage burning just under his skin, the urge to bite and hit and break until things are better, until the fire cools enough to be manageable. 

Instead, he threads his fingers through his hair again, tugs sharply, and stands, just as Marya appears in the doorway.

“Thought I’d find you down here,” the pilot says, striding into the room. She’s holding Torse’s heart. “Here.”

Max takes the heart when she hands it over, stares at the iron ridges again. Runs his fingers over it, as he’s done so many times already since Torse disanimated. 

Marya claps him hard on the back. “We’ll get your boyfriend back, okay?”

He feels his face burning, but only manages to nod. “He’s not my-” he says, then huffs, knowing the argument is pointless. “We’ll get him back.” It’s as much a statement as it is a promise. 

She maneuvers past him, making her way to sit in the chair that Maxwell has just vacated. “It sounds like we’re heading up to Mount Charuk,” she says. “Comfrey has some sort of base up there. Should take us a few days to get there, give us some time to rest and recuperate a little.” Marya looks up at him then, pulling off her goggles and setting them on the workbench in front of her. “You look like shit. You should get some rest.”

Max looks at her, then Torse, then the iron heart. He can feel the fatigue sucking away his words, down into some void where he can’t reach, so he just nods, then steps out of the workshop towards the bunk he shares with Wealwell.

His brother is nowhere to be seen, but he can’t be bothered to deal with that right now, just strips off down to his boxers and undershirt, climbs into bed, and pulls the covers over his head. Torse’s heart is tucked close to his own, metal cold. 

Max shuts his eyes tight, curls into a ball, and falls asleep.

—

All things considered, meeting Comfrey Macleod could have gone significantly worse than it did, Maxwell thinks as he watches her swing back over to the Zephyr II. 

That being said, it also could have gone better.

When Macleod pops out from the hatch on the other ship, Marya instantly turns heel and nearly sprints below deck. Monty and Van lean against their guns, all casual like, the same way they had when facing down Morderchestershire in Bellenuit. The look on Daisuke’s face is hopeful, but there’s a wariness to it that Maxwell thinks is exceptionally justified, given the shit they’ve discovered along their path here.

He watches as something clouds in Olethra’s eyes. Olethra, who has been so brave and sky-eyed throughout their entire time aboard the Zephyr thus far, ducks behind a barrel, hiding.

A familiar fire begins to burn through his veins, ready to tear and punch and fight for the people aboard this ship, if it comes to it.

Comfrey swings over, confident swagger and manic energy immediately setting something alight under Maxwell’s skin. Her blatant dismissal of their efforts to get to her in time enough to save her stokes the fire even higher. His skin itches underneath his gloves. 

She only gives enough time to him to make a remark about his grandfather before moving on to dressing down Van.

“You shouldn’t have come, Van,” Comfrey says, almost sternly, like she’s talking to a child. 

“It’s alright,” Van tries to say, but the professor won’t let her get a word in.

“This isn’t good at all. I don’t think you understand. We need to get back to the observatory.”

Maxwell fights the urge to bare his teeth.

“Comfrey,” Van gets through. “We’ve come to an equilibrium. It’s okay.”

“You went to Katur? Are the beacons still lit?”

The conversation moves on from there. Wealwell probably senses Maxwell’s discomfort, and makes a dig that he’s ever grateful for. Even with how weird his brother is, he’s always stood behind him, in more ways than one, solid as ever.

Even still, while Max certainly isn’t an authority on social situations, he can tell that the reunion is not going well, and that’s before Monty begins yelling. 

It devolves quickly from there. 

By the end of the interaction, he’s mere seconds from ripping off his gloves and laying into this lady, age be damned. 

After she, thankfully, leaves their ship, Max finds himself shaking. 

Normally, when he gets like this – this level of anger, this unsettled, untethered, rowdy – he goes out on the streets, taking beatings and dealing them out with just about anyone who will go a couple rounds with him. 

Unfortunately, he is currently on a ship with a limited number of people, none of which would give him the fights he needs.

He needs –

What he really needs is someone to hit, someone to hit that will hit him back without worrying about injury on either side. 

While there’s not any people who fall under the category of correct violence he craves, he remembers the sand bags at the bottom of the deck. They’re usually used to help keep the Zephyr grounded at port, what with the balloons lifting it up into the air.

They have plenty, and it’s not like they’re hard to come by, so Max doesn’t feel a lick of guilt for stringing one up. 

The air is chilly this high up in the mountains, but Maxwell strips down to just his bare chest, practically flinging his overcoat off into a corner. He’s pretty sure he hears a button go flying somewhere, skittering across the wooden boards, but he can’t be bothered to go hunt it down. It doesn’t matter. His father is disappointed in him no matter what he does, and he’s just about ready to throw propriety out the window. 

His hands shake as he goes to pull off his gloves, and a desperate need to hit something overtakes him, settling in his chest.

The thing is this.

Maxwell knows that he’s somewhat sensitive. When he was younger, his brothers would mock him for getting upset when they’d pull pranks. Since then, he’s gotten a tougher skin, learned to realize that most of the time the people around him are just joking, especially since starting at Revington. Getting away from his brothers was the breath of fresh air he needed, getting to go and be his own person and actually get to do something about the ill-fitting rage that was so disdainful in his father’s home.

He thinks about this as he slams his fist into the sandbag, hard. It swings, and instinctively, Maxwell circles it, like he’s in a fight. 

He builds himself into a rhythm, left, right, left, right, alternating fists, punching as hard as he can. The ache builds in his hands, and he delights in it, leans further into it. One more hard punch, and the knuckles on his right hand split.

Maxwell pictures slamming his fist into Longspot’s face as he takes his next swings, then thinks of the research they’d found in the laboratory in Katur. His father’s name, Morderchestershire, 850,000 in debt. 

Thinks of the final days of his grandfather, sick and dying, alone in his room in the manor. 

The rage kindles in him anew, and he finds his punches getting sloppier, bag swinging haphazardly as he slams his fist into it over and over again. 

Why isn’t this helping, Max thinks, as more voices and memories come up.

Monty, yelling at Comfrey. 

Marya’s face as the wind rider had swung aboard.

Olethra, hiding from her own grandmother, the woman who she’d looked up to her entire life.

So beats a worthy heart, engraved on a golden heart that Maxwell knows Comfrey made for Torse, as if his iron one wasn’t worth anything. As if he wasn’t worth anything, before she found him.

Torse, disanimated in Marya’s workshop.

Distantly, he thinks he feels tears running down his cheeks, but all he can focus on is the anger, the desperate need to put things right, the feeling of his fists hitting, hitting, hitting this sandbag until there’s nothing left. Something feels like it’s tearing inside his chest as he pounds his fists forwards.

The sandbag, at this point, has a solid ring of spotted blood around the center from the torn knuckles that Maxwell now sports on both hands. With each hit, he can feel the skin separate more, welcoming the sting alongside the ache.

Wealwell’s voice comes to mind.

If our father murdered our grandfather, we're gonna have to kill him, right?

With one more violent hit, the sandbag explodes, the contents falling to the floor in a whoosh.

The anger still courses through Max, and with a yell, he turns and slams his fist into the wooden wall.

Even with the high quality wood that the ship is built with, the center of the plank buckles slightly under the force, edges splintering inwards. It’s not completely split in half, but it’s definitely going to need to be replaced.

He stands there, heaving, rage and panic, blood and teeth, hands still shaking, why are they still shaking?

Everything still feels too much, and an anxious hum cuts through Maxwell’s chest. It helps, helps, such a small amount, but it’s still something, and so he does it again. 

Suddenly, he doesn’t have the strength to hold himself up, and collapses to his knees on the ground, rocking back and forth. He hums again, an almost guttural noise, rocks back and forth.

It’s still, somehow, not enough, so Maxwell reaches up to his hair, threads his hands through the gelled locks, and pulls. The tightness in his knuckles and the pain in his scalp help, the pain grounding.

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, curled on top of the pile of sand, crying and rocking and humming and pulling tight on his hair, but eventually, the bite of the wind against his bare back brings him back to himself. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he unravels his hands from the vice grip they’d had on his hair. 

“Gotch,” Van’s voice says, from not too far away. “Maxwell.”

He tenses. 

When he was younger, he would have what his father called his “moments”. Times where Maxwell would find himself overwhelmed, overcome with emotion, enough to break down over it.

Since being on board the Zephyr, he hasn’t had one yet. He should’ve known that his luck was running out, but even so, he had at the very least hoped to hide it when it did come about.

No such luck.

“Max,” Van’s voice repeats. 

“Go away,” Max manages to get out, voice hoarse. 

“No can do, kid. Gotta make sure you’re alright.”

“Gods, would you just leave me alone!” he bursts out, lifting his head and baring his teeth, a growl coming from his chest. Shit, he thinks. I just yelled at Van. A mild panic overcomes him, and he finds himself scrambling back, out of the bosun’s reach, tucking his head back under his forearms, protecting.

“Maxwell,” she says again, voice soft. There’s a note to it that he can’t discern. “Max. I ain’t gonna hurt you, okay? It’s been a long few days, and a lotta shit’s gone down. Ain’t no one gonna blame you for having feelings about it.”

Carefully, Max lifts his head, glaring out at Van. There’s something he wants to say, an apology, a rebuttal, or maybe thanks, but the words catch in his throat, and the familiar feeling of powerless frustration wells up in his chest. He reaches up to tangle his fingers in his hair again, giving it a sharp tug. 

It’s not enough. He needs more. He needs –

A groan comes out, ripped from his chest. He balls his hands back into a fist, strikes his head twice before a smooth something comes and wraps around his wrist, gentle but firm. Max tugs against the pressure, seeking –

Suddenly, he’s being pulled forward, forehead coming to rest on a solid chest. An arm wraps around his shoulder, sturdy, tight enough that he can feel himself starting to relax. The skin on skin isn’t his favorite feeling in the world, but the bosun is warm, and he leans into the touch. Van hums as she holds him, rocking slightly, and Max focuses on the vibrations that he can hear where his ear rests against her chest. 

Max slumps against Van, mind slowly quieting. His words are still locked somewhere inside his chest, but at least his tears have stopped. The tentacles release his wrists, and he reaches out, clutching her shirt as they sit. 

Eventually, the embarrassment wins out, and he extracts himself from the sailor’s arms. 

“There he is,” she says, smiling softly at him as he sits fully up on his own. “Feeling any better?”

Max nods, focused on his hands where they now sit in his lap. The knuckles are torn, some with chunks missing. His eyes drift over to Van, catching on the spots of red that now dot her shirt. 

He somehow manages to pull the energy to talk. “Sorry,” he croaks out, then hums. It soothes him a little bit. He fights the urge to rock.

“Aw, don’t worry about it, Gotch. Happens to the best of us. You shoulda seen me back when I was your age. I was a bleedin’ mess back then, I’ll tell ya that now.”

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say to that, so he just nods.

“Can I take a look at your hands? I just want to make sure nothing’s broken or sprained,” Van asks, reaching out her flesh hand.

Tentatively, Max places his right hand in hers, only looking at her face once she begins to turn the hand to inspect it. Her focus is sharp, but there’s a pinched expression behind it. He’s not sure if it’s him that put it there, or the entire massive pile of shit they’ve all just been served during the last twenty-four hours. 

Maybe he’ll talk to her later. He doesn’t think he has the words for that conversation, let alone enough to get through the rest of this interaction.

Van reaches into her waist pouch, pulling out a bottle of something and a long wrap. “Nothing looks torn or broken on this one, but I’m still going to wrap it. You really did a number on yourself, huh, kid? This might sting.”

It does, in fact, sting, but it’s not like Maxwell isn’t used to the pain that comes with patching himself up after a fight. 

His hand is cleaned and wrapped quickly, then she moves on to the other one, which receives the same treatment. Van works in silence, and Max is grateful.

As she’s finishing up, he speaks. “I don’t know how to fix this, Van,” he whispers, words torn from his throat. “I can’t.”

The bosun doesn’t pause as she tucks the remaining wrap around his wrist. “We’re going to figure it out, okay? It’s not just you on this boat. You’ve got a whole crew of people behind you.” She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, and he finds himself looking her in the face. “We’ll fix this. Together.”

“Okay,” he says. 

Now that he’s been still for long enough, Maxwell shivers against the cold air. Van claps him on the back, hand a solid weight against his shoulder. “Let’s get you dressed, and then it’s off to bed with you. Come on, up, up.”

Obediently, Max rises, then picks up his clothes from where they’re strewn haphazardly around the deck. He tugs on his undershirt, then folds his overlayers carefully, neatly, the way he’d been taught. 

Van follows him to his quarters, and if he had the energy for it, he would protest, but he knows the sailor well enough at this point to know she takes care of her own, and he apparently falls under that category now. 

A lump wells in his throat when he thinks about that, the fact that the crew of the Zephyr seem to welcome not just Maxwell Gotch, not just The Max, but also Max. Just Max. 

No one has ever wanted Just Max before, except maybe Wealwell and Samwell. No one else has ever cared enough to claim him. 

He shoves those thoughts down before he starts crying again. 

As they walk through the quarterdeck, they pass by Marya’s workshop. The door is open, and Max finds himself pausing to look through into the space, to look towards where Torse lays on the table. 

Van reaches a hand to his shoulder, squeezes once, then steers him further down the hallway towards his room. “We’ll fix it. I promise.”

He nods, heading into the small quarters. As Van goes to leave, he turns. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, kid.” She pinches his cheek, then heads out the door.

Curling up in his bunk again, he finds Torse’s heart exactly where he’d left it. He presses the cool metal to his forehead, then clutches it to his chest.

“We’ll fix it,” he whispers again to the empty room. The room doesn’t respond, so he wraps himself in the blanket, faces the wall, and falls asleep.

Chapter Text

The deck of the Zephyr is quiet as Van stares out over the darkness of Mount Charuk. It’s late at night, probably well after two or three in the morning at this point, and the cold wind bites at her cheeks as she looks at the stars above. A half empty whiskey bottle sits on the railing next to her. The lights from the observatory have long since dimmed, and every now and again, she hears the telescope inside the dome swivel to look at a new target. 

Distantly, she finds herself wondering what sort of things Comfrey is studying in the sky.

The sky in Zood is different from that back in Gath, and over the course of their time in the world, Van has found herself feeling unmoored as she tries to pick out directions from the stars, to no avail. There is no guiding star here, no object that points her anywhere, at least not one that she recognizes. Back home, she’d always have some sort of idea where north was, but with the directions and the strange shape of the land here, she feels lost, in a way.

The amount of change that has happened since arriving has been overwhelming. Whenever she finds herself thinking about all they’ve found out, all that Comfrey had done behind the scenes, what she’d done to Tazg’wagwa, all she feels a distant anger, simmering, just waiting for something to set it higher.

Seeing Comfrey now, in her almost manic state, the rush of energy that had been bursting out of her as soon as she’d swung on board the Zephyr – Van has never seen the professor act like that, and she’s seen the woman in a lot of ways.

Her rough, almost biting energy towards the whole crew, when Comfrey had been the one to call them for help, the blatant dismissal of all they’d done in her wake. 

And Van–

Van is tired. Tired of having to clean up behind the woman, the intense amount of destruction that she’d left in her wake. She doubts that Comfrey has even seen the havoc and devastation that always seems to be one step behind her, even as the woman runs from place to place, fight to fight. The amount of death she’s caused, even inadvertently, at Ramansu, at the Ectic station, even in Gath, it all paints a horrifying picture of a woman who doesn’t know when to stop. 

Monty had been right, in everything he’d said. Comfrey’s refusal to see reason, her argument that she was in the right and everyone else wasn’t good enough to keep up with her, it’s almost concerning. It almost feels like she’s losing control, desperately clinging on to those who will still follow her. 

It leaves a bitter taste in Van’s throat, even more so when she thinks of the role she’s played in all of this.

She’d been the last of the Wind Riders to leave Comfrey’s side, and all along, she’s been nothing more than a pawn in the professor’s game. Her family, her legacy, has been nothing more than a pawn.

She’d trusted Comfrey, without fail, followed her almost blindly. Comfrey had believed so strongly in what she’d been doing, and Van had fallen into that conviction up until she’d met Bert.

Unbidden, Van pictures her ma’s face when the news had come through about her Da, thinks of her brothers being taken by the ocean. She thinks of Tazg’wagwa, held tight by the beacons of the temple they’d nearly lost days earlier. Her tentacles flex and shift in her indignation. We’ll put it to right, she thinks, almost with a snarl. If it’s the last thing I do.

The worst part about the whole situation is that she knows that Comfrey was just trying to help, in some twisted, fucked up way that ended up, somehow, making a lot of things worse than they were. 

The worst part about it is– 

The worst part is that Comfrey knew what she was doing, when she’d approached Van and asked her to adventure with her, Van thinks. Knew what she’d done to Van’s family, at her chance of having a family, for fear of the ocean. 

Memories of sitting in Comfrey’s kitchen, sitting on the countertop sipping coffee while the professor cooked them breakfast, morning light peeking through the curtains. It had been quieter then, back before the Zephyr and the adventures. Back before everything had gone wrong.

And now–

Van pulls the stopper off the whiskey bottle and takes a long, long swig. The alcohol burns as it goes down her throat, and she relishes in it. 

She’s always wanted kids. Wanted to be able to teach a little one how to sail, like her Da did for her when she was young. Wanted someone to learn from Bert the magic of his aiolis. Maybe they’d have gotten a dog, let them run loose over the fields of the Uplands.

It’s too late for that now. Her body is too old and worn down, and now that she’s back up in the air, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to stop, at least not for a little while longer. The Rusty Nut had been a nice change of pace, but being back in the sky has lit the fire of adventure back under her. . 

The second worst part of the whole thing, Van thinks, is that if she were in Comfrey’s shoes, there’s a good chance she would’ve done the same thing. 

She takes another sip of the whiskey. It tastes like betrayal. 

Van’s never been religious. Never really found her one true god or gods to believe in, never felt like there was some higher power that was good enough to pray to. Sure, she’s believed in the power of the ocean for her whole life, knew the curse didn’t come from thin air, but it hadn’t ever felt like something worth praying to. 

But since coming back from Katur, even since finding Morderchestershire’s apartment back in Ods, since she’d seen the true nature of Tazg’wagwa, since the change, something has been kindled in her in a way she’s never felt before. 

She finds herself closing her eyes, letting the world tilt and turn and fall around her, hazy from the alcohol, and reaches deep within herself, pouring her soul out to the world. 

“If you’re out there,” Van finds herself whispering. “If you’re out there, please. Give me guidance.”

I will do what I can, a voice echoes in her mind, far away, almost underwater.

Something relaxes in Van’s shoulders at that, not quite soothing, but knowing that there’s something behind her, something to help rather than hinder, something she doesn’t need to be afraid of anymore. Determination runs through her veins, flushing out the anger. For a moment, she can hear the roar of the tides, and a sense of calm and clear headedness comes over her.

Somehow, she is going to free that squid, Comfrey be damned. 

She knows what it’s like to be caught in a net. When she’d been younger, running about on her father’s boat, she’d tripped and found herself wound up in the rope mesh lying on the deck. When she’d tried to free herself, it had only gotten more tangled.

Her Da had found her, only a few minutes later, sobbing for fear she’d never get out. He’d gently untangled her from the net, but she’s never forgotten the feeling of being held tight, unable to move. 

In a way, she’s been tangled in a net this whole time. 

She won’t let anyone else feel like that, not if she can help it. 

The deck is quiet for some time after that, just the sound of the wind rustling through the crystalline trees below and the rigging of the Zephyr. In the distance, the moon begins to rise, waning gibbous. 

Van is just about ready to call it a night when padded footsteps echo on the deck behind her. She turns to see Maxwell, not in his usual clothes, but rather dressed down as much as she’s ever seen him. His hair is ruffled from sleep, mussed in a way that he’s sure to be embarrassed about in the morning. Curly strands blow across his face from the wind. 

He looks…better rested than he did before, but the bags underneath his eyes are still prevalent enough to be seen in the dim light from the sky. 

Van had been caught slightly off guard earlier, when she’d found him beating the hell out of a sandbag and then the Zephyr. He’d been exceptionally distressed, and then when he had realized she was there, almost scared of what she’d do. She’d never seen him like that before, the change startling from his usual composure, even in fights.

“Ah,” he says. “I didn’t realize anyone would be out here.” He sounds almost sheepish, off put, almost like he’d done something wrong, Van notes. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she responds. When he shifts uncomfortably, she just holds out the bottle of whiskey. 

That seems to break some of the tension. Maxwell takes the bottle, coming forwards to lean against the railing next to her. Instead of drinking, he stares off into the distance, fingers tapping lightly against the glass. 

Van looks out over the almost glowing landscape, content to let the pugilist gather his thoughts. They stand in silence for a few moments, before Maxwell speaks. “Van, I, uh,” he starts, pausing to swallow. “I wanted to thank you, for earlier, and to apologize. I, um. I won’t let it happen again.”

Van’s brows furrow, and she turns to look at Max, studying him in the dim light. There’s a tightness to his shoulders, anxiety bleeding through his frame. He’s nervous about this apology, and something in her wants to soothe him, but also –

“What are you goin’ on about?”

Somehow, he tenses even further, almost flinching away. “My, ah, emotional outburst earlier. It was…improper, and it won’t happen again.” 

“Gotch,” she says gently, realization beginning to dawn on her. “Maxwell. There ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.”

“I can still do my duty,” Max says, stiffly, still avoiding her gaze. “It– I won’t let it get in the way.”

“I don’t doubt that for one minute. But there ain’t nothin’ to apologize for, okay? We all get overwhelmed sometimes, and this trip has kind of been a bit of a shitshow,” she says, and is grateful when Max snorts out a laugh, almost unbidden. “So no one’s gonna blame you for having any emotions about it.”

He shifts, gripping the bottle, shoulders still strung tighter than before. “I…” he begins, then cuts himself off. There’s an amount of frustration, but also a feeling of unsurety in his tone, and when he doesn’t continue, Van speaks. 

“Maxwell, can you look at me?” Van asks, soft in the night air, smiles when he turns his head to look in her direction, even though he doesn’t look directly in her eyes. “There he is,” reaching out to place her flesh hand solidly on the pugilist’s shoulder. “Max. It’s okay.”

Something bleeds out of him then, and while he looks away from her again, she finds herself relaxing. She thinks about his reaction once he’d realized she had borne witness to his outburst earlier, and things start to click together in her mind, how they had when she’d worked out the writing before they got to Zood. 

His reaction, the apology, the eternal emphasis on propriety, it’s all been ingrained in him, to the point where anything other than what was expected was somehow wrong. Even when he was younger, how he would always put his best foot forwards as an eight year old, never letting himself act like a kid– 

If she ever, ever, ever comes across Longspot Gotch, she is going to tear him limb from limb, or skin him alive, or –

She cuts off the violent thoughts coursing through her mind. “Has anything like that happened before?” Van finds herself asking, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” he whispers, staring at the bottle in his hands, and Van can feel him tense up underneath her hand.

“Is there anything that helps you through it?”

Max shakes his head. “I– I don’t know. I’ve, uh, never really gotten to try anything.”

Van squeezes his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles with her thumb. “If you feel it startin’ to come on, would you be willin’ to find me? I don’t want you to accidentally hurt yourself.”

He hesitates, biting his lip, shifts side to side. 

“Please?” Van tries again, and luckily, he nods, and like a string being cut, the tension releases from his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says, and Van knows the amount of trust that’s being put in her. 

“Come here,” she says, pulling him forwards into her chest to give him a hug. Hesitantly, his hands come up to her waist, tangling in the jacket she wears, unsure. The bottle presses against her hip where he holds it in his hand.

They stand like that for a few minutes before Maxwell pulls away. “I, uh. I don’t know when the last time someone’s hugged me like that before was,” he admits bluntly, turning away to look over the snow covered mountain. He pops the cork off the bottle and takes a long drink, like it’s something holy he wants to drown himself in. 

Something twists, awful and ugly in Van’s chest, because what does he mean he’s never been hugged? 

Has anyone ever told him he’s loved? 

Probably not, she thinks, the way Longspot is.

She’s killing that man on sight. 

“Your Da is a piece of shite,” is what Van ends up saying. The alcohol has loosened her tongue slightly, and she’s feeling sentimental, and damn that man for fucking up this kid the way he has. “If you don’t want him, I’ll claim ya, any day.”

Max huffs. “I’m not sure that’s how that works,” he scoffs slightly.

“Eh, who gives a shit. You’re my kid now, aight? Ain’t nothin’ that bastard said was true about you. You’re a good kid, and you ain’t his anymore.”

He turns to look at her, almost incredulous, but then something settles over his expression, almost fond, if she had a word for it. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.” 

“Anytime, son,” she responds, reaching out to ruffle his already mussed hair. He sputters, trying to push her off, but laughs, so Van counts it as a win. She pulls him in for another side hug. "You’re gonna be alright, Max. Swear it.”

Maxwell lifts the bottle in cheers, then takes another long drink. 

“You know,” he says, once he’s swallowed. “This means if you’re adopting me, you’ll have to claim Wealwell too. I’m not sure he’d let you get away with just me.”

Van snorts. “That’s true,” she admits. “Didn’t think about that. Ah, well, what’s one more, you know?”

“At least he’s solid.”

That gets a head back laugh out of Van. “At least he’s solid,” she repeats, giggling a little. 

It’s quiet for a bit, passing the whiskey back and forth in companionable silence, something more settled to the way they interact, just from the short conversation. Van basks in it, the peaceful night air a relief from the insanity of the past two weeks. It reminds her of nights at the Rusty Nut, after the doors had closed and Bert had gone to bed and it was just her up, finishing the prep for the next day.

It’s not quite the same, but there’s something serene to the strange landscape that she hasn’t felt before. Maybe it’s that she’s back up in the sky, maybe it’s that she’s no longer afraid of the ocean, maybe it’s that she’s doing something she loves again, with people she loves.

The thought of family comes to mind again, how she always wanted to have one. Maybe I always have, she realizes. 

And now, with Maxwell, and Wealwell, and Frejya and Dawderdale, and even Olethra, if Comfrey turns out to be a disappointment to her, Van realizes that maybe she does have kids, just like she always wanted.

It’s not the same as how she’d pictured it, but they’re hers, her crew, her companions, her kids. Her family. 

Max breaks the silence. “How, ah, how are you doing with…everything?” he asks, and it’s awkward enough that Van resists the urge to coo. 

Instead she sighs, raising her eyes to the sky. “It’s…a lot,” she admits, and Max huffs out a laugh.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Just…learning about everything that Comfrey did, how it affected everyone and….especially what she said to Monty, the saving the world thing. It’s…bullshit. I rode with her for years, and now, finding out that she was doing all this work behind the scenes…” she trails off. “It’s bullshit.”

“I can’t imagine what I would do in your situation,” he acknowledges. “You’re handling it remarkably well, from what I’ve seen.”

Van quirks a smile, looking at the young man next to her. “Thanks, kid. It ain’t easy, but seeing what she’s done…there’s a part of me that understands why she did what she did. What I can’t understand is why she won’t slow down, actually try to fix the damage that she’s caused everywhere she’s gone.”

Max hums. “It almost seems like she’s running from something,” he observes, then looks at her. “I was also wondering about, ah, the more physical aspect of how you were doing.”

Van waves her tentacles at him, amused. “Oh, you mean these old things? It’s been a change for sure,” she concedes. “There’s a lot of things that I’m going to have to relearn how to do, but…I can imagine they’ll be useful in the future. It’s just going to take some time.”

He reaches a hand out, as if to touch them, but then hesitates. Van reaches out, closing the distance. His hands are warm, despite the chill of the night air. She notes that the bandages wrapped around his knuckles have shifted a little, almost like they’d been picked at. “They’re incredible,” he whispers. 

She uses one of them to reach out and flick his nose. It scrunches, and he reels back, glaring, but there’s no heat behind it. “Did you have to do that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He squints, then sighs and takes another swig from the bottle, passes it back to her. It’s nearing empty at this point. 

“What’s it like for you,” Max asks. “Being back out here?”

Van hums, turning the question over in her mind. There are a lot of answers, most of them full of complicated feelings she’s too drunk to get into. “It’s been…nice,” is what she ends up going with. “Even with the steaming load of shite that we’ve gone through. I think…I think that even though I was alive, back at the Rusty Nut, I don’t think I was really living. Part of me was…afraid to get back out to it, especially with the curse. But now…” she trails off, not for the first time in this conversation.

Max seems to understand where she’s going. “It’s different now.”

“Yeah,” she admits. “And now that Tazg’wagwa and I have come to an understanding, I don’t feel afraid anymore.”

And she’s not. The pressure, the endless anxiety, the not knowing when or how the curse would take her, like it did to all Chapmans, and the fact that now it’s just gone… It’s freeing in a way she’d never imagined she’d ever feel. She feels confident, even with the fact that her left arm is now no longer an arm but instead composed of three tentacles. 

It’s then that the tiredness finally catches up to Van, and she lets out a huge yawn, then laughs. 

“You should get some sleep,” Max says. “Sorry to keep you up so late.”

Van waves her tentacles. “Don’t worry about it. I should get back to Bert, though. He worries when I don’t sleep enough.”

As she pushes off the railing to head inside, Max opens his mouth, hesitates, then shakes his head. 

“Something on your mind?” she asks, stifling another yawn.

“Mmm, uh,” he says intelligently. “Um, do I need to call you Dad?”

Van almost laughs, but manages to hold it back, feeling incredibly light, both from the alcohol and the entire conversation. 

“Nah, not unless you want to,” she responds, reaching out to ruffle his hair. When his face turns bright red, she lets out a chuckle. “Night, kid. Get some more rest while you can. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Night, Van,” he responds. “And…thanks.”

She waves her tentacles at him, then heads below deck to her quarters. Bert is snuggled up underneath the blankets, nightcap askew on his head. The warmth of love and affection she has for her crew wells up in her as she wrangles her hair into a loose braid for sleeping.

Bert grumbles as she gets into bed, seeking her warmth. She wraps her arms around him, tucks his head closer to her chest, and lets his soft snuffles rock her to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Somehow, fate is on their side, Maxwell decides as he clambers back aboard the Zephyr, Straka falling to pieces in the sky beneath them. 

For the most part, he amends, seeing the gathered crowd on the deck, remembering the hits the professor had taken.

He makes his way over to where the rest of the crew stands over Comfrey, her head piled in Olethra’s lap. Tears flow down Olethra’s face as she holds her grandmother for the last time, shaking hands desperate to save even through the realization the professor is too far gone. 

“Olethra,” he hears Comfrey say as he approaches. “You did so good, kid. This is the start of something wonderful.” Her breath rattles in her chest as she speaks. Olethra bows her head even further over her grandmother, tears joining blood on the rips in the woman’s shirt. 

“Where’s Marya?” Comfrey asks, bringing her hand to Olethra’s face. 

A sob chokes through her as she responds. “She’s fine.”

Marya reaches out to take Comfrey’s hand. “I’m right here,” she reassures. “Olethra saved me.”

Her voice is a rasp. “Apple doesn’t fall far.”

“Got a habit of picking up my sorry ass,” the tinkerer responds, voice cracking. 

Maxwell shifts, knowing that he’s witnessing Comfrey’s last moments. “Olethra saved Ludmila and Marya,” he finds himself saying. “She got both of them.”

“Ludmila?”

The girl in question turns from where she’s leaning on Marya to face the professor, choking on sobs, tears streaming in rivers down her cheeks. “I don’t…” she trails off. “So much has happened.”

Comfrey smiles at her, then turns towards Daisuke, wincing as she reaches out a hand. He takes it, holds it like it’s holy, holds it just a few moments more. 

“I spent another...ten years, more or less, runnin’ around here in Zood. I’m…damn near ninety, biologically.” She turns back to face Olethra. “I want you to know… I couldn’t be prouder. I could’ve gotten back home and gotten sick and died in a bed,” she says, almost wryly. “Instead I got… shot with fire acid on top of a giant, soot-covered crow full of poison robots, shot in the back by a terrible investor in a wing suit who made bad deals.”

Maxwell winces at the reminder of his father. 

Van speaks, from where she’s kneeling at Comfrey’s feet, and despite her dry eyes, her voice is rough, weighted with sadness and regret when she speaks. “It’s gonna be a great book, though. It’s gonna sell like gang busters, and the money from that is gonna save a lot of mice.”

Comfrey coughs a laugh, sounding pained. “Oh, the little mice,” she says, and something in her eyes starts to dim. Maxwell can tell she’s fighting, holding on as long as she can. 

“Monty,” she addresses. “How are you gonna make me look in your book?”

The naturalist pats her leg comfortingly. “Somebody’s gotta save the world.”

Her eyes glaze over as she begins to recite. “Someone’s gotta bring hope to starry night,” she says, barely a whisper. “Set wrongs to right, and freedoms to fight, to ever chase…the day in winged flight.” 

She reaches out, caresses Olethra’s face. “I love you, kiddo.”

Olethra nods, lets out a sob as she grasps her grandmother’s hand for what they all know is the final time. 

“On high we go,” Comfrey whispers, and then her eyes flutter shut, head lolling back, body going slack as she finally succumbs to her wounds. 

The deck is silent, the Wind Riders and Olethra lost in their grief. Maxwell glances over to his brothers, sees tears glistening on their cheeks, Wealwell tucked underneath Samwell’s arm. A good portion of the new crew is the same way, holding onto each other in the wake of witnessing Comfrey’s final moments. 

They stand there, for what could be seconds, minutes, maybe even hours, mourning the professor. 

Slowly, one by one, they begin to disperse. 

Maxwell isn’t the first to leave, but doesn’t find himself sticking around for very long, either. This isn’t— 

He didn’t— 

There’s—

When he first met Comfrey as an adult, her presence had grated on his nerves, rubbed him raw to where he felt he’d needed to bite back. 

And then she’d helped him save Torse, followed them willingly into Zern, done her best to help and fight even when she didn’t have to. Admittedly, in Zern, she had stuck her fingers deep up his nose when he’d just been trying to help, but—

All this to say, he’s only known the woman for maybe a week at most. He’s never had someone he’d just met die in front of him in the way she did. 

And for all his dislike of her, he didn’t want her to die. 

He doesn’t know how to mourn her. Doesn’t know if he wants to mourn her, not in such a way that disrespects the dead, but more so that he isn’t sure she would want them to, based on what he knew of her from the short time they’d existed in the same space.

Regardless, the truth is this. 

Comfrey Macleod is dead.

Comfrey Macleod is dead, and Longspot Gotch—

Longspot is also dead, Maxwell realizes, the truth finally settling in only now that he has a minute to himself, having made his way back inside the ship, alone in a hallway, leaning against the wooden planks of the walls. 

The truth settles in, like a blanket, but instead of comfort, all Maxwell can feel is a quiet, distant horror. 

He’d hated his father, loathed him, and now-

Now he’s gone. Gone by Maxwell’s own hand.

He’s gone, and Maxwell won’t ever hear his grating voice, dripping with disdain and disappointment ever again. 

It’s somewhat a relief, but at the same time–

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now. He’s always held his father’s teachings as law, and if the laws were broken, he knew that what would come next would be severe punishment. Propriety was always the first priority. 

But now, the chains of that are gone, and Maxwell is free, truly free, from his father’s influence. 

In a way, though, that freedom is damning.

A choked laugh bubbles its way up through Maxwell’s throat, and all of a sudden, he’s gasping for breath as it overcomes him. He has to lean against the wall to steady himself.

His chest hurts, both from the hits he’d taken during the fight and the fire from the portal, where he’d tried so desperately for Olethra, Ludmila, and Van to just come back, screaming through time and space to just come home.

He heaves in a breath, and realizes there are tears streaming down his cheeks. His laughs quickly turn to sobs, the sounds almost foreign as he breaks down against the wall.

The final hit to his father, that last punch in the face plays in his mind, and discomfort begins to simmer underneath his skin, in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

Distantly, he remembers when he was younger, the same discomfort settling over his bones. Hatwell had made some jeer, some stupid comment that had hit just a little too close to home, and the same biting, jittery feeling, like spiders crawling on his skin, had come over him. 

All of a sudden, even the dim light in the hallway is too much. He needs –

He needs somewhere quiet, somewhere dark and quiet and alone and safe, to hide away until the feeling is gone.

His quarters feel too open, too big of a space to truly feel safe in. And the crew, for all he loves them, he doesn’t want them to see him like this. 

The memory of his grandfather showing him around the ship comes to mind, and while it’s not the same ship he’d experienced the first time, he’d be willing to bet that the layout was the same or at least very similar. 

He’d found a closet, in his exploration of the ship back when he was younger, remembers no one being around, remembers being finally able to shed Maxwell Gotch and just be Max for a few minutes, the relief of not having to hide when there was no one to hide from.

He makes his way there now, towards the back of the ship.

Sure enough, the closet is there, same as it was in the first iteration of the vessel. It’s clearly not used very often, if the way the hinges stick when he goes to tug it open are any indication, but it’s enough. 

He shuffles a few random supplies up to higher shelves, then curls up, tucking himself into the dark recesses of the small room, tugs the door closed, and begins to unwind, slowly, slowly, slowly. 

—

It’s hours after Comfrey dies that Van sees Wealwell approach where she sits on the railing, looking out over the distant night sky, lost in her thoughts.

“Wealwell,” she greets. 

“Hello, father,” he says, ever proper in a way that’s endearing. He’d taken surprisingly well to the adoption, something that Van finds herself ever grateful for, despite the man’s general strangeness. “Have you seen Max? Samwell wanted to ask him something, but has been unable to locate him on the ship thus far. He wondered if he might’ve told you if he was going off-ship.”

Van’s brow furrows. She’d made a deal with Maxwell, when he’d come home one night covered and bruises and scrapes after Torse had been disanimated, that he wouldn’t go off-ship without letting someone at the very least know, and if he was going to go looking for fights, let her tag along as backup. The fact that he was now missing, and no one had heard from him…it was concerning, especially because she knows Max is the type of guy to stick to his word.

“When did you last see him?” she asks, hopping down off the railing to better face the man. 

“Right after Comfrey had passed,” Wealwell responds. “He gave me a hug and went into the ship, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Right,” Van says, mentally running through a list of places where he could be, then sighing as she rules them out one by one. “I’m assuming he’s not in his quarters or in any of the main areas, then.”

Wealwell shakes his head, watching her think, hesitates before speaking. “He…when he was younger, and in distress, he would…he’d find a small place where he could hide, until he felt more normal. With all that’s happened today, I wonder if that’s where he’s run off to."

The ex-Gotch looks at her then, directly in the eyes. “You know this ship from top to bottom,” he declares, confident though they’ve never discussed it. “And since you’re our father now, you have the best chance at finding him.” There’s a sincerity in his eyes.

If you can’t find him…

“When he gets, ah, in distress…” Van begins, then shakes her head, trying to think best of how to phrase her thoughts. “Would it be more of a help or a hindrance if you came with?”

A thoughtful gleam comes over Wealwell’s eyes. “Hmm,” he hums. “I believe in this case, he would likely react negatively to mine or Samwell’s presence.”

“What do you need me to do once I find him?”

He bites his lip, clearly unsure. “I–I don’t know. I– with Father, I was never able to…truly help him in the ways he needed it most.”

The bosun nods, laying her flesh hand on his shoulder. “I’ll find him,” she promises, squeezing. Wealwell gives her a nod in return, and she heads off into the ship.

As she walks, she makes a list of likely places for him to have tucked himself away. There’s a few different closets in various places, mostly used for storage, and only a few big enough for him to actually fit in, with his size. By the time she hits the main quarter area, she’s managed to shorten the list to a few locations. 

Knowing the ins and outs of the ship in her sleep is handy, and when the first two places turn up to be fruitless, she’s grateful for the time she hadn’t had to waste in checking every room, every closet.

Still, to not know where the wayward pugilist is…it tugs on something in her chest, a deep concern.

There’s only three or so more places Van reckons he could be hiding in when she remembers the closet at the back of the ship. Rarely used, and thus probably largely empty, and large enough to fit a six-foot-five muscled up man. 

She makes her way quickly down the ladder, finds the hinges on the lock for the door open already. Relief floods through her system.

Still, she finds herself hesitating as she thinks of what to do.

Even Wealwell hadn’t been sure.

The image of the day they’d met Comfrey comes back to her, the way he’d collapsed into her arms and held on like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. 

Okay, so solid physical presence, to start, she thinks.

“Maxwell?” Van says, quietly, but loud enough that the sound will travel through the door. “Are you in there?”

For a moment, there’s no response, but she can hear a rhythmic movement inside, soft breaths coming through.

“I’m gonna open the door now, okay, Max? It’s dark outside, so the light shouldn’t bother you too much. I’m right here.”

When there’s no response to that either, she eases the door open as gently as she can, though it’s difficult with the way the hinges stick and grind. 

The scene that she finds upon opening the door just about breaks her heart.  

Maxwell sits on the floor, tucked in a way that’s the smallest she’s ever seen him, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

Small amounts of relief go through Van when she realizes all he’s doing is rocking, rather than the self destruction she’d witnessed the first time. 

Still, in the dim light of the remaining lights on the ship, she sees a sort of faraway look in his eyes, one that tells her he’s not entirely present at the moment, lost somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

She has a feeling she knows what it’s about.

The urge to soothe him runs through her, the same parental urge that she’d felt the first time she’d borne witness to Maxwell in this amount of distress. 

“Gotch,” she begins, voice steady as she crouches to sit in the doorway. “You’re on the Zephyr II. It’s Van,” she tries, and his rocking stutters for a second, before it picks back up. His face turns away from her.

“Maxwell,” she tries again. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Again, no response, but he tucks his face further into his knees. Van can see his shoulders shaking, even in the darkness.

“Max, it’s–” she says, halting, then lets out a sigh. “Max. It’s– it’s Dad.”

A heartbeat later, she lets out an oomph as the pugilist slams into her, holding tight to her shirt, a mirror of their interaction days before. Instantly, her arm and tentacles wrap around him, holding him solidly to her chest, rubbing soothing lines up and down his spine. 

“Maxwell,” she breathes into the night air, relief in her voice. The only thing she receives back is an almost pained whine, cut off by the gasp of a sob from the man in her grasp. “Max. Shhh. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

They sit like that, Van holding, holding, holding her kid tight to her chest for as long as he lets her, soothing and whispering reassurances. 

When she starts to feel his fingers flex in her shirt, she speaks. “Max,” she tries, pulling away slightly. When he only buries his face deeper into her chest, concern overtakes her again. “Max. Hey, lovey. Max, love, it’s gonna be okay.” 

He shudders further, fingers tensing. 

“Max, can you look at me?” Van finds herself asking, memories of a different night playing in her head.

His only response is to shake his head where it rests against her vest. 

Ah, well. She’ll sit like this as long as he needs it. “What do you need from me?”

Another shake of the head. I don’t know, she translates in her mind. 

“Alright,” she says. “It’s alright, love. I’m right here. Take as long as you need.”

She resumes rubbing her– 

She resumes rubbing her son’s back, humming an old sailing song her Da had sung to her when she was young, even rocking back and forth, soothing, like the ocean, when it used to rock her to sleep.

Eventually, the kid in her arms speaks, in a whisper, though it sounds like the words are being torn from his throat. “He’s dead,” Max says, almost too quiet for her to hear. “I killed him.”

Van isn’t sure what the proper protocol is, when a child’s abusive father that they rebelled against ever since they were a child died by their own hand. Not sure there’s enough cases in the world, or even in Zood and Zern, to have set a proper protocol. Not for the first time, she isn’t sure what to say. 

“He is,” is what she ends up saying. “He is. But he’s not your Da anymore. He didn’t want you. And I do.” Her voice turns almost viscous at the end, a shark in the water protecting her own. “He didn’t deserve you, kid.”

Maxwell slumps deeper into her arms, a marionette with its strings cut. 

“Nothin’ he ever said about you was true, Max. Not a single word.”

She reaches down, pulls his chin up to look her in the eyes. “You’re incredible, Maxwell. Don’t you ever forget it.” 

For the first time, maybe ever, she realizes, the pugilist looks her directly in the face, and as such, she’s able to witness the first few tears stream down his cheeks. Seconds later, he buries his face back into her vest, and she rocks back and forth, back and forth, comforting, solid. 

They sit there, not quite at peace but something close to it, just being, for what could be minutes, maybe even hours. Van’s leg has gone numb long ago, but the kid in her lap takes priority, and so she soothes his aches and hurts as best she knows how. 

Van finds herself watching the sky as more stars blink into existence overhead with the absence of the sun, finds herself closing her eyes, reaching deep to Tazg’wagwa. 

Thank you, she attempts to convey. Words can’t express the depth of her gratitude, even with the loss of Comfrey, their guiding star. Thank you, for what you’ve done.

A deep rumbling, almost like whalesong, fills her mind. You need not thank me. Your determination has freed both you and I.

Still, she tries. There’s still something to be said for faith.

There is, is all the response she gets. 

Slowly, the man– the kid in her arms begins to relax, tense muscles loosening.

This whole time, she’s been humming shanties and lullabies that had been sung to her when she was just a babe, let loose to run around her Da’s ship.

Moments pass, just her holding Max, rocking and humming, when she realizes he’s joined her humming as a harmony.

She pauses in her song, and he tenses again, but eyes open as he tilts his head to look back up at her.

“Hey,” she whispers.

Max only grunts in response. eyes flickering closed again, leaning his head against her tentacles. A deep red blush paints its way across his cheeks. 

“You okay?” Van asks, brushing some curls out of his face. The pinched lines that had appeared between his eyes relax slightly.

“Hmm,” he hums in an indistinguishable tone, not really an affirmative or a contradiction. 

She huffs. “Yeah. That’s about how I feel, too,” she admits, not quite ready to address the swirls of emotion that are locked within her chest. Once she’s able to actually sit down and relax, have a glass of whiskey and consult Bert, will she really be able to process all that’s happened. 

Comfrey is–

Comfrey’s dead. 

She died, doing what she loved, and if that’s not the memory Van holds of her, then she’s not sure she wants any other memory. 

Still, the kid shifting in her lap is more important to her than processing through the grief that rests heavy against her shoulders.

Finally, she lifts him out of her embrace, and despite knowing how much he wants to collapse back into her, she needs to make sure her kid is taken care of first. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” she asks, then takes in his appearance even further, getting her first good look at him since Straka, even as he doesn’t meet her gaze.

Burns lie up and down his arms, deep enough to leave scars, especially since they weren’t taken care of immediately. His shirt is in tatters from the fight, bruises and a few scratches painting an ugly picture on the parts of his skin unmarred by burns. A split lip and eyebrow, black eye on his face.

Van resists the urge to sigh. “Hey,” is what she says, grateful when he tilts his head up slightly. “We should get you looked at. I won’t get Monty if you don’t want me to–” his grip tightens against her shirt at that – “But you should get those burns looked at before they get infected. I can take care of it for now, but I want you to let him take a look at them in the morning, alright son?”

A hesitant nod is what she gets in response. 

“Alright then,” she says, shifting to get him to move to his own two feet. “Let’s get you to the mess and get looked at, then get some food in ya, then rest. Doctor’s orders.”

He quirks up a small smile at that, but Van’s concern skyrockets when she doesn’t get more of a response. Luckily, she’s able to maneuver him off her body enough to stand up. She groans when her joints crack, and the worry abates, only slightly, when he huffs at the noises her body makes. “Ey,” she says, pointing a finger in his face. “You see how spry you are when you get to be my age.”

Gratification fills her even more when he snorts another almost-laugh. 

She gestures for him to go first as they exit the lower deck, not quite trusting him to avoid medical attention in favor of disappearing again. Luckily, he makes a beeline straight for the galley.

The kitchen is empty, surprisingly, no one around for a late night snack or camaraderie like the crew is so often wont to do.

Still, Van won’t complain about it, especially with the way that Maxwell seems to be looser around her. She’s not sure that relaxation would stick around if anyone else was there. 

She sets a pot on the stove, pours in a can of soup, then sets about gathering the various items that she needs to bandage Max’s arms. 

Throughout the whole process, the pugilist’s eyes remain distant, lost in thought, somewhere else. He barely winces as she applies salves and wraps his burns, even though she knows how much they must hurt. 

The bags under his eyes have returned with full force, Van notes. She’s going to bundle this kid up until he can’t move, then put him on a soft bed and let him actually rest, without any crazy world-ending plots looming over them.

By the time his arms are bandaged, the soup is ready, and she pours both of them a bowl, then settles down at the table across from him. She watches as a little more presence comes back to his expression, and he begins to eat, hungrily. 

Van eats her portion at a slower pace, content to enjoy the flavor and the company she’s with. Max finishes his before she does, as expected, runs a finger around the rim of the bowl, almost nervous.

She reaches out her tentacles to settle on his hand, and when he looks at her, she smiles. “It’s okay, Max. You don’t have to say anything. We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Again, his shoulders lose some of their tension and he slumps forwards slightly. 

When Van finishes her meal, she stands, taking both their bowls to the sink to be rinsed, then pours the remaining soup into a container, which goes into the icebox. She feels Max watching her as she moves about the mess.

When the dishes have been cleaned and set aside to dry, she turns to see him, chin resting on his hand, dozing slightly. It’s endearing, and a deep written affection wells up in her.

Unfortunately, she does have to wake him to get him to his bed. “Hey, kid,” she says gently, tapping him on the forehead with a tentacle. “Bedtime.”

His face scrunches at that, cheeks burning red, and Van knows that if he was in a state where he could speak, he’d be protesting that he’s not a child.

Nevertheless, he stands, movements sluggish with exhaustion, both from the fight and the weight of all that happened during it. He leans against her as they make their way to his quarters. 

When they reach Max’s room, she opens the door to find Wealwell and Samwell, sitting on one of the beds, discussing something in quiet voices. They turn to face the opening, and Van watches a great deal of tension release from both their shoulders. Samwell stands, moving across the room, and Max all but collapses into his oldest brother’s arms.

“Thank you,” Samwell says, meeting her gaze. “For looking after our brother.”

Van nods at him, then rubs a hand down Max’s back. “You three are family,” she responds. “You might not be blood, but you’re family.”

Samwell takes a moment to appraise her, then nods, leading Max further into the room. “We’ll make sure he gets some rest tonight.”

Maxwell sits on the bed, slumping, and right as Van turns to leave, he speaks again, voice hoarse. “Night, Dad,” he whispers, red coloring his cheeks. 

Van smiles softly. “Goodnight, Max. Love you, kiddo.” She steps out of the room, closing the door behind her, and makes her way to her own quarters.