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Everything would be fine if Torse was here, Maxwell thinks to himself grumpily.
If Torse were here, Max would’ve already completed their nightly ritual of checking over all of the automaton’s joints, and would likely already be securly tucked against a metal chest. He would have burnt off some of this nagging, anxious energy that’s been festering under his skin all day. He wouldn’t even have this stupid anxiety if Torse was here, because—well, then because Torse would be here, and Maxwell wouldn’t have anything to worry about.
But Torse isn’t here. He’s in Zern. With his siblings, and his Forger, working to bring his homeland back to its former glory. Reconnecting with his family after so long spent alone. Every day, Maxwell gets a message through the communicator Marya rigged up, and every day, he hears just how happy Torse is, and it makes his own heart burst with joy.
Maxwell will not do anything to jepordize that. He refuses. And he’s fine, anyway. Genuinely. He’s only been getting better since leaving the biangle. He’s been resting, and eating three square meals a day, and “talking about his emotions” or whatever bullshit Olethra’s been talking about. He bought a journal, for fuck’s sake. He has yet to use it, but still. Everyone agrees that Maxwell’s been on the mend. The ball is rolling up, as the old Eisengiestian saying goes.
So he’s fine, dammit, even if lately he can’t stop flinching away from fire and his throat closes anytime he’s alone for too long.
He’s just—antsy, is all. And because he’s antsy, he’s not sleeping well, and because he’s not sleeping well, he’s been snapping at anybody that looks his way.
He’d thought he’d been managing everything rather well, frankly, until a few hours ago, when Van grabbed him after he yelled at Olethra for dropping a crate of apples and told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he didn’t get some bloody sleep right that second she was going to call Torse—which, rude.
So now he’s here. Shifting uncomfortably in a bed made for two, staring up into the darkness of the Zephyr’s belowdecks, and so uncomfortable it’s nearly offensive.
With a huff, Maxwell turns over and punches his pillow into shape. It helps, but only a little.
Fuck this. Fuck this whole day, actually. Most especially fuck his stupid brain and his weak-minded heart. Max is going to go to bed and sleep whatever this is off, and in the morning things will go back to being fine.
They have to.
Fire.
It licks at his heels and races along his shoulders. No matter how hard he tries to get away, Maxwell is burning, burning, burning away to ash.
He has no flesh. He has no bone. It’s all been burnt away. Bit by bit, he is destroyed by the all-consuming heat, by the flames that catch on his clothes and his hair and get under his fingernails and behind his eyes and into his blood, even. Every part of Maxwell is in agony.
Smoke fills his throat, choking out what little air he has left, and his lungs seize uselessly. What little moisture is left in his body threatens to come back up as vomit, but he doesn’t have the energy to even do that.
His legs shake with the effort of holding his body up. He stumbles forward pointlesly, pushing forward against the searing flames of the Biangle.
Burning. No matter where he goes or what he tries, Maxwell is burning.
Suddenly, there’s a break in the flames. He should be elated, should be racing towards it, but instead all that comes out is a whimper. He knows what comes next.
He blinks, and he’s standing at the rim of a Zernian scrapyard. The smell of rust and iron mingles with the blood already filling his mouth, and all around him are the screeches of undead Naughtomata. Below him is a familiar scene—his crew, racing around maniacally, whirling around enemies like circus performers and throwing useful materials to each other like it’s nothing.
Max knows this scene very well indeed.
He looks around wildly, trying to spot where the deviation will occur. Who will it be this time? Who should he save? What is different, what’s going wrong? Think, Maxwell, think, if you can just figure out who it’ll be you can do something—
And then he hears it. A scream, barely more than a shout, cut off too soon by a ragged gasp.
He whirls around to see Van struggling against the iron chokehold of a massive, hulking robot, tentacles dangling uselessly below her. Her eyes bulge out and her mouth moves soundlessly as she gasps for air.
Maxwell is racing across the battlefield before he realizes it.
Foolishly, a small flicker of hope alights in his chest. Van’s not that far from him this time—if he moves quick enough, he might be able to jump on the Naughtomata’s back and wrench it away.
Then the metal hand clenches into a fist, and Van’s neck fractures in half with a sickening snap, and her feet go limp. Somehow, Maxwell hears her death rattle as if he’s right next to her, despite the sounds of battle all around him, and his hope dies.
“Dad.” He moans desperately. “Dad. DAD!”
The Naughtomata drops her body as if it’s nothing and lumbers on, looking for his next victim. Max slides to his knees next to Van’s crumpled form, ignoring the way his skin breaks. He grabs her shoulders and shakes, though he knows its fruitless. Van’s already gone, her body mangled beyond repair. Still, he tries. He always tries.
“Please.” Max sobs. “Please, no, please, Van—”
The bosun’s eyes fly open. Max is so startled he scrambles backwards on instinct. Van turns her head to face him, completely devoid of any personality.
“Maxwell.” She burbles. Her voice is warped and wrong. “Why didn’t you help me?”
Maxwell feels all of three inches tall. “I–I tried–”
“No.” Van shakes her head, and her neck wrings itself disjointedly. Maxwell thinks he can see bone poking out of her throat. “You were right there. Why didn’t you save me?”
“I-Van, I’m sorry, I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t.” Van sneers. It looks completely alien on her face. “Couldn’t what? Couldn’t get here in time? Couldn’t stop it? Couldn’t stand up to your father?”
Maxwell has no response. Yes, he wants to scream, you’re right, I can’t do it, I can’t save you, any of you, I’m nothing, I’m better off dead.
“Should’ve known.” Van mumbles. Blood trickles out of the corner of her left eye. “Should’ve known not to trust a Gotch.”
Before he can react, whatever is animating her body begins to fade. Desperately, he reaches for her again, grabbing at her shirt, her tentacles, trying to pull her closer, but his body is too weak and Van slips out of his grasp, lifeless body falling pathetically back against metal rocks.
The last thing he sees is Van’s eyes, accusatory even in death, boring into his own.
“Fuck!”
Maxwell wakes up freezing.
His whole body feels like it’s been electrocuted. Every inch of him is shaking like a leaf, and in his complete disorientation, he doesn’t even know where he is. All he knows is that something is very, very wrong.
He jolts upwards, almost smacking his head into the low wooden ceilings. It takes longer than it should have for him to register than the incessant cold that seems to be clinging to his skin is because his entire body is soaked with sweat.
(That, and he’s still half-expecting to be covered with burning, searing heat, ripping off his skin–)
Maxwell takes a shaky breath, and forces himself to categorize his surroundings.
Bed. Desk. Gloves. Monty’s book. Home.
Everything is fine. He’s home and he’s safe and he just had a stupid nightmare, and it doesn’t even really matter because it wasn’t real and he’s fine.
Water, he realizes after a second. His mouth is achingly dry. He needs water.
On shaky legs, he makes his way out the door and down the hall to the kitchens, flinching at every creak and every rustle from behind the other doors. His head is still swimming with visions of terror, and no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, he can still taste blood. His heartbeat punches out a rapid stacatto rhythm and his fingers clench.
He’s halfway through the mess hall when he hears a clatter from behind the kitchen door.
Every hair on his body stands on end.
Intruder. His mind alerts him instantly. Enemy. Danger.
Slowly, carefully, he edges closer to the door, listening with bated breath for any further noise; when none comes, he steels himself, cracks his knuckles, and promptly kicks the door in.
Bang!
Crash!
“...Bert?!”
True enough, Bert stands stock-still by the oven, hands still outstretched from where he was holding a metal sheet tray, one that is now clattering on the floor. Cookies are scattered across the floor.
The two mustachiod men stare at each other in shock. Bert recovers first.
“Maxwell!” He says, somehow managing to sound cheerful. “What brings you here?”
Dumbly, Maxwell lowers his fists. “I–I heard something and I…I thought there was an intruder on board. Or something.”
Or something. Now that he’s saying it out loud, he can tell how ridiculous that sounds.
“What are you doing up?” He asks. It comes out harsher than he means it to—it’s Bert’s kitchen, after all, the man has a right to use it when he wants to—but Bert doesn’t seem to mind.
“Oh, whenever I have trouble sleeping I always find meself in the kitchen whipping up something or other. It helps clear the mind.”
Bert stoops to pick up the fallen cookies, which triggers Maxwell’s manners. Hurriedly, he crouches to help. His fingers shake as he reaches out a hand.
When he looks up, Bert is looking at him strangely. Like he’s…concerned, or confused, or something.
Maxwell absolutely does not need Bert to be concerned about him, thank you very much. Not only does he want to maintain some of his dignity on this boat, if Bert thinks there’s a problem, he’ll only run to go tell Van, and a pissed-off sleep-deprived bosun is the last thing either of them need right now.
He stands, ready to make his excuses and leave, but is cut off by a lighthearted, “Stay for a cuppa, will you, Maxwell?”
It’s then that Max notices the kettle boiling on the stove.
…A cup of tea does sound nice right now.
Bert seems to think so too, because before Maxwell can even blink, two steaming mugs have been laid out in front of him.
“There you are, lovey.” Bert says before moving off somewhere else in the kitchen. “There’s cream and sugar if you prefer.”
“That’s fine.” Maxwell says automatically. He moves to take a sip, but something catches his eye on the other side of his mug.
World’s Best Grandpa.
All of the sudden, everything becomes too much. Maxwell’s tired, and achy, and scared, and Bert’s given him his grandfather’s mug without him even needing to ask, and Gods, he just, he wants—
A tear tracks down his cheek before he can stop it. He sniffles in a way that he hopes is inconspicuous.
Suddenly, a plate of cookies is set on the table in front of him, and the air fills with the smell of freshly-toasted peanuts and sugar.
“You know, I find that on hard nights, sometimes there’s nothing better than a cookie and a nice chat to get you feeling alright again.”
I’m fine. Maxwell should say. Thank you for your concern, but it’s completely unnecessary. I have a journal now, you see.
What comes out instead is a wobbly, “I don’t eat sugar.”
“Just try a bite, love. I think you’ll like these.”
Bert’s hard to argue with. It’s tough to say no to the nicest man on Gath, especially when he’s handing you a plate of cookies. So Maxwell tries a bite.
His eyes widen in surprise. “Oh my fucking God.”
“Alright?”
“Bert, these are amazing.”
The old chef just winks at him. “Bert’s Peanut Butter Surprise, I call ‘em. Except the surprise is that there’s no surprise.”
Max is too busy reaching for another to respond.
“Now, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”
He swallows, thickly. “I…had a dream.”
Hopefully, that’s where they can leave it at.
“A bad one?”
Damn.
“Yes.”
Bert tilts his head. It reminds Maxwell slightly of Ghost Dog. “Tell me about it.”
And Maxwell shouldn’t, is the thing. Bert’s not like him or Van—he’s soft, not made for the horrors that come with adventuring. He’s to be protected. Maxwell knows this.
But the warmth of the oven is chasing away the memories of being set aflame, and the low light is just enough to keep the shadows at bay, and sitting at the scarred wooden counter of the Zephyr’s kitchen, Maxwell feels like the danger in his dream is so far away that it can’t possibly hurt anybody now.
So, haltingly, tersely, he talks.
And for his part, Bert listens. He nods in all the right places and sips his tea, but he doesn’t interrupt Max once, and the kind expression on his face never changes.
When Maxwell finishes, Bert takes a long, silent moment to think. Then, he says, “Sounds like you’ve had an awful fright, love.”
Maxwell sags in his chair, clutching his mug. “Yeah.”
“Would it make you feel any better to go see Van now?”
Yes. “No.”
“Maxwell—”
“I’m not waking her up just because I had a stupid nightmare. It’s fine.”
Bert hums thoughtfully. “You know, love, I’m not entirely sure she’d mind.”
“Well, I’d mind.” Max mutters petulantly. When he looks up again, Bert is smiling at him softly.
“Nothing wrong with asking for help, Maxwell, even if all it is is a cuppa and a chat. Especially not from the people that love you. In fact, it’d probably make her feel better to know that you’ll go to her when you need her.”
And damn if even after years in the sky, the reminder that he’s loved rocks Maxwell to his core. He doesn’t reply to Bert. He’s not sure if he’s able to. He just stares down at his cooling tea, breathing heavily through his nose.
A warm hand lands on his shoulder.
“Come on then, Maxwell.” He hears Bert say. “Let’s go check on your dad, hm?”
Maxwell thinks he manages a nod, but he’s not sure. Most of his energy is going towards pushing down the lump in his throat. He can feel himself being gently tugged upward, however, and he feels those same warm hands guiding him out the door.
The second he leaves the kitchen, the bubble of safety and comfort he had created with Bert disappears, and Maxwell’s shoulders start to rise. The hallways of the Zephyr stretch out before him, long, dark, and foreboding. The warm orange glow of Bert’s ovens and candles fades to black. Anything could be hiding in those shadowy corners. Any moment now, an attack could come.
He’s so tense by the time they reach the end of the hallway that he doesn’t even realize they’ve made it to Van and Bert’s door.
Bert doesn’t even hesitate, leaning around Maxwell to push the door open. It swings inward with a gentle creeaak, breaking through the silence like a gunshot. Inside reveals a set of quarters no bigger than Maxwell’s own, but with a bed made for two, one with a shadowy lump rising and falling on the left side.
A small bit of clarity—and with it, embarrassment— reaches Maxwell. “Wait, Bert, don’t—”
But it’s too late. The lump shifts, makes a strange grunting sound, and then rises halfway. “Whassat?”
“Hello, lovey.” Bert says, impossibly fond.
“Bert?” Van asks sleepily. She sits up all the way, flesh hand grasping at the air wildly, urgency present in all her motions. “What’s wrong?”
In the space of a breath, Bert’s across the room and shushing her, taking her hand with both of his and stroking it. “S’alright, lovey, you’re alright. Everything’s fine. We’re all just fine, aren’t we?”
“We?” Van looks around the room a little more intensely. “What are you—”
She stops, eyes zeroing in on Maxwell, who does his best to shrink into the wall and turn invisible.
No luck.
God, he hates this. Everything about this chafes at him, from the inconsiderate way he’s waking Van up in the middle of the night, to the mortification at still struggling to fight back tears, to the way he can’t even pretend like there’s not a part of him relieved to see Van with his own two eyes.
“What’s going on, kid?” Van asks him directly this time, voice soft. Maxwell wants to scream. He hates pity, and he hates emotions, and he hates his stupid traitor heart for needing things, and more than anything else, he hates himself.
If he just wasn’t such a burden, maybe he could have been doing better by now. But no, one little nightmare, and Max’s back to forcing other people to coddle him instead of—of dealing with his issues like a grownup. Or at the very least, holding them in until he can find the nearest fighting ring.
“I’m sorry.” He forces out, voice tight. He wants to say more, but he can’t make his mouth follow his brain. “I–I just—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He can’t fully make out Van’s face from here, but he’s pretty sure he’s seen that glare enough times to know when it’s being directed his way. “Oi, did I ask you to apologize? You know you can wake me anytime, kid. But you gotta tell me if something’s wrong.”
“Right.” Maxwell’s chest is getting tighter. “Yes. I just—it—”
“Well, that’s actually my fault, lovey.”
Maxwell almost startles at Bert’s voice. He had almost forgotten that the small man was there.
Said small man leans back into view and gives Maxwell a small, almost conspiratorial smile before turning back to Van.
“See, I started hearing strange noises on my way back from the kitchen, and they gave me a proper fright. I wanted to come check on you, but I was too scared—you know how I get. So, young Maxwell here, brave lad that he is, offered to come with me.”
Bert may be an excellent cook, but he’s a horseshit liar.
Max is far too tired to point this out.
Van looks at Bert, then at Maxwell, and then back at Bert. Understanding slowly dawns on her face.
“Oh. Well. Best make sure I’m all good then, yeah?”
She swings herself out of bed and turns to face Maxwell, who is still standing dumbly in the doorframe, shaking hands tucked behind his back. He closes his eyes on instinct as soon as Van comes further into view. He’s not scared of Van, never of Van, but he can’t risk seeing her bloody, burnt face again, can’t risk watching the light leave her tear-filled eyes—
“Well? C’mon, Gotch, I ain’t got all night.”
Maxwell blinks. “What?”
Van stands in front of him, tentacles on her hips, flesh hand extended. “You heard Bert, strange happenings aboard and whatnot. It’s the duty of the bosun to make sure his crew’s alright.”
Tentatively, slowly, Maxwell reaches out to grab Van’s hand. It’s stupid, he tells himself fiercely, that his stomach drops right before he touches it. Van is real, and she’s right here, and she’s fine, so there’s no reason for him to tremble like she’ll disappear if he blinks.
Van’s scarred, lumpy fingers wrap around his, and Maxwell takes a shuddery breath at the warmth of her skin. Real. Alive.
“I’m not made of paper, Gotch. You can push a little harder if you need to.” Van says, voice softer. He can’t take his eyes off of their conjoined hands, of off Van’s blood-free palms. Throat thick, he squeezes, half-expecting the hand to turn into dust and half-praying that it doesn’t.
“Good lad. I’m ship-shape, see? I bet you I could take you in a fight right now.”
A snort bubbles out of him before he can stop it. “You couldn’t.”
“Oh, you don’t think so? What, too scared to fight your old man?”
Maxwell shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. Van’s familiar banter is slowly making him relax, getting just a little bit more comfortable in this dark room.
The mention of his father makes him tense up again, though.
The hand he’s gripping squeezes back. “Wanna feel my heartbeat?”
Shame curdles in Maxwell’s stomach, deep and gutting, but he can’t find the energy to fight it. His weakness wins another day.
Tentatively, he steps forward, pointedly not making eye contact with either Van nor Bert, choosing to focus instead on the very detailed depiction of a pirate massacre that Van had hung up above their bed, and rests his forehead lightly on Van’s shoulder.
Instantly, her hand moves to cup the back of his neck, gently shifting him downwards until his ears are level with her chest, and he can hear the thump-thump, thump-thump of her heart, living and beating and so, so solid and real, and oh. Maxwell is crying now.
“There we go.” Van mutters above him. “That’s a lad. You’re alright, Max. Take your time.”
He wants to respond, but all that comes out is a horrible choked-off sound.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, then stops. His chest feels like it’s turning into a black hole.
Van just hums. “Sorry for what, love?”
“I couldn’t.” Rips its way out of him suddenly. “I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save you. I tried, Van, I tried so many times, but I just—I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Maxwell.” Van sounds a bit more serious now. She pushes back from him just the tiniest bit, frowning with concern. “D’ya mean—“
“I’m sorry.” Is all Max can think to say again. He chokes it out in between heavy sobs. “I—Van, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I tried, I swear I tried. Please, Van. I wasn’t—fast enough, or strong enough, and you—you—“
“Maxwell.” Van says again, and this time she’s severe. “That is not your fault, kid. Do you understand me? It wasn’t real.”
“It was.”
He can’t think of any other better way to say it. How else does he explain that he knows exactly what Van’s eyes look like as they fade, because he’s seen it in detail a hundred times? How does he tell her that he knows exactly what it feels like to be more exposed flesh and bone than man? How does he explain he tried his absolute hardest, each and every time, to save them, and each and every time it failed?
How does he explain that he’s apologizing to her, to Van, but also to all the Vans and the Daisukes and the Maryas and the Montys and Wealwells and Olethras and Torses that he watched die?
“Okay.” He hears from far away. “Okay. Alright. I’m sorry, love, you’re right. It was real. Just—let’s sit down, ok?”
Max hears her, but he’s not there anymore; he’s in a metal wasteland, he’s miles under a foreign ocean, he’s falling through smog-choked skies. He’s burning alive, flames stretching out in every direction.
A rough hand cups his face. “Kid. Son. C’mon, Max. Breathe for me.”
He takes in a shuddering breath. “Van?”
“Yeah, love. Right here.”
“Real?”
Van makes some sort of wounded, punched-out sound. “Real. I swear, Max. Just open your eyes.”
Tentatively, he does.
Van stares back at him, face knit together in concern, eyes brimming with tears.
“No more.” She tells him. “It’s over, yeah? You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you, kid.”
“Are you—” His voice cracks. “Are you safe?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“Yes.”
“...Alright, about cards, maybe, but would I lie to you about this?”
Max forces his brain to think for a second, pushing past his racing heartbeat. Slowly, he lets out a long, shaky breath. “No.”
“Good lad. C’mere.”
He’s tugged once more into a brusque hug, and he falls into it more than anything.
Van walks them backwards until they bump into the bed, and Max follows on dumb legs. Distantly, he realizes that Bert is gone, slipped out sometime during his breakdown, and later he’ll be embarrassed about that, but right now he’s just so tired.
He lets himself be pulled onto Van’s bed, lets her wrap her arms around him like a child. Slowly, he lets himself be grounded by the hand dragging through his hair and the constant rhythm of her chest rising and falling. Slowly, he lets himself realize that he’s safe.
“I hate this.” He says after—well, he doesn’t really know how much time has passed. He just knows that his cheeks are wet and his throat feels raw.
“Oh, please. I don’t smell that bad.”
“I thought I was getting better.” He can’t hide the bitterness that rises in his voice.
Van tugs fondly at the hair at the nape of his neck. “You are getting better.”
“Then why—”
“Are you still messed up by your trip to Hell? Gee, I wonder.”
Max bites back an eye roll, then realizes that Van can’t see his face and does it anyway. Van shifts him back up, propping him up by the shoulders.
“Listen, kid. You went through something incredibly fucked up. Some days that’s gonna feel normal. Other days it’s gonna be harder. What’s important is that you remember that even on the bad days, you have people in your corner. We don’t care if you have nightmares, or if you lose your mind every once in a while about some dropped crates. Frankly, Max, I wouldn’t give a damn if you woke me up every single night from here on out. What matters is that you’re safe, and you’re healing. No matter how long it takes. Yeah?”
Maxwell’s face is burning. He feels like one of Monty’s bugs, pinned to a board and exposed.
“Yeah.” He mutters, staring pointedly above Van’s left shoulder. The pirate snorts fondly.
“Why don’t we get you back to bed?”
He wants to protest, and to say that he’s not a fucking child, but he did just coming running to his dad’s room after a nightmare, and there’s nobody else awake to witness this anyway, so he just nods and allows Van to jostle him upwards.
She keeps a hand on his back the entire way down the hall, and he’s secretly incredibly grateful. Despite this, however, he’s still—stupidly—nervous to go back to sleep.
Van seemingly makes no notice of this. She bustles Maxwell into his own quarters and sets about his bed. Max just watches, unsure of what she’s doing or how he’s supposed to react, until it finally makes it through his exhausted brain that Van is pulling back his covers and attempting to tuck him in.
“Alright, that’s fine.” He says hurriedly, snatching his blankets back from Van, who doesn’t even have the decency to look offended. “I think I’m alright now, thank you.”
Van just grins. “Sure you don’t want me to stay?”
Part of him wants that more than anything in the world. Another part of him cannot bear to let go of any more of his pride.
“...Until I fall asleep?” He settles on. It’s a compromise. A good, normal compromise that a well-adjusted person would make.
Van nods like she was expecting that answer, and swings into bed next to him. She knocks her shoulder against his until he shimmies down into the blankets.
“Sleep, Max.” She orders. “And in the morning, you’re calling Torse.”
Maxwell grumbles half-heartedly, but he’s too tired to make any real argument in opposition. Besides, he does want to talk to Torse. Constantly, really. Van’s just given him a good excuse to.
A weight that he’s learnt to recognize as a tentacle comes to rest on his back.
“...You know that I don’t think you need this.” Van says after a second, so quietly that Maxwell can barely hear her. “But for what it’s worth, I know you tried your best. I forgive you.”
Tension that Maxwell didn’t know he had been holding on to suddenly releases, and his whole body relaxes like a puppet with its strings cut. Tears prick again at the corners of his eyes. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Van nudges him with her tentacle. “You understand?”
“Yeah.” He says, and he thinks he actually might. “...Thanks, Dad.”
There’s a pleased huff from above him, and a gentle pat on his back, and then his eyes are slipping shut of their own accord.
For the first time in a while, Maxwell rests.
Bert Chapman wakes to the feeling of a smooth, cold tentacle wrapping around his waist, which, while still a novel sensation, is far from unwelcome.
He hums, sleep still clinging to his eyes. “G’morning, lovey.”
“Morning.” Van tucks her head into his shoulder. Sleepily, he wriggles back, trying to absorb as much of her warmth as he can. She obliges.
A gentle kiss lands on his shoulder, then his neck, then his ear. That wakes him up a bit more, though he’s still not fully aware. “What’s that, love?”
“Nothing.” Van says from behind him, lips still pressed to his ear. Her hair tickles the side of his neck, and he closes his eyes again, content to rest in the arms of his favorite person. “Just wanted to say thanks for looking after my boy.”
Oh. Now things are starting to make sense. With a bit of effort, Bert frees one hand and pats Vanellope’s where it lies on his waist, wrapping their fingers together. “Wasn’t nothing to it, lovey. He’s a good lad. I can see why you like him.”
He feels her grin against his skin. “One day you’re gonna get sick of the way I keep picking up strays, y’know.”
Now Bert turns around fully, cracking his eyes open just enough to gaze lovingly at his bride. “Get sick of you?”
His other hand comes up to caress her cheek, and he presses a gentle kiss to her lips.
“Never, love. Absolutely never.”
“Maxwell!”
Despite himself, Maxwell smiles. “Hello, Torse. How are things?”
“Incredible. We recently uncovered a Forging site. If we are ale to make things operational, we might be able to bring new life back to Zern. We have not had the privilege of raising our young in some time.”
“Holy shit, Torse, that’s…that’s wonderful. Truly.” And it is. Unbidden, the thought of a smaller Torse racing around the decks of the Zephyr pops into Maxwell’s brain, and he clears his throat to cover the sudden lump that forms in his throat.
“Indeed. It is nothing short of a miracle, to be honest. But what of you, my heart? Are you well?”
Maxwell winces. He promised himself he could do this, but after hearing the joy in Torse’s voice…
“Maxwell?”
He takes a deep breath in. Lets it out.
“I…have been struggling, lately. Just a bit. Mostly at night.”
There’s a sound of shifting gears and creaking metal from the other end. “I can be there in two days if I commission a diplomatic vessel. Less if the Zephyr meets us halfway. Is Marya there? Can you put her on?”
Maxwell’s heart swells. Fuck, but he loves this man. “No! No, Torse, I’m alright. I promise. I don’t need you to come back, especially when things this important are happening. I just…was wondering if we could talk, for a little bit? If you have the time, that is.”
Torse is silent for a long moment, long enough for Maxwell to start to worry. Static crackles through the communicator. Then, “Ridiculous man. As if I would not move mountains to make time for you.”
Sometimes, Maxwell thinks that Torse has made it his life’s goal to make him blush so furiously that he melts away into a puddle. “I love you.”
A mechanical hum. “And I love you. What did you wish to talk about?”
Maxwell relaxes back against the mast. “Well, I’ve been having these dreams…”
And as he stares out into the unending blue sky from his hideaway in the crows nest, listening to his crew bustle around beneath him and talking to the man he loves, Maxwell thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be alright after all.