Chapter Text
It starts—as most things on the Zephyr do—as a drunken bit.
They’re all sprawled around haphazardly on the upper deck in various states of inebriation. Maxwell, for his part, is properly pissed. It’s been far too long a week for anything else, what with meeting Comfrey and learning that his father was even more of a jumped-up self-serving arrogant bastard than he had previously imagined.
He suspects the rest of the crew is having similar trains of thought.
Olethra is already face-down on the deck, with Daisuke having gently pried her mug of Disaronno out of her gesticulating hands some time ago. The old cowboy sits with one hand resting in Olethra’s hair, one gripping his flask, and gaze unfocused on the sky above.
Monty’s been motionless for hours, reclining against the mast with his arms crossed and his eyes closed. Every once in a while, someone puts a hand under his nose to make sure he’s still breathing.
Van, Marya, and by extension Maxwell, are testing the physical capabilities and potential combat uses of Van’s new arm. Well, that’s what Marya calls it. It mostly involves a lot of throwing different things at Van and seeing if she can get the tentacles to grab it. The obsidian mirror from Katur rests tentatively on the deck. They had discussed keeping it downstairs, but nobody was quite sure where to fit it. Every now and then, after a particularly impressive catch, a ghostly Chapman will appear to cheer wildly and silently.
Van leaps in the air to grab the nut pug Marya has just hurled her way, twisting the tentacles behind her to catch it mid-flight. As she lands, Da Chapman appears to applaud.
Van bows clumsily, listing slightly to her left. “Get it from you, Da!”
Max tilts his head, watching as the world blurs to catch up with the motion. He’s not been quite this drunk since…hm. Thinking is hard. Maybe since Revington. Regardless, he’s just intoxicated enough—or maybe he’s just too exhausted, physically and emotionally, from everything he’s discovered here—to ask, “What’s that like?”
Van shrugs. “The arm? Dunno. Feels kinda like having a lasso attached to my shoulder.” “
No.” Max clarifies, then pauses. Was that rude? It’s even harder to tell now. He’s not sure if he cares. “What’s it like having a dad that likes you?”
Everything goes silent. Maxwell feels a weight thump on his head. He knows without looking that it’s Wealwell, stretched out in a perfect arabesque with his head stacked on top of Maxwell’s. This is Interpersonal Stance: Tactical Comfort (perfectly executed) and Max loves his brother for it. He reaches up and clumsily pats Wealwell’s hip with a gloved hand. Wealwell, satisfied that his job is done, twirls back into his neutral reposed stance.
Olethra rolls to her back and squints at Maxwell.
“Dude.” She declares. “Your dad fucking sucks.”
With that, she rolls back over and re-presses her face into Daisuke’s knee, who remains entirely unfazed.
“It’s true, Gotch.” Marya slurs. She’s been drinking since Comfrey swung back to the Zephyr II. “I mean, we’ve seen a lot of bad dads, but your dad is fucking rowdy. And not even in the fun way. Just like, damn. Fucking….rowdy.”
Maxwell shifts. It’s hard to distinguish his feelings in this state, but he can tell that the more all eyes are on him, his shoulders begin climbing to his ears. Longspot Gotch is—
He’s—
Maxwell finds, suddenly, that his glass is still in his hand, and nothing seems like a better idea right now than to empty it.
He does so, slopping most of it down his front. His balance is compromised. He’s unsteading. Unsteadier. Unsteady?
He blinks again, and Van is crouched in front of him, brows knit together like a big furry caterpillar.
“Gotch.” She says solemnly. Her flesh hand shoots out to grip his shoulder tightly. Her eyes burn into his skull. “I’m gonna be your dad.”
Maxwell blinks. “What?”
“Your father is an absolute arse, and if he doesn’t want you, I call dibs. I’m your new da.”
It’s Max’s turn to furrow his brow. He’s pretty sure he has objections to what Van is saying, he just can’t quite put his finger on them. He’s so, so drunk, and dizzy, and tired, and Van seems to know what she’s talking about, or at least she’s being very loud, so he nods and says, “Alright.”
Van’s grip softens, and for a second, Max thinks he sees her grin. Then, from behind them both—
“Do you think Eisengiest will let me adopt a t-rex?”
Van leaps about a foot in the air and swears. “Gotch above, Monty, how long have you been awake?”
“I need to get her a t-rex sized bed. She’s not comfy here.”
“Is that really what you’re sitting over there thinking about?” Marya asks in genuine curiosity. “Where would you get a dinosaur-sized bed?”
“Well—”
“What happens when she gets bigger?”
Monty goes silent. Max tries to remember if old people can die from drinking too much.
“I didn’t think about that.” He finally mutters.
Van scoffs. “Well, that’s all bloody well and good then, innit?”
The conversation devolves into bickering over the logistics of t-rex rearing, and Maxwell lets himself drift into the background, floating away on a drunken haze. The brief conversation he had with Van slips away, leaving him with only the lingering sense that he’s forgotten something important.
It devolves from there.
Maxwell genuinely forgets most of what happened that night, just wakes up in his bunk with a splitting headache and scraped knuckles. Life onboard the Zephyr continues as normal—well, as normal as it can be when everything one assumed about one’s life turns out to be completely false.
But they wake up and Bert serves them breakfast aioli, and the nut pugs race around the ship, and Freyja sings her horrifically violent sea shanties, and Monty sketches and Marya puzzles out coordinates and it’s all very normal until one day when Max, attempting to stitch his gloves back together, asks Marya for some scissors while everyone is crowded in the mess.
The pilot waves a distracted hand. “Eh, I don’t know. Ask your father.”
Maxwell stops in his tracks. “What?”
Marya gestures loosely to where Van is patching a pair of pants. “She had them last.”
Max’s head is spinning, and he is so deeply confused, and there are so many more pertinent issues going on, but all he says is “Van’s not my dad.”
It’s stupid. It sounds stupid leaving his mouth. It’s a joke, and he knows it is, but for some reason the distinction is important to him.
Marya looks up, a slow grin spreading across her face at what is clearly new material. “Sure she is. I remember when she brought you home.”
“Home from where?”
“The hospital.” Daisuke helpfully supplies. “You were a damn tiny thing, too. Thought Ghost Dog was gonna eat you right up.”
“What are you lot going on about?”
Maxwell groans, and sinks his face into his hands. There’s no escaping this now.
“Why, we’re just reminiscing about—”
“Nothing!” Max yelps. “Nothing, they’re saying nothing. Where are the scissors?”
“--About when you brought your beautiful boy home. Fatherhood really changed you, Van.”
“Ah, what can I say. New life’s a miracle. And I mean, look at this little face, huh?” Van reaches out and squeezes Maxwell’s cheeks, making his lips goldfish out. He wrenches away.
“Okay! Okay, yes, funny joke, everyone. Well done. Can we be done now?”
“Maxwell, that’s no way to talk to your father.” Monty remarks dryly, turning a page in his book.
“Van’s not my—!” Maxwell throws his hands up in frustration. “She’s not even a man!”
“Eh. I had some phases in my thirties.”
“Okay, what does that mean?” Just as his confusion mounts, rescue walks in from the kitchen. “Bert!”
The frail man glances up at him. “Hmm?”
"Surely you have a problem with this?”
“I’ve always told my lovely she’d be the best parent this side of Zood. And, Maxwell, I know I’m not your father meself, but I’m willing to be the father that steps up. You don’t have to call me Dad until you’re ready, though.”
“I am calling nobody Dad!” Maxwell roars as the crew dissolves into laughter. “There is no—Nobody is—!”
He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan and marches out of the mess. He’ll find his own damn scissors.
In the back of his mind, he can’t shake the whispered thought, not even fully formed—
Family. Laughter. A hand on his shoulder. Eyes on his back. The feeling of acceptance, of openness, of care.
It would be nice.