Disclaimer: Typical Disclaimer applies here. I have no claim over the subjects, the characters, the game they derive from. I seek to make no money and frankly don't even care to find any recognition or proliferation for this fic. Just needed to get this idea out of my head. Hope you enjoy.
Edit: Since I vomited this out at the speed of light yesterday, I've gone over and done the most basic form of editing. This is still the very skeleton of a draft of a story, but I feel well enough about it now to let it lie.
Life is Still Strange
Max felt a tired ache settle into her back as she leaned slightly around her camera and observed her subject. Her lips curled into what she hoped was a convincing smile that minimized the circles under her eyes, making her slightly less terrifying to the small girl on the stool in front of her. Off to the side, the child's parents made an exceptionally large display out of checking their watches and tapping their feet. The family was all dressed in nice clothing, though most of it looked excessively expensive for the sake of a portrait for a kid's birthday. The father (whose suit alone looked like it might have cost about as much as a month of her rent) ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, a sure sign his irritation was growing. She wasn't entirely sure what had them in such a piss poor mood, but she was bound to find out in short order.
"Alright, big smile, Melissa," the halfhearted concern that she might have mistaken the girl's name faded as she snapped the second photo. To the redhead's credit she did not have her parents' poor attitudes or looks of frustration, just the large, innocent smile of a kid (one who maybe was just told they were being taken out for ice cream.) Some days that kind of look was sweet and made an honest (if laughable) attempt at warming her. Other times, like today, it just made her shiver and drew the voice of a dead man from the depths of her memories. She spoke over Jefferson's voice in her own head. "Just like that! You're doing fine. Now, just one more."
"Oh, come on. We've been here fifteen minutes already! How much time does it take to take three photos? Point and click! It's so easy an idiot could do it." She glanced sideways from behind her camera toward the father and perhaps she was not so successful in hiding her emotions behind her smile or perhaps simply responding was invitation enough but the man took it as a signal. Straightening his tie for no reason she could guess at, the late forty-something tore into her. "Now, you listen here. We brought you business because my brother suggested you were talented. You are otherwise not very noteworthy. A nobody. I did not come to have my time wasted or have shitty looks thrown my way. If you cannot do your job in a timely fashion, do not advertise for it."
"Relax, I own this school. I could probably blow it up if I wanted to," he said, staring into the mirror, probably thinking of his distant fucking father. The beatings, the insults, the fucking druggings. He thought he was above everyone, everything and didn't bother to hide it. Of course he didn't; his father owned that town, right? He was a tiny powertrip in human form with a side of psychosis. The one thing his father wouldn't let him have was the one thing he needed, help. In the end, he preceeded the old man to the grave, not that Sean Prescott had any clue. He died thinking his son was safe at school, a school that was his, a school he owned, ran, where he was free from any consequences to his actions.
"Smile, Melissa," she called cheerfully. Oblivious to her father's cruelty, the little girl did just that. The snap of the shutter and the resulting flash cleared the air and the last photo was done perhaps five minutes after the girl sat down, contrary to her parents' protestations. A great deal of drama was made about the mother picking her daughter up and spiriting her from the room. Max stood with dead eyes and a paper smile, listening to abuse, to threats to ruin her reputation in the city if she didn't cut him a deal and worse. In the end, after another five minutes the man stalked off having been charged the full price. Max didn't expect any further referrals from this family.
Max sat on her tiny, rented studio's floor and indulged in something like thirty seconds of tears followed by thirty minutes of staring at the opposite wall before a voice whispered to her that she probably ought to get home before the sun started going down. Slowly, she rose to her feet. Her knees didn't hurt like her back did but very little attention would have been paid to it even if they did. Most of her focus, most of her remaining give a damn went to making sure that anything expensive was packed away and lights were turned out. Flipping the sign to 'Closed' was less important than an afterthought, but at least she remembered.
Pulling her key from the lock, Max adjusted the ragged jeans, wearing thin in the knees and set about toward home with her messenger bag slung across both shoulders. It was easy to tune out the streets, the people and the cars. In part, none of them managed to unnerve her anymore even in a neighborhood that was shitty enough for she and Chloe to be able to afford. Of course, it could also be in part because she was only outside long enough to climb the set of stairs to the second floor of the studio where their tiny apartment awaited.
Fairly certain she had caught a flash of pink-tinged blue hair passing the front of the building as her last customers of the day entered, Max didn't bother to reach for her keys. Sure enough the door was unlocked when she turned the knob and stepped in to the smell of skunk weed and—far more attractive—burgers cooking. Chloe called her name from just to her left in the open kitchen but Max didn't react at first, needing a moment to exhale as she kicked her converse off. She figured it likely she was free of the puffy red eyes that would evidence the less stable elements of her emotional state so she forced her expression into something resembling neutrality turned toward the kitchen, a soft smile curling one side of her lips.
"There's my girl," Chloe quipped. "You were taking a bit of time, so I figured I'd get dinner started. Something simple." It took some effort to bring her face into focus but a feeling that seemed a hybrid of a lump in the throat and a jolt of relief was the reward, a welcome boon on a dull, numb day. Though Chloe was never the one to show signs that might be interpreted as precognition, the taller woman seemed just close enough to psychic to drop the spatula in her hand on the counter as Max crossed the room. The other hand, halfway to her mouth with a joint pulled back and went wide until Max was firmly pressed against her and encircled in her arms. "Whoa, hey."
The fucking thing is, here I am with support. She puts in all these hours, goes through all this shit and I'm still the one who needs her support. Sometimes I hate it. I wonder if this is what Kate felt like on the roof. There I was and there she was and I bet she hated the idea that she needed help. She seemed a little angry when I tried, at first. Maybe just offended at the idea that I could help her, at my hubris. I was so relieved when I slung the bullshit that got her to take my hand, to come down. When she collapsed beside me, when she was at her most vulnerable, I was practically singing because I had done it, she was alive. I was so self-absorbed. Then I visited her at the hospital and asked for a hug like this one, looking to soothe myself while pretending it was for her. How long did she even live after that? My last act with her was ultimately selfish, and then the fucking tornado wiped her from the map.
It had been a long time since she felt self-conscious enough to feel the need to answer, to say anything at all in this situation. Instead, Max took in Chloe's scent and the warmth of her. Neither tears nor joy came but there was instead this soft, almost unobtrusive feeling of safety. That was one of the things that Chloe brought to her, this feeling of being unquestionably safe no matter the situation. It used to be that Chloe said the same about her but Max had not asked such an embarrassing question in some time, mostly because she knew it came from a place of selfishness and a need to be reassured and perhaps just a bit because she feared that the answer changed.
After a brief moment more where Chloe made some sort of joke Max pulled back, looking up into her face, trying to read it. There was a layer of concern above something that was either relief or happiness. Maybe there was good news? She reached out and pulled the blunt from Chloe's slim fingers, taking a drag before passing it back. Rough heat poured down her throat, a sensation she was still unused to. After a few moments of struggling with the urge to exhale too quickly, she let the smoke out in another slow, near sigh. Chloe continued to almost study her until such time as she was done, leaning forward and slightly craning her neck to place a kiss on the punk's cheek.
"So, what was your day like?" Max asked her, that crooked smile sliding back into place as she waited, patiently, hopefully for some kind of relief. "You got back a bit later than I expected. Good news?"
"They're gonna hire me," Chloe confirmed, reaching for the spatula only to have Max grab it first. "Hey, mine!" Instead of giving in, Max bumped her hip against Chloe's playfully and pushed past her trying to ignore the warmth of her body. "Brat. Anyway," the woman continued as Max carefully flipped each burger, nowhere near so handy with cooking as her lover, "they're not really concerned that it's my second job, but they're gonna basically make me work in the kitchen for a while instead of up front. I don't dig the idea, but when you score a job… you know." Max nodded as the natural brunette shrugged and brushed her fringe back from her forehead. "How about you? How were Mr. and Mrs. Uptight?"
"Assholes," Max replied, in a quieter tone than intended. More loudly this time, "a pair of fucking Prescotts."
"Ouch," Max turned her head. Though the comment seemed mostly in a playful, understanding jest, there was a notable change in Chloe's eyes, and Max wanted to kick herself for using the name. It was a lot easier when she kept some parts of her thoughts firmly in her own head. "Sucks, but they paid, right?"
"Damn right," she replied, trying to seem more cheerful. "Not that Mr. Uptight wanted to, he expected a free portrait for all the trouble I put him through. You know, with my 'attitude problem.' I almost wish it was like the days when you would help out in the studio. You know, just so he could see what an attitude problem is." That earned a legitimate enough grin from the lithe woman who was now across the room from her fishing a cheap can of beer from the fridge. "No thanks," she replied to a raised beer as an offer. "But I could use another hit."
"Damn, Max, when did you turn into a such a stoner? What would your parents say?" Max knew precisely why her stomach twisted at the questioning, however playfully it was intended. She knew well why her voice seemed wrong when she tried to give a joking 'fuck you' as an answer. A drag later and Max was pulling down the cheap plastic plates they used as their "good" plates and readying bread and cheese for a couple of simple, cheap burgers. With Chloe's help they were out of the kitchen and sitting on the old couch that served as most of their living room furniture in a couple of minutes.
"Hon," whenever Chloe used the word Max heard her mother in her voice. The memories of a hundred sleepovers when they were younger and the soft, encouraging way that Joyce welcomed her back into their lives when Chloe came back to Arcadia Bay threatened to steal her away from the moment and Max shook her head hard, before turning toward her partner. "Something's wrong. I know it is, I'm not oblivious, even if I'm no Max Caulfield." There were several ways to play this conversation but few were acceptable, as most would lead to deeper talks about what was bothering her. "You're going to have to tell me."
Joyce was such a fucking champ. No matter how much trouble Chloe gave her, she continued to love her with her whole heart. Even when I got up to shenanigans with Chloe, Joyce didn't hate me, didn't tell me to fuck back off to Seattle. She stood by me when I spoke out against David, despite clearly loving him, despite the fact that he clearly loved her back. She put Chloe first when she thought that on top of the outburst of rage David might have been acting dangerously toward others. No matter what, Chloe was first. The family was first. It's wrong that she died in the diner without David or Chloe with her, not knowing what happened to either of them. But, if I'm selfish, I'm grateful she was with Warren at the end.
I can't lie to her, Max thought, turning her eyes on her girlfriend's eager, caring expression. I can't do that. I can't tell her, either. So, Max told her the truth, at least the truth that seemed safest and the least hurtful.
"I'm just tired," she said, glancing up. "The guy was an asshole today, I got upset, sat on the floor like a pouting little bitch after he left and now I feel silly about it." That was all true enough, but it earned little more than a frown from Chloe, who scooted just slightly closer to Max and reached to caress her face. The urge to lean into the caress was strong enough to overwhelm her, so when it turned into Chloe cupping her cheek for a moment while absentmindedly balancing her plate on her lap, Max decided to close her eyes and enjoy the connection. It wasn't as if she was touch starved, or anything. Chloe was just the only person able to elicit feelings that seemed positive from her. She was also able to make her feel the absolute worst, though this was never something she intentionally did. Chloe never tried to hurt her and always tried to help. No request, however large or small, seemed to upset her. Instead you could watch the gears turn in her mind as she tried to figure out how to fulfill it.
Warren really didn't want a lot. He felt isolated from a lot of the school even though few outright disliked him. I don't think he ever really noticed how much Brooke liked him, either and that was my fault. I was there. He was always willing to help me and all he wanted in return was simple affection. He never pressured me to be romantic with him or anything. He wanted to go to a fucking drive-in and watch a bunch of jackasses in ape costumes play out a classic sci-fi story. Stuff kept happening to get in the way and it never happened. I hope he stayed in the diner with Joyce. He deserved to be with someone like her when he died. I hope he didn't die alone in the streets like Evan. No one deserved that, no matter how pretentious.
Suppressing the urge to shiver when Chloe broke off contact, Max started eating. Perhaps it was self-consciousness that motivated it but she made sure Chloe knew how grateful she was for the simple act of cooking burgers when she was clearly having a busy day. It was typically Max's job given she worked less hours overall. Instead of simply saying, 'you're welcome,' Chloe waved it off. Her earlier happiness looked to be blunted by Max's shit mood and that made her feel guiltier, something that she probably should have been half impressed by.
"Good shit," she said, "on getting the job. They'll learn how lucky they are pretty quick and maybe you'll get moved to the front like you want."
When they had both cleared their plates there was a constellation of conflicting urges in Max. In the long run she had not been awake long enough to justify being tired and compared to cooking and cleaning all day like Chloe did she had done far too little physical labor for it to make sense either. Regardless, by the time Chloe returned from rinsing the dishes and leaving them in the sink, Max felt her eyelids drooping. That, and the moment Chloe sat down with a second beer on the cheap TV tray beside her, Max couldn't resist the urge to scoot close and curl up against her. For her part, Chloe didn't hesitate. One arm raised and then welcomed her in, settling atop her shoulders softly, almost like the draping of a blanket. Max pressed her cheek against the woman's shoulder.
Evan never really saw it coming and this time I wasn't there to save him. There was almost no warning. He probably wouldn't have even been able to hear the whistling noise of the sheet metal flying at his head. If he was, he didn't have time to really process it, just dropped instantly. Dead on the ground like that fucking trucker. Dead like Alyssa, like Dana. At least it was swift for them, not like Victoria. Did that bastard wake her up or kill her in her sleep? Which would be worse? What would I want? Would I want to see my death coming? I suppose I have loads of times. Fuck.
It was only when her hand tightened on Chloe's ragged 'A7X' tee that Max even realized she had grabbed onto the woman properly. Chloe's arm tightened in response but she said nothing. It wasn't the kind of peaceful quiet that sat between them when they were at the end of a long day, standing outside of the building and having a smoke. This was different. This was the kind of quiet that convinced Max that Chloe knew just what was going on inside her head. This was a quiet that accompanied intense stares, tight hugs, squeezed hands, obvious attempts at reassurance, at comfort. For all the pretension and dancing about Max did to make sure Chloe wasn't exposed to the guilt she felt, there was all the reason in the world for the more rational part of Max's mind to think that Chloe knew. Chloe knew everything, of course. She wasn't stupid and no one alive knew Max anywhere near as well as Chloe, not even her own parents. If the two brought the topic into the open, if they discussed it, though, who knew what would happen? Would Chloe hate her? Would she hate herself? Would she hate Chloe? None of those were acceptable outcomes. They all made her sick to her stomach.
Eventually she buried her face entirely against her girlfriend's side. She didn't cry and sob like some drama queen determined to soak through the woman's shirt, but suddenly she didn't want to see the television where Paul Ryan was on some news show rambling about how ineffective the president was, earning the occasional scoff from deep in Chloe's chest (followed by, "Rage against my ass, you fucking poser.") She didn't want to see the thick, brown carpet beneath her feet or the smoke-stained walls of their apartment. She wasn't there in the moment, so damn if she was going to pretend otherwise. She was only with Chloe. Just Chloe.
Max didn't know when the sound of her lover's breathing or the fingers brushing through her hair lured her to sleep, all she knew was that eventually Chloe was shaking her awake, insisting they move to the bed. There was no argument to be had, however little she wanted to stand. The bed was, frankly, the one decent piece of furniture they owned and that was where Chloe was going to boot. By the time they made it into the small bedroom Max had barely had the time to shake the cobwebs from her had enough to walk on her own. Shakily, she managed to discard unnecessary layers of clothing but, found herself standing lost, eyes trailing over the room afterward. This was a problem quickly rectified as she was half pulled and half lifted into an embrace ending up with them both prone on the bed. Instinctively, she sought out Chloe's lips, craving one quick, warm kiss. Just enough to feel the connection between them thrum as if it were a tangible, living thing.
"'night, Chloe," she murmured, eyes opening properly just once to trace from her lover's hair (it could use a new dye job) down to her eyes, to find them just as open, perhaps more aware. Max bathed in the sight and then leaned her head back as if collapsing. She knew that if she could just have a few hours of sleep, then she could wake up and do it all again. Soft kisses against her neck dragged her toward sleep and away from it all at once.
"Everything's alright, isn't it, Max?" Chloe asked soothingly as they adjusted position on the bed.
"Of course," Max lied.
"Of course," Chloe lied back.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
