Moving Forward

Familiarity (22)

Blake was not happy. And Max didn't know what to make of that. Especially seeing as there was no way to keep Max from doing what he thought was the right thing. Meaning, if Blake was going to keep sulking like he was, he wouldn't be getting the chance to catch up with Max, because Max wasn't going to stop fighting on account of a little PTSD.

The tea in his mug had long since gone cold, and Kyle had been called back home saying he'd be back in a few hours, but realistically, Max knew that Kyle probably wouldn't be back before dark if he came back at all.

So, sitting on the porch, Max watched Blake make himself busy. Whether that meant cleaning Max's windows or mowing the back garden, Blake was clearly working out his frustrations. In that way, they were similar. With a lack of options to express their annoyance both men turned to cleaning.

Max's thoughts drifted from Blake back to Kyle. Back to the fight with the rogues. Awfully vivid images ran through his head; of scratching and biting, of being cornered. Dead leaves and bark under his paws. Digging his claws into soft flesh. Howling wolves and pained yelps. Gunfire.

He jolted. Gunfire? Gillespie hadn't brought guns.

Shrugging it off, Max brought himself out of his memories to examine the problem at hand. Not the issue with Blake - especially since it was clear neither of them were going to come to an agreement about this - but Gillespie.

All this time Max had spent with Kyle, and admittedly letting himself be dragged into Kyle's fights, Max had no clue who Gillespie even was. Sure, he'd had hints, like Gillespie being the son of the last alpha, but that didn't really give Max much of an idea.

Gillespie's demeanour, firm and confident, suggested a man who was prepared to kill and had done it before. There wasn't an inch of hesitation to him and that was an obvious sign of an alpha, even to Max. What did Gillespie want, though? The pack? That didn't make sense. If he wanted the pack, he wouldn't try so hard to kill them off. Territory? It could be. All shifters wanted their patch of territory. But would Gillespie really kill for that?

Max growled quietly. There wasn't enough information. Max had no way of coming up with a motive for Gillespie to attack the pack without any background information, and therefore no way to come up with any contingency plans or methods of preventing Gillespie's attack.

The frustration was enough to make Max stand and pace. And then he walked inside the house, only to grab the polish and start on the few medals and trophies he had earned from his time in the service.

Hours passed like this, with both Waters men finding things to clean, until they resorted to moving the sofa to get the dust mites under there, and then spending yet more time mopping the wooden floor, and putting a layer of varnish on it. Neither man said anything, but by the time they'd finished, all the windows were open to let the strong chemicals smells air out.

All Max's blankets and cushions had been washed and dried and put away. His bed sheets had been replaced. The spare room had been cleaned out for Blake. Even the basement had its round, all the spiders cleared. Max had actually forgotten that he'd put exercise equipment down there. As well as a couple handguns he didn't think he'd ever need. He only had them now because when he first came home, he'd been so used to being armed that it felt wrong to not have even that much. He was over that now - clearly - but seeing them made him wonder: would he ever need them again?

Being able to say for certain that he wouldn't would've been nice. But he couldn't. So he cleaned them off, put them away, and made sure he knew exactly where in the basement he hid them.

"You gonna need those?" Blake asked, looking wary.

Max shook his head. "No harm in keeping them clean." The 'just in case' was implied, and that was just another way of saying 'I don't know'.

Blake shook his head with a tired sigh. Max listened to his father's footsteps recede up the stairs, and then realised how cold it was down here. There were blankets upstairs, so up he went, following his dad until he arrived at his own bedroom.

It was weird sleeping in the bed without Kyle. They'd only been together during the night a few times, but it felt strange. A little wrong. It was too big, too empty, too cold. So Max curled up in his blankets and cushions on the floor, next to the bed. But not on it.

Warmth enveloped him. With a comforted sigh, he turned over to snuggle closer to the source of the warmth. If only he could be this warm all the time. It was familiar, the kind of warm that reminded him of only one person. And with a deep breath, he caught that exact scent. The only scent he'd ever known that made him want to sink his teeth in and never let go.

Kyle's eyes were shut, but Max knew he was awake. They were on the bed, he noted, but pushed that aside once he realised that Kyle must've put him there.

"You're back." He murmured.

Those bottomless brown eyes flickered open to gaze intensely at Max, who couldn't stop the shiver that ran down his spin.

"I'll always come back to you." Kyle whispered.

Max traced those heavy brows with light touches of his finger tips, and took note of the light shading of stubble that was making itself known along Kyle's jaw. A beard would look good on him, Max thought. And then he smiled. Anything would look good on him.

"Do you promise?"

Kyle pressed a kiss to Max's forehead. To his brow. To his nose. To his cheeks.

"Always."

Max met Kyle's lips with his own, uncontrollable possessiveness crawling through his gut to make him tighten his hold on Kyle.

"You're mine." Kyle growled quietly.

Max hissed, surprised by their matching thoughts. He nipped Kyle's ear. "Good. Because you're mine."

And Max was never going to let him go. Not without a fight.