Work Text:
Furiosa sweeps the guzzoline-soaked rag over her skin quickly and efficiently, slowing down to scrub more thoroughly at her armpits. There’s soap in the Citadel, rendered from what little fat can be found on the bodies of the dead, but it’s reserved for the wives, the milkers, and of course for Immortan Joe and his sons – not that they seem to make much use of it. Aqua Cola, too, is rationed for most of them. The milkers are given as much as they’re willing to drink (better for the product) and the wives are deprived of nothing except their liberty, dignity, and the sanctity of their bodies. But Furiosa is no one’s wife, and so when the grime builds up too much for her to bear, she washes with guzzoline. The solvent strips away the grease and stench of her body, leaving behind its own hypnotic fumes and rough, reddened skin.
Guaranteed privacy is another privilege not afforded to her, but she’s usually away from prying eyes here, in the lee of the war rig. She still usually sleeps among the other gearheads, because sleeping beside Jack is as much torment as it is comfort. But last night she chose to suffer the torment in exchange for the comfort of gazing at the landscape of his face in the dim light: the mountain and cliff edge of his nose; the valleys of his eye sockets; the black sands of his grease-stained forehead and, beyond them, the smooth ocean waves of his hair.
All these things emerge into view again now, as a sleepy-eyed Jack stirs from his nest and clambers into the driver’s seat, hooking his elbows over the open window and resting his chin on his folded forearms. His gaze moves over her slowly, and all at once Furiosa becomes vibrantly conscious of her unbound chest, veiled only by the worn material of her shirt.
The engine of her body thrums at the clack and creak and squeal of the war rig’s door opening and the soft sound of Jack spilling himself onto the ground, his boots scuffing as he approaches, sleep still clinging heavy to his legs. He’s taller than her, but the shadow of his body doesn’t feel like a threat any more. He’s not laid a hand on her, in violence or anything else, since that first little scrap where he shoved her out of the war rig.
Furiosa imagines him sliding his hands over her neck, inside her shirt, the calluses of his palms and fingertips scratching at her raw, guzzoline-soaked skin. But Jack only holds a hand out, silently requesting the rag. As she hands it to him he inspects the reddened skin on her fingers and a cloud of thought crosses his brow.
“Come with me,” he says abruptly, stashing the rag inside his own jacket and already starting to walk away.
“Hit the brakes,” Furiosa warns, buttoning the high waist of her pants and tucking her shirt into it. She considers her hair for a moment, then decides to leave it loose over her shoulders. She likes the way that Jack looks at it – always with that same quiet rapture as the first time he saw it. She longs to secretly cut a lock of it and hide it somewhere inside his clothes: a tribute, a token, a spy. For now, the rag will have to do.
It’s dangerous, this hold that Praetorian Jack has on her. Furiosa knows that if she ran right now, fled across the desert in search of the Green Place, the wound of their separation would bleed and stagger her. She’s already left it too late to tear herself away unharmed.
Sometimes, Furiosa gets angry at her body for craving him, at her heart for latching on to him. Why now? She’d managed to weather the storms of puberty in secret, surrounded on all sides in this hostile place by boys and men – half-clothed, no-clothed, free and unguarded and right there as the hormones battered her body into a new shape and her sexuality bloomed inside it.
She’d glanced at them, sure, never letting her gaze land on any particular one for too long. She’d listened to boys discreetly beating off in nearby pallets – no sound but the whisper of skin on skin, hard swallows and soft puffs of breath through their noses – and frequently slipped a hand between her legs to join the chorus. But she’d kept her distance all the while, ducked away from the grasping reach of those for whom her boy disguise was no deterrent. She’d maintained her focus. She’d stayed the course.
And now, just as the dust has finally settled on the turbulence of her adolescence, there’s this. There’s him.
Furiosa doesn’t ask where Jack is taking her; she trusts that he would have told her if he’d wanted her to know. It’s a winding path high into the Citadel, but away from foot traffic. It leads them to a slim crevasse where Jack pauses for a moment. It seems clear to Furiosa that the way is too narrow for him, but then he reaches up and unzips his leather jacket and her breath catches in her throat as she sees his shell come off for the first time. He’s got a well-worn grey shirt on beneath that clings warmly to his skin, damp and dark under the armpits and in the middle of his back.
“Watch your head, there’s a right craggy bastard here. He’ll crack your skull if you’re not careful,” Jack advises as he flattens and twists his body through the narrow opening. Furiosa follows with greater ease, though she nearly hits her head on the protruding rock despite his warning.
There’s a short rock wall next, and Jack leans down, laces his fingers together, and rounds his back to create a step up for her. Furiosa scrambles at the last part of the climb, but he doesn’t use it as an excuse to grab her hips or arse. No, he just watches her legs kick with what she suspects is amusement.
Once she’s secure, she leans down to offer him a hand up, but Jack shakes his head. He backs off half a dozen paces, then runs at the wall and uses the momentum to scramble up solo, planting the heels of his hands on the ledge and using the raw strength he’s earned wrestling with the war rig to straighten his arms, lifting the rest of his body up and onto the rock next to her.
Show-off, Furiosa thinks, mockingly. Then she revisits the thought more seriously. Is he showing off for her? Is this quiet crow finally puffing up his feathers and performing his courtship dance?
The sound of trickling water draws her out of her thoughts, and they’re obliterated when she rounds the corner to find an impossible oasis. Water trickles down the rocks from a crack somewhere high up, feeding mossy blooms and leaving rusty trails on the metal-infused surface of the rock.
“Is that safe to drink?” Furiosa asks, awed.
Jack nods. “It’s from a crack in one of the Aqua Cola pumps. Too small to be noticed, but big enough to make this place. Though just be sure to…”
“Drink the running water, not the still, I know,” Furiosa interrupts, moving closer to the shimmering cascade.
She feels Jack’s eyes on her, turning sharp and calculating like they always do when she drops clues about where she came from. He’s never asked her directly, and she’s returned the courtesy. But she knows he’s powerfully curious about where her star map leads.
He moves past her, approaching the place like it’s some kind of shrine. In a way, it is. Not even Jack, with his praetorian rank, is entitled to Aqua Cola in this much abundance. He leans his forehead reverently against the wet rock, his shirt rapidly dampening with the rivulets that wind their way down his cheek and neck. Then he opens his mouth and touches his tongue to the rock, rolling it slightly to create an aqueduct that guides the water into his parched throat.
Furiosa watches the display in a trance until Jack pulls back, chest heaving a little as he catches his breath. She steps into the space he left: approaches the rock wall, presses her palms against it and touches her bottom lip to it. Her mouth becomes a cup, filling rapidly and emptying as she swallows and then filling again. This is abundance like she hasn’t tasted since her childhood. It swells her belly and soaks her tongue and soothes her hot, sore skin.
When she finally, reluctantly pulls away, Jack is setting his boots down on the rock beside him, alongside the hefty belt buckle that marks him as one of Immortan Joe’s men. He’s rolled up his trouser legs to expose the lower half of his calves, and it looks oddly scandalous. His feet are rough and ragged with yellow toenails, the skin quickly turning purple with cold as he eases them into the pool with a hiss and then a soft moan of relief. The skin of his ankles is fish-belly white and mostly hairless from the ever-present friction of his boots.
Envious of the expression on his face, Furiosa yanks her own boots off carelessly, rips off her socks and stuffs them inside, then sits down on a rock opposite Jack and dips her toes into the pool, easing the rest of her feet after them. The cold is so intense it makes her whole body shiver, but it’s worth it for the blissful sensation of water eddying around her toes, washing away years of dirt and exhaustion.
“No one else knows about this place,” Jack tells her. “You can come here to wash. Bribe the Organic Mechanic and he might even give you some of his soap.”
(Organic is weirdly fastidious about washing his hands before meals. Unfortunately, he isn’t quite as fastidious about washing them before performing amputations or delivering babies.)
The implications of no one except for the two of them knowing about this place sink in, and Furiosa looks up at Jack guardedly. But he’s not looking at her. His attention has been drawn by a small frog on one of the damp rocks. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, wrists relaxed, watching the little amphibian. Furiosa waits for him to pick it up. It’s an instinct she remembers from the Green Place, which boys and men alike seem incapable of resisting. Any frog that appears in front of them must be picked up and made to squirm in their delighted hands. They can’t help themselves.
Except apparently Praetorian Jack can. He makes no move to capture the frog, only observes it with his eerie stillness. The frog seems to relax, settling its body down to rest flatter and wider on the rock. Glancing over beside it, Furiosa can see little black tadpoles writhing in the water, flicking their tails curiously against the mysterious mass of Jack’s feet.
She inches her own bare toes across the pond towards his, until the tips of their big toes are kissing each other. She knows her feet aren’t dainty and feminine – she has yellow toenails too, and years of layered corns and calluses – but they look practically delicate next to his. She inches a little closer, some startled tadpoles scattering away, and then rests her toes on the tops of his, trapping them. Her toes rear up in a little victory wave and then pounce again on their five victims.
A huff of breath draws her gaze back up to his face. What she sees there stops her heart for a moment.
Jack is smiling.
Not the wry twist to his mouth she’s seen on rare occasions. Not the mad cackle of the War Boys. This is a silly, involuntary smile that bunches his cheeks and transforms him completely. It’s like he’s taken off a mask and she’s seeing his real face for the first time. He’s out of his carapace, slouching on the rocks, wet shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest, toes cooling in the water, and Furiosa just made him smile.
She feels her own stiff cheeks creak and shake off the cobwebs and lift in response, quite against her will. And Jack, still smiling, looks up at her to say something but is struck dumb, staring at her much the same way he did when he first saw her hair hanging loose over his shoulders.
The air between them suddenly feels electrified. Furiosa waits for Jack to make the first move, but of course he doesn’t. He’s aroused, though, and making no effort to hide it or make excuses for it. The thick material of his trousers traps it against his thigh, the swelling of it creating an obvious shadow in the fabric.
Furiosa abruptly stands up in the water, then steps out onto the rocks, his eyes following her. She untucks her shirt and pulls it over her head before she can overthink it, then unbuttons her trousers and pushes them down her legs, stepping out of them. There’s nothing else to remove. She stands exposed and unflinching in front of him, an invitation plainly written.
Jack looks… broken. He’s all raw now, no armor left. After the initial shock passes, he touches the trembling fingers of one hand to his mouth. His eyes are watering from their refusal to blink as his gaze rakes her body.
“Furiosa,” he rasps at last, looking up at her pleadingly.
She takes this as a sign to approach, but as soon as she moves he throws up a hand and ducks his head.
“We can’t.”
Disappointment clenches in her stomach. “You want to,” she accuses.
That rips a laugh out of him. It’s the first time Furiosa has ever heard him laugh, and she wishes it was a better one. This one is all pain and frustration. “Oh yes, love. Bloody oath, I want to.”
He looks up at her again, eyes roving over her body hard and mechanical, the way they look when he’s driving. It seems like he’s mentally counting down, and when his inner timer hits zero he looks away and grabs his jacket and thrusts it towards her.
“Here.” The word bites its way bitterly out of his mouth.
After a pause, she takes the jacket and slides her arms into it. The lining has been worn soft and smooth by Jack’s body over the years. It smells like him in a way that will never wash out. She draws it over the front of her body and, buffer in place, gingerly sits down next to him.
After a moment he glances over at her and immediately throws his head back and sighs. “Didn’t think that through,” he admits. “You all nuddy and wrapped up in my leathers.”
But he wraps an arm around her tightly, before she can think about taking the jacket off again. His head lolls over to rest against hers like he’s exhausted. In the silence that follows, Furiosa stares down at the pond. The frog is long gone.
“You know my reputation,” Jack says at last. “How I’ve been on all those supply runs and always come back?”
“Not in the mood to hear you brag,” Furiosa mutters rebelliously.
“It’s ‘cause I’ve always been able to see what lies in the far distance,” Jack persists. “Where a road will take me. And if we go down this road, you and me… I know where it’ll take ya. That golden cage with the big vault door. Joe’s factory for little warlords. You’ll never get to follow your map.”
Furiosa parses the meaning out of that, and with a sinking feeling she sees it too.
The War Boys gawp at her as she strides back into the Citadel by Praetorian Jack’s side, her hair streaming behind her. In their horrified eyes she can see them recalling every time they farted noisily and enthusiastically in front of a girl. Then there’s the secondary horror of missed opportunity, as they realize there was a girl here the whole time .
“Word’ll spread fast,” Jack mutters, so that only she can hear. “We go direct to Immortan Joe. Making him hunt us down would be a bad move.”
He’s clearly been thinking this over, but Furiosa has been thinking too. “Organic Mechanic first,” she says. “Then the big man.”
Later, they stand in front of a simmering Immortan Joe with their heads held high as Jack does the talking: recounts how he lost his whole crew, and how he would have been lost as well along with the war rig if it wasn’t for Furiosa. She can see that Rictus is barely listening. He’s staring at her hair, his fists clenched and trembling at his side while Jack makes his request.
Before Immortan Joe can even respond, Rictus’ limited self-restraint fails. “Wretched smeg!” he howls, jabbing a finger venomously in Jack’s direction. Of Immortan Joe he implores, “You should kill him, Daddy! This schlanger is asking for a wife, my wife…”
“ My wife,” Immortan Joe retorts dangerously, but he’s glaring at Rictus, not Furiosa or Jack.
Scrotus joins in now, caring little about this particular wife but a great deal about fairness – at least, when it comes to himself. “You can’t be letting some scummy low-born praetorian have a wife, Daddy,” he reasons. “Not when your own sons get no shot at the breeding pool!”
Jack and Furiosa silently thank Rictus and Scrotus for their intervention. There’s nothing the Immortan will hate more than being told what he can and can’t do.
“Maybe you should do more to earn your shot at the breeding pool,” he snarls through his mask. “Remember, Scrotus…” He throws his arms open, gesturing at the gathered audience of War Boys. “These are all my sons. They will sit at my table in Valhalla, same as you.”
The War Boys puff up their chests proudly, eyes filling with tears, and lead a deafening chorus of chants. Jack waits for it to die down, then says loudly and calmly over the last of the lingering noise:
“I don’t want Furiosa as a wife. She’s no breeder. Her insides are twisted.”
Immortan Joe turns a surprised, then disgusted gaze upon Furiosa. She can see the interest fading from his eyes, but he pauses. “You’re certain?”
“So she says. Organic can check her to confirm.” (He will, thanks to the bribe they paid him to tell Immortan Joe her womb is all twisted up like a tumbleweed.) Jack continues: “Lost my black thumb in the attack, along with everyone else. He was the best we had. But she’s better. Let me train her up. As a breeder she’s useless. As a praetorian, she could be indispensable.”
Furiosa sees it in her mind’s eye, as clearly as Jack must have seen it before. The heady, sweaty ecstasy of giving in. A seed sown in the wrong place, the wrong time. Her belly swelling until it can’t be disguised. Jack never sees his baby; Immortan Joe executes him on the spot for lying and stealing a wife. Furiosa is kept alive, so they can see if she’s capable of producing full-life babies. If the baby comes out half-life, she’s killed or spends the rest of her life as a milker. If it’s full-life, Immortan Joe smashes it on the rocks and locks her up with the rest of the wives to be bred until her body gives out. She never sees the Green Place again. She never fulfills her promise to her mother. She lives and dies in this abominable Citadel.
What he’s saying makes sense. But Jack’s body is hot at her side, and she can still see the evidence of what he really wants bound cruelly against his thigh.
“We don’t have to do it all,” she whispers miserably. “We can just do a little.”
The leather of Jack’s jacket creaks as he clenches his fingers in it. “You’ve been in the war rig,” he sighs. “You know how hard it is to turn that thing around? To slow it down once it’s picked up speed? Trust me, love, this is even harder. I know what my body wants, and it won’t settle for just a little.”
As if to emphasize the point, he pulls her in closer to him, reaches over and slips a hand inside the jacket, aiming low. Furiosa breathes in sharply, her hips twitching, but his palm comes to rest on her lower stomach and stays there. Beneath it, her womb is not tangled up like a tumbleweed. It’s ripe and expectant. He’s right. It would only take a small slip of their resolve to bring everything crashing down.
“Before I leave,” she says at last. “Right before. Can we do it then?”
He chuckles. “You want a souvenir to take home with you?”
No. What Furiosa really wants is for Jack to come with her. But if he won’t, or can’t, perhaps she can at least keep a piece of him.
A new seedling to plant in the Green Place.