[He grunts a displeased little noise like she's entirely unfair -- she's the one who dropped the basket, not him, but he still is in the process of stooping down on his good knee anyway to help collect her fallen goods. It'd be bad if they were left to rot or bruise any worse; maybe Dag will reward him something with a crunch to it. Or maybe she'll wag her finger in his face for complaining wordlessly about salvaging her fallen goods.
He's still deciding if she is someone he can only handle in small doses. But at least she's not telling him to choke on a dick, so. Progress made. Max should be proud of his budding relationships.
He holds up the basket, straight-faced and surly; he's about what she'd remember up close, though he has a new scar; his forearm has a hand-shaped burn, fresh and pink. And his beard is a bit itchier, darker now that it doesn't get as sun-bleached.]
Did they, hm - tell you what's happened?
[He made the wives' safety and needs a priority.
What a horrid mistake that was. He's already regretting it. Damned basket. Stupid bloody thing, reminding him of the Fury Road and the people who took up space around him.]
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He's still deciding if she is someone he can only handle in small doses. But at least she's not telling him to choke on a dick, so. Progress made. Max should be proud of his budding relationships.
He holds up the basket, straight-faced and surly; he's about what she'd remember up close, though he has a new scar; his forearm has a hand-shaped burn, fresh and pink. And his beard is a bit itchier, darker now that it doesn't get as sun-bleached.]
Did they, hm - tell you what's happened?
[He made the wives' safety and needs a priority.
What a horrid mistake that was. He's already regretting it. Damned basket. Stupid bloody thing, reminding him of the Fury Road and the people who took up space around him.]