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When he returns, after 223 days, he's out of guzzoline and almost out of food and wet. But he's not out of hope. He'd known, leaving The Citadel, that he would be returning, if for nothing more than octane and greens.
What he doesn't realize is that he's also come to feed his soul.
He turns his bike over to a War Boy-no-longer. The black thumb takes it from him eagerly, running pale hands over the dust covered chrome and promises to have it serviced and ready to go in a day or two.
Max nods then hesitates.
"The Wives?"
His voice is raspy from disuse. It'd been a long time since he'd met anyone worth talking to.
The War Boy smiles, white teeth against white skin.
"The Sisters are with the Allmother," he says, and shows Max where to go.
The Sisters, he realizes slowly. And of course, the Allmother...it fits her better than Imperator.
Halfway up to the inner rooms of the Citadel, a young girl greets him and he startles. She smiles, and he is startled by how much she looks like The Dag.
"You're Max?" she asks softly, and he nods.
"I'm Blade. I'm one of the Allmother's handmaidens." She looks him over doubtfully. "You're very dirty. No wet where you came from?"
He grunts a negative and she nods in understanding.
"I'll take you to them."
He follows the small girl further in through the halls, through the green. He stops to stare; never has he seen so much green in one place. Blade lets him look his fill, waits patiently, with a small smile about her mouth so familiar he is curious.
"Dag's?" he mutters.
Blade pauses, frowns.
"You Dag's?"
Her pale brow clears. "Oh. We're sisters.”
He nods and she gestures with one slim hand at the green. "Are you ready?"
He nods again and she turns on quiet feet. She leads him only a little further, into a series of interconnected rooms.
A soft, clean scent assaults his nose. He has never seen anywhere so clean, so bright. The rooms are white, with murals scattered all over the walls, many half-finished, images of plants and animals and things he thinks must be secret dreams.
Blade calls out softly, and he realizes the room he stands in is in the center, with multiple doors leading off it. One of the doors opens, and Furiosa comes out. She does not smile, but her eyes soften and he feels something settle in his chest, something that he'd thought would bang about forever.
“Max,” she says softly. She wears a long soft tunic in a gentle shade of green, and the boots she wore during their time on the Road. The tunic is belted with the straps she uses to keep her prosthetic strapped to her arm, and it makes her look otherworldly, almost…
Holy.
It’s been a long time since he’s thought that word, but here, in these clean, white rooms splashed with color, with Furiosa standing in front of him, it fits.
“Mmm,” he tries, and clears his throat. “Furiosa.”
Furiosa smiles then, a small smile, and calls through the open doorway.
In an instant, the Sisters come out, their laughter preceding them, and they react visibly when they see Max in the room.
The Dag smiles a little, Cheedo looks pleased, Toast nods, and Capable claps her hands in delight, red braids swinging.
“Good to see you Max,” The Dag says, and he nods. He even tries to smile, though he’s sure it looks like a grimace.
Toast puts her hands on her hips.
“You can’t be in here like this,” she says. “You’re filthy. You need a bath.”
Max blinks. He glances down at his jack and shirt, his boots and pants. They’re the same pale color of the desert outside. Out there, it didn’t matter. In here…in here he is conscious of how dusty they are, how dirty he feels.
He nods at Toast and turns to go. Maybe he can sleep in one of the small rooms near where the War Boys used to sleep.
A hand on his shoulder stops him, and it isn’t until much, much later that he thinks about why he didn’t react in fear to it.
Furiosa’s voice is close to his ear. “Max,” she says, “where are you going?”
Max glances down at the filth and dust and looks back at her.
Furiosa shakes her head. “Stay,” she says softly, “we’ll help.”
She nods at Blade and the girl smiles and touches her forehead. Then she scurries out of the room. She’s back a moment later with long lengths of toweling. She hands them to Furiosa and bows and is gone.
Furiosa looks at him, her eyes calm and steady in her beautiful face.
“Come on, let’s get you clean.”
They take him into the bathing room, with more water than he’s ever seen before. The water’s warm, and there’s enough to fill Furiosa’s war rig ten times over.
Cheedo guides him to stand on the slick tiles and holds out her hands for his clothes. He stares at her for a moment, but there is nothing in the Sister’s faces but patient expectation. He shrugs off his jacket and shirt, and hands them to Cheedo.
The Dag tugs at his shoelaces, and he bends to try to help, but instead she pushes him to sit. He watches as she wrestles with his boots and looks up to find Furiosa watching him, smiling. He stares up at her, and it is not strange to him, at that moment, that the Allmother should be standing over him while her priestesses strip him of his worldly possessions.
Toast approaches. “Belt,” she says firmly, and he wants to protest, but instead finds himself looking at Furiosa.
She tilts her head at him and nods. He surrenders to that nod, and puts his hands down at his side. Toast reaches for his belt, her fathomless eyes oddly gentle. She loosens the buckle, and slowly slides the belt through the loops. Then she reaches out and unbuttons the top of his pants and he draws in a breath.
Capable crouches in front of him, and grips him by the pockets, and somehow, he’s lifting up and she and Toast are tugging his pants all the way off, and he finds himself sitting loosely on the clean white tiles, completely naked, with these five women standing, each holding a piece of him.
He lifts his head and looks up at them, at Capable’s gentleness and Toast’s understanding and The Dag’s fierceness and Cheedo’s thoughtfulness. And Furiosa stands in the middle of them, both eclipsing and strengthening them all with her determination and her compassion and her mercy.
She is everything that Immorten Joe was not, and she is everything Max wishes he could be.
She reaches out now and undoes the belt and straps for her arm. Cheedo takes helps her unhook it and takes it from her. Furiosa extends her hand to him, and helps him rise.
Then she steps forward, close enough that he could put his arms around her. Gently she nudges him closer to the multiple shower heads above him. The Dag reaches out and turns on the taps, and he feels the excess spray lightly kiss his back. Furiousa backs him into the water, and he shudders, but she is following him in, standing with him under the stream.
It wets her green gown instantly, turns it a dark, rich color that he can almost remember. Forest. Forest green. He can see her nipples straining through the fabric, and he wants, suddenly, to go to his knees, to kiss and suckle her breasts, to offer the little he has to her.
But he cannot do anything, because she has not said he can. Instead he watches as she steps around him and slips her good arm around his waist. Then she nods to the Sisters.
She puts her chin on his shoulder, and he feels himself unravel. Without meaning to, he leans back and rests his head on her shoulder. He finds himself staring at the ceiling, on which someone has mischievously painted an image of a naked couple frolicking in the water.
He feels his lips turn up, and Furiosa chuckles softly.
“I see you found our little mural,” she murmurs.
“Hmm,” he says.
“We’re going to scrub you, Max,” Toast says. He tries to lift his head, to tell her they don’t have to, that they shouldn’t have to do anything wretched or horrible for another man ever again, but he cannot seem to bring the words past his lips.
In any case, they know what he wants to say. Capable forestalls him.
“You’re filthy, Max,” she says cheerfully. “You need a good scrubbing, and we want to besides.”
He feels himself relax against Furiosa, who cradles him easily.
If they want to, if they want to give this to him, he will not protest. He is theirs, after all.
He raises his head and blinks as The Dag hefts a long handled brush in her thin hands. The others are likewise armed, and he glances at Furiosa as they soap up their brushes.
She shrugs. “They’ll have fun, and you’ll get clean,” she says practically, and Max does not find it in him to argue. He drops his head back on her shoulder and sighs.
They attack him with soap and water and those long brushes. He keeps his eyes closed, and lets the music of their laughter and chatter wash over him, as soothing as any balm.
The brushes are softer than he expected, and he feels Furiosa settle her back against the wall. She’s cradling him with both arms now, as the girls scrub at him.
Someone lifts his arm, and scrubs under it, and the same thing is done with his other arm. A brush is trailing across his thighs, and he cracks one eye open to find Capable trying to get the caked dirt out of his knees, a look of fierce concentration on her face. Dag is attacking his chest, and Toast is running her brush across his belly. Cheedo is scrubbing his shoulders.
The sensations, in addition with being in Furiosa’s arms, cause him to harden, and he squirms, embarrassed. None of the women react with horror.
The Dag laughs, but it’s a kind laugh, and Toast is bold enough to reach out and pat his erection fondly. It’s just a swift touch, but it’s enough to make him tremble, and Capable’s eyes soften.
“Be gentle,” Cheedo says suddenly. “No one likes to be touched without permission.”
“I’m sorry, Max,” Toast offers, and her eyes are sincere. Max shakes his head at her, accidentally whipping water into Furiosa’s face. She wrinkles her nose at him.
“’S all right,” he says roughly. And it is all right. These women, who fought for each other and died for each other and loved each other enough to risk everything, saved him. They have the right to touch him, to hold him, to wash him.
The women are less shy after that, and their touches are quiet, thoughtful, and nearly sensual. But they are mostly focused on getting him clean, and Furiosa helps him turn around when they’ve decided that his front is acceptable.
He’s still hard, and facing Furiosa now, he only gets harder. He puts his head on her shoulder and she holds him lightly by his biceps. He tries not to let his erection brush her soaked dress. The girls scrub harder, and one of them takes her brush to his buttocks with amusing vigor.
He wriggles again. “Tickles,” he mutters into Furiosa’s ear.
Furiosa hums, and whoever is scrubbing his ass retreats to his lower back instead. The water has been running clear off him for some time, but the women keep scrubbing, and he finds himself slumping against Furiosa, the muscles in his back opening up for the first time in ages, his body relaxing in a way it never does in the desert.
He sighs as he feels the water stop, but before he can try to straighten himself up again, toweling is wrapped around him and he’s being dried. Furiosa guides him out of the shower, and the women are helping her.
He doesn’t completely understand why he’s having trouble walking, but he tries his best to keep from stumbling as they lead him out of the bathing room and into a series of interconnected bedrooms. He’s put on a soft mattress in the same green as Furiosa’s dress, and his towel is gently stripped away.
Soft, strong, feminine hands push him down, more than one, too many to be just Furiosa’s, and he lets the Sisters push him down, lets them cover him with the light, cool sheet. They pet his clean hair, his face, his bare chest. He finds that he’s closed his eyes at some point, and he’s too tired to open them.
“Sleep, Max,” one of them says. He thinks it might be Cheedo.
“Call for us if you can’t sleep,” another adds. The Dag.
He manages to open one eye in time to see them drift out the doorway. All except Furiosa, who has stripped off her soaked gown and replaced it with a soft blue shift.
He watches as she sits on the edge of the bed, and picks up a file of papers.
“Go to sleep,” she says, glancing at him.
“Won’t leave?” he murmers, sleep already calling him.
Her voice is very soft. “No. I’ll stay.”