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There’s a morbid sort of curiosity to the way Max lazily watches her reflection, a crimson river trailing its way slowly from the top of her nose to her chin and drops, painting a red rose on the Snow White porcelain of the sink. She really should wipe it away, actually deal with this nose bleed like she’s dealt with all of the rest… but she caused so many problems, all those months ago, she supposes she deserves to bleed a little for her crimes. She can’t count how long she’s been standing here; her toes pressed firmly against the cold of the bathroom tiles, staring into the mirror, half dressed, impossibly thin. Shivering. When did she start shivering? She hears the door open and close but makes no indication that she’s going to move.
“Hey, Max Attack! I got us some food, you here?”
Chloe.
Chloe’s voice startles her into movement. She doesn’t want Chloe to see the blood, doesn’t want Chloe to worry or feel bad or… and before she even realises what she’s doing, her hand is outstretched. Her eyes move slowly to her fingertips. She gulps as she tilts her head and examines her hand, palm forward, in the mirror and then meets the eyes of her reflection. She hasn’t been able to use her rewind powers since the storm, why is it still her first reaction to negative things in her life? How long has it been since then? Months, months of dealing with ptsd, months of living with survivors guilt, months of lighting candles for those she couldn’t save, months of working with the doctors to figure out how to fix the strange scarring on her brain that causes her nosebleeds. Months since the storm happened, since it hit Arcadia Bay and dissipated; leaving the coastline and Max damaged beyond repair.
“Max?”
Her open palm becomes a fist, her fingers closing tightly as she tries to calm the rage roaring in her chest. Why can’t she be better? Why isn’t she doing better? Why is her first instinct to rewind and fix things?
“The storm is gone.” Max tells herself, washing her face until the rusting line on her face dissolves and washes away down the drain. “The storm. Is gone.”
But it isn’t.
She carries it with her. It’s there in every nosebleed, in every time she stretches her arm a certain way, in every time she sees a dead bird, a red pick up truck, a lighthouse. The storm sits in the shutter button of every camera and on the lines of Chloe’s favourite beanie, it seeps out of every diner they drive by and it’s in every flashing light. The storm isn’t done with her. The storm is with her always, she can’t get rid of it, she can’t get rid of it, she can’t-
“In here, Chlo.” She gasps out, eventually, to her… girlfriend? Lover? Best friend? She’s not quite sure how to label… whatever this is between them. Kisses here and there, fucking in the dark, dates to museums and zoo’s and art galleries, a never ending road trip that started and no doubt will end with the storm. She feels a warm hand rest hesitantly on her shoulder and turns to collapse with a sigh into Chloe’s embrace, like an accordion that’s lost it’s heart.
“Another nosebleed?” Chloe’s voice is soft, caring, gentle. It washes over Max like a cleansing rain and she plays with an electric blue strand of Chloe’s hair by way of answering; Chloe doesn’t need to ask. The remnants of her crimson flowers linger on the sink.
“Come on, let’s get you warmed up” Chloe kisses her temple and strips off her own clothes before running the shower hot and pulling Max in with her. They stand under the stream together, entangled within their man made rain as they try not to think of that night at the lighthouse; They’re both still broken, but at least they’re broken together. Once the hot water runs out, Max feels a little more human and grabs Chloe a fluffy towel before kissing her cheek softly.
“Thanks.” Max smiles softly and Chloe winks and for a short second they’re their old selves again; just Max and Chloe. They throw on some comfortable clothes and meander, hand in hand, to their lounge kitchen. On the low table in front of their rented television sits a couple of take away containers that Max is delighted to discover are still warm. At least she doesn’t have to be guilty about making their dinner cold.
She has enough guilt on her young shoulders, she supposes the universe decided to be kind today.
Silently they settle down together and eat, watching whatever show is on television. They really should talk about the myriad of things they’ve used to build a wall between them, but talking would mean feeling. Talking would mean dealing. Talking would mean acknowledging.
And Max isn’t ready.
At some point they unconsciously decide they need more comfort that merely sitting next to each other provides; legs drape across thighs, an arm drapes across a toned stomach, a cheek rests gently on a chest. They’re a confusion of tangled limbs, comfortable in their silence and their wounds and their heads, taking solace in the fact that they’re not truly alone so long as they have each other.
This is what all of those people deserved to die for, isn’t it?A treacherous voice whispers in the back of her head. Chloe’s hand leaves Max’s waist to roll a joint and maybe once upon a time Max would have refused when Chloe offered her a lungful of smoke but once it’s offered, (and it is. Every time.) Max puts the thin roll to her lips and takes a long drag. The pain of the smoke scraping long fingernails down her throat helps quiet the noise. Helps quiet the storm that rages in her bones and has settled in her chest, swirling like the guilt of all those deaths on her conscience. Helps her to stop feeling for a while.
It doesn’t actually help at all.
That’s what the doctors say. The doctors and the psychologists and psychiatrists and the preachers and the people on the internet. And her parents. Oh god, her parents... Anyway. It doesn’t help the underlying problem, it’s like a band aid on a gaping, infected wound. You have to burn the infection out, sew the wound shut, before you can even start to think about getting better. It takes time and energy and the healing thing? it’s absolutely, definitely a process.
Honestly, she’ll take the band aid, she thinks slowly as she watches Chloe take a drag of the joint. Burning out the infection means talking about what happened. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t want to remember, let alone try to explain to someone who wasn’t there. How could anybody understand the complexity of holding the multiverse in the palm of your hand? How could they possibly comprehend the sheer thrill and rush of power that comes with undoing anything you want, an answer to a question, a phone call, somebody’s death with a mere flick of your wrist? She was Max Caulfield. She was the mistress of time, the world crumbled beneath her gaze, she was in charge of mortality and she decided which universe would be the one to exist. The smoke twirls upwards from Chloe’s lips and Max swears she can see the shape of the storm appear for a split second.
The weed isn’t enough this time.
She sits up and places the joint on the ashtray before silently placing her lips on Chloe’s. The response she gets is as eager as ever and they really should talk about this, about anything really, because this isn’t healthy. It isn’t healthy and it’s not right and Max isn’t healthy and Max is not right but who are they to question how good this feels?
Besides, they don’t need talking right now. They’re well versed in how to get each other off.
Max’s lips travel down Chloe’s neck and bites at the pulse point, teeth pulling a moan from Chloe’s throat, fingers pulling at the beanie and burying themselves roughly in still slightly damp hair. Chloe’s hands grip at Max’s back, strong fingers rubbing in soft circles like she’s trying to knead some life back into the woman she loves. They lose themselves in the actions and in each other; Max pulls item after item off Chloe’s body, leaving the ghost of her lips in any places she can. When her teeth close against an impossibly hard nipple, Chloe bucks her hips and Max is rewarded with a groan that cuts through the silence. Max smiles, briefly.
She does love those noises.
“No teasing, Maximillion.”
A gruff request, thick with lust, and Max is already too exhausted to fight it. She slips to her knees in between Chloe’s thighs and removes the boxer shorts before licking a stripe up Chloe’s entrance. Chloe groans, spreading her legs a little further to give Max access. She slides two fingers inside her lover, her tongue and lips centred on Chloe’s clit as she twists and pumps her fingers in and out at a fast, rough pace. She looks up to see Chloe teasing her own nipples, biting her own lip and rolling her hips to meet with Max’s thrusts.
This is what all of those people deserved to die for?That treacherous voice whispers in the back of her head again and Max grits her teeth before flicking the tip of her tongue against Chloe’s sensitive clitoris until she comes like a wave crashing against the shore. No, not a wave. Bad metaphor, Max. Chloe’s body arches off the couch and Max’s fingers slow to a stop, her bicep aching.
“Yes it is.” Max whispers to the voice as she watches Chloe breathe deeply as she descends from her high. Max licks her fingers clean. All those people died so she could have Chloe in her life, and maybe that makes her selfish and maybe that makes her a monster and yeah. Maybe that even makes her a murderer. But when Chloe’s looking at her with those lidded eyes, the rest of the joint dangling from her fingers and a self satisfied smirk on the lips Max can’t get enough of?
Max just can’t goddamn care.
“Come here” Chloe whispers softly, lovingly, before taking a last drag from the joint and stubbing it out. Max crawls up her body, kissing her before inhaling as Chloe exhales; sharing the smoke, just like they share everything else these days.
Well, not everything.
The dreams, the guilt, the colourful streams of time that Max still somehow holds in her brain, the swirling vortex of decisions and consequences that hides behind her eyelids? Max holds them close to her heart, unable to burden her lover. She knows Chloe keeps things locked away in her soul too; Rachel Amber, the knowledge that she was the choice Max made, the clutching fingers of those who died. Neither of them are ready to share those thing yet, but they will be. They share everything else, they’ll share these things too. In time. Ha, in time. Time was something Max used to have an abundance of, now it either seemed to trickle through her fingers faster than sand or it stood still, stoic, unmoving and unshakeable. Yes. They’d share these things in time. With time. They kiss and Chloe pulls her up from the couch and manoeuvres them to their small bedroom. To their shared bed. They share most things, see? Chloe undresses her, strong hands folding and rolling in all the right place; lighting a fire inside her… both calming the storm and making it rage stronger than before.
Chloe knows how Max works even better than she knows how to roll a joint.
Teeth nip at her lips, her pulse point, her collarbone. A deft tongue travels down and swirls around and around her nipple as Chloe’s fingers slide in between her legs and find the throbbing heat, rubbing in short soft circles. Everything is soft. It’s soft and the smell of chlorine and. somehow, the colour blue. A lot of things about Chloe are blue. Max’s fingers dig into the cut and scarred skin of Chloe’s back, trailing down each self created line like she can seal them closed and heal them. They’re both broken, but at least they’re broken together, fitting together like glass shards; fragile and sharp but absolutely beautiful in the soft light of a sunset or a dawn. Chloe prefers dawns, they feel more like new beginnings. Chloe makes Max come undone, soft and silent and blue, her fingers swirling like her tongue swirling like the vortex club swirling like the pain in her head swirling like the storm swirling like the storm swirling like the storm like the-
“Fuck!” Max has never been a particularly vocal person, choosing to be the soft,kind, quiet edges to Chloe’s loud aggressive. Especially recently. Yet Chloe loves this, this brief moment of loud when Max comes against her fingers. She swirls and swirls until Max can take no more and pulls Chloe’s fingers from her clit and pulls Chloe’s lips up and against hers. In this moment, they don’t need to talk. They know. They share their grief and pain and guilt, silently in the night. They tangle closely together and find comfort in each other’s arms; just two broken people trying to fix themselves and each other.
“Thanks for dinner, I owe you” Max says, as her eyelids droop and she listens to Chloe’s hearbeat
“I know.” Chloe replies with a tired grin, kissing Max’s forehead
“I love you, and I’m sorry” Max means, her fingers interlocking with Chloe’s like she never wants to let her go.
“I know.” Chloe replies.