bababooey: (ten.)
Ben Wyatt ([personal profile] bababooey) wrote in [community profile] bakerstreet2015-06-25 11:40 am

wake up, wake up

wake up, wake up, it's only a bad dream meme

bad dreams are ordeals, sometimes seemingly endless. when you wake up, your heart pounds, your head hurts, and you end up drenched in sweat. even if you know none of it was real, it takes a while to orient yourself.

it is pretty nice to have someone there to wake you up or to soothe you out of it and remind you that...

it's only a dream.

the usual rules apply. post with your character and preferences and then tag around, have your characters comfort others.

madmanmax: (ho shit!)

This work?

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-28 03:24 pm (UTC)(link)
((He would totally sleep on the floor, but he wouldn't turn down a cot or spare bed if she insisted.))

They were going to leave, to go be out on the open road, but when they went to say goodbye the wives were so glad to see him again, so eager to show him around. Even as he fought down panic in the rocky tunnels, Max met Furiosa's eyes while the girls showed him around, and they both knew there was no way they could just leave. So he stayed.
The first night it was obvious that Max had no intention of laying down and sleeping anywhere in particular, possibly had no intention of sleeping at all, but he seemed much calmer in Furiosa's room and he was obedient to any suggestion of hers, and that was how he ended up sleeping on her floor. He was restless, in the night, but exhaustion carried him through until early daylight, and he seemed to manage the tunnels a little better the next day. When it became clear he'd be there another night they dragged in a spare bed, and it took him longer to fall asleep on it, but the strain of keeping his panic in check all day took its toll, and he did sleep.

The third night, he thrashed awake with a cry and almost rolled out of the bed, flailing around for weapons, eyes gone wide and breathing harsh.
autonomies: these icons are a mess dont look at them (our furiosa)

beautifully! :~)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-29 02:32 am (UTC)(link)
(oh max.)

When he makes the decision to stay, she isn't sure how to tell him that she's grateful. The Wives are more than happy to have him and she likes having him about the place, even if they're sitting together not speaking. His anxiety isn't entirely quelled and she knows that it's hard for him to stay put within the rock, but she keeps the doors open, leaves him every opportunity to go, if he wants. He has to be staying for some reason, and she's touched to think that it's because of them.

The first night, he sprawls out on her floor with his arm tucked underneath of his head, despite her attempts to offer him a pillow, some blankets. The next night she drags in a spare bed out of guilt and makes sure he settles on it well and truly before she goes to sleep herself. His snoring quickly dissolves into a comforting, background noise.

The third night, he's completely silent. Furiosa's sitting up at her desk and fiddling around with the hydraulics in her arm (the grip is too loose, and she keeps dropping things by mistake) when he comes awake with a yell so loud she drops her screwdriver. She turns in place, heart pounding in her throat as she rises slow from her chair.

madmanmax: (mad dog)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-29 02:51 am (UTC)(link)
Keeping doors open helps, not because he intends to go but because if they shut a door on him he'd probably go into a panic. As it is he spends his days seeking every opportunity to see the sky. If he wasn't exhausted, he might not be sleeping at all, so perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised that once the edge of that has been eased, the nightmares return.

The man that jerks gracelessly off the bed and onto the floor isn't Max, anymore, and she knows that look. Chest heaving, blue eyes darting around the room, whatever he's seeing it isn't her. His hands are open, crooked fingers twitching and grasping loosely at the air like he's ready to grapple with something or someone, and he's just trying to work out which direction the most immediate threat is coming from. He was quick to come around, when he woke in the War Rig before, but the last time she's seen him this feral, he still had a muzzle on and was chained to the front of a car.
autonomies: (fool)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-29 03:04 am (UTC)(link)
She can tell that he's gone the moment he gets to his feet. His hands claws at the air as he tries to make sense of where he is, head whipping back and forth, seeing nothing. She's experienced this hyper-panic from him once before: in the war rig, when he'd surged awake ready for a fight. He'd been quick to settle at her calm response. She wets her mouth now and holds out her hands to him, palms outwards to show she isn't holding anything that she could hurt him with. If worse comes to worse, and he tackles her, she at least knows that she can take him in a fight.

"Max," she repeats, gentle and slow, "It's okay. It's only me."
madmanmax: (ho shit!)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-29 03:25 am (UTC)(link)
The minute her hand moves, his head and gaze snap to her, but in a way that's worse because the look he fixes her with says he's prepared to take out her throat with his bare teeth. There's no muzzle in the way, this time, but then she says his name and the very sound of it makes him flinch. Abruptly the instinct of fight turns to one of flight, and he takes a step back, only to have his knee buckle so that he goes down hard. He took the brace off to sleep, and while there's barely a limp with it on, without it that leg can be unreliable.

The sudden jolt helps, though, jogging his attention into something closer to confusion than fear.
autonomies: (kill switches)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-29 03:59 am (UTC)(link)
The burning look that he gives her halts her next words in her throat. It's not fear, so much as wonder at the sheer animosity that radiates out of him, how lost in his own head he really is. She breathes out steadily, and he steps backwards, leg wobbling dangerously underneath of him and forcing him to the ground.

He doesn't look so dangerous, now. Simply confused, unaware of his surroundings.

"You're in the Citadel," she tells him, making no attempt to come any closer. "You've been here for the past few days, visiting with the Wives, and with me."
madmanmax: (it's all blurring)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-29 02:11 pm (UTC)(link)
Max could be dangerous still, on the flip of a dime, but because she's not touching him it gives him the chance to take stock and calm down. There are no hands on him, no restraints. He scrambles backwards on the floor just enough to get his back up against the bed, blocking off the avenue as a threat, while his gaze roves around the room again and resettles on her, wary but calming gradually.

Still breathing as if he's just run a race, Max licks his lips, and stares back at her. His mouth works silently for a long moment before he croaks out, "...Furiosa?"
autonomies: (you're welcome to come with us)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-29 02:31 pm (UTC)(link)
There he is.

"Hey." She smiles quick but gentle, shoulders relaxing in increments. All at once she feels heavy in her bones and almost exhausted; he'd picked her up in his panic that time, brought her along for part of the ride. She's still got her hands up, and slowly lets them drop.

"You alright?"
Edited (wee typo) 2015-06-29 14:31 (UTC)
madmanmax: (quiet distress)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-29 03:06 pm (UTC)(link)
The initial answer is a grunt, because of course he isn't all right, and he remains crouched on the floor with his back pressed against the furniture. He's with her, at least, but it's going to take a while for the panic and adrenaline to die down. He's not exhausted yet, still twitching with leftover anxiety. His hands continue to flex and fidget.

Max's gaze makes another quick circuit of the room, just in case, establishing the present in his mind. "...Your room...?" He wants to be sure, wants to hear it.
autonomies: (something in the eyes)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-29 03:26 pm (UTC)(link)
"My room." She nods for emphasis, watching him carefully for a moment before she straightens up and takes herself back over to her desk to finish tightening one of the loose screws in her arm. She'll do this one, and then take to her bed. The rest of it will be there tomorrow.

She sits on the edge of her chair, lays her arm up in her lap and fishes her screwdriver up from the ground. The tiny screw is a tricky little thing to get a purchase on- while she's working at it, her tongue sticks out the side of her mouth in concentration.

She's letting him dictate the conversation, she realizes, which is bound to result in a whole lot of silence, but she isn't sure whether or not he wants her to talk to him.
madmanmax: (it's all blurring)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-29 04:01 pm (UTC)(link)
That it's her room takes precedence over it being in the Citadel, which is just as well because his first memories of this place are part of why he thrashed his way out of sleep ready for a fight. Max watches her move away, and sit down, and that gives him more time to calm down from the nightmares. She's in for a few long minutes of silence, but he gradually settles to sit, stretching out his left leg with a wince.

His breathing slows, until the rasp of it stops echoing in the room, and it's been quiet for a minute or two before the low rumble of his voice comes again. "...Is it broken?" He means the arm she's working on, but it could have a more esoteric interpretation.
autonomies: (when i say fool)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-30 12:27 am (UTC)(link)
"No." She gets the screw in tight as it will go and flexes out her fingers one by one, frowning at the slight lag to her movements. "The grip is off."

She misses her old arm. This one is a little lighter than the one before it, but it's desperately finicky. She hates the idea of something coming wrong right when she doesn't need it to. Unfortunately, it's all she has for now. She can only keep messing with it in her spare time to try and improve it. She huffs in irritation and undoes the buckles of her harness, exhaling uncomfortably as her ribs ache dully at the loss of pressure around her waist.
madmanmax: (bad situation)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-30 01:09 am (UTC)(link)
"You built it?" He's fairly sure she did, because he can't imagine her letting anybody else build it for her. His gaze slides to his own abandoned brace, which is an unlovely and worn down thing, utilitarian but not well made. The car always received his best mechanical efforts, while the brace he only made adjustments to when necessary. The car is gone, though, crashed and resurrected by the War Boys only to be used against him and then crashed again. The one he's driving these days is functional but it's not the same.
autonomies: (Default)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-30 01:16 am (UTC)(link)
She nods, and splays the arm out on her desk, standing up and rubbing absentmindedly at her shoulder. She can see him glancing at his leg brace.

"You should let me have a look at it." She reaches down, undoes her boots and steps out of them by the door, kicking them lazily into a corner. She'd love to pick that leg brace apart, see how he's fashioned it. It looks like it could be far more comfortable than it currently is. She knows he wears it on the outside of his pant leg– is that because it's too loose against his leg? Or maybe it's a way of padding it out, so the metal doesn't chafe.
madmanmax: (perturbed)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-30 01:26 am (UTC)(link)
Max just shrugs, gaze darting to her at the thump of a tossed boot. He's jumpy still, but he's calmed down considerably, his current pose with his leg stretched out is not an immediately defensible one. He's willing to lower his guard that much, or forcing himself to. Without the brace she can probably see where it wears against the material of his pants, and where he's had to patch them before the cotton frays into holes at the worst spots. He wears it outside his pants because that was the lazy way to make it, and it's not comfortable but it works. Unlike her with the arm, he was content to settle for 'good enough' and leave it at that.

"Still works." One hand makes a meaningless little twitching fidget, leftover adrenaline draining out through his fingertips. Random memory is still flashing in his brain, and he thinks of her arm on his brace, and hanging upside down against the side of the rig. There's the fading focus of his gaze, a flinch, and then an abrupt attempt at humor. "You need a stronger grip. In case I fall again."

Or maybe that's less of a joke and more of a metaphor.
autonomies: (you're welcome to come with us)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-30 02:03 am (UTC)(link)
"I'm sure it does." She shucks off the rest of her harness and hangs it up at its hook by the desk, scrunches her feet up against the cool floor as she looks at him, "But I could make it work a little better. If you like." She knows he's a bit precious about people touching his stuff. She doesn't blame him. She can't imagine he'll take her up on the offer, as he seems to sway towards practicality over comfort (and away from the possibility of both, for some reason), but there's no harm in offering. That, and she's honestly curious about it. He must have a bit of black thumb in him, if he made it himself.

His next statement stops her on her way across the room, and she looks at him for a level moment. Whatever it is (joke, metaphor), it gives her enough pause to realize that this big idiot, this fool, makes her feel quite fond, sometimes.

"Exactly," she says eventually, and her lips quirk a little in a quick smile as she finds the edge of her bed and sits down on the end of it. "Somebody has to keep you from getting yourself killed."
madmanmax: (blank)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-30 02:17 am (UTC)(link)
As much as they are both products of their world, her background and his are very different. Out in the Wasteland, one learns to hold tight to whatever they can carry with them, and every belonging is precious. Then too, some of the things he carries still are from an earlier time, and they help him hold onto the fragmented memory of when the world was a different place. His jacket, laid neatly at the head of the bed for a filthy, dusty pillow is the most important thing he has left. The brace is less important, having been rebuilt a few times already, and he looks at it again and considers. He's reasonably handy, enough to keep his car running, before, and mend his jacket and rebuild his own leg brace. It's easy enough to learn to do these things when there's nobody else to do them and the alternative is to fail and fall and die.

He hasn't died yet. She can joke if she wants, and he's taken plenty of risks and earned lots of scars, but Max is very good at not getting killed. "Still here." He grunts, and drags his gaze away from the brace and his own boots. Instead he looks at her bare feet on the floor, wondering briefly over the vulnerability of both of them sitting here barefoot. "Been nearly killed. It never takes." It's very, very hard to tell if he's trying to crack jokes. His face still has the slightly haunted look of recovering from the nightmares, but his tone is gruff and there's a hint of something that might be teasing.
autonomies: these icons are a mess dont look at them (our furiosa)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-30 02:53 am (UTC)(link)
"Thanks to me," she says, and flashes a brief, wider smile his way; her own joke this time. He's repaid her in kind for that, of course. It's something she hasn't mentioned outright to him yet, or thanked him for. The whole thing is such a blur when she tries to think back on it, and marred by a haze of pain. She only remembers a handful of moments: a thumb brushing the back of her ear a stab of pain followed swiftly by overwhelming relief, a pinch at the crook of her arm, his grumbly, slow voice above her, and a name: Max. Later, the wives had filled her in on how he'd stabbed her in her other side in order to bring her back to life (something she'd initially had trouble believing), and given his blood without a moment's hesitation.

She looks at his make-shift camp bed, his balled up jacket at one end to cushion his head. Hesitates, before she speaks.

"You can sleep up here, if you like. If it would be more comfortable." She kind of hates the thought of tossing him on a spare mattress as if he hadn't fought the entire world with her.
madmanmax: (whut?)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-30 01:37 pm (UTC)(link)
There's been more than one time he's nearly been killed, and she was only there for the last, but he only shrugs. He is grateful, in his wary kind of way. The fear he felt when she was at death's door was an entirely different kind than the adrenaline-filled, instinct-fueled terror that came with dangling off the side of the rig. It wasn't an entirely new kind of terror, but one he hasn't felt for a long time, and he's still trying to work out what he thinks about that. Somewhere, back there in broken memories so sharp he's still cutting himself up on the jagged edges, there was somebody he couldn't save. This time, he didn't fail.

His gaze travels upwards from her feet in a delayed jerk, expression cautious. "I don't... sleep easy. How's your side?" It's not meant as a reminder of her injuries, especially the one that he gave her, but if he wakes up thrashing around again he doesn't want to hurt her worse.
autonomies: (you wanna get through this?)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-30 02:12 pm (UTC)(link)
"Fine." She drops a hand to her side, pressing gently inward with the flat of her hand to gauge how much it hurts: much less than it has been. The first couple months had been nothing short of torture, made worse with having to stay in bed and sleep off the sick, dizzying pain, often for days at a time.

Mostly, she's sick of people fussing. Breathing is easy again, and her ribs are holding up just fine. Walking up and down the Citadel takes its toll throughout the day, but she wishes the Wives would stop shooting her nervous little glances every now and then.

She realizes she's been making a face at the mattress. She gives her head a little shake, and pulls herself up onto the bed a little further, scooting away from the side to give him room if he wants it.
madmanmax: (puppy-dog eyes 2)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-30 02:21 pm (UTC)(link)
"...Because I might hit you." He adds, a delayed explanation. He's watching her still, but his expression has migrated gradually from wary to a sad-eyed puppy-dog kind of look. He wants to be near her, but he wants her to have full warning in case that changes her mind.

Still watching her, he grips the bed a little to pull himself up, testing his knee this time before he puts weight on it. Like his brace, it still works, even if it is a little rusty and unreliable.
autonomies: (Default)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-06-30 03:27 pm (UTC)(link)
She doesn't answer that, merely flops down onto her side, pulls her pillow underneath of her head, and waits. Eventually, as she thought it might, the bed sinks down a little at the corner as he hauls himself up. Something occurs to her before she starts to really settle in, and she rises a little on her elbow, squinting at him through the gloom.

"D'you want this side?" It's the side where the bed is pushed up against the wall. She knows he likes to cover his back where he can.
madmanmax: (puppy-dog eyes)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-06-30 03:54 pm (UTC)(link)
Max pauses, bad knee resting on the bed and clearly in the midst of crawling in, everything he's doing stops when he needs to really think about something. There was a time, he's sure, when his thinking didn't run so slow, but he's not used to people anymore and navigating anything that involves somebody else feels like unstable ground. He's always testing his footing, in case he says the wrong thing or makes the wrong move and it all turns bad under him.

On the one hand, he thinks he trusts her enough to be the wall at his back. On the other hand, she might not want to be sandwiched between the wall and him, trapped by his presence. After a long moment he gives a kind of shrug, but begins the tricky act of maneuvering around to get behind her without looming over her or pinning her accidentally. It's clumsy, trying to get around somebody else in the bed while touching them as little as possible.
autonomies: (redemption)

[personal profile] autonomies 2015-07-01 12:08 am (UTC)(link)
She pushes herself up and leans forwards to let him clamber across, tucking her knees up to her chest to get out of the way. He's so careful with every movement, careful not to touch her, to avoid boxing her into the corner; she waits patiently, chin on her knees, blinking slowly.

When she uncurls, she automatically reaches out, pushes her nub against his arm for balance as she shifts over, bites the insides of her cheeks to stifle a yawn. She gets tired more easily, now. She doesn't like to think of it as her body failing, but it's taken a long time for her ribs and chest to heal, and the Vuvalini aren't very convinced she'll ever heal enough to be like she was before the fall of the Citadel.

With this sobering thought she lies down on her side again, pushing her chin into her pillow until she's comfortable.
madmanmax: (uncertain)

[personal profile] madmanmax 2015-07-01 12:40 am (UTC)(link)
Max gives a brief little freeze when she braces against him, but relaxes again even before the contact has ended. He does scoot over to get his back firmly against the wall, partly to give her space, then squirms a little to get comfortable. One arm under his head? That might work. His knee hurts, after falling, and he rearranges the position of his legs several times. It takes him a long minute to get settled and go still, and once he finally does he grunts quietly, "'S this okay?" He's watching her, slightly uncertain and nervous.

He's wide awake, now.

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