Work Text:
The world is a photograph left too long in the developer tray, overexposed, edges curling, details faded into shadow; a tattooed universe of darkness that only I seem to see.
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I wake up gasping, again, my hands clawing at the sheets, the taste of salt, ash, and regret on my tongue. The nightmare is always the same: Arcadia Bay giving way to a massive tornado, crumbling under a sky that screams red and black, the lighthouse splintering and sinking into the sea, and Chloe’s beautiful blue hair disappearing under a tide of debris. I reach for her, but my hands pass right through. I pull up but they are empty, and the storm swallows everything.
I blink into the dimness of our shitty motel room, the kind of place where the carpet smells like dried beer and the neon sign outside buzzes like a dying fly. Chloe’s sprawled beside me, one arm flung over her face, her chest rising and falling in the soft rhythm of sleep. Her hair’s a mess, streaks of faded blue tangling over the pillow. She’s alive. She’s here. I repeat it like a mantra, but the weight in my chest doesn’t lift. It’s been six months since I let Arcadia Bay drown to save her, and the guilt is a tide that never ebbs.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, and tiptoe to the bathroom. The mirror shows a ghost; pale skin, hollow eyes, freckles like faint stars on a face that’s forgotten how to shine. I splash cold water on my cheeks, but it doesn’t wash away the images burned into my mind: Joyce’s diner collapsing, Warren’s car swept away, Kate’s quiet smile gone forever. I chose Chloe over them all, but the cost is a wound that perpetually festers.
Back in the room, I grab my camera from the nightstand, an old Polaroid that’s been with me through everything. I sit cross-legged on the floor, flipping through the photos tucked into its case. There’s one of Chloe and me at the lighthouse, her grinning like she’s daring the world to take her on, me half-laughing, half-terrified. It was before I knew about my powers, before I rewound time to cheat death, before I cracked open the universe just to keep her breathing. I trace her face with my thumb, and a tear lands on the photo, blurring the ink.
“Max?” Chloe’s voice is rough with sleep, and I jump, startled, nearly dropping the camera. She’s propped up on one elbow, squinting at me through the dark. “What’re you doing on the floor, weirdo?”
“Nothing,” I lie, shoving the photos back into the case. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”
She frowns, reading me like she always does. “Nightmare again?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Tears sting the back of my eyes as if scratching to be released.
She sighs and pats the bed. “C’mere.”
I crawl back under the covers, and she pulls me close, her arms strong and warm. Her heartbeat is steady against my ear, a rhythm that grounds me when the world feels like it’s spinning out of control. “You gotta stop torturing yourself, Max,” she murmurs. “We’re here. We’re okay.”
But that’s not true at all. We’re not okay. I’m not okay. I don’t say it, but I know she feels it too, the ghosts in the rearview, the silence where Arcadia Bay used to be. We left that night, driving through the wreckage in her truck, and we haven’t stopped running since. Seattle, Portland, now some nowhere town in the Nevada desert. We’re chasing something, freedom, maybe, or a place where the past can’t find us. But it always does. Every. Time.
The days blur into an achromatic haze. We work odd jobs to scrape by Chloe slinging drinks at dive bars and working as a roadie for indie bands that need a little extra help, me picking up freelance photo gigs when I can stomach holding a camera. Most nights, I can’t. The lens feels like a betrayal, capturing moments that feel stolen when so many lives were lost. I used to see the world in snapshots, each one a story. Now, every frame is a reminder of what I destroyed.
Depression is a fog that clings to me, thick and suffocating. Taking my own life could quiet the noise, and it would be a suitable answer if I didn’t think Chloe would blame herself after I was gone. I could just fling myself over the side of a cliff, and each crushing blow would feel like justice. Painful, deserved justice. Maybe that way Chloe would think I accidentally slipped. No. She would see through the postmortem lie.
I try to hide it from her, but she knows, and I can see that it kills her inside. So, she drags me out to diners or thrift stores, trying to spark some light in me. “Look at this ugly-ass shirt, Max!” she’ll say, holding up a hideous, neon Hawaiian print, her grin daring me to laugh. Sometimes I do, and, for a moment, the fog lifts. But it almost immediately returns.
One night, I wake up screaming, the nightmare worse than usual. I’m back in the storm, but this time, Chloe’s the one swept away, her hand slipping from mine as the wind howls my name. The storm, then, brutally snaps her in half. I shoot up, thrashing so hard I fall off the bed, and Chloe’s there in an instant, pulling me into her lap, her voice a low, steady hum. “Max, hey, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I sob into her chest, clutching her shirt like she’ll vanish if I let go. “I can’t stop seeing it,” I choke out. “The storm. The town. You. Everyone. It’s my fucking fault!”
“No,” she says fiercely, tilting my chin up to meet her eyes. They’re sharp, bright, alive. “You didn’t make that storm, Max. You didn’t ask for those powers. You saved me. That’s what matters. Nothing else. Just us. Max and Chloe... we’re always together...”
“But I didn’t save them,” I whisper, cutting Chloe off. “Joyce, Warren, Kate… I let them die. Your mother, Chloe. I killed your fucking mom!”
Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she’s going to argue, but she just pulls me closer. “You made a choice,” she says finally after a deep inhale and exhale. “And I’m selfish as hell, because I’m glad you chose me. But you gotta live with it, Max. You gotta try. We have to push forward.”
I want to believe her, but the darkness is a weight I can’t shake. I bury my face in her neck, breathing in the faint scent of cigarette smoke and her cheap shampoo, and I cling to the sliver of joy that she’s here, that she’s mine. It’s not enough to fix me, but it’s enough to keep me going.
Weeks pass, and we keep moving. Chloe gets restless, her energy like a live wire, and I know she’s itching for something more than motel rooms and dead-end jobs. One day, she slams a map down on the table, her eyes glinting with that reckless spark I’ve always loved. “Fuck this running bullshit,” she says. “Let’s go somewhere real. Somewhere we can start over.”
I trace the lines on the map, my fingers lingering over names I’ve never seen. “Like where?”
“Santa Fe,” she says, pointing to a spot in New Mexico. “Artsy vibes, desert sunsets, cheap rent. You could take photos again, Max. Real ones, not just for cash.”
The idea of picking up my camera for myself feels like a betrayal, per usual, but her enthusiasm is infectious. “Okay,” I say, tentatively. “Santa Fe.” Then, an idea hits me, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, so I just say it. “I want to take photographs of abandoned spaces. Like, dilapidated, run-down buildings that used to be full of life. Like... me.”
Chloe just nods.
We pack up the truck and hit the road, the desert stretching out endless and golden around us. Chloe blasts punk rock through the speakers, singing loudly, and I lean my head against the window, watching the world blur by. For the first time in months, I feel a flicker of something different. Hope? Maybe.
Santa Fe is everything Chloe promised– vibrant, alive, a city of adobe and turquoise skies. We rent a tiny apartment with creaky floors and a view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. It’s not much, but it’s ours. Chloe gets a job at a tattoo parlor, her sketches eventually turning into ink on skin, and I start small, taking photos of street markets and sunsets, testing the weight of the camera in my hands. Then I seek out neglected, falling-apart buildings to shoot. For some reason, it feels like I’ve found my niche, and it widens my heart.
The nightmares don’t stop, but they come less often. When they do, Chloe’s there, holding me, whispering that we’re okay, that we’re building something new. I start therapy, too, a quiet woman with kind eyes who doesn’t flinch when I talk about time travel or storms. I think she understands those things as metaphors or something less tangible. But she helps me name the guilt, the grief, the love that’s tangled up in it all. It’s slow, painful work, but I feel the fog thinning, just a little.
One evening, I’m sorting through my photos on the apartment’s tiny balcony, the air warm and spiced with piñon. Chloe’s inside, strumming my guitar, the notes drifting out like a soft promise, even if offkey and out of tune. I find a Polaroid I took a week ago, Chloe laughing in a field of wildflowers, her hair catching the light, her eyes locked on me. It’s the kind of photo that makes my heart ache, the kind that reminds me why I chose her and why I would choose her again.
I realize, sitting there, that I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m living. The darkness is still there, a shadow that might never fully leave, but it’s not all I am. I’m Max Caulfield, photographer, former time-traveler, fuck-up, survivor. And I’m in love with Chloe Price.
I go inside, the Polaroid in my hand, and Chloe looks up, her fingers stilling on the guitar strings. “What’s up, Super Max?” she says, smirking.
I don’t answer with words. I cross the room, cup her face in my hands, and press my lips against hers. It’s not our first kiss, we’ve had plenty of those, tentative and fierce and everything in between– but this one feels different. It’s a promise, a surrender, a declaration. I pour everything into it– the grief, the guilt, the joy, the love that’s been growing stronger every day.
She kisses me back, her hands sliding to my waist, and when we pull apart, her eyes are soft, searching. “Whoa,” she breathes. “What was that for?”
“I love you,” I say, the words spilling out like they’ve been waiting forever. “I’ve always loved you, Chloe, but… I’m in love with you. Like, forever, can’t-imagine-my-life-without-you in love.”
Her smirk fades, replaced by something raw, vulnerable. “Max,” she says, her voice cracking and small. “You sure you wanna sign up for a lifetime of my bullshit? I’m insane in the brain, ya know.”
“Already did,” I say, holding up the Polaroid. “No takebacks.”
She laughs, a sound that’s half-sob, and pulls me into her arms. We stay like that for a long time, the guitar forgotten, the world outside fading away. The guilt, the nightmares, the ghosts, they’re still there, but they’re not the whole story. Chloe is. We are.
That night, we lie in bed, tangled together, the desert breeze drifting through the open window. I trace the lines of her tattoos, my fingers lingering on the newest blue butterfly inked over her heart. “You’re my home, Chloe,” I whisper. “No matter where we go.”
She kisses my forehead, her lips warm against my skin. “And you’re mine, Maximus. Always.”
I close my eyes, and for the first time in months, I don’t dream of storms. I dream of us– Chloe and me, driving into a sunrise, our hands linked, the road stretching out endless and bright. The darkness is still part of me, but so is the light. And with Chloe by my side, I know I can face both.
The future will be messy. There will certainly be ups and downs. But we’re in this together, and we’re not running anymore. We’re building. And I’m finally, truly, happy.