#shuffledstiles

It didn’t matter how fast he ran. The bikes were so loud and so fast as they raced to, y’know, murder his wife and his son, Sprog wrapped in Jessie’s arms as she fought to keep their son safe. One shoe. It hit the road as their screams hit his ears and no sooner had he lost sight of the bikes had he fallen to the ground, cradling his family. That was how he lost them, but he carried them with him wherever he went.

He’d never get them back. Nothing could make a ghost real again. But then again, this was a town where...weird fuckin’ things happened.

Max gave the customer their change as he worked, wondering - not for the first time - how the fuck he got here, before dismissing it as unimportant. It wasn’t like knowing how he got there would change anything about it. No fuckin’ point to dwell and shit. Still, he couldn’t help but be preoccupied with y’know, his dead wife and son. It was a thing that happened, especially considering the way he’d adopted people.

“Max Rockatansky?”

Well, fuck.

He’d heard that tone of voice before, and glanced across at his coworkers as he turned towards the police officers with his heart sunk to his heavy-duty apocalyptic-grade boots. They’d been in before, for coffee. This was not for coffee. He didn’t speak, but nodded, because oh good god, yeah, no, he wasn’t saying shit unless he had to.

“We’ve got this kid down at the station. Says you’re his dad.”

Wait. ...What?

Stiles was busy cleaning the tables while Max was at the till taking care of customers when he glanced over to see why it had gotten so quiet suddenly. All he saw was a frozen Max who looked dumbfounded? Well crap.

Tossing the cloth over his shoulder, he immediately walked over, standing right next to Max and leaning on the counter. “Can I help you on this lovely day, gentlemen?”

One officer turned to Stiles. Well. If they weren’t gonna be able to talk to Rockatansky, this...might be their best option. “There’s this kid at the station, we picked him up in the park. About three, sat on the ground, wailing for his parents, clearly not from around here either. All he’d say was his mom’s Jessie Rockatansky and his dad’s Max Rockatansky and he’s lost, honestly, we uh...we’re at kind of a loss here. We just wanna find the kid’s folks, yeah? Wanna help us out, guys?”

Max stared, his entire brain screaming for Jessie and Sprog. Could it…? Hope shone in his eyes, but he didn’t want there to be. Fuck. What if it wasn’t-- Fuck.

Stiles let the words sink in for a bit before turning to Max. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that someone showed up who was supposedly not to be there. “Alright,” he said slowly, “Uhm, Max…? Do you have a son? One, who’s missing?”

“No…?” Max’s voice hadn’t sounded so lost in literal years, not since he was nineteen and lost them for the first time. “Not...missing…? He...died...I thought… I thought he was dead… What did he say? What did he say, exactly? We told him what to say. We told him, ‘Can you help me, I’m lost, my ma’s Jessie Rockatansky and my pa’s Max Rockatansky, Rabbit Flat Station, MFP.’ Is that…”

“Sir, we’ve found your son.”

Max needed to fucking sit down right now immediately.

Stiles silently watched the exchange and contemplated getting a chair for Max as he looked like he was about to just… flop down.

This was an accurate assumption considering how Max was leaning on the countertop, holding onto it like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Which, y’know, it was. “...What?”

“Sir, we understand how this might be difficult, but you need to come with us.”

Max turned vaguely helpless-ish eyes on Stiles.

Stiles ever so carefully placed his hand on Max’ shoulder. “Do you need me to come with you? We’re not really busy right now anyway, so closing the shop down for a bit should be fine.”

He didn’t startle too hard at the hand on his shoulder, being as he was, y’know, looking at Stiles. Jesus fuck, though. So he just...nodded. Just a bit. He couldn’t do this, not with the shrieking in his brain, needed someone about who he Knew was here. This kinda thing was...important. Just. Fuck. Max exhaled slowly, then turned to the police officers. “Okay.”

Stiles nodded and smiled at the police officers. “So that’s settled then, if you could give us a short moment to just turn of the machines and lock up, we’ll be right there.” While he spoke, he had already turned to turn off the coffee machine - they didn’t need to worry about cleaning it as they’d be back soon anyway.

As they left, the door was locked.

A fucktonne of paperwork and talking and corroborating stories later, his kid was running towards him.

His kid was running towards him. His kid was fucking running towards him. Holy fuck, his kid was running towards him and Max didn’t even wince as he fell to his knees in front of him. Then he stopped, though. It had been at least twenty years since he’d seen his son, at least twenty years since Sproggo had been in his arms last and Max? He was older. He was weathered, he was caslloused, and he was scarred. He wasn’t the soft nineteen-year-old who’d cradled Sprog as he tried to sleep, not anymore, and it was fucking obvious if he was being completely honest.

Sprog cocked his head, and Max’s eyes were shining.

“Pa?”

He laugh-sobbed for a split second, but he didn’t hold his arms out, knew that Sprog wouldn’t come to him without knowing for sure. But this was his son. This was his fucking son. And the ‘good god, please just go to sleep’ nursery song came out, almost unbidden;

“Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree…” His voice was hoarse and out of practice, it had been years since he’d last done this, but it was second-nature enough that he didn’t need to think about it. “Merry, merry king of the bush is he...laugh, kookaburra, laugh...kookaburra, gay your life must be…” Sproggo smiled at him. Holy fuck. Wavering just a little, he continued, “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree...eating all the gumdrops he can see...stop, kookaburra, stop...kookaburra, leave some there for me.” Now Max held his hand up towards Sprog, offering it to him. The toddler took it, unabashedly exploring the callouses and scars of his pa. He swallowed. “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree, counting all the monkeys he can see-- oof--”

Max was cut off by Sprog toddling over and proceeding to essentially jump into his arms, whereupon the small child laughed and wrapped himself around his pa, babbling along with the song, “Stop, kookaburra, stop...kookaburra, that’s not a monkey, that’s me…” He buried his face in the side of his head, inhaling the smell of his son, the two now mumbling the song to each other, close and warm and home. “Kookaburra sits on a rusty nail, gets a boo-boo in his tail, cry, kookaburra, cry, kookaburra, oh...how life can be…” They stayed like that for a long time, Max just holding onto his son, humming to him while Sproggo occasionally hummed back, looking curiously up towards Stiles.

Stiles, again, decided to just silently watch the moment in front of him. He had never seen Max like this before. So… vulnerable. When the little kid looked up at him, he just grinned and waved, almost awkwardly - he had to admit that he felt slightly out of place. “Yo, kiddo.”

Sproggo giggled and waved back. And for the first time in a long time, Max smiled in the same way he did when he was young, before all...this. That was his son...laughing...for real…