Disclaimer:
Life is Strange and all characters belong to DONTNOD and Square Enix. No profit made, no infringement intended.

Notes:
So. New fandom for me, and – as has apparently become habit – I try my hand at a short fic to get to know the characters before I let any larger plotbunnies start nibbling at the carrot patch in my head. Aaand the wordcount so far looks like it's gonna end up anywhere between 10k and 15k.

Short. Right.

Anyway. I'm trying to get a grasp of Max and Chloe's personalities here, so if anything seems OOC, do me a huge favor and tell me. If you can, please also tell me why it's OOC. That's the only way I'm going to improve.

Enjoy.

Shelter

It isn't that long of a drive to Seattle. Well... not normally. Even with traffic, it shouldn't be more than maybe six hours (which sort of begs the question of why she hasn't made the drive before) but in the wake of a hurricane that pretty much leveled a town, the lack of traffic is made up for by a definite increase in debris that adds a lot more to the travel time than any amount of cars would.

Chloe knows that her truck is sturdy – it has to be, to have lasted this long – so she isn't too worried, even if she does take care to concentrate extra hard on the road. Not that it keeps her from noticing the silence in the wide cab, or from sneaking worried glances out of the corner of her eye every few seconds.

True, Max is a quiet kind of girl overall. But this kind of quiet? This kind Chloe doesn't know what to do about. She could turn on the radio if there was any sort of signal here, but she tried that when they were driving through what was left of Arcadia Bay and got nothing but static. It figures that the storm that pretty much leveled a town would knock out the towers as well, of course, but damn if she doesn't desperately want to fill the silence somehow, because she can practically feel Max sinking further and further into herself and she doesn't know how to stop it.

Her fingers tighten on the wheel, and she frowns as she tries to think of something to say. 'Thank you' seems ludicrously inadequate and probably won't help take Max's mind off of things. 'It's okay' is... so fucking far from the truth that she doubts she could get it out without some higher power striking her down, and Chloe swallows a sigh and sucks her lower lip between her teeth and wishes she was of any use at all when it comes to comforting someone.

She's not, and how fucking sad is that when Max is the only one she has left to comfort? Especially since today proved beyond a doubt that she's probably been at least halfway in love with her since... shit, since forever. Max set the goddamn standard for her in everything from friendship to affection to kindness to beauty, and now she's hurting and Chloe's just sitting there like some kind of moron instead of doing something – anything – to help her.

Fuck.

"Hey." Chloe resists the urge to thump her head against the steering wheel, and settles a hand on Max's shoulder instead. The still-damp cotton is warm from either Max's body, the truck's occasionally-sputtering heater or both, and oddly, that makes her feel a little better. "You're awesome, y'know?" she offers, and it feels woefully inadequate when Max turns her head and their eyes meet. "I mean that."

Stupid as it sounds even to her, it still manages to make Max smile; just a bit. "I don't feel particularly awesome," she admits, and Chloe doesn't miss the way her eyes flick to the rear-view mirror.

"You are," she insists, and shifts her hand to cover Max's own where they're clenching in her lap. "Because I say so."

That pulls a startled, little laugh from her best friend. "Well, excuse you, Captain. I wasn't aware this ship was a monarchy."

"Tyranny," Chloe corrects without missing a beat; smiling both because Max's lips are twitching in a way that usually means that she's trying to not to laugh, and because she can feel her hands relax under her own hold. "You could even say it's a... dictatorship."

Max groans. "That's awful."

"Right?" But it got her at least somewhat out of the post-storm funk, and if bad puns do that, then Chloe's perfectly willing to be cornier than a field at harvest time.

Not that she's being entirely selfless. It's infinitely easier to focus on cheering Max up than it is to think about what she left behind. Who she left behind, and how much it's going to hurt when she stops being able to just... not think about it.

But right now, Max is playing with her hand in an almost absent-minded sort of way while she watches the passing forest, and Chloe allows herself the luxury of pretending that this is just a normal, quiet drive that they take because they can and because they want to; because they're young and stupid and the world is there for them to explore, and not because they're newly and painfully wise to the fact that bad shit happens for no good reason.

So when Max notices an overlook they're passing and asks if they can stop there for a bit, Chloe throws the truck into a highly illegal u-turn in the middle of the abandoned road; one abrupt enough to make Max grab for the oh-shit handle and yelp and punch her in the shoulder when her eyes no longer look like they're gonna pop right out of her skull.

"Don't do that!" she growls. "I'm way too young for a heart attack."

Chloe snickers, but does drive a good deal more carefully when she eases them off the road and onto the sandy stretch of emptiness that sits between the asphalt and the rust-spotted, metal railing that lines the edge of the cliff.

"Good spot for pictures?" she asks when she kills the engine and both of them climb out the truck, and notes – from the corner of her eye and with no small amount of relief – that the coastline curves enough for the remains of Arcadia Bay to be well out of view.

"Anywhere is if you look at it right," is Max's response, along with a crooked little smile that Chloe catches a glimpse of when it's aimed her way from over Max's shoulder.

"Thanks, Yoda." Snark – sometimes unfortunately – comes natural to her, but Max is well aware of that and so simply gives her a tolerant look in return. "Next you'll be telling me that I need to train myself to let go of everything I fear to lose."

There's a soft, huffed breath that might have become a wry laugh if it had been a little louder, and Max is resting her forearms against the railing and peering out over the calm seas. "That would be incredibly hypocritical of me."

"Mm?" Chloe leans on the railing next to her on one hip, and cocks an eyebrow while she fishes out a smoke and lights it. "Why?"

"I never learned to let go of you." The answer is aimed right into Chloe's eyes, and she feels mostly like something just hit her over the head; vaguely aware of the fact that her cigarette is dangling limply from her lips while the hand she's holding the lighter with just... stops, halfway to her pocket. Even with the cool breeze coming off the water her face feels way hotter than normal, but Max ducks her head to study her own hands, and that lets the rest of the world come back into focus. "I don't think I can. I know I don't want to."

And she... she doesn't fucking know what to say to that. She never fucking knows what to say when Max looks at her the way she just did, because that look is soft and warm and terrifying and tempting, and always makes it feel as if she's stuck in time somehow; stuck reacting internally and completely unable to give any kind of outward response. So she pockets her lighter – finally – and sets one elbow on the railing while her other arm curls around Max's back.

"Jesus, Max," is what she finally ends up saying; staring into space with her best friend warm against her side.

Max's head becomes a pleasant, comforting weight against her shoulder, and she makes a thoughtful, little sound while Chloe takes another drag. "I think I like Spider Max better."

Chloe snorts a laugh because she's pretty sure she's gonna start crying otherwise.