silverhammer

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brian

2/1

Max can't find his fucking phone.

After a while, after he's finally remembered and checked the pockets of his slacks and his coat, he realizes he probably dropped it. But he's sure as shit not going back near that bookstore to look for it. He's still on edge, even though he knows whatever happened down on that part of Park Avenue probably wasn't as big a deal as he thought it was.

He needs to head home though, needs to make sure he was just seeing things and it wasn't Pru there, as crazy as that is in the first place.

Somehow, though, he ends up at Brian's instead. He doesn't always call ahead, but today, it's not exactly an option. He knocks, running one hand through his hair as he leans against the door frame and tries to calm the hell down again.

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He should have stayed.

Max lets out a sigh of relief, even though he doesn't feel as relieved as maybe he ought to. There's still this knot in his chest, this unease that he can't fucking shake, even knowing that Pru's alright.

"Okay, good. Good," he says, "Jesus, I thought--"

He can't being himself to finish the sentence, because Max thought a hell of a lot of things in that moment, some of them more believable than others.

"What?" Brian asked, arching a brow, almost like he was goading Max into finishing his sentence. "You thought, what?"

Whether Max talked about it or didn't talk about it, wasn't any of Brian's fucking business, but the longer they edged around it, toeing the line and pretending it wasn't there, the more ridiculous the whole thing became. Brian might've been a master at leaving people to their own problems, but he'd never been great at playing dumb.

"Look, it's not like it matters," he says, "She's okay, it's cool. I thought I saw something. I didn't."

Even he doesn't believe everything's cool, though. Not when he's still got the image of himself, just down the road, taking one to the leg. Not when the idea of it has him fucking terrified, not when it brings Over There racing back like he never came home at all.

Sometimes, Max thinks he'd give just about anything to get a free shot to punch LBJ in the face.

Shrugging out of his coat, he tossed it across the coat and stepped out of his shoes, walking barefoot toward the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

"You say it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," he agreed, and for a moment, it sounded like he was completely disinterested, or at the very least, content to let Max pretend like nothing was going on. But then:

"But if you think I haven't noticed that there's something going on with you, or that I don't want to hear it," he said, turning to look Max in the eyes, "You're wrong."

It wasn't any sort of declaration. It was the truth, take it or leave it.

"I'm not going to force it out of you, or beg you to talk about your fucking feelings, so if that's what you came here for, you might as well go." He gestured toward the door.

Edited 2015-02-14 05:49 (UTC)

He came to Brian's because he needed to get the hell out of there. Because when the world dropped away and the jungle came back, and all he could see was Pru getting shot and his own face down in the mud, it was the first place he thought to go.

Max sure as shit isn't about to say that, though.

Normally, Max might take Brian shrugging out of his coat as a cue for him to ditch his own, but he doesn't today, overdressed for being in out of the cold.

"It's just shit like that, that does it," Max says, after a long moment, "Some asshole shooting a gun off in the street."

A couple of other things do it too, leave him smelling ash and humid air, his heart pounding, but it's usually not as bad.

Downing half his water in one go, he put the bottle aside, leaning with his hands braced against the island counter.

"I know," he said, after a moment, some unidentifiable emotion flickering across his face.

Clearing his throat, he admitted, "I've seen it before. Dealt with it before."

Those memories were still hazy, but they no longer felt like they belonged to someone else.

I want you to take my son.

"Yeah? Well, you can thank good old Uncle Sam for mine," Max replies, with a mocking salute thrown in for good measure.

As pissed off as he is about it, Max knows that he came out of it a hell of a lot better than some guys. At least the parts of himself he feels like he left behind are ones you can see.

He finally crosses the room, sinking down onto the couch, though he perches himself on the edge of it.

"I want you," he said, mimicking the old Uncle Sam posters, with its ominous finger wagging and booming patriotism. Pushing away from the counter and making his way into the living room, he began ticking off symptoms, as if they were part of the recruitment spiel. "For a lifetime of anxiety, paranoia, mood fluctuations, violently reactive behaviors, and a healthy dose," he said, plopping down onto the couch, in a comfortable sprawl, "of denial."

His head lolling in Max's direction, his face was blank but unguarded, one of those intense gazes that people talked about, when they whispered about Brian Kinney, whether in the back room or the conference room. Still, it was brief, and with a roll of his eyes, he turned his focus to Gus, who was bouncing around in his playpen.

"I'll be sure to send him a fucking post card."

"See, if they'da put that in the draft letter, I would have gone running down to the recruitment office," Max says, but the comment doesn't have the bite that it might if he wasn't still feeling so fucking on edge.

He remembers the day he did, though, the giant fucking posters on the walls... he'd almost walked right back out as soon as he got there. Even now Max is starting to wonder if maybe Canada wouldn't have been so bad after all, French or not.

"I do write fabulous copy," he said, reaching out a hand, Brian's palm hovering just inches from the tense line of Max's spine. Letting out a breath, he touched his fingertips to the fabric of Max's coat, the touch light enough that Max could ignore it, if he wanted to.

In his playpen, Gus babbled to himself, a string of syllables that the kid was working his hardest to turn into words.

"I'll be sure to call next time I'm in the market for a piece of government literature," he replies.

Brian's hand on his back, Max doesn't move, but he doesn't relax just yet. He can't quite bring himself to. Even though he knows now that half the shit he thought happened on the street didn't, he still can't manage to shake it just yet.

"Look, I'm sorry, man. If you want me to fuck off, I'll go."

"Go if you want to go, but if I didn't want you here, you wouldn't have gotten through the door."

Brian rarely did anything he didn't want to do, and if he'd wanted Max gone, Max would've known loud and clear already.

"In fact," he said, pushing abruptly to his feet. Across the room, on a little accent table, there was a small, covered dish. He opened it, retrieving something from inside. "Next time, you can save us both a step." Unceremoniously, he set it down on the coffee table, within Max's reach.

A key.

Edited 2015-02-15 06:12 (UTC)

Max looks down at the key on the table, nonplussed for a moment before he slides it to the edge of the table and picks it up, turning it over in his hands.

"No more waiting in the hall," he says. Not that there's exactly been a hell of a lot of that. Usually it's not like today. Usually, Max has got a phone and a way of at least trying to call ahead or something. He was never too good at messaging on that thing like most people do these days.

He tucks the key into his pocket.

"Thanks."

Edited 2015-02-15 06:41 (UTC)

"I had a spare," he shrugged, because it could easily be written off as nothing. It was just too inconvenient to be expected to let Max in, every time he came skulking around, he might as well just save himself the trouble.

Sitting himself back down, with a sigh, he kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, leaving the floor open for Max to say whatever he needed to. If it happened to be nothing, that was Max's choice.

Max is quiet for a long moment, then finally pulls off his coat, setting it on the couch next to him. The last thing he wants to do is keep talking about it, but he still can't manage to get what happened on the street out of his head. It'll pass, it usually does, but he doesn't have a goddamn idea when it finally will.

"Father-son Sunday?" he asks, empty small talk as he nods over at Gus.

"The kid's gotta get a strong, male influence from somewhere," Brian said, a genuine smile flickering across his face as he watched Gus pull himself to his feet, using the walls of the playpen to test his balance.

"You're letting it hold you back," he said, after a moment of silence. "If you want it to, that's your choice, but it doesn't have to."

"You mean I can just stop? Gee, why didn't I think of that?" Max asks, sarcastic as he frowns over at Brian.

Max knows it's done a hell of a lot to change the way he lives, and if he thought there was a way to change that, he would. Mostly, he just tries to keep the hell away from anything he thinks might set him off, but it's not like he can help it if some asshole decides to fire off a gun in public.

"Right, that's exactly what I said," Brian laughed, rolling his eyes and cutting Max a look.

"This, today? You've got no control over that shit. It happens, you deal with it. But I'm not talking about just today."

Not that Brian could say anything about anybody's drinking, and if Max wanted to hop from job to job, that was his business, but he'd been in a backslide since the wreck, a fact that he was pretty skilled at denying.

"But hey, what do I know?"

"Look, can you not give me shit for this right now?" Max replies, and he scrubs a hand over his face again. It's starting to sound like the beginning of yet another lecture, like ones he's gotten from his parents or from his sister or from countless professors before he dropped out of Princeton.

The last person he needs to hear it from is the guy he's sleeping with.

Gus watched them through the mesh of his playpen, eyes wide with sudden interest. Brian gasped, mouth open with shock, a pantomimed uh oh gesture, for his son's benefit. The kid giggled, bouncing happily on his diapered butt. He babbled, the way he had been for weeks-- no longer just noises to himself, but an actual conversation he seemed to expect Brian to understand.

A lot of dee dee dees and muh muh muhs.

He'd pulled himself up, again, and was reaching over the edge of the playpen, his little fists opening and closing in Brian's direction. With a sigh, Brian got to his feet and crossed the room, lifting his son into his arms.

As far as he was concerned, the conversation between Max and himself was over.

It's fucking weird. Anyone else would have pushed it. He knows Lucy would have pushed it. As much as he can tell she's on eggshells around him a lot these days, Max feels like he wouldn't have let it go so easy.

As it is, Brian jumps up and heads over to grab Gus instead, leaving Max by himself on the couch. He ought to feel grateful for it, but for some reason it feels almost empty.

"I can deal with this, alright?" he says.

"I know you can," Brian said, and for once, it wasn't flippant, it wasn't a dismissal. He truly believed that Max could handle it. Maybe not alone, and maybe not right away, but he never would've bothered with someone he didn't have at least some faith in.

"I never thought you couldn't."

This is the stuff they usually don't talk about. Or at least, the stuff that Max doesn't, because pretending it's not there's a hell of a lot easier. Or at least, pretending he's not pissed the hell off about it all.

Max says the words, says he can deal with it, but there's not a lot of conviction there. Mostly because days like today, he wonders if everything below the neck working just fine is enough to get by on. His expression softens as he looks up at Brian, and he sighs.

"I should probably go buy a new phone," he says, "My sister's gonna try to call once she hears about Pru."

It was bullshit. Max could've easily called from Brian's phone and gone out to get a replacement later, but if he wanted an excuse to get some fucking air, Brian wasn't going to stop him.

Nodding, he said dryly, "Well, if you decide to come back, we've got a rousing evening planned. Sesame Street, mac and cheese, Mega Bloks."

With Gus still babbling in his arms, Brian leaned down, pushing a hand through Max's hair and tipping his chin up into a brief but warm kiss. Lingering only for a second, he stepped away, heading into the kitchen to get Gus a snack.

Max only just took off his jacket, but he pulls it on again before pushing to his feet. He needs a cigarette or a joint. And he'll definitely go looking for some place to buy a new phone while he's out, even though he knows it's something that can wait. Brian's got a phone— and he thinks Lucy probably has the number— and from what Brian's said, Pru's fine.

But Max still needs a minute before he feels like a person again, and not just pieces of himself put back together the wrong way.

"Yeah. I'll be back," he says, "Maybe save me some macaroni?"

"Maybe," Brian agreed, glancing up from his search in the fridge to flash Max a grin.

Lifting one of Gus's hands in a wave, Brian said, "Say bye-bye, Sonny Boy." Waving enthusiastically, the kid let out a string of sounds, hitting on buh at least a few times.

"Close enough."

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