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The moments immediately after the battle had been solemn ones, ones Maxwell had stayed on the edges of. He was not close with Comfrey, personally. He was still one of the only members of the crew to have no lasting connection to her, beyond her relationship with his grandfather. Samwell had stood with him, one arm around his shoulders, holding him tight.
Maxwell would need to reassure Samwell after this that he wouldn't be going anywhere new without him anytime soon.
Wealwell had opted to comfort his new boyfriend, who Maxwell still didn't trust, but hey, if it made Wealwell happy. Wealwell could damn sure hold his own if he needed to.
The couple snuck away fairly early to the quarters of the ship. Maxwell would be ignoring the implications of that. Based on Samwell's cringing face, he guessed he would be too.
After all of the funeral arrangements had been talked about, the conversation turned to be quite celebratory. Everybody welcomed Ludmila with open arms-well, excluding Torse, who seemed content with standing off to the side until Ludmila approached and apologized for all that had happened. He gave her a respectful nod, and nothing else was said between them. Maxwell assumed that was the closest thing to an acceptance Torse was able to give at the moment.
One of the Zumharan ships passed by them, and one of the occupants took it upon themselves to yell to them about the festival Zumhara was throwing in celebration of the victory. Olethra immediately yelled back that they'd be there. When questioned about whether that would be good for her, she claimed it was what Comfrey would have wanted. Pappy gave her shoulder a squeeze and she pulled him in for a hug.
Nobody disagreed with her, although most seemed to still be concerned with her emotional state.
At least, Maxwell was. He knew the pain of losing your closest family member well. He would seek her out later, he noted to himself, to comfort her in this time. And commiserate. And possibly get as drunk as possible with her.
The group all split up soon afterwards, heading off to their various quarters to get cleaned off and patched up and get ready for the festival.
Maxwell was somewhat considering forgoing any of that to take a nap in the allotted time instead. He wasn't particularly tired at the moment, but he knew from experience the second the adrenaline wore off he would be dead on his feet with exhaustion.
But, he told himself, the crew seemed to actually care about whether or not he took care of himself, if only because his stubbornness about it annoyed them. He didn't want to ruin the party by having them need to fuss over him.
Plus, Torse would be concerned. And Torse deserved to have a nice time after everything.
Samwell insisted on escorting him to his quarters, but Maxwell shooed him off once they got there. He should explore the ship, Maxwell argued, meet new people, get himself patched up. He knew damn well how Samwell tended to put off his own health for his brothers.
Maxwell eventually had to remind Samwell that Wealwell was also injured and most likely had no intention of treating any of his wounds, considering how quick he had jumped to, well, jump his boyfriend, to actually get him to leave, and even then it was with the assurance that he would be back soon.
Maxwell sighed once he left. Samwell had already been overprotective before Maxwell disappeared, he could only imagine the nightmare Samwell had become in his absence.
He would probably have to apologize to Wealwell at some point for siccing Samwell on him.
Maxwell entered his quarters and immediately collapsed back onto his bed. He was probably getting blood all over the nice sheets, something he had taken much care over the journey to not do, but he could not care less at the moment. He heaved out a heavy sigh and sat up, running a bloody hand through his hair, which was already slightly matted with blood and needing a wash anyways.
After-battle showers, Maxwell had discovered, had become one of his favorite pastimes in these last two weeks. Letting the weight of battle off his shoulders, feeling the nice sting of the water over his wounds, watching the blood of his enemies flow down the drain.
Call him slightly deranged if you wanted, but it always gave him a boost of adrenaline knowing he was watching one of the last parts of his foes go down the drain easy as can be.
Maxwell had once confided this feeling in Van, and she had simply chuckled and patted his shoulder, saying he had reminded her of her when she was young. Maxwell couldn't find it in him to care how deranged it made him after that.
Sure, she had only let that slip because she was two fallen angel martinis deep and would barely even remember the conversation the next day, but he would still hold on to the feeling.
He pushed himself off the bed with a stretch and made his way for the bathroom, stopping to check out the damage in the dresser mirror first.
His first note was the fact that his face was still spattered with blood. He had somehow forgotten, what with all the adrenaline. And, well, nobody had looked at him weird for it earlier as far as he noticed, so he supposed it wasn't too big of a deal.
The next thing he noticed was the gunshot wound on his shoulder. It had stopped bleeding quite a while ago, possibly cauterized by the portal earlier, but it was starting to ache like a bitch. He should probably take some sort of pain relief medication and bandage it up before the pain truly came soaking back in. He grumbled slightly under his breath about how his father continued to annoy him, even when he wasn't there.
The final note was the blood coating his hands as they went to run over the wound. A small portion his own, he noted, as the gashes on his knuckles stung when he flexed his hands. Some of it was oily thick and dark, most likely coming from the Corrodi and the other naughtomata. The rest was from the human battles, mostly from the final confrontation with his father.
Maxwell was actually quite shocked at how much there truly was. The fight had been violent, yes, but he hadn't thought it was that violent. Maybe the blood covering his face should have been his first hint, but with the way he fought most battles ended with at least some blood on his face. In fact, it was more notable when there was none.
Maxwell reached up to wipe some of the blood off his face. It was starting to get sticky and he couldn't stand the texture of dried blood, even if it was his father's.
His father's blood.
One of the last things of his father left in this world.
His father who had tried to kill Maxwell that same day.
His father who Maxwell killed.
The gunshot wound ached again, almost like it was reminding Maxwell of what happened.
His father shot him. He would have done it again and again if he thought it necessary, and most likely would have killed him without a second thought. And Maxwell killed him.
Maxwell backed up away from the mirror. He had gotten used to seeing himself covered in blood after a fight. For some reason today he couldn't stand it.
His father would have killed Samwell and Wealwell the second he had the chance. Well, maybe not, maybe he thought his older children still had some merit, some chance of redemption in his eyes. Maxwell hadn't been interested in finding out which one was true, for fear of it being the former. He had to protect his brothers, who always protected him. Their father was a cruel man and an awful parent. And Maxwell killed him.
Maxwell felt his legs go out from underneath him, somewhere far away from himself. His body was in his quarters, obviously, sitting caked in blood on the floor. His mind seemed to be stuck in the Straka, along with his father's body.
The fact of what happened wasn't lost on Maxwell, both during the battle and after. His father was dead, Maxwell had caused it. Those were facts, cold and solid.
So why was the reminder of that bringing Maxwell to his knees?
It wasn't like he was sad about it. His father had never been kind to him, from as far back as he could remember. There were no happy memories of the man for him to cling onto, feel grief over. One of the first thoughts he had after it had happened was "good riddance," followed by "thank god" and profound feeling of relief. There had been no room for sadness in there.
He just felt empty.
He couldn't explain why. He just did.
A knock on the door poked through the haze, at first a gentle sound, tapped out with care, and then a harsher sound, almost a punch against the door.
The knocking melded with the sound of his father's body hitting the ground, of Maxwell's fist punching into him. The even harsher knocks that followed became the cracking of the gun as his father shot him.
No remorse to it. No care about where it landed. Maxwell knew his father wasn't as good of a marksman as to intentionally shoot him in a non-lethal spot. Perhaps he was aiming for his heart. Or his head. A quick, ungraceful, simple death for his son. No. For his disappointment.
Maxwell should have felt the same about killing his father. Carrying it out with no remorse, no care, no after thought.
Pain coursed through his hands again as he clenched them. The gashes in his knuckles stood as a reminder for what he had done, something Maxwell usually regarded with pride and a with sense of disappointment that he had to cover it up for the sake of propriety.
Now he just wanted to pull in his gloves as soon as possible, not caring for even tending to the wounds properly.
He had killed his father. Something, out of all the people on the ship, only he could say.
Maybe Marya had been right. Maybe he wasn't an adventurer. Maybe he was just a murderer.
The door creaked open slowly and two sets of footsteps entered the room. Maxwell didn't bother to look at who it was. Maybe if he just stayed where he was, silent, they would just go away.
If only he were so lucky.
Van kneeled into his line of sight, hand reaching for his face, with Monty following shortly after.
Maxwell took a deep breath and was going to assure them that everything was fine, except the breath got caught and mangled and he started coughing and fuck, couldn't he do anything right? He couldn't even breathe right, maybe his father had been right.
Then again, his father was the one currently dead in the Straka by Maxwell's own hand. So he at least did one thing right.
Monty reached out and gripped his hand, saying something Maxwell couldn't make out through the blood rushing through his ears. He tried to look at Van (who seemed to be concerned about something, were they in danger?) to see if she had any answers, but a hand came up to his face (gently, carefully, Maxwell still found himself tensing up as it approached) and tilted it back to look at Monty.
"Gotch, where are you right now?" The words just barely pushed through the haze and echoed around his skull.
Maxwell was confused. Maxwell knew where he was—or, well, where the body Monty was talking to was. "The Zephyr, obviously." Maxwell forced out.
Monty nodded. "Right, yes, that is where we are sitting, but where are you right now?"
Maxwell hesitated. Answering honestly would make him sound insane, except he already looked a bit crazy right now, just an empty vessel sitting on the floor of his room covered in his father's blood. And Monty wouldn't just up and leave him if he were insane. At least he hoped he wouldn't.
"I'm..." He took another deep breath, this one going down right, if a bit shaky. "On the Straka. My father's body is lying on the ground next to me." He swallowed. "He tried to kill me. And now he's dead. I killed him."
A tentacle reached out and wrapped around his shoulders, something that gave Maxwell an odd amount of comfort for it being a literal tentacle.
"Maxwell, lad, you're not-" Van started to say, stopping with a glance at Monty.
"That's okay s-" Monty cut himself off. "Maxwell. Can you just tell me five things you can see?" Monty asked.
Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "Like. Physically?" Monty nodded. Maxwell didn't see the point in that, but if Monty wanted him to do it, he supposed."Well. You, of course. Van. The floor?" He wondered if that counted.
Monty gave a soft smile. "Good. Keep going."
"The wall, I suppose. And the-" his breath hitched again. "The mirror. I guess."
Out of the corner of his eye, Maxwell saw another of Van's tentacles grab a blanket and toss it over the mirror. The stern nod Van gave him almost made him chuckle.
Monty squeezed his hand again. "That was good. Now four things you can feel."
That was a bit harder. Everything was still so fuzzy, anything he felt was happening a million miles away, in a body that wasn't his own. Or at least, that didn't feel like his own.
Monty squeezed once more. "It's alright. You can start with my hand if you'd like."
Maxwell nodded. "Yes. So. Your hand." He shifted, and the tentacle around his shoulders shifted with him. "Van's arm. The floor." He shifted again as his body reminded him how uncomfortable sitting on the floor was. "And...dried blood."
Van patted his shoulder with her other arm. "I'll be right back, okay?" She got up and walked into the bathroom, the sound of a faucet running starting up soon after.
Monty grinned when Maxwell looked at him in confusion. "Van's much better at immediate solutions than I am," he explained, although it didn't actually explain much of what Maxwell was confused about. "Let's keep going, three things you can hear."
Maxwell was starting to get a bit tired of this...whatever this was. "Your voice, the faucet, and..." He paused, trying to parse out a third thing. Van's footsteps as she walked back into the room bailed him out. "That."
Monty tilted his head. "That being-"
"Van's footsteps, Monty, what is the point of this?" Maxwell asked, irritated.
"Don't snap at him like that, he's only trying to help," Van scolded, although with a much lighter tone than usual.
"Help with what-hey!"
Van pulled his face back to look at her with a tentacle and started to wipe at it with a wet washcloth. "Can't imagine all this blood can be very comfy, can it?"
Maxwell flushed. "Well, no, but I'm a grown man, I can clean the blood off myself."
Van gave a mock frown. "Aww, but it makes me so proud to clean off my little killer!"
Maxwell made an indignant noise and tried to push her away, only to be met with a tentacle brushing his hand off and a laugh from Monty.
"Van, lay off the poor boy, if he wants to clean himself up he's perfectly capable," Monty said, gently pushing Van's hand away. Maxwell was about to agree when Monty added, "Even if he does look so dang adorable like this."
Maxwell huffed as Van laughed. "I'm 30 years old."
Van rolled her eyes and handed him the washcloth. He grabbed it and pulled it harshly down his face, appreciating the grounding sting of the cloth against the wounds on his face.
Monty winced. "Gentle there, Gotch, don't want you making those cuts any worse now."
Maxwell shrugged. "Well I can't really be specific about where I'm trying to clean, I don't have a mirror."
He would have gotten up to go to the bathroom mirror, but if he was being honest, he wasn't entirely sure if his legs would give out or not if he tried to stand.
"Even more reason to let me do it, then," Van argued, raising her eyebrow sternly.
Maxwell glared at her and pointedly dragged the washcloth roughly across his face. The effect was slightly diminished when he let out a soft hiss as he dragged the cloth over a cut he had forgotten was there.
Monty reached out and pulled Maxwell's hand away from his face. "I think it might be best if I do it, okay? I am the one with medical training, after all, I'll probably be the most careful about the open wounds on Gotch's face." As Van and Maxwell rolled their eyes in unison, Monty chuckled and added, "We are entirely sure you two aren't related, right?"
Van punched Monty's shoulder lightly. Maxwell ignored the comment entirely and relented, handing the washcloth to Monty. He expected a soft hand, but instead let out an indignant noise as Monty's hand gripped his chin and pulled it to be tilted in his direction.
"I said I would be careful, not gentle," Monty muttered, getting to work immediately.
Van chuckled and Maxwell glared at her again, only causing her to laugh harder. "Hey, you're getting off easy here kid. I promise from experience, this is Monty being nice about it."
Monty ignored her, tapping on Maxwell's chin to get his attention. "Where's your first aid kit? I want to disinfect and stitch up these cuts as soon as possible."
That seemed to bring Maxwell back to his senses. Gods, he had just had some sort of mental breakdown, gotten walked in on, had to be talked out of it by two members of his crew, and now was being practically babied by said members. What an embarrassing scene.
Maxwell pulled away from Monty. "I can do that myself, I'm not that feeble," he grumbled as he stood up. Almost immediately he began to wobble as his shaky legs struggled to support his weight.
Month and Van both shot up, reaching out for his arms as he shook. Monty frowned as he began to make his way to the bathroom. "Gotch, neither of us think you're weak. You've just been through something extremely traumatic, something that nobody should ever have to go through with their own parent, and-"
Monty grabbed his arm again and Maxwell snapped. "I'm fine!" He ripped his arm out of Monty's grasp and turned to look at Van and Monty. Monty looked hurt, and still very concerned, but Van...
Van looked angry.
Regret immediately flooded Maxwell. She had only been trying to help, he was being so stupid, she was going to be so angry and she should be, gods can't he do anything right-
Van took a deep breath and Maxwell prepared for the yelling. For the scolding. He deserved it at this point, Van and Monty didn't deserve his shit, neither of them deserved to have to take care of him like this-
"Gotch. Sit down before you hurt yourself."
What?
Before he could even react, a chair was being pulled up beside Maxwell and a tentacle was gently tugging him into it. Van moved past him and into the bathroom, rummaging around for something in there.
"What are you-"
"You're going to sit there," Van said as she came out holding the first aid kit, "and you're going to let us take care of you, because you are a member of my crew and I make sure my crew is safe and happy. I don't care how much you try to push us away because you think you're burdening us or you don't deserve it or whatever bullshit your brain is trying to sell you, I'm going to look after my crew. Always."
Van's glare left no room for argument. Maxwell nodded.
Van grinned. "Good lad." She patted him on the arm and handed the kit to Monty.
Monty kneeled in front of Maxwell, pretending to whisper as he said, "She's scary." Van puffed out her chest in pride and Maxwell laughed, something Monty quickly joined in with.
As Monty began to tend the wounds, Van laid down on his bed. Almost immediately, she sat back up, bouncing on the mattress twice before looking up at Maxwell incredulously. "Why is your mattress so bloody comfy? I'm the bosun and your senior, my mattress should absolutely be more comfortable than yours!"
Maxwell rolled his eyes. "Should have been faster on the draw to pick out your room then."
Van picked up a pillow and raised it in a launching position. Monty seemed to sense it somehow, and scolded, "No throwing things while I'm actively mending somebody. Especially with stitches."
Van huffed. "Why do you even need a comfy mattress anyways? I mean, I get you're still rich and all that, but aren't you supposed to be the "rowdy" one?"
Maxwell gave her annoyed look. "You need a good nights sleep to fight better." At Van's scoff, he added, "Plus I'm just used to comfortable beds. It wouldn't be healthy to just switch all of a sudden. I read that somewhere."
Monty pulled back from his work for a moment to comment, "I'm pretty sure that's about drugs, Gotch," before continuing to stitch up a cut above his eyebrow.
Van very maturely stuck her tongue out at Maxwell. "See, you would be fine sleeping in a hammock or something for the night."
Maxwell moved to look back at her with a glare before Monty grabbed his chin, pulling it towards him again. "Maxwell. Behave."
It really shouldn't have affected him. It was Monty, and Monty was joking, and Van was joking, and just seconds ago Maxwell had been joking. And Monty would never do anything to be like Maxwell's father intentionally.
But the harsh tug on his chin and the stern tone and the words still gave Maxwell pause.
Monty noticed immediately, of course he did, and let go of his chin. "Apologies. I should have asked first."
Maxwell squirmed. "I'm-"
"If you say you're fine one more bloody time, Gotch, I'm gonna lose it," Van snipped at him. "I don't need you to tell me everything about what just happened or explain your whole tragic backstory to me, I just need you to not lie to me. You're not fine, and that's fine."
Maxwell hesitated. He understood what Van was saying, he did. But every instinct, every bone in his body, told him telling the truth was bad. That they'd take one look at him, in all his damaged glory, and finally they'd leave. That it would be the straw that broke the camels back on them tolerating him.
It was a pure, gut instinct, and he knew exactly who it came from.
"My father tried to kill me."
He looked down at the floor, trying his damnedest to avoid eye contact with either of them. Thankfully, neither of them commented, and Monty continued to sew him up as normal.
Maxwell continued.
"He tried to shoot me. I know how shitty his aim can be, he's made me go hunting with him, so I know he was trying to kill me. He knew if he shot at me he had no way of knowing whether the bullet would hit my leg or my shoulder or my head. And he was fine with that."
He finally looked up at Van.
"And despite all of that, I can't stop feeling like a fucking monster for killing him."
The three of them just sat in silence for a few moments after that.
Maybe Maxwell had gone too far. And they did think he was weak. Or maybe they agreed with him, that he was a monster and that was the only reason they kept him around. He certainly wasn't useful for much else.
Van finally broke the silence by saying, "If it helps, I would've killed him if you hadn't."
Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Yeah. Would've strangled him with my tentacles." She made a strangling motion with her tentacles. "Or something worse. Definitely wouldn't have been as nice as you were."
Maxwell scoffed. "Nice? I bashed his head in against a bell after telling him I would ruin his reputation and disgrace him across Gath."
Monty shrugged. "I can think of worse things I would have loved to do to that wretch of a man."
Maxwell almost leaned away from Monty on instinct at the dark tone. "And why-"
"Gotch, how many times do I have to say this?" Van cut him off. "Windriders take care of their own. They hurt one of us, we hurt them back. Only a million times worse."
Monty stood up and held out a hand for Maxwell. Maxwell took it and Monty pulled him up, adding, "And you seem to be hurtin' quite a bit. So trust me, if I had gotten my hands on that man, it would have made your little experiment with the fans look like child's play."
Maxwell dropped Monty's hand out of surprise, earning a laugh out of Van. She clapped Maxwell on the shoulder and said, "Monty, take it down a notch. Don't want to frighten the poor boy's delicate sensibilities."
Maxwell made an indignant noise as Van ruffled his hair. Monty chuckled and pulled Maxwell in for a hug.
"Seriously though, you did what you had to do to protect yourself and your friends. It's not stooping down to his level, it's evening the playing field."
Tension flooded out of Maxwell's shoulders as he wrapped his arms around Monty. He hadn't even realized that was what he'd been dreading until Monty said it.
"It's fucking weird. Knowing he's gone. Just out of the world."
Monty let go of him and Van immediately swooped in with her own hug, patting him on his back. "Yeah. And it might stay weird, for a while. But you get used to it." Maxwell nodded against her shoulder and she pushed him away gently. "Now go get a shower. You stink and you're covered in Corrodi blood. Can't be showing up for Torse looking like this."
Maxwell blushed, only feeling it deepening when Monty added, "I mean, this is Torse we're talking about, being covered in the blood of the things that overtook his world might actually do it for him more than you being clean."
Van and Monty both laughed as Maxwell pushed them out of his room, red as a tomato and trying to think of some comeback that would make up for it. Eventually he settled for just slamming the door in their faces, and turning to take his shower.
Definitely not grabbing the shirt Torse had mentioned liking on him once as he did.
Later that day, Van leaned next to Marya against a wall in Zumhara, staring out at the festival contemplatively.
"How long would it take me to get adoption papers?"
Marya giggled and looked at her. "This Zumharan wine getting to you already? You've only had one drink, Van, you can't go around adopting Zoodian children off of one drink."
Van rolled her eyes. "I'm not adopting a Zoodian child, Marya, I was just curious."
Her eyes wandered to Maxwell in the crowd, who was practically preening as he talked to Torse. She noticed he was wearing his pants from the battle, still stained with Corrodi and human blood alike.
Marya tracked her gaze and began to laugh even harder. "Van, I think if you try to even bring up the idea of adopting Gotch he might jump off the ship."
Van rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know."
Marya nudged her shoulder. "Besides, he acts enough like you people probably already think you're related."
Van gave her a lighthearted shove. "Junker, I swear to Gotch I will leave you in this city if you don't-"
"Alright, alright! Goodness, what a temper!" Marya's laughs finally died down. Van considered staying with her until Marya mumbled under her breath, barely audibly, "Like father like son, I suppose."
Marya started to laugh again as Van stormed off into the crowd, stifling a grin.