"Fuck, Michael! Focus!" Impatient, aggitated Max. Always in a hurry, wanting it over with. Moving on, moving on. Easy to underestimate him, but you didn't do it twice. He never had. He'd been in training when Max had been recruited. He'd seen him from the start, changing. But Max had a natural sort of authority already then. A way to make people do what he wanted them to. Down right freaky at times.
A glare is levelled at him and he stops thinking and focuses on his target.
Afterwards, as Transport get them the hell out of the line of fire, so to speak, he looks over at an apparently sleeping Max. He isn't sleeping. Michael can tell from the way he holds his head and his shoulders are too straight. He knows from experience that Max is actually relaxed when he sleeps. The only time he's ever seen Max relax. They aren't lovers. Max doesn't seem to want that from him. He doesn't mind one way or the other.
If he wants sex, there is always Maria. And the people from other Squads, if he's not up to arguments first. But Max just wants to. He just want a warm body to press up to during the night. Someone to talk to like an equal. It's. nice.
He shifts in his seat, curled up on one side, hand under his chin. Closes his eyes. Later tonight, provided the Director doesn't come up with something hellish for them to do, he'll toss Max on the bed and force a massage on him. Max doesn't take care of himself the way he should. Good for him he's got Michael to do it for him. He smiles a small, odd smile that make the Transport people give each other puzzled looks. He doesn't see and would hardly care if he did.
Tomorrow he will show Max the small bakery on 3rd and Madison. They make these great little eight-shaped buns with raisins in them which taste kind of sweet and sour at the same time. He is sure Max will love them.