The Home Front

Somewhere along the line, after months and years of Max being okay, Jack had got it into her head that he always would be. Because she had always been the one risking her life, flung into terrifying situations, and was (apparently) prone to having random bouts of mania that sent her across the country or on insane mission to take down all of the criminals in society. Without realizing it, Jack had decided she alone had the right to be crazy and sad, denying her husband and friend the right to feel insecure.

It was odd, this sudden switch. Because between Chase and Jack, Jack had decided to put aside all feeling so as the support her friend. With Vito, her own feelings or even physical safety meant nothing to the small successes Vito achieved when trying to become more human... if that was even possible. And with Nemo... Jack had almost forgotten her identity in her own obsession with ensuring his self abuse never became fully realized.

How quickly she became spoiled. In the past five years of being caught up in troubles far beyond her abilities, the past year of having someone who was strong enough for her had made her reliant on it.

Jack Dyllan. Spoiled. Weird.

He turned her hand over, rubbing her hands. His hands were coarser than one might thing. Definitely not as grossly calloused as her own, but it reminded her of the few games of Max's she had seen at Hogwarts, back when she was just the over-involved water girl for the Gryffindor team - a job she had transformed into the unofficial playmaker of course. She had not made the connection until months into the sharing a home together. He had been good. More of a defensive player, certainly, but he had not held the team back at all. He kept his team winning by covering them when they were in the line of fire. Much like he did at home.

He continued to speak, raising her hand to his lips. Her breath caught in her chest and she watched him with curiosity. Since she had attempted to break up their family and then admitted too much of her feelings, nothing had really happened. This was the first touch beyond the norm (and beyond him trying to attack her the night prior) since she had created a gap in their sentiment towards each other. So, what was this?

She blinked, and in a very quiet voice asked, "What kind of person do you want to be... here?"

Max glanced up to find she was looking at him strangely. Jack inspected him with an interest he had only experienced on a handful of occasions. For example, that first morning she had seen him truly hungover. She had also looked at him this way when they had sat next to each other on their bed, both stammering out their awkward confessions that despite their best intentions they might feel something more. 

That night Max had claimed he wanted nothing to change between them. Whatever they had been doing clearly worked - the blissful monotony of chore schedules and bagged lunches had carried them through a whole year of marriage together. Max was good at whatever that relationship was. Friendship, companionship, a shoulder to lean on, he could more or less handle the roles and responsibilities that came with being the husband of Jack Dyllan. But it was not until she had leaned over and kissed him that Max realized he had absolutely no idea how to be her boyfriend. Changing his role would only exemplify his weaknesses. 

Since that one awkwardly amazing (or amazingly awkward, depending on who you asked) evening the pair hadn't really discussed, or acted on, the situation. Life had been busy and the routines had effortlessly shifted back into business as usual. The time had helped Max. He had talked with Gabby, been given unprompted advice from Irene, and had spent more than one night trying to mull things over in his head. Had the woman sleeping next to him really professed her love? At times, Max felt certain her words had been flukes. Jack was certainly thinking too and was it so unlikely that she would come to her senses and realize that Max Morrison was just one of her good ol' pals?

Yes, Max was good at being the friend. He was stable and dependable despite his occasional stammers. Even in the face of his disbelief Max could recognize why he could be an asset to someone like Jack. This trustworthy guy was a live-in nanny, a no-stress conversation, a casual lunch buddy. He wasn't an over-the-top passionate, swoon-worthy action hero but he was there. No flair meant no drama and a little less drama was something Jack could probably use. But suddenly Max no longer felt like that guy. He had become trouble, danger, a threat. If he couldn't a least be there, what could he really offer? 

Max looked up to meet her eyes. 

"I want to be someone you deserve." 

Jack did not touch people. She did not. She had not initiated hugs with Chase or Andrew, despite how close they were. It was Ariel who breached the invisible bubble between them and kissed her.  It was Vito who first laid hands on her. She had never really touched Nemo, not beyond what would be expected of a roommate. She and Albus, though they had not been anything beyond... friends (friends, right?), had definitely kept their distance. Jack's family had not been huggers, had not delivered good night kisses, did not hold hands to comfort each other.

Of all of the things she had done - facing off with Vito, duelling Death Eaters, wrestling werewolves - kissing Max Morrison had been one of the scariest.

Because that took a bravery very different from the bravery that had made her a crimson-clothed lion. That bravery was founded in dumb luck. The foolishness of acting before thinking. Doing something because doing was better than not doing. Stupid bravery was the name of the game.

But kissing Maximus Morrison didn't take stupid bravery. Because it wasn't stupid to kiss Max. It was stupid to not see the difference in love she felt between him and those before. Before, love had meant fearing for someone, wanting them to get better. Now, it meant not having to be afraid, and wanting to be better for them.

And, regardless of the fact that he had not kissed her back, had not said the same things, had not changed, his words held some sort of shade of what she believed love to be.

Her eyes were still locked on his as she pulled her hand away from him, taking him in, in all of his sadness and uncertainty. She shook her head, a conflicted look taking upon her expression, her brows furrowed, lips quirked.

She left her chair as she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around her roommate, her friend, her husband, pulling him into a hug. Because real love took real bravery.