Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chloe strips without hesitation, and jumps into the pool. When she comes back up—skin glistening and undergarments clinging—Max wonders why it's suddenly so warm.

"C'mon, Max! Don't you want to get wet?"

"I already am." She replies, still staring.

The silence hangs in the air for several seconds before her brain catches up. When it, does she throws out her hand.

"C'mon, Max! Don't you—"

Without even bothering to undress, she plunges into the water.

Chapter Text

“Whenever and whatever you want to try…for example, I dare you to kiss m—mmph!”

She’s lost count how many times she has rewound this moment. There’s a pounding in her head from the back to back repeats, but it’s the pounding in her heart that concerns her.

Well, and the pounding of Chloe’s. She can feel it pulsing wildly under her fingers…

But then Chloe backs off, as she always does. Her technique must be improving though: her friend has a glazed look in her eye, and the blush on her cheeks contrasts nicely with her hair. She really should take a picture, but something inside of her vehemently objects at the thought. Pictures are meant to be shared, to be seen.

She wants to keep this one all to herself.

“Damn Max…so much for being little miss innocent. How did you get to be such a good kisser? Practice much?” She’s even panting a little, which sends a bolt of pride shooting through her. It’s followed shortly by a bolt of something else when Chloe bites her lip.

It makes her feel powerful, reckless. Time bending god powers have nothing on this.

“Only on you.” She says absentmindedly.

She only has a moment to register the shock on Chloe’s face before she rewinds. She feels guilty, but Chloe had never said she couldn’t rewind at all. Just that she didn’t want her to rewind to take the kiss back.

She’s not.

She does keep it light though, like the first time. She’ll tell her, one day.

Or better yet, show her.

Chapter Text

“So Max, what did you and Chloe get up to last night? I happened to come down for a late night snack and heard some noises from her room. Nothing too taxing, I hope.”

She’s rewound a couple of times while talking to William, but she still has to fight the urge to just sit and stare at him—which is what necessitated rewinds one through four. She’s finally getting the hang of it, she thinks, although her response time is still a little on the slow side.

She smiles. “We just watched a movie.”

“Ah, now that brings back memories. I’d always come down early the next morning to find you two curled up in a collapsed blanket fort. I remember dreading the thought that one day she’d be bringing boys over instead of her best friend…” He says fondly as he smiles into his coffee cup.

She wonders how he would react if he knew that yesterday morning she’d kissed his daughter in another universe.

“Maybe it wouldn’t have been boys you’d have to worry about.” She suggests softly.

He pauses mid-gulp, gives her a sidelong glance. When he lowers his drink, it’s with deliberate slowness.

“If her tastes in that category were similar to her taste in friends, I wouldn’t have had to worry much, I think.” He replies, equally soft. His fingers tap along the side of the cup in a steady rhythm.

“You wouldn’t have minded?” Her voice falters halfway through, betraying her.

“Between you and me, I’ve always had trouble picturing her as a bride…I think given the choice she’d prefer a tux.” He smirks, and then reaches over to ruffle her hair, just like he used to. “You, on the other hand, would look wonderful in a wedding dress.”

She smiles, but her heart aches painfully.

She knows that in Chloe's fantasies, Rachel is the one wearing a dress.

Chapter Text

“I’m soooo sorry, I had no idea that you just got out of the shower and I wanted to show you this really cool picture I took—”

“Max,” Chloe interrupts, tone surprisingly even given her nudity “your nose is bleeding. Like, a lot.”

She brings her hand up, and wow, that is a lot of blood.

“You got anything you want to tell me?”

Abandoning the act, she makes one last slow sweep from head to toe, and then looks her straight in the eye.

“I regret nothing.”

And then she rewinds.

Chapter Text

"Who is this?"

This is her third time being invited over, which—as everyone knows—is the number that signifies they're past the awkward first stages of friendship. As such, she feels comfortable poking around in Chloe's things while her friend lights up.

That's when she comes across the photograph, nestled in a tin box in the closet. Two girls smile beneath a tree. One is obviously a pre-dyed Chloe, but the freckled face is a mystery.

The blue haired punk takes one look at it, plucks it from her fingers, and flings it across the room. It disappears behind the dresser next to the bed.

"Nobody." She finally replies, eyes set into a hard stare.

Frowning, she walks over to the chipping furniture and gets down on her knees to see if it fell all the way to the floor. There's nothing but dust. Somehow or another it must have managed to get perfectly wedged between the dresser and the wall.

"Don't bother trying to get it, Rachel. That dresser is old, heavy, and bound to give anyone trying to move it a splinter. Besides, it's just a stupid picture. Not worth the effort."

She lets it go, not willing to push. But it bothers her, and she files the picture in the back of her mind for later.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A week later she knocks on the Price's front door and is let in by Joyce with a smile. Upon entering, a muffled voice rings out from the garage.

"Joyce! Where are the goddamn tweezers?!"

Joyce's smile turns strained.

"Go on up hun. Chloe will be with you in a moment."

She heads upstairs quickly, wanting to avoid the argument she knows will be starting. She’s not exactly sure why Chloe is so willing to butt heads with her mother, or why she insists on calling her by her first name, but they’re not close enough yet to breach that subject. There’s a lot of that with Chloe, she’s begun to realize. It’s somewhat alarming; she can seem so open and simple one second, and then completely closed off and enigmatic the next.

But, truth be told, that’s not the only reason she hurries.

When Chloe joins her six minutes later, Rachel doesn’t ask about the Band-Aids on her hands. She doesn't ask about the tell-tale scratch marks that mar the floorboards around the dresser.

She doesn’t ask about the picture, returned safely to the tin box she’d found it in.

Chapter Text

“As soon as you enter the stronghold, you find yourselves surrounded by a group of heavily armed guards. One of them bears the insignia of the king on his chest piece, and is clearly in charge of the rest. He steps forward and raises his sword, only to stop when a voice calls out. A young, handsome man enters the circle, an ornate sword strapped to his side. His eyes scan your party briefly, eventually landing and settling on Maxima.”

“ ‘I sincerely apologize for the unfriendly welcome, my dear.’ He says smoothly. ‘I’m afraid we’re not used to—’  ”

“I jump forward and give him a flying kick in the nuts.” Chloe interrupts, mouth stretched into an evil grin.

Warren blinks. “He’s wearing armor.”

“I know. Good thing I paid Ekaterina to give my boots the ‘penetrate’ enchant last time we were in town.” She nods toward Kate, who bites her lip and mouths I’m sorry to Warren when Chloe looks away.

“It’s pierce, Chloe. Not penetrate.” Max pitches in, rolling her eyes. Honestly…

“Why are you even kicking him in the nuts in the first place? For all you know, he’s about to offer to help you!” Warren’s trying his best to keep his cool, but Chloe’s constant derailments are starting to get to him. Max can tell by the frantic way he scribbles into his notes.

She probably should have expected this; Chloe hates being told what to do. Apparently that extends past real life and into role play.

“I think it’s obvious who he really wants to help. It’s only fair to let him know this is a girl’s only adventure.”

“Fine. Roll for hit.”

Chloe rolls her d20, and curses at the result. Warren looks positively ecstatic.

“Eliza’s completely unnecessary flying kick misses, and she lands in an embarrassing heap on the floor. The guards laugh, and—”

“Max! Rewind!” Chloe demands, eyes burning.

“Chloe, that’s a total waste of my powers. I can’t rewind every time you—”

Her eyes turn pleading, and Max sighs.

“I cast Time Regression, and rewind the last thirty seconds.”

Warren’s head is in his hands. He looks like he might cry. Kate pats his back gently, seemingly unsure what to do.

“I should never have let Max play a Time Mage” he groans. “Chloe, one of these sessions you’re going to make a rash mistake and get your character killed. And Max won’t be there to rewind it.”

The statement hits a little too close to home. She can feel the blood drain from her face, and her eyes seek Chloe’s frantically. Behind her back, shaking fists clench the edge of her shirt.

Chloe handles it much better than she does. Her expression, seconds ago smug, is now solemn. Her eyes are steady, sure.

“Max is always there when I need her.“

She says it with complete confidence, like there isn’t even a doubt. Like, once upon a time, Max hadn’t let her die right in front of her.

“And I’ll always be there when she needs me.”

As quickly as it came the tension oozes out of her, with Warren and Kate none the wiser. Chloe keeps their eyes locked for another moment before she sighs and throws her head up toward the ceiling.

“But you’re right. It’s not fair to burden Max with saving my butt. No matter how nice it is, or how many times I offer to let her cop a feel as a reward. Kate, put those maxed out diplomacy skills to use...”

Chapter Text

They’re lying on a hill, side by side. It’s a beautiful day: sunshine, clouds, a cool breeze—it’s almost too perfect. That there can be a day like this after all of the craziness…it feels wrong. Not that they don’t deserve a nice day or two after all the crap they went through—they do—but it makes those hellish days seem so distant. Like maybe they never really happened at all.

Except they definitely did. The torn apart town and indefinite closing of Blackwell prove it. She’s sure that there’s a perfect metaphor buried somewhere in the wreckage that could explain it, but for once she has no desire to start digging for it. She’d much rather relax and enjoy the peace. She only hopes that it lasts.

It doesn’t.

“Hey Max…you ever think about how you want to die?” Chloe asks.

Pictures flash through her mind. Chloe bleeding out on the bathroom floor. Chloe smeared across train tracks. Chloe’s head rocking back, eyes unfocused as a bullet passes through her forehead.

She opens her eyes wide, staring into the sun until the pain is overwhelming—until all she can see is white, inside and out. She can feel her hands shaking. Chloe grabs one in her own and threads their fingers together, runs a thumb along the side of her hand.

“Shit. Sorry, I…I didn’t mean to bring up—I just—” she takes a deep breath, and lets out a nervous laugh “I want you to know. If I died right now, I’d be happy. I never could have said that before. But I can now. Because of you.”

She doesn’t say anything—she can’t find the words. Instead she rolls over onto Chloe and rests her head against her chest. She listens to the steady thumps of heartbeat as Chloe runs a hand through her hair.

If she could choose how she died…

I want to die before you.

Chapter Text

She blinks as everything comes into focus, the view of a giant hurricane in the midst of destroying a town replaced by the girl’s bathroom. She watches as the butterfly takes flight, flapping along without a care in the world, just like it did the first time.

That is, until it finds itself plucked out of midair by her pinched fingers.

“I’m sorry. Do you have somewhere you need to be?” She asks, tone sugar sweet.

The butterfly naturally doesn’t say a word, but if its frantic attempts to flap its wings are any indication, it’s seen through her completely lackluster attempt at acting.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go just yet. We’re going to have a niiiiice little talk, right after Nathan and Chloe come in and get spooked by the fire alarm I’ll be setting off. Kay?” She smiles, and the butterfly redoubles its efforts to squirm out of her grip.

A second later Nathan barges in and starts going through his little rant. Max entertains herself in the meantime by using the hand not holding the butterfly to mimic a mouth, and rolls her eyes as she has it sync up with Nathan’s tirade.

Luckily she doesn’t have to wait long before Chloe shows up. Without even bothering to let them get into the conversation she pulls the handle of the alarm, turning to look at the captive insect in her fingers as the two quickly leave.

“Now,” she says as soon as the door shuts “we only have a few moments before time flashes forward and I’m back at the lighthouse. Let’s have a chat. About how you and the universe want to kill Chloe"

The grin that breaks out on her face is absolutely predatory.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Two days after the destruction of Arcadia Bay, the butterfly shows back up. It lands on the steering wheel of Chloe’s truck, flying through the open window while they are stopped at a gas station. Chloe is currently inside, buying more cigarettes.

It seems very pleased with itself. She can almost hear it.

It is not over. She will die, and you can’t stop it.

Without breaking eye contact, she reaches behind her.

And pulls out a flyswatter.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Its next visit is weeks later. This time, it stays just outside of her reach—perching on the branch of a tree that Chloe has parked near.

How adorable. It’s learning.

“Max, can you hand me the wrench?” Chloe grunts, currently underneath her truck.

“Sure.” She grabs the tool and places it on the ground, sliding it under the truck toward Chloe with her foot.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” She replies, digging through the large purse she’d bought just a couple days ago. After a couple seconds of shifting other things aside, she nods and grabs out a match box.

Without taking her eyes off of the butterfly she moves until she is almost directly underneath the branch it rests on. She then takes out a match and lights it with a quick strike across the box, holding it up toward the branch.  Reaching into her coat, she pulls out a bottle of hairspray and dexterously pops the top off with her thumb.

A moment later Chloe slides out from underneath her truck, rubbing her hands on her jeans. “Hey Max, I think we’re good to—HOLY SHIT THAT TREE IS ON FIRE!”

“Oh no.” Max says blandly.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Six months down the road, under the cover of darkness, the butterfly slips under the door to their hotel room and lands on the dresser situated as far away from the bed as possible. It should be safe—the two are fast asleep, curled up together—but after the flamethrower it’s not taking its eyes off the small one. It flaps its wings twice, pondering what natural disaster to send after the one that cheated death. It momentarily contemplates a volcanic eruption…the small one is certainly dangerous enough to warrant it…

A loud thump sounds off behind it, causing it to turn in surprise.

A large lizard looks down at it, tongue flicking in and out of its mouth rapidly. It looks hungry.

“Good boy, Butternibble” Max sleepily mumbles into Chloe’s chest.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Three years have passed. It has cautiously made its way closer, keeping itself vigilant. After weeks and weeks of prolonged scouting, it has finally decided to get within hearing distance.

“Max, are you sure that’s the hobby you want to pick up? Seems kinda…morbid.”

“Lepidoptery is a fascinating field! I can’t wait to start collecting specimens!”

Maybe it would wait a little longer before trying again. Seventy years would probably be safe...

Chapter Text

Chloe, ever the brave one, is the first to break the silence.

“How many people do you think...” she breaks off, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

Max doesn't know. Before she left, the population had been somewhere around one thousand two hundred. She has no idea if that number had gone down or up in the five years she's been away. All she knows is that there's been no sign of anyone since they rode through the town. The odds of nobody making it out are astronomically small, but this hadn't been an ordinary storm.

Does it really even matter, in the end? What number of people would be considered an acceptable sacrifice for Chloe's life? Four? Twenty? Seven hundred? When she made her choice, she'd done so accepting the possibility that the two of them would be the only ones left standing. She loved Arcadia, and most of the people in it.

But she loves Chloe more.

So if the universe ever decides to chase its loss—to once again gamble against her with Chloe's life as the prize—there's no limit to the number of lives she'll bet just for the chance to roll the dice. She'll do it without a second thought.

If the universe won't let her be a hero, it can't blame her for playing the villain.

Chapter Text

Victoria's not supposed to be in Blackwell after hours, but being acquaintances with Nathan Prescott has its perks. A simple name drop had dispersed the security guards, one of them even being so kind as to unlock the entrance for her.

It's not as if she's here to do anything criminal, anyway. She just left her camera in Mr. Jefferson's classroom. There's no way in hell that she's going to leave it there overnight; besides how expensive it was, it holds her entry for the “Everyday Heroes” contest. She has no doubt that there are plenty of students jealous enough of her talent (though they have every right to be) to sabotage it if given the chance. She can't allow that to happen, no matter how small the possibility.

If anyone is going to get some alone time with Mr. Jefferson, it's going to be her. By the time she's through with him, he'll never want to take a picture of anyone but her.

She's nearing the room in question when a flash briefly appears in the door's window, throwing lances of light into the hallway. She briefly hesitates, only to hear a voice she recognizes whisper loudly from inside.

“—keep your voice down. If we get caught...”

Max Caulfield. Little Miss Selfie Suck-Up herself.

“And whose fault would that be?!” A second one hisses back. “You've been trying to get the 'perfect picture' for the last ten minutes! Just finish up already so we can go back to my place! You can take as many photos as you want there!”

She knows that voice too. Chloe Price may have been kicked out of Blackwell a year ago, but she's still well known by the student body. Normally a punk like her wouldn't be considered worth remembering, but her connection to Rachel Amber had gained her a bit of notoriety—even before the disappearance. Everyone had wanted to be close to Rachel, and the mystery of why she had chosen to stay friends with a burnout like Price had naturally made people curious.

“I know, I know. I've almost got the angle right. Just one more—”

A fury settles over her quickly. If Max so much as touched her camera...

With a scowl that makes most of her peers cower in fear she storms forward, heels clicking loudly against the tiles. A second before she surges through the door she hears a curse.

It's too late to hide, Maxine she thinks as she enters the room and turns her head toward the back of the classroom.

To find Max Caulfield's back. Her bare back. Sans shirt, sans bra. But that's not all. Because behind Max, just barely blocked by her scrawny body, is Chloe Price. Just as naked above the waist but facing forward, currently staring at her with eyes wide open in surprise.

With two quick flashes, the camera set up on a tripod across the room records the moment.

For once, no words present themselves. No catty remarks, no bitchy insults. She's absolutely frozen, with no idea of how to move forward.

Apparently, Max does not have the same issue. With a single fluid motion she swivels her head to look at her over her right shoulder.

“This is exactly what it looks like.” She says with a confidence that—in any other circumstance—might impress her.

With a shake of her head she walks briskly past the two, grabs her camera from the top of her desk, and speeds out of the room with as much grace as possible.

Chapter Text

Rachel appears to her in a dream the night they leave Arcadia behind. She shines so bright that it hurts to look at her, but Chloe can’t stop staring. There’s so much she wants to tell her, so much she wants to say.

“Rachel, I…”

She’s interrupted by a bark in the distance, followed shortly by a raucous laugh. Past Rachel, she can see two dark outlines—one tall, one small—waiting just beyond a curtain of fog.

When she turns her attention back to Rachel, it's to find her with an apologetic expression on her face.

“I’m sorry.” She says.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt.

There’s no fresh wave of betrayal, no anger, no jealousy. All she feels is a very dull ache in her rib-cage, like pressing on a three day old bruise.

“Just can’t help yourself, can you?” She sighs, eyebrow raised. Rachel’s face shifts, turning sheepish. She can’t help the grin that tries to break out on her own face at the sight.

“Jeez, I can't even dream about you without Mister Beans getting in the way. Guess I was just a stand in after all.” She scoffs and crosses her arms, feigning irritation. Just because she doesn’t actually feel as slighted as she’d thought she'd be doesn’t mean Rachel gets a free pass for lying to her.

“I could say the same thing, I think.” Rachel says with a knowing smile. She can see that there’s sadness in it to.

There’s no point in denying it. Rachel had always been gifted at reading people—it was part of what made her so universally likable. She always seemed to know exactly what made everyone tick, how to use that knowledge to ingratiate herself with them. She’d probably known since the beginning, since she'd found a picture of two girls beneath a tree and started asking (with annoying and persistent regularity) who the freckled one was. “I guess…I guess we both used each other.”

“A little.” Rachel admits with a nod. “But I really do care about you Chloe, and I always have. I want you to be happy.”

“I am.” She says, and means it. It feels odd, meaning it. Ever since her dad and Max left she's just barely been able to cross the threshold between existing and actually living. Happiness had felt like a mirage that she could see in the distance, but never reach. So she'd stopped trying.

And then, just when she'd given up on it completely, it decided to come to her. In the form of a freckled, cute, dorky, gentle, and unnecessarily self-conscious photographer.

Life really is strange, sometimes.

“I'm glad.” Rachel's smile is as bright as the light emanating from her. “Max is...something else.”

“You were my angel, Rachel. But Max...Max is my goddess.” She always had been, whether she'd wanted to admit it or not.

“If you ever start up a cult dedicated to worshiping her, do me a favor and name me as a head priestess posthumously.” Rachel grins, amused.

“Sure, but don't get jealous just because I get to be her mortal lover. That's a step up from head priestess in the hierarchy.”

They both stare at each other, then break out in simultaneous smirks. She's missed this. Part of her wishes she could stay.

But it's a small part, and the rest knows that it has somewhere else to be.

Rachel must know too. With careful tenderness she places her hands on the sides of Chloe's face and pulls her head down while simultaneously raising her own. Even still she must be on the tip pf her toes. Her lips make contact with Chloe's forehead, filling it with warmth and lingering before pulling back slightly. By this point the light is so bright that she has to close her eyes.

“I'll be watching you two.” Rachel whispers into her ear.

“Perv.” She whispers back.

The laughter that fills her ears is heavenly.

When she wakes, the sound of it is still ringing inside of her head. She brings a hand up to her face, wiping away the warm tears before they can streak down onto Max, whose head is resting on her collarbone.

She falls back asleep to the sound of Rachel in her ears, and the feeling of Max in her arms.

Chapter Text

“So—to sum up points one through one hundred and twenty-seven on my bullet list, as well as the information presented on figures 1a through 13b—when the time comes, you should totally save Chloe.”

The other Max, settled in the second to last booth in the Two Whales Diner, slowly raised her hand.

“Yes? Is there something you need me to go through again? The section on make-out sessions, perhaps?”

“Um, that's okay. The first four times were enough.”

“Well, it's a really important point. But go on. What's on your mind?”

“...where are we?”

She blinked. “Huh. You know, you're the first Max I've met that has actually asked. I didn't when I was here...but, y'know. In your shoes. Before I made my choice. Anyway...that's actually up for debate. I used to think this whole thing was just a super creepy nightmare from the back to back rewinds. But then, a couple months ago, I met someone who changed my mind. Chloe and I happened to run into her when we went to revisit the Arcadia Bay Lighthouse. Nice enough girl, but from what she let slip she has daddy issues that eclipse Chloe's by a mile...I don't know how, but she took one look at me and...and I could just tell she knew. Started talking about places that connected other timelines and universes. That's what I've come to believe this place is—a nexus point between all the timelines and universes we created.”

“How did you get here, then?”

“Well, I'm not quite sure myself. I just remember that, right before falling asleep one night, I was feeling really resentful about my experience here. All I'd had shoved down my throat was how I had ruined everyone's life by using my powers and that Chloe didn't really care. At that point I didn't even know I was going to be forced to make a choice, but it's obvious now that this nightmare wants to steer us toward one in particular. I don't know about you, but to me that seems really fucking unfair. So, back to the point...I fall asleep, and next thing I know I'm here. Well, once I realized where I was and took care of...uhm...anyway, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and even the playing field. The powers that be want to tell us what we stand to lose by saving Chloe? Fine. I'll tell us what we stand to gain. Among the most important: make-out sessions. There's a reason I went over them four times.”

Her counterpart blinked once slowly, all the while tapping out random beats against the tabletop with her fingertips. After a couple moments, her eyes darted to the binder she'd set beside her in the booth.

“Do I get to keep the photo album?” Other Max asked, cheeks aflame.

She smiled. Ah, the photo album. Her most effective selling point. It was truly her masterpiece as a photographer. How could it not be, considering her subject?

“Wouldn't you rather make your own? Doesn't looking through it give you...ideas?” If all Maxes had a muse, it would be Chloe Price. Her hips alone could inspire divine artistic inspiration.

She grinned as the already reddened cheeks of her latest guest darkened, spreading until even her ears were a brilliant scarlet.

“Max!”

Right on cue, Chloe stormed in. She had to fight the instinct to instantly jump her. This wasn't her Chloe, after all.

“Perfect timing!” She chirped. “I'm afraid we'll soon be parting ways, Max. Remember everything I've told you. Especially bullet points three, twenty-seven, forty-two, and ninety-nine.” She silently mouthed 'make-outs' as dramatically as possible. “I'll get out of your hair and let Chloe tell you how she feels. If you ever figure out how to get back here, bring me some of your own pictures for the album!”

With a final wave, she ventured back into the stockroom.

“Good news, Max! Another successful sale!” She announced cheerfully.

“Mrrnmphn!”

“Oh, do you have something to say? Also, it's time for lunch. Here are some pancakes.” She set the plate down on the cardboard box in front of her doppelganger, and then proceeded to carefully remove the duct tape covering her lips.

“First of all,” Maxine said “It's Maxine. Never Max. Second, you can't keep me tied up back here forever. I will get out eventually, and once I do I'm going to go back out there an—mmmmph.”

With one clean movement she reapplied the tape and took back the plate.

“No pancakes for you until you learn to stop channeling Victoria.”

Chapter Text

Usually, being silent in a room full of people is first nature.

Right now it's taking every ounce of control she has to keep from screaming.

“Seriously though, I could frame any one of you in a dark corner, and capture you in a moment of desperation.” The tang of blood fills her mouth as she gnaws a bit of inner cheek between her teeth. There's a roaring in her ears that gets louder by the second, almost completely drowning out the rest of the lecture.

Not that it matters. She's heard it all before.

“And any one of you could do that to me. Isn't that too easy? Too obvious?”

Her hands tremble, but her eyes are hard as steel. 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

She watches as his eyes flutter open, pupils dilating as they sluggishly move to and fro.

This is what Rachel Amber looked like a voice hisses inside of her, dark and full of malice. This is what Kate looked like. This is what I looked like.

Eventually he regains enough cognizance to focus, eyes locking onto her as she squats down in front of him. She can see his momentary confusion, soon replaced by panic when he recognizes his surroundings.

“How does it feel? To be on the other side of things, I mean. For me it's simultaneously cathartic and revolting.” She puts her hands on her knees and stands up, arms stretching toward the ceiling lazily.

He tries to respond, but it's all muffled beyond comprehension by the tightly secured cloth gag. The heavy duty cuffs around his wrists and ankles are probably unnecessary, but she's not taking any chances.

“You took someone from me.” She says, ignoring his fruitless attempts to speak and walking over to the table in front of the couch. “Well, you will take someone from me.” She pauses, a finger tapping her chin. “Would have took? Will have taken? Using the correct tense gets a little confusing at times.” A snort. “I guess it doesn't really matter though—from my perspective, it's basically all the same thing.”

There's a lone sheet of paper on the table, which she grabs before turning and making her way back toward him.

“Did you know that you're the main reason I came back to Arcadia Bay? I just couldn't resist learning from the Mark Jefferson. My hero. And, for a while, I thought that maybe I could be one too.” She flips the paper for him to see, revealing it to be a flier for the “Everyday Hero” contest. “But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that I suck at recognizing what a hero really is. A hero doesn't drug teenage girls for a picture, and a hero definitely doesn't let anyone die. Whether it's a single girl who has had enough pain to last a lifetime, or a town full of mostly innocent victims.”

“So—as much as I hate to admit it—you did teach me something. There aren't any heroes in this story. You're definitely not one. And I can't be one, because the universe decided to put me in a situation where someone will always die no matter what choice I make. But that doesn't mean I'm completely out of options. You still need to pay for what you did. To Rachel, to Kate, to me, to all those other girls, and to Chloe. I already have blood on my hands—I'm drowning in it. I've killed everyone in Arcadia Bay. So, really, what's one more death? Or ten. Or one hundred? Or one thousand? Or...”

Her lips peel back into a grin, feral and full of hunger.

“If the universe won't let me be a hero, maybe I'm supposed to be a villain.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The work is...difficult, at first. Messy, too. But it gets easier. Perfection of any craft is only a matter of determination and time, after all.

She has more than enough of both.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It becomes near impossible to keep track of how long it's been. She used to wonder if her own time continued unabated during rewinds, worrying that one day she would be tying Jefferson up with hands that trembled with arthritis rather than rage. For a while she keeps track of the passing days, tallying them up in a cheap spiral notebook she'd bought at a local store. She stops bothering when half of the pages are filled to the brim with marks, with nary a sign that she has aged at all. Her hair never grows, and she finds that she only gets hungry if she spends longer than a day in the bunker. Leaving to go and eat becomes tedious, so she stops bothering and always rewinds before the day is through. The same rule applies to sleep, which she abandons as well. That discovery is the one she's most thankful for.

The nightmares can't haunt her while she's awake, after all.

As a result, she almost never leaves the bunker. Her day starts with Jefferson drugged and bound and ends when he's either completely broken or the life has left his eyes. Then she rewinds and does it all over again, only ever deviating from the pattern when it gets monotonous enough to require new methods and tools.

At some point she begins to identify the studio as hers. It disturbs her at first, but eventually it makes sense: she's spent more time there than he ever will, after all. Gradually that sentiment evolves until it not only becomes hers, but also becomes home.

Sometimes—usually while she's waiting the three hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-two seconds it takes for Jefferson to shrug off most of the drug—she ruminates on the fact that this will be her past, present, and future until time either breaks or ceases to exist. Her home is a never-ending cycle of death and revenge.

Some days it fills her with exhilaration. On others, dread.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

She kills him a thousand times, in a thousand different ways.

It's still not enough.

And maybe it never will be. The thought is almost comforting, in a way. The need has become such a part of her that she almost can't remember life without it.

Is this what insanity feels like?

She asks him, once. Her timing isn't the greatest—by the time she thinks to ask his vocal chords are far too shredded from all the screaming—but verbal confirmation proves unnecessary. She stares into his eyes, looking beyond the pain and terror. Nesting there is something familiar, something that stares back just as unflinchingly. 

There's a reason why she hasn't stood in front of a mirror in a long time.

She continues with her work, expression blank. But inside of her head, someone is screaming.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

She has no recollection of when her consciousness fled, but she definitely knows when it comes back.

Somehow or another, she ends up breaking into the Arcadia Bay lighthouse and making the climb to the top. She's naked from head to toe, and like most of the things she does during that fugue state she has no idea why.

So there she is, stripped down to skin on top of a lighthouse. Looking out over the town that she knows she will condemn to complete annihilation fills her with emotions that she doesn't want inside of her.

To her sanity deprived mind, the solution is simple. Get them outside of her.

By screaming.

So she does. She screams and screeches at the top of her lungs, and at some point somebody breaks in with laughter. Only after a few moments she realizes that, no, no one else is here—she's the one who's laughing.

“Max? Why the fuck are you up here screaming your lungs out? Naked?” A voice cuts through the laugh track playing in her head, but this time it's from an actual second party. She turns her head, dumbfound, because it isn't possible. She knows Chloe's schedule by heart. Memorized it so that she would never run into her by accident. The universe has either decided to throw her a curveball, or she's become so unstable that she's forgotten her cardinal rule.

Chloe can never know.

She's not sure which prospect is more terrifying.

And Chloe...Chloe looks scared. Maybe for her, or maybe of her. And just like that, her entire perspective shifts almost imperceptibly. Suddenly she can see everything again, almost as if there'd been something right in front of her eyes blocking her view until she'd craned her neck just enough to see around it. She's back in her skin, back in her mind, back to reality.

She flings her arm forward so quickly that the joint in her elbow feels like it might snap, and time rewinds so quickly that it shrieks.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

There needs to be an end. She knows that now.

Or, to be more precise, she'd always known. On some basic level, she knew that this couldn't go on forever—something would break in the end. She'd thought it would be time.

Not her.

But Max Caulfield is an artist, no matter the circumstances. Once she accepts the inevitability of the end, she begins to see possibility in it. Jefferson himself once said that she was gifted at portraying the world as she saw it through her photos.

Why not let him see?

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“I have something I want to show you. It's way overdue...well, not from your perspective, I guess. Anyway, it's my photo for the 'Everyday Hero' contest. It's really special—I put a lot of time and effort into it.”

She places a red binder in his lap.

“I know it's against the rules, but...maybe you could grade it now?”

Her tone is questioning, but the gun she places against his temple makes it clear that it's not a request. There's no way she'd ever actually use it—there would be no point—but of course he doesn't know that.

When he stills, she smiles and flips the binder open.

His eyes flicker down, no doubt noticing first the shape of a butterfly that stretches across two pages. She sees his momentary confusion, followed by the realization that the butterfly is a collage made up of smaller pictures. He squints as he focuses on one—

Click

He's starts retching—possibly even vomiting, which can't be pleasant given that the gag is still securely in place over his mouth—but all of her attention is on the picture coming out of her Polaroid. She pinches it deftly and gives it a couple waves, eyes drinking in the revealed photo.

She'd managed to capture it—the perfect moment. The instant that his brain had made sense of what was before him.

When she turns back to Jefferson, her smile is positively radiant.

“What do you think? I'm usually not very confident in my work, but I would definitely give myself an 'A' on this one.”

His head is turned to the side, face almost ghostly white and tears streaming down his face. The expression is nice, but...

“That's no good, Mr. Jefferson.” She says sternly. “You can't grade it fairly if you won't even look at it.” She grabs his head with both of her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“I can rewind time. I've told you that before, but I'm sure you've never believed me...I didn't believe it either, at first. I only accepted it when I had proof, and that's what I'm giving you now. We've been down here together for a long time. You don't remember—never will—but I do. This is what we've been doing. This was the first time I've shown you this, and that makes it very special for me. That's why, this time, I want to tell you something that I'll never say again. But first, you need to look at my work.”

Her hands are still holding his head still, but she can feel him trying to shake his head.

“If you do, I won't do anything in those pictures this time. I'll make it quick. Painless. If not...I'll get creative. Then I'll take a picture and rewind. Each time I have to rewind, I'll get more and more creative, and I'll show you exactly what's coming.”

Seconds go by. She's almost ready to start making good on her threats when she feels the barest hint of his head tipping.

“Good.” She lets go of him, watching in satisfaction as he obediently looks back down at the binder. “No zoning out, either. I want you to see everything.”

Minutes go by as his eyes slowly trace over the page, going from picture to picture. At each new image, the life in his eyes seems to dim perceptibly. By the time he gets to the end, there's noting left in them.

“You stood in front of our class and told us that you could frame any one of us in a dark corner, that you could capture us in a moment of desperation. That any one of us could do that to you. Do you remember what you asked next?”

“Isn't that too easy? Too obvious?” She recites, fingers tightening along the handle of the gun.

When he looks up at her his eyes are dead, countenance resigned. For the first time she can actually remember since starting all if this, she feels satisfied. She doesn't take a picture—she's sure she'll remember this moment just fine without one.

“It was.”

For the last time, she raises the gun and shoots. 

Chapter Text

"Can I help you find something, miss?" The girl has been walking up and down isle after isle, frowning and looking lost. Normally he's not so eager to offer his help—quite the opposite, in fact—but she just so happens to be within hearing distance of the manager. Rumors of a new assistant manager position have been spreading through the grapevine, and he's gunning for it.

Everyone knows that assistant managers get paid more to do practically nothing.

Plus, she's pretty cute. A little more mousy than the girls he's usually interested in, but in a good way.

She turns to him, biting her lip. “Umm, yes...do you carry large ribbons? For...larger packages?”

Today really is his lucky day. She's asked one of the only questions he's capable of answering.

“We most certainly do!” He nearly chirps, noticing how the manager briefly glances his way. “How—”

They are interrupted when a second girl appears seemingly out of nowhere. If the first girl borders his interest range, this one is smack dab in the middle of it.

Chicks with tattoos are hot, after all. Doubly so when they dye their hair an exotic color.

“Maaaaaax, what's taking so—oh.” She pauses when she spots them. “Hey.” She says, throwing a suspicious glance his way.

“Chloe, I asked you not to come in! You'll ruin the surprise!”

Chloe rubs her arm and glances down toward the floor sheepishly.“You were taking a long time. I got worried.”

Max huffs, but her next words are gentle.“I'm fine. Now shoo. Back to the truck.” She reinforces the words with a wave of her hands, which causes Chloe to stick out her tongue and walk out of the store.

“I'm sorry” she says, turning her attention back to him “you were saying?”

He tears his gaze away from the store's exit, hoping she hadn't noticed his eyes follow her friend out.

“How long of a ribbon will you be needing?”

“Probably...maybe...thirty feet? To be safe.”

“I see. How large is the object you got for your friend?”

“Umm, five and a half feet.” She whispers, cheeks suddenly blazing. “And she's my girlfriend.”

Oh.

Ooooooh.

He can't decide whether the revelation is terribly disappointing, or completely awesome. Well, at least he can still look good in front of his boss.

“That must be quite a present! I'm sure she'll love it.” For some reason her blush deepens, but he ignores it and presses on. “We have a wide variety of ribbon spools in various lengths and thicknesses, so I'm sure I can get you exactly what you're looking for. Please, follow me.”

He leads her to isle seven, where all of the store's stock of ribbon spools hang on the wall creating a rainbow menagerie. It'd been a pain in the ass to put them all up on Tuesday, but it's only thanks to that that he knows where they are.

“As you can see, we have ribbons of almost every color. We also carry strands with designs on them.”

She steps up to the wall, pulling down a spool of red ribbon and unreeling a short strand that she then holds up against her wrist.

“Hmm” she hums to herself “ruby won't pop as much on film...do you have any in rose. Or candy?”

“Uhhhh...” this line of questioning is far beyond him. As far as he can tell, they're all basically the same shade of red.

“Oh. Here it is.” She pulls down a second reel, placing the first back in its spot. Once again, she pulls out a short strand and holds it against her skin. The repeated action confuses him.

“...What, uh, what is the present?” He asks. Something, maybe a thought or an idea, is tickling the back of his brain.

“An otter.” She replies absentmindedly.

A five and a half foot stuffed (he assumes) otter? Not exactly the sort of gift he'd guess a punk girl like the one earlier would want...

“This color is perfect.” She continues, lips pulling back into a soft smile. “I wonder if it's going to be too wide though...”

“We have thinner ones.” He drops his cheerful facade—he'd thought that this would be a quick and easy sale with the added chance of a date. Now neither of these possibilities are panning out, and his already limited patience is wearing thin. Besides, the manager is long gone...probably back in the office playing solitaire on the computer or drawing up next week's schedule in such a way that ensures he won't have a weekend. Bastard.

She doesn't seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm, lost in her own thoughts.

“—silk too, so it shouldn't cause any skin irritation even if it rubs a bit...”

She pulls out a larger portion, holds it up against her breasts, looks down, and nods in approval.

And suddenly the thought in the back of his mind comes surging forth, refusing to be ignored. All of the little pieces fit together in a way he would normally never connect, but the mind of a teenage boy has some paths that are well traveled and this happens to be one of them. Two girls. Ribbon for wrapping a gift. A five foot and a half—a.k.a. human sized—gift. Skin irritation from a ribbon.

It's a fantasy come true. He can't wait to tell the guys later tonight.

Unfortunately and as is usually the case, his mouth is quicker on the draw than his brain.

“Awesome.”

She looks up, startled, and there's no possible way that he can keep the stupid grin off his face. Red explodes into her cheeks, and her arm snaps up in what he assumes is the prequel to a slap, but it'll be totally worth it—

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“—sure I can get you exactly what you're looking for. Please, follow me.”

He blinks, and suddenly she's just...gone. Vanished into thin air, like she was never there in the first place. He hears the bell above the exit door chime, and manages to poke his head around the corner just fast enough to catch a glimpse of her back before the door shuts behind her.

“Cody!” The manager barks. “What the hell did you say to that girl?! One moment I glance over and you're talking to her, and the next she's running out of here like her life depends on it! What did I tell you about losing one more customer?!”

His mouth opens and closes, words failing him.

“Save it.” The manager fumes. “You're on toilet duty. Now get back there and scrub—at the very least I know they can spend extended time in your company without walking out.” He turns and heads back toward the front of the store, getting in one last grumble before out of hearing range “Even if it's only because they're bolted to the floor...”

Chapter Text

A sudden sting in her neck.

One second.

She brings her hand up toward the pinprick, confused.

Two seconds.

Danger, her instincts scream.

Three seconds.

She throws her hand out, tries to rewind.

Six seconds.

Time keeps moving forward. She falls to the ground. Props herself up with a shaking arm.

Seven seconds.

Her assailant walks past her.

Ten seconds.

She reaches out again, toward Chloe. Desperate. Nothing.

Eleven seconds.

She calls out. Terror. Panic.

Twelve seconds.

Chloe turns.

Thirteen seconds.

The gun is in Chloe’s hand. Loaded. Aimed. One more second is all she needs to shoot. A flash. Simultaneous bang. Chloe’s head rocks back, gun flying from her hand. Blood spatters.

Thirteen seconds.

Chloe is dead.

Thirteen seconds.

Seconds no longer matter. Time ceases to make sense. It slows, but not in the controlled way it usually does when she’s manipulating it. The next few moments stretch in incomprehensible ways, slowing to a crawl and speeding up in random intervals that make her thoughts spin. Her eyes are locked on Chloe as she falls, half drugged mind refusing to accept what has happened. Her arm betrays her and collapses, sending her to the ground on her side. Facing her fallen friend. Forced to watch as the pool of red seeps out into the dirt.

But then her attention is diverted when he steps into her field of vision, hovering over her. The light from her flashlight catches his face at a menacing angle, casting dark shadows over it. His face used to fill her with admiration. Now all she can feel is horror.

Thirteen seconds.

The amount of time it takes for a world to stop turning.

Thirteen seconds.

The amount of time it takes for a life to end.

As darkness takes her, there's only one thing she's certain of. For however much longer she has left to live, those thirteen seconds will be on rewind in her mind. Over, and over, and over, and over, and...

Chapter Text

“So, uh...what do you think?”

To be completely honest, she's at a loss for words. Chloe must read something in her shocked expression though, because she bites her bottom lip and breaks eye contact.

“I know it's sudden, but I've been wanting to do it ever since...” the rest goes unsaid, but Max knows. Just the allusion is enough to send a wave of anxiety through her, which she combats by breathing in and out deeply while focusing on Chloe's fingers as they nervously fiddle with a lock of her hair.

Her strawberry blonde hair.

“I was pissed off when I dyed it the first time, you know. At myself, you, my dad, David, Joy—” her voice hitches, but she swallows and continues “—mom...the whole world, really. I was suffering so much, but it was like no one noticed. Or cared. Guess I thought I could force everyone to look my way.”

She looks utterly forlorn, and if there's one thing that can give Max the strength to break free from the memory of storms past, it's Chloe in need of comforting.

“Chloe...” she launches herself at the newly dyed blonde, arms encircling her neck and pulling her close.

“But I don't want to be angry anymore, Max. I don't want to be rebellious. I just...I want to be.” Chloe states softly into her ear. “I don't know how to yet, but...mom used to say that sometimes looking like you wanted on the outside could help you feel like you wanted on the inside, so...” she runs out of words, but that's okay. Max doesn't have any either. Chloe had always been the type to prefer physical assurance over soft words anyway. Like the night after they buried Bongo, when the two of them had laid in Chloe's far-too-small bed together hand in hand, staring at the ceiling in complete silence until they both fell asleep.

Max tightens her grip, burying her nose into the locks of hair behind Chloe's ear and doing her best to ignore the smell of ammonia from the dye. This position gives her an intimate introduction to Chloe's new—or old, depending how you looked at it—hair color. Having her vision nearly filled with the strawberry locks reminds her of the days when they were young and having sleepovers every other night. She'd wake up in the morning (always before Chloe, who had been a late riser even in her younger days) to find their limbs somehow tangled together more intricately than the Gordian Knot. Not wanting to wake her friend—and also knowing that, should she try, Chloe would just grumble and fall back asleep—she would inevitably just stare into the mess of blonde hair, sometimes with jealousy at its color and sometimes with amusement at the way it could seemingly defy gravity.

A part of her will miss the blue she's come to associate with Chloe...but another part of her is looking forward to waking up in a sea of blonde again.

“I think you look perfect.” She whispers.

Chapter Text

One moment she's on the couch with Chloe having a hot and heavy petting session that's almost guaranteed to turn into something more...and the next she's fully clothed and staring at a newly typed document on her laptop while Chloe lights up on the bed.

“God damn it!” She growls, slamming her clenched fists down on the desk.

“Welcome back babe.” Chloe blows out one last mouthful of smoke, then puts out her cigarette in the bedside table ashtray before coming over and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Ewww. Smoke breath.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm down to six a day. Pretty soon you won't have to smell my smoke breath ever again. The things I do for my girlfriend...”

“Which would you rather have: cigarettes, or make-out sessions whenever you want that don't require liberal use of mouthwash and mints beforehand?” She finishes.

“...the make-out sessions.” Chloe pouts.

“Good girl. Of course, those might not happen at all if I keep getting cockblocked by my future self...”

This was the third time it'd happened this week. She and Chloe would be getting nice and comfy, but right before the really good stuff happened she'd be hijacked by her future self, who would promptly ruin the mood with her insistence on leaving detailed instructions for the two of them to follow. It was only because of those instructions that the two were able to survive so easily thus far, but still...

“Cockblocked doesn't really fit in our situation though.” Chloe muses. “Maybe...clam jammed?”

“Chloe...”

“Taco block...o?”

“I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“Muffin muzzle? Or how about beaver dam? No, wait! Clitorference!”

Privately, Max thought that last one was rather clever. Publicly...

“No. Just...no.”

“Fine, we'll workshop it later...what're the orders from Maximus Prime?”

She frowns at the nickname. She'd been the one to suggest differentiating between her present and future self, but it was also a frequent reminder that sooner or later she'd just sorta...cease existing. This was especially unfortunate, as her usual way of dealing with the knowledge of her eventual existential demise was by pointedly not thinking about it. Probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was what came naturally.

“Looks like we're skipping Bakersfield. Also, she found the extra cigarette pack you hid in the pouch of your passenger seat—which we will dispose of first thing tomorrow morning.”

Chloe at least has the decency to look mildly ashamed, so she decides to let it drop for now. She knows how hard it can be for someone to stop: she'd seen her father battle the same addiction two years ago.

Letting out a tired sigh, she gets up from the desk and joins Chloe on the bed. Right before her head hits the pillow Chloe's arm snakes under her and pulls her close.

“How much longer will it be like this?” Chloe whispers into the back of her neck.

“I...she said it shouldn't be much longer. We're almost on the path that will put us in a good enough position to settle down somewhere.”

Then there would be no more time bending, except in a case of life or death emergency. That was the decision both of her selves had reached.

“Sometimes I get angry at you—um, the future you, not you you.” Chloe clarifies. “Because this just seems so massively unfair to you, but then it's sorta her too, but she also doesn't have to worry about suddenly just...disappearing, y'know?” She pauses. “Or...does she?”

It's another possibility she'd initially wondered about, but like most things involving her powers nowadays she prefers to just not think about it. The last thing she wants to do is imagine a constant stream of future hers overwriting each other's consciousness over and over.

“Let's file that under 'questions I don't want the answer to.' It would make it so much harder for me to bitch about her.”

“Maybe she just feels like it's okay since she's basically doing it to herself, but...I don't like you forcing this burden on yourself. Or her on herself. Or her on you.” She can almost feel Chloe's brow wrinkle. “But I guess if I haven't stopped her from doing it in the future...we either really don't have a choice, or I royally suck and treat past you the same way future you treats current you. Like some...stand in.” Chloe groans. “Fuck, this time shit is impossible to wrap your head around. I don't know how you manage.”

The simple answer is that she doesn't, not by a long-shot. She assumes future her does, mostly because the thought that she never got better at any of this is absolutely terrifying.

Fuck, she really doesn't want to be thinking about all this right now.

Chloe must feel her body tense—the faint wisps of breath on her neck are replaced by a peppering of light kisses as hands that were previously in mostly platonic positions begin to venture into strictly non-platonic areas.

God, she really needs this. “I want to forget. Just for a night.”

Chloe nuzzles into her right ear. “I'll see what I can do.”

Max Prime will overwrite her someday, but she won't take everything from her. The memories she's making with Chloe now will stay with her, and her alone. It's a small consolation...but it's one she can survive on.

Chapter Text

You are Max Caulfield. You are ten years old, and your best friend in the whole wide world is Chloe Elizabeth Price.

You wish that you could say that you've been best friends for as long as you can remember, but you can't. You remember with crystal clarity the days before Chloe was in your life. Your remember the days spent hiding away in your room, and the worrying looks from your parents when they'd ask if you made any friends at school.

Most of all, you remember the loneliness.

Then you met her.

Ever since, your days have been filled with laughter and warmth.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

You are eleven, and your best friend is still Chloe Price.

Your days are still filled with laughter and warmth, but lately they've been filled with something else as well.

“—and did you see when he did those heel flips? He didn't even mess up once.” Your face blossoms into a smile as your finger traces a heart in the sand, seemingly of its own accord.

Chloe traces the heart with her eyes instead, face making a similar expression to the one she makes whenever she catches a cold and her mom makes her take Robitussin.

“That's like, the easiest skateboarding trick. I could learn to do it in an hour. And Kevin is totally gross.”

“That's what you say about all the boys.” You grin and toss a seashell at her, which she attempts to deflect with only partial success.

“That's because all the boys in our school are gross.” Chloe retaliates by flinging a piece of seaweed at you, which is totally unfair and definitely disproportionate retribution. You shriek as it lands on your bare knee, scooping it up into your hand as you lunge toward her. If you have your way it will end up in her hair.

But Chloe has already jumped up and is sprinting toward the ocean, so you give chase. You lose the seaweed as soon as you're waist deep in the water but compromise by starting a splash fight, which you unilaterally decide is won by you.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

You are twelve. No change in best friends, but you do have a new mortal enemy.

“Hey Maxaroni. Stomach still hurting?”

“Aunt Flo can go and jump off a bridge.” You groan—curled up on the bed, under your covers, and eyes squeezed shut.

Chloe hums sympathetically, but sympathy isn't what you want. What you want is for this to go away. Actually, right now you want everything to go away. Even Chloe. You know that's just the hormones talking—your mom sat you down and warned you about all of the wonderful things that would accompany a visit from “Aunt Flo”. But it doesn't matter. Knowing why you feel that way doesn't let you suddenly stop, because apparently it's not enough for puberty to mess you up physically with cramps and pimples and blood pouring out of your body. No, it also needs to...to screw—no, fuck—you over mentally too. God forbid you have an ounce of control over any part of yourself...

Luckily, before your grumpiness manages to get on even your own nerves, a sudden weight on the bed temporarily pulls you out of your thoughts. A second later Chloe worms her way under the covers. You only have a moment of warning by way of warm breath on the back of your neck before she sidles up against you.

“Chloe—” you start, because right now you're so not in the mood to spoon, especially since you haven't showered since yesterday morning and feel as cuddly as a porcupine.

She shushes you, lips right next to your ear.

“It'll go away eventually Max. I promise.”

She brings you more firmly against herself, and that's when you remember that the last time the two of you spooned together was quite some time ago. There's something...weird about it this time. And it takes you a moment to realize why.

Boobs. Chloe has boobs.

It's not like she's particularly well endowed...but they're definitely there. You can feel them pressing against your back.

It's...well, weird. There's no other word you can think of to describe it. But something about this sudden physical intimacy gives you a surge of two intense but conflicting desires: to recoil in shame, or to sink further into her hold. Neither of these reactions make sense. You've nothing to feel ashamed about, after all. Chloe is the one who initiated the contact, and it's not her fault that she has breasts now. Supposedly one day soon you'll have them too. It's not like there's anything wrong with them in the first place either—just an odd warmth that's spreading from the point of contact, no doubt helped along by the fact that you're hyper-aware of the area now that your focus is on it.

And you're not a kid anymore, so getting so cuddly with Chloe is just...well, you don't really know, but casual expressions of physical affection just seem like something you shouldn't do anymore. Even if some part of you kind of wants to. There's a weird sort of fluttery feeling in your stomach right where Chloe's hand rests, and while it isn't what you'd call pleasant it does distract you somewhat from the cramps.

In the end your desires meet a compromise, meaning that, ultimately, neither gets fulfilled. You don't try to break out of Chloe's hold, but you don't relax into it either.

Instead you do nothing, and eventually both the feeling of stomach pains and that odd fluttering fade away as you drift off into sleep, exhausted mentally and physically.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

You are thirteen when everything starts to fall apart.

It begins with whispered but heated conversations between your mother and father that you can never fully make out. Something about money, and “new opportunities”, but you don't really have a way to comprehend the gravity of it all. Only that it's bad, and makes your dad get frustrated easier than usual while your mom overcompensates by pretending that everything is perfect.

You ignore it as best you can, but that gets harder and harder as the whispers only get louder and more frequent. It gets so bad that you start bracing for the inevitable “talk”—the one you've heard about from kids at school, the ones whose parents have split up. 'We've just grown apart' you expect to hear. 'It's not your fault'. 'We don't love you any less'.

You try to hide your inner turmoil about it as much as possible, but you're pretty sure that Chloe knows something is up. You keep catching her staring at you when she thinks you're not looking, only to immediately look away the instant you so much as glance her way. If you weren't so preoccupied with your own circumstances, you might actually be worried about her: it's not like Chloe to be so roundabout when she thinks you're hiding something from her. Usually she's more the type to latch onto you until she's either tickled it out of you or...well there's never been an or, since you've always folded pathetically to even the slightest hint of a tickle. But then again, Chloe's been acting a little odd since before this new familial tension even started. Switching from physically affectionate—more-so than usual—to completely hands off seemingly at random.

Finally, the day arrives and your parents call you down into the living room. You almost refuse, but there's some small (a microscopic, but present) part of you that is relieved this will be over one way or another.

Except...the set up seems odd. For two people who have grown apart your parents seem oddly comfortable sitting right beside each other on the loveseat, hands interlaced. And they don't look angry, or sad, or tired. They look worried.

“Max, we have some news that we know you're not going to like.” Your dad starts.

“But in the end, it's for the best.” Your mom breaks in, nodding.

This seems more like what you were expecting. You prepared yourself for this conversation so many times in your head, but you can never really prepare for your own emotions. So even though you're ready for the words themselves, you're not ready for the apprehension that sends cracks of tension through your muscles, or the resentment that's been slowly percolating under your skin rushing to fill the newly created gaps.

Your dad continues. “Right. It'll be an adjustment for all of us, but I know that eventually everything will settle and it'll become the new normal.”

I don't want a new normal! you want to scream. But you know that it's not up to you. Divorce is about what the parents want; the only part you'll play is in the aftermath, as you try to make a new life out of the torn up shreds of your old one.

“Maybe it'll even be better than normal! In time, you might even—”

Your mom gives his hand a visible squeeze.“Ryan,” she interrupts, in the same tone she uses when he's forgotten to take out the trash or made a mess in the kitchen “stop stalling.” Her eyes slide to you and her voice goes soft—like she's trying to soothe a wild animal. To her credit, you don't feel very far from one right now. “You're just going to make her nervous.”

His eyes lock onto yours, and he scratches at his beard and sighs. And just as all of the emotions inside of you reach a fever pitch, ready to burst forth and flood the entire room...

“Max, we're moving to Seattle.”

Everything seems to go so quiet and still that for an instant you wonder if time has frozen. You've traded one nightmare for another, without any time to even properly process the completely unnecessary emotional fallout from the first.

On the one hand, your family isn't about to be broken up into an unrecognizable mess. On the other...

You have not forgotten the days before Chloe was in your life. You have not forgotten the loneliness, the fear of going to school and knowing that you won't have anyone to talk to or play with. You can't imagine a day without her, let alone a life, and the idea of one...

Distress and relief make strange bedfellows, and your mind isn't able to even begin reconciling them. The emotional shock is too much for you to handle, the heavy ball of stress you've been silently carrying lifted only to be replaced by something just as heavy, but instead of lying in your stomach it's sitting on your chest. Your heart feels like it's being pressed flat while something constricts around your lungs, and darkness is starting to creep from the edge of your peripheral vision inward, and how can your heart beat so fast while it's being squished at the same time and you try to breathe but you can't get enough air no matter how much you inhale, and your entire body starts to shake in terror as you realize that you must be dying...

“Max, what's wrong? Max?! Oh god. Oh god—Ryan, she's having a panic attack!”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Your mom was wrong, the psychiatrist informs you. You were actually experiencing an anxiety attack. Apparently they're not the same thing.

She says a lot more than that, but it's mostly your parents that engage in the conversation. That's probably not good—it's your messed up head that's the topic of discussion after all—but you can't bring yourself to focus. All of the events of the past seventeen hours and twenty three minutes (from your initial meltdown, to your mom getting almost as hysterical as you, your dad demanding an appointment with a local psychiatrist the next day over the phone, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling late into the night) have flowed past you like a faint breeze.

“Do you have any hobbies?”

You jump a little in surprise as the question is directed your way, and feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “Umm...I like taking pictures.”

Your psychiatrist smiles in a way that is probably meant to seem supportive, but really only makes you feel patronized.

“Photography has been scientifically proven to relieve anxiety! If Maxine loves photography, then by all means support her pursuit of it.” Your nose scrunches reflexively at the use of your full name, but your psychiatrist has already turned her attention back to your parents.

After twenty more minutes of conversation that you catch maybe five percent of, your mom asks for recommendations on books she can read to educate herself while your dad rubs little semicircles into your back. It's not an itch in your back that you want scratched though. It's the one in your mind, the one that makes you feel like another attack could happen at any moment.

The next day, your dad goes out and buys you a Polaroid camera and five packs of film. The more cynical side of you (the one only recently born) sneers at what can only be an attempt at buying your forgiveness for causing the anxiety attack in the first place.

Guilty enough to buy you a fancy new camera, but not enough to cancel the move. You almost refuse to use it out of principal...but you know that the move is happening regardless of whether you use the camera or not.

And logically, you understand that your dad really doesn't have any other choice. The local newspaper your dad writes for has been bought out and is going to be shut down. In reality, the job offer from the Bugle in Seattle is nothing short of a miracle—one that comes with better pay, benefits, and prestige.

But naturally, it's hard to care about logic and your dad's career when all you want to do is be selfish. You don't care about money, security, fame. You want pancakes at the Two Whales Diner. You want days at the beach, nights at the lighthouse.

You want Chloe, smiling and laughing and warm.

But you are thirteen, and this year you learn a life lesson: you can't get everything you want.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

You try to tell Chloe. You really, really do,

But every time you get close you get that sinking feeling in your chest, the one that's been lurking beneath the surface ever since the day your parents broke the news of the move to you. So in the end you always back down like the total coward you are.

And sometimes when the two of you are together you can momentarily forget. Chloe has that ability—when you're with her, all of the bad thoughts and feelings just sort of fade into the background. If you tell her, you know that won't be the case. The truth will only become a cloud that hangs over the two of you when you're together, tainting the precious time you have left. It's selfish, but...you don't want to lose the little bit of sanctuary you have from the storm on the horizon.

Your camera is a great distraction too. Now that you know your time in Arcadia Bay is limited, the power to freeze and capture a moment in time seems unbearably important. You only have it a week before you use up all of the film your dad had gotten you. Pictures of everything you love about Arcadia Bay sit in a giant stack on your dresser.

Chloe takes up more than half of them.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A couple of weeks later, on the day before you leave for Seattle, you finally tell her. An hour later, William is dead.

The world isn't fair. This is the second life lesson you learn at thirteen.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

You are fourteen, and you are still Max Caulfield.

But everything else has changed.

Your best friend is four hours south, and to you that might as well be the other side of the world.

You haven't talked to her over the phone yet, but you have done some texting and emailing back and forth. Nothing too interesting, mostly “good morning” and “I hope you're doing okay” and “I wish you were here”. There seems to be an unspoken agreement that the things you both want to say can't be properly conveyed through text.

And that's your main problem.

You can't call Chloe. You know that if you do, she'll hear your voice and instantly know that you're not okay. She'll ask you what's wrong, and you'll say nothing, but she'll keep on needling you until you'll want to spill everything onto her—all your fears, all your anxieties, all your problems. It's what you're used to doing, and two-hundred and fifty miles aren't enough to break that compulsion.

Chloe has enough to deal with, right now. She has her own grief to shoulder. You can't add any of your own bullshit onto it.

And, if you're honest with yourself, you don't think that you can handle any of her emotional baggage either. Nowadays, managing your own thoughts and feelings already seems far beyond your capabilities. If you can't deal with your own problems, how are you supposed to help her with hers?

So you deflect—email is bad for you, you've been super busy—any lie that you can come up with in the moment. With each one you tell, it feels like some essential part of you has broken off and been thrown into a dark pit, never to return. Before long, you feel like a shadow of your former self, an impostor in your own body. Even though you hate yourself for it you start to delay responding to her texts, even as you can practically feel her growing desperation to talk to you.

Something is bound to break: you can see it on the horizon, like the flashes of lightning from an oncoming storm. And you know for a fact which one of the two of you is the most fragile.

You're just about to turn out your lights and go to bed one night when your phone starts to buzz incessantly. You pick it up, see Chloe's name on the incoming call section, and freeze. You can immediately feel the anxious tension welling up, and everything inside of you goes cold as a sudden wave of anxiety over the possibility of having an anxiety attack actually starts to cause one.

Chloe used to be the one person who you felt perfectly calm and at ease with, the one person who could wash away any anger, or sadness, or fear.

Now, she's a harbinger for everything she used to drive away. A trigger instead of a barrier.

You are definitely your own worst enemy, for your brain to be this cruel. To take all the feelings you associated with a person you love and twist them into something unrecognizable, while still leaving you the memory of what those original feelings were.

You mash the end call button on your phone so hard that you can hear the cheap plastic crack, and don't stop until you feel the telltale vibrate that announces you've turned the phone off completely.

Curling up and hugging your knees as close to your chest as possible, you clench your eyes shut as tears begin to flood out of them, muffling your sobs as best you can.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“So honey, have you talked to Chloe lately?”

Your mom tries her best to make the question sound casual as she places a spoonful of mashed potatoes on your dinner plate. The actual result is anything but.

“Umm...yeah! A few days ago.” The lie is painfully obvious, rolling from your lips as naturally as a square rolls uphill.

Your parents share a significant look, but neither broaches the silence that follows.

That's the last time either of them so much as mention Chloe.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

You are fifteen when the messages and attempted calls stop completely, but it doesn't bring relief. Instead all of the tension you used to feel about their anticipated arrival crystallizes into guilt and self disgust at their absence.

You hate yourself, and surely by now Chloe must too.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sixteen and seventeen see you shake off some of your self loathing, but the low self-esteem that accompanied it is too deeply ingrained by now to lose.

Eventually, you start to get yourself back into some semblance of normalcy. You meet a couple of people who you hang out with every once in a while, but you never manage to go past the beginning shallow level of friendship. That's okay though, because you always have your camera. It's easy to distance yourself from the world through its lens, so you throw yourself into the distraction it provides with a zeal that, eventually, turns into actual passion for the subject. Before long you find yourself admiring the works of a variety of professionals, chief among them Mark Jefferson. Seeing someone from your own hometown make such a large impact on the art world is inspiring, and gives you the hope that maybe—one day—you could too. His black and white portraits of various female models especially draw your eye, sometimes in ways that leave you just a little...confused. At first you attribute these feelings to simply being moved by the art itself, but the occasional mental flashes of womanly curves and soft skin during your 'private time' force you to admit to yourself that maybe your interests aren't always as vanilla as you've assumed. Aside from your mousy looks, it might even help explain why you never really managed to gel with any of the boys in your high school aside from Fernando, who was already spoken for long before you met him.

When you read the announcement of Mark Jefferson accepting a position at Blackwell Academy, something inside of you clicks. It feels like destiny in more ways than one—like a second chance at a life you failed on the first go around. Only this time you can do better. Be better. It's been a long time since your last anxiety attack, and you've gained the tools you need to deal with stressful situations when they do arise. And now that the chance has presented itself, you feel ready for the possibility of reconnecting with someone you owe a massive apology to. Even though you've largely accepted that you were a complete bitch (not through malice, but definitely a pathetic weakness that you are no less at fault for) the guilt has never gone away. Honestly, you wouldn't blame Chloe one bit if she refuses to forgive you. But you're willing to accept whatever she has to offer—whether it be hatred, renewed friendship, or anything in-between. You owe her that much at the very least.

First things first, though. Even though it's a smaller school, Blackwell is by no means inexpensive and even your dad's well paying job at the Bugle doesn't leave that much money left after the bills are paid. The only shot you have of getting in will be through a scholarship. Full of nervous energy, you fill out the application...not sure what you'll do if you fail to get in after getting your hopes up.

Only time will tell, you suppose.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It takes you two days to open the letter when it finally arrives.

With trembling hands you slowly tear open the top, gathering every bit of courage you have as you pull out the folded paper within.

It takes you three seconds to read the first sentence, but fifteen for your racing mind to actually comprehend it.

The shriek you let out has your parents racing upstairs and into your room in a panic, but one look at your face coupled with the clutched paper in your hands has them both cheering as they sweep you up into their arms.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

You are Max Caulfield. You are eighteen years old and in love with your best friend, Chloe Elizabeth Price.

So, in the end, you choose her. And even though right now there is sadness, and regret, and loss...

You know that with her by your side, eventually both of your days will once again be filled with laughter and warmth.