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It had been a long run, and the Citadel’s engine room is dark and nearly empty by the time they return. As Jack rolls the war rig to a stop, Furiosa passes him the boomstick she’d been holding in her lap for the last leg of the drive, opens the passenger door, and hops down out of the still-moving cabin without even sending a glance his way. Jack doesn’t even sigh, just sets his mouth in a line.
In another mood her chilliness might bother him. Today, he can relate. They’d come through a raid just minutes before, and while he’s pretty sure he took the brunt of the injuries, he can tell Furiosa is having as much trouble letting the fight go as he is. Though, he suspects, for different reasons.
He’s pretty sure he’s the only soldier in the room with his particular problem - although, hearing the war rig’s engines tick as they cool, he thinks the twin v8 beasts might be able to relate.
It’s always been a battle of its own to come down from the adrenaline of road war, to return his racing mind to calm and steady awareness in the face of the monotony of the open road. But now, ever since a scraggly stowaway saved his ass and tried to commandeer his rig many months ago, coming down from road war means coming back into himself. It means breaking apart from one unit into two separate- what?
He glances through the windshield at Furiosa’s quickly departing back, her hair fluttering as she turns to talk to a broad-shouldered black thumb, gesturing at the rear tanker where the raiders had managed a bit of damage during their run. The attack took place daringly close to the Citadel on their return trip, but the pair had rallied without hesitation.
They’re partners at this point, definitely. Friends? He’s not sure they’d go that far, but then again he doesn’t have much experience to go on in that department. It’s hard to befriend a War Boy if you think his whole worldview is bunk. But whatever they are day by day, him and Furiosa in the middle of road war? They’re something else entirely.
Tonight’s raid was quick but brutal. Almost routine at this point, though it’s dangerous to get complacent. And, like usual, he and Furiosa seemed to even sync their heartbeats in battle.
At the first sound of a revving engine approaching from the moonlit sands to their right, their pistols were in their hands. Furiosa turned in the passenger seat to look out Jack’s window at the approaching raiders: two decked-out cars flanked by bikers. He couldn’t imagine what such a small gang was thinking to even try for the rig, but maybe they hoped to use the darkness to their advantage.
A telegraphed glance of Furiosa’s wide eyes told him where to shoot, and without even looking himself he dropped two bikers off the driver’s side before he pulled Furiosa roughly to his chest and fired behind her. The raider who had snuck up, scaled the cabin, and was making to reach through the passenger window fell under the wheels with barely a crunch.
Furiosa emptied her pistol out the window at the rest of the bikers approaching from her side of the rig, and, in a move he thrilled at, reached across his lap to grab his rifle from its hiding place beside the driver’s seat, firmly yanked him forward, balanced her elbows across his shoulders and sent a shot through the driver’s side window directly into the gas tank of their pursuers. Now, he knows he didn’t teach her that.
The explosion that followed made his heart pound and set something that felt like sparks shimmering in his rib cage. And set loose a piece of shrapnel that nicked the back of his neck as he straightened, but who could possibly care about a bit of jagged metal as Furiosa whipped away in a flash to lean her whole torso out of the rear window and take her careful aim. He saw a group of bikes coming ahead of them and took his chance, grabbing Furiosa by the waistband a second before he swerved so she’d know it was coming.
He held her steady, his arm braced against her legs, until the bikes passed under the wheels and the rig straightened out. Jack kept his fingers beneath her waistband as she opened her legs to let his arm fall between them, as she squeezed her thighs around him for leverage to lean even further out of the window, as she pulled the trigger and fired at the remaining car. Of course, her aim was true. She was a whiz with the boomstick.
They stayed just like that for a breath, for two. When no other engines roared over the horizon and the War Boys on the rig’s back exploded in a cheer, Furiosa let her legs relax. Jack used his grip to gently pull her upper half back into the cabin. He’d unhooked his hand from inside her waistband and returned his warm, tingling fingers to the wheel, took another steadying breath, and tossed her what he hoped was a nonchalant smirk. She returned it in her way - a slight twitch of her lips, a twinkle in her eye - as she moved back into her seat.
In his recollection, it seemed like she was moving through spilled motor oil, like the air around her was thick and her movements slow. But the space between them returned to normal, and their breathing eventually evened out, and their heartbeats had just begun to slow into their individual patterns in their individual chests as the Citadel and its hard rock walls loomed into view.
When raids hit out on the road, there was usually enough time left in the run for them to get back to their baseline quiet camaraderie. Enough empty miles of desert sand for Jack to stare out his window and school any errant thoughts back into their carefully locked boxes. But now, sitting alone in the still-ticking rig, Jack is unsettled.
Furiosa’s already left; probably for bed, possibly for wherever she goes when she occasionally disappears. He thinks she must have a workroom somewhere, but the one time he’d dared to ask her eyes had hardened like steel and her lips, narrowed to a thin line, stayed resolutely closed.
For reasons he doesn’t want to interrogate, the idea of heading up to the sleeping quarters and lying on a hard bedroll while staring at the back of Furiosa’s knees for a few fitful hours seems torturous. And, if she’s not there, the prospect of waiting restlessly for her to return so that he can get to stare at her knees feels even worse. He’d rather take another hit from shrapnel, frankly.
And speaking of, he can tell the blood is drying. Probably a good idea to wash some of it off. Actually, now that he thinks about it, his secret alcove and its ice cold water has never been more appealing. He reckons that if he can just get his heart rate under control, this uneasily, fluttering feeling in his gut will come under control with it.
Jack hops off the rig and takes off with determined steps and barely a glance around the engine room.
Jack knows he’s at a sweet spot of rank. No one questions his presence just about anywhere, but no one pays him any special heed either. He moves through the tunnels confidently, but he still pauses around corners to make sure he’s not followed. It wouldn’t do to have his one spot of solitude discovered.
He exits the main tunnels of the Citadel, pushing a hanging tarp aside, and starts picking his way up narrow rock ledges towards the hydroponic gardens.
Of course, he hasn’t had much time to get out here lately, what with having an apprentice to show the ropes. He’s thought about taking her - thinks about it more and more lately - but he can’t help hesitating. While it’s a rare place of peace in the Citadel, it’s barely more than a pile of rocks with a puddle in it, he thinks. He’s not sure where she’s from, and he’ll probably never learn, but what if she’s actually from somewhere with more beautiful things to see than shallow sandy water and a view of the stinking Wasteland? He can almost see it in his mind’s eye - a relaxed and uninjured Furiosa sitting in a green meadow and smiling, like something out the stories his parents used to tell him. A whirling sandstorm snatching her up and dropping her here to fend for herself.
Okay, he thinks, this is not helping. Jack balls his hands into fists and lets his short nails bite his palms as he stoops through the last passage into the alcove, his eyes on the rocky ground as he enters.
The unmistakable metallic click of a knife opening echoes off the rock walls.
Jack drops to a crouch in an instant, lifts his fists. He scans the room and sees the glint of silver metal in a narrow hand. Clocks Furiosa, who is crouched on bare, dripping feet at the water’s edge and snarling.
Her steely eyes pass from battle mode to recognition, and Jack notices a little tension leave her frame. Jack opens his fists, but keeps his hands up as he slowly rises to standing. He feels the tension drain from his shoulders. Of course she’d have found this place. She’s already in every other secret place of his.
Furiosa lowers her knife in a steady motion. She stands, gracefully picks her way across the meager water, and turns back to face him. She holds his gaze as she clicks the knife shut and sits down on the far side of the pool, setting the knife down on the rocks but keeping it in easy reach. She flicks her eyes down to the spot she’d just vacated, then back up. His body follows her glance over to the pool’s edge before his mind can even process the invitation.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She lifts a pale shoulder in a shrug and swirls the water with her feet. Jack bends to untie his boots and toe them off, pushes his pant legs up to his calves. The rock he sits on is still warm from her legs - the shallow water is ice cold and bloody fantastic.
He glances sidelong at her; she’s looking away from him, but her shoulders are still a little hunched, her frame a little tense. The neckline and arms of her undershirt, so threadbare as to be almost gossamer, are wet enough to cling transparently to her moist skin, which has been scrubbed pink everywhere Jack can see. He gulps. Looking around, he spots her leather jacket and holsters set off to the side of the alcove, out of reach from her new seat. He doubts she’d let anyone see her so unguarded if she hadn’t been snuck up on.
He decides to even the playing field; he slowly unbuckles his belts and harnesses with a projected air of casual ease, sets them aside with heavy thuds and metallic clangs. He even unzips his jacket, rolls the leather into a ball and sets it beside his hips. When he feels like he’s as exposed as she is, he leans back on his hands and looks towards the night sky.
Her eyes never leave the horizon as her low voice asks, “How did you find this place?”
It’s Jack’s turn to shrug. “Years ago,” he says, “not too long after I first got here.” It doesn’t quite answer her question, but she doesn’t need to know his whole sordid tale of loss.
Furiosa nods, keeps her eyes on the desert. She doesn’t press for answers, and he knows better than to return the question. They sit and listen to the breeze hit the alcove, the trickle of water, the low whir of the generators.
When Furiosa lifts a damp rag off the rocks, the movement draws his attention. He watches her clever fingers as she dips the rag into the pool, rings it out a little. She passes it to him wordlessly. Even after the rinse, the rag is still marked black with Furiosa’s dirt and grime. Jack takes it without hesitation and starts scrubbing at his face, his grease-stained hands. He can feel Furiosa’s eyes on him as he lifts at least that day’s gas fumes off his skin, as each rinse of the rag turns the water a little more gray.
He winces when he touches the wet cloth to the gash on his neck.
Furiosa bolts upright. She crosses the pool and stops at his thigh; Jack leans forward so she can see his nape without her needing to ask, holds out the rag for her to take before she moves her hand to grasp it. She finds the cleanest corner of the dirty cloth and gently daubs his wound.
The cold water and her soft fingers feel heavenly, and Jack sighs as he lowers his head a little further. He feels like he’s back on solid ground for the first time since she unwrapped her legs from his arm out in the rig. They’ve patched each other up plenty, and it’s not strange for it to be a little tender, for them to be this close. Her warm breath stirs the hairs on the nape of his neck as her other hand braces against his shoulder. With her damp sleeve pushed up, he can’t help but notice the tattooed stars on her forearm - just one of her many, many secrets.
He can tell his blood has dried into his shirt when Furiosa tries to shift the neckline. She soaks the rag, swirling pink around their ankles, and lays it sopping wet across the back of his shirt to try and wet the blood so he’ll be able to lift his shirt without reopening the scab. It’s thoughtful, though it’s also bloody freezing. He breathes out through his teeth and looks up at her.
Furiosa is standing tense and still at his side. He thinks of her focus whenever she takes aim. It makes him want to look behind himself, to scope out whatever danger she must see, but her eyes rest on his back where his thin shirt clings to his wet shoulders. She drags her opaque gaze up to his face, meets his look. Those steel blue eyes sharpen like she’s squeezing a trigger.
She takes the rag away, crooks a finger into the neck of his shirt, and motions for him to take it off. He’s pretty sure the shrapnel didn’t hit that low, but alright; he reaches behind his neck and pulls his wet shirt up over his head. He pauses with it still around his arms until Furiosa’s impatient look tells him to remove it completely. He tosses it on the rocks.
He sighs when she returns the rag to his shoulder blades, cleaning off what he guesses must be more blood than he thought. But she keeps going, slowly swirling around his shoulders, down the planes of his back. There’s no way he bled that much. But Furiosa doesn’t stop. She keeps sweeping the cool cloth over his skin, pausing gently over his healing bruises to let the cold soak in. Jack cranes his neck to try and see her face.
She avoids his eyes as she bends to rinse the rag again, but their eyes lock as she rises. She reaches the cloth out to the side of his neck, runs it slowly, so slowly, along his throat, down his shoulder. Her eyes still on his, she cups his jawline with her other hand and rasps her thumb along his stubble. Jack can hear his pulse racing. He stays perfectly still. She stills too, waiting for something.
Jack remembers that first day in the rig, just the two of them in the cabin full of dust and wind and broken glass as he drove them back to the Citadel to start again. How he had pulled a canteen out from under the seat and uncapped it, but paused before raising it to his lips, glancing sidelong at his bloody, dusty, petulant new traveler. He held the canteen out for her to drink from first, and she pressed herself deeper into the slashed leather seat, her eyes narrowing to hard points.
He’d kept his canteen on offer, one hand on the wheel, for moments, then minutes, waiting patiently for her to uncoil. At the time, he had been surprised by her hesitation - she had to be as thirsty as he was, her throat clogged with dust and smoke just like his, every bone in both of their bodies aching for a drop, and yet she was still refusing to take what he was offering with wide open palms.
He remembers her cautious hand finally reaching out and taking the canteen from his fingers as he now reaches his trembling hand up to her elbow, presses a thumb into the soft crease of her arm, and carefully - so carefully - pulls her in. The look of raw relief on her face then, as she tipped the canteen to her parched lips, must be mirrored on his face now as those lips approach him, as he tilts his face up to press whisper-soft against them.
Furiosa exhales through her nose. The hand along his jaw shifts to the back of his skull; she drops the rag with a wet thump and slides her hand along his shoulders as he wraps his arms around her, as he weaves the fingers of one hand through the ends of her soft hair. Their lips are chapped, and a chill breeze sweeps through the alcove, and he’s sore and he’s tired and he can’t remember the last time he felt so good.
When Furiosa leans back to end their kiss, Jack can’t help but follow her. He keeps their lips together as long as he can, and he lets out a soft, embarrassing whimper in the space between them when they part. He opens his eyes to meet her gaze.
He blinks. In their time together, he’s gotten to know her looks like they’re words. This look, however, is unreadable. So Jack does what he always does when he’s not sure what she wants from him, and waits patiently, openly, for her signal.
She sits in his lap and presses her parted mouth firmly to his. Message received, Jack thinks. He brings a hand to cradle her head and dares to let a little hunger enter his kiss. When Furiosa responds with hunger of her own, he realizes he has seen that look before. Sometimes in the mess hall, when he scores a scrap of something green and halfway edible to give to her; sometimes at the Bullet Farm, when she spots a beautiful piece of gear.
He’s seen it flick across her face in other, rarer moments during their partnership, but it’s always followed by a careful schooling of her features and her hackles raising. He assumes the same will follow here, and he keeps waiting for the other boot to drop, so to speak. But while he can, he flicks his tongue into her mouth to briefly, electrically, touch hers. Breaks his lips away to press them up her long, petal-soft neck. Scrapes his teeth on her earlobe and shudders when it surprises a soft, broken gasp out of her. Kisses her again. And again. And again, his hands on her face and hers ruffling his hair and gripping his arms. And when their eyes meet and hers are still filled with want, he can’t help but breathe out a “Furiosa.”
She stands up out of the pool, walks a few paces away to flat ground. Jack just watches. He has the thought that he should be more embarrassed of how hard he’s panting. She kicks a few of the rocks away, picks up a bigger stone and tosses it along the rock face. Jack realizes she’s clearing a space; he feels his eyes widen.
“Furiosa?”
She stills. She turns to him, and there’s a bit of the usual mask in place as she regards him coolly and begins methodically taking off her clothes. Jack’s jaw drops. Furiosa darts her wide eyes pointedly to his pants. Jack clacks his teeth shut, stands up and starts unbuttoning.
She’s a feast for his eyes as she disrobes: the perfect mounds of her breasts, the curves of her hips, her long, slim legs. He sees the scrape on her left thigh is healing nicely- it was a nasty bit of road burn, all the more pointless because it happened under his watch while they were practicing maneuvers in one of the pursuit cars. But it looks good; nearly healed with fresh pink scar tissue, the bruise faded to yellow. He’s so busy looking, he doesn’t notice her freeze as he steps out of his pants and stands nude and hard before her. But he sees it as he looks into her face; she’s standing stock-still and hardly breathing.
Jack thinks he understands. She may have spent the past few years surrounded by boys and men, and he doubts he has anything she hasn’t seen a dozen times before, but that’s different than standing across from a naked man who wants you. And if she’s gone anywhere near as long as it’s been for him… he’s feeling a bit like a lizard in motorbike headlights himself. He keeps his shoulders relaxed, his palms open at his sides, and settles in to wait for her.
Furiosa swallows, then blinks her eyes a few times, and it’s like revving an engine. When she meets his gaze and tilts her head, he goes to her like he’s being pulled on a string.
He tries to keep his kisses from being too frantic, but he’s not sure he succeeds. She pulls him down to sit on the smooth, sand-covered rocks. Jack breaks away and reaches back towards the pool, grabbing his balled-up jacket. He opens it on the ground and lowers Furiosa carefully on top, so that at least her head and shoulders are protected. Plus, he knows she knows about the switchblade he keeps tucked in the right breast pocket. He thinks she’ll probably feel better knowing that there’s a blade in her easy reach, just in case. Her eyes are glassy as she grabs him by the biceps and reels him in.
He lets his hands and lips roam, careful not to cage her in with his arms: kisses her collarbone, thumbs the hard points of her hips, mouths his way across her breast. She’s silent except for her hard pants and occasional gasps, but when he tongues her nipple she arches her back so strongly she almost bucks him off. Jack smiles and repeats the motion on the other side.
Furiosa hooks a lean, strong leg around his hip and pulls him suddenly against her core. He moans at her strength, her desire, how wet and perfect she feels. He grabs a handful of her ass and grinds his cock against her, sliding through her wet curls. He’s rewarded with a rosy blush that spreads across her cheeks, down her throat. He wants to bite a mark onto her long neck. It’s one of his stupider impulses, and he instead slides soft, wet kisses along the crook of her neck while he rocks against her, while she grinds her hips in return.
A thought crosses his mind, and the question’s out of his mouth before he can think better of it: “Have you done this before?”
She stills, and he watches as she schools her face into a careful blankness instead of the sardonic narrowing of her eyes he had maybe expected. Okay then.
He doesn’t tell her that it’s fine or that he’ll be gentle - though it is, and he will be - but he does wrap his arms around her and slowly, with telegraphed motion, roll them to the side so that he’s laying in the sand and she rests above him. If it’s her first time, she can be in the driver's seat. She sets her cool fingers on his chest, raises her hips, and pauses - pulling on his shoulder, she motions for him to rise. He does, resting on an elbow. Furiosa reaches over and pulls his jacket to their new spot, then presses his shoulders back down, his head resting on the soft leather.
Jack barely has time to process that before she lowers her hips.
She starts slow, so slow. Jack takes one hand off her hip and balls it into a fist at his side to keep himself from bucking up. He stays still as she moves at her cautious, experimental pace, taking him in inch by inch and pausing before she’s seated all the way. That beautiful flush still paints her cheeks, her neck, her chest. Biting her full bottom lip, she lifts herself, brings herself back down.
Jack makes a sound like he’s been gutshot.
She repeats the motion, and repeats it again, and then she’s riding him. She lets out the most beautiful sigh he’s ever heard, and suddenly Jack needs to lift her hips, hold her still above him, and clamp a hard fist around the base of his cock.
He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about anything else to try and slow his pounding heart. He thinks about the knife that almost hit his eye socket years ago, how it dragged along his cheek and mouth as he twisted out of the biker’s grip. Thinks about Immortan Joe’s brand searing the back of his neck, the pain of the burn and the feeling in his throat as he swore allegiances to things he detested, but which he knew would keep him alive. Things that would keep him moving and fed out in the Wasteland, as long as he could be good. As long as he could be disciplined.
When the sparks finally begin to clear from his vision, he cracks his squinted eyes open experimentally. She’s perched above him, completely still, her face open with curiosity and analysis. Right, she wouldn’t necessarily… he clears his throat.
“Sorry, sorry. It’s been a while.”
Her face doesn’t change. Jack clears his throat again. “I’m not sure if I…” Furiosa is still, waiting.
There’s no getting around saying it, is there? “I’m not gonna last long.”
Furiosa’s eyes clear with understanding. Her lip ticks up and her eyes twinkle. “Okay.”
She leans down and presses a brief kiss to his lips, resting her arms on either side of his head as she starts to sink her hips back down. He’s about to protest when she breathes, her voice so low he’d have missed it if her mouth wasn’t next to his ear, “We’re good. I’ve got you.” The whimper that leaves him at her words is mortifying.
She keeps her face next to his, her chest laying on his own, as she starts rocking her hips again. Jack wraps his arms around her back, licks his parched lips, tries to keep his breath steady. She’s letting out little breaths by his ear, but he can tell she doesn’t have the leverage in this position to ride him like she wants. He rolls his hips up to meet her, buries himself to the hilt; she muffles a moan in his shoulder. He lets her rolling hips guide him into a steady rhythm, reads her grasping fingers and adds a little more force to his thrusts.
”Like that?” He asks. He thinks he feels Furiosa nod, her cheek brushing his. Jack turns his head to catch her gaze and asks again: “Yeah? Like that?” Her eyelids flutter and she nods.
Her breathy moans are so soft he can barely hear them, but he can taste them. God, he can taste them sweet and wet on his lips. He picks up speed. Furiosa rewards him by biting his neck, sucking his flesh through her teeth. Oh, that’ll leave a mark - he’s thrilled.
She sits back up, bracing herself against his chest. Meets his pace with hers - shit - as she tosses her hair behind her shoulder, her perfect breasts bouncing. Fuck, it’s so good, but it’s too much, and he can’t - Jack stills her hips with one hand and pulls out, pumps his cock once and comes on his stomach with a deep groan. As the sparks leave his vision, he watches Furiosa flick her bright eyes between what he’s sure is a dopey look on his face and where his cock is still twitching in his hand.
She runs a finger lightly through the mess on his stomach, and he groans louder at the sight than when he came.
Once his vision mostly clears and he stops gulping for air, Jack presses Furiosa’s hips forward. He can tell she’s confused about what he wants, but she follows him anyway, walks her knees up the side of his body. Her breath hitches when she realizes, as she keeps following his hands until she’s hovering over his face, her knees resting on his jacket on either side of his ears.
Jack pulls her hips down and presses the flat of his tongue against her. Furiosa gasps. He laps at her once, twice, sets a rhythm that makes her squirm. He watches her face as he circles her clit with his tongue, varying his pressure and speed until she’s panting and rocking her hips, heedless of resting her weight on his mouth.
He skates a hand along her ribs, her breast; reaches two fingers to the seam of her lips. She grabs his thick forearm with both hands, sucks his fingers inside her mouth, swirls her tongue around them. Shit. He gently pulls his wet fingers from her mouth and presses them into her tight heat with a groan. He crooks both fingers forward, and with a few more passes of his tongue she’s shaking apart silently above him, digging her nails into his scalp.
She pants with her eyes closed for a good long while. Jack moves his fingers to rub soft circles on her back, softens his tongue to gently lick her through it.
When she stops shaking, Furiosa opens her eyes and slowly moves her hips away from his face. And he can’t help it - his mouth is stretched ear to ear in a real, honest, face-splitting grin. She’s rolling her eyes at him, but her mouth still ticks up, so he thinks she’s amused. He stretches his jaw till it pops and rests his hands behind his head in mock swagger; Furiosa presses her thumb into the love bite on his neck until he yelps.
He huffs a laugh that catches in his throat as Furiosa stands up and walks away. But her muscles are loose, her shoulders unwound; she stretches and he watches her spine straighten and crack. She picks the wet rag up off the rocks, meets his eyes and tosses it over. His grin has faded by now, but he knows his eyes are sparkling like hers as he catches the rag and wipes his face, his stomach.
Furiosa crosses to her clothing and starts getting dressed; he actually whines. Her shoulders bounce - was that a laugh? - but she still dresses completely, holsters included, before she returns to his side.
She leans in and presses her forehead to his for a brief moment before she lays down and rejoins him. “Ten minutes exactly,” she says, curling against his side. Jack doesn’t doubt that she can count it out in her head, down to the second. He wraps his arm around her, kisses her hairline, accepts the time gratefully as the gift that it is. They lay together, their breathing eventually evening out, their heartbeats slowing into their individual patterns in their individual chests. But he can still feel her heart where it’s pressed against his ribs, and he could swear his own is beating in response.