"What are you thinking about, SuperMax?"

It's a dangerous question, and Chloe knows it. She's propped up on her elbow, smile lazy, but the corners of her eyes are creased with maybe worry, maybe trepidation. Max follows her line of sight to the ponytail at the base of Chloe's neck, the grass stains on her jeans. They're close enough that Max can see her dragon's breath, and she turns her head up.

There is only one moon. Somehow, she still expects there to be two.

She quirks a lip up and reaches over to flick the ponytail. "How you need a haircut."

Chloe brushes back her bangs with a roll of her eyes and flops back down on their shitty plaid blanket that used to be a seat cover. "What, not punk enough? Or is it too punk for you to handle, jeans-and-jacket?"

Max settles close to her, somewhere between her goose-pimpled collarbone and shoulders. "You will never be not punk enough, Chloe."

She snots. "Damn right." She settles her chin on Max's head, and Max tries not to think at all.

Max stares at her hand as Chloe buys two lotto tickets.

She never used to pay her hands much mind, they're small and thin and the knuckles are a bit knobby; there are four freckles on the right one.

She's always been just….Max. The girl with the camera. The girl who couldn't talk to boys, a generic haircut, whateverwhateverwhatever, even her own photos were held with a loose, shaky grip in front of her.

How was she able to pull back the fabric of time and space?

(The part of her that stood up to David, Mr. Jefferson, Nathan, with shaking hands and all, the one that saved Chloe Price because the universe couldn't win, men with guns and power couldn't win, not this time, says bullshit.

Bullshit, she repeats in her head and watches her fingers move, one by one.)

They don't win the lotto, and it sends something sour and tired across Chloe's face.

"Next time." She says, and wraps her arms around herself.

"We don't have any fucking money." Chloe says, but there's no bite. She runs an anxious hand through her too long hair, and her eyes drift towards Max's hand this time.

Max closes a fist. "Chloe, I–"

Chloe sighs and reaches out to gently hold it. "I know." She shakes her head. "Fuck."

"I'm sorry. I wish–" Max says before she realizes the words are coming out of her mouth.

Chloe's eyes meet her in a startling lurch. She lays gentle hands on Max's shoulders. "No, never. I–" She reaches out a hand to gently touch her cheek. "C'mon, Max. We gotta hit the road."

Max's fingers hovers over Kate's name in her phone, who god, who lived, and she wants to ask who didn't but she knows she isn't ready. Might not ever be ready. Feels like she deserves to know who paid for it all on the days she wakes up and just shakes.

Chloe calls up Joyce curled up next to her, running fingers through unwashed hair, and they both listen to the voice that used to call them down for pancakes.

Chloe looks at her, and looks like she wants to ask something, but answers Joyce instead: We're fine, Ma. Yes, we're eating, (most days), thank you for sending us down some cash–

Max holds Chloe closer, thinks some days she might disappear, thinks some days she might wake up on a plane to San Francisco, or in the Dark Room, having to make the choice all over again.

(Bullshit, she thinks with her hand splayed out on a dust-covered car window, a shadow against the orange setting sun.)

(It is not raining. It is not raining.)

Maybe someday Max can use her power again, when the guilt doesn't well up her throat until she can't breathe, when she and Chloe can talk to each other without a thread tying their teeth to a tiny town in Oregon.

Necessity drives them to visit Max's parents, and they're so relieved that they don't even comment on the myriad of colors in Chloe's hair, the dark circles under their eyes, a huge rip in Max's jacket. They're both sternly parented until they're well-fed, showered, and tucked into Max's bed and a Spongebob Squarepants blow-up mattress.

They look at Max with hesitance, like they're not entirely sure what new creature is walking in their daughter's skin, and Max just–

She wants to breathe. She's tired.

Chloe's legs hang off the side of the bed, something they didn't realize until Max's parents had already gone to bed. Max fucking laughs.

"C'mon, there's room up here."

Chloe laughs too and it pierces the loud quiet of the room, settles warmth into Max's stomach and she sucks in a breath. She settles beside Max, and then around Max, reaching an arm around her and pressing a warm forehead into her back. "So. Your parents don't seem to hate me."

Max turns around in her arms. "It's not like I'm bringing home my delinquent new girlfriend. You're Chloe Price, the girl who peed her pants at my sixth birthday party."

She can make out the shape of her smile. "Girlfriend, huh?"

Max starts. "Uh, well. You know."

"Do you like-like me, Max?"

"Ugh." Max says, but she's smiling because god this feels, this feels normal and okay, and terrifying, and maybe–"

She leans in slowly, and hears a hitch of a breath. "Can I?" Chloe nods underneath her hand. She leans in again until their lips are just touching. Chloe gently deepens the kiss, allows their lips to move together, and Max runs her nails lightly over her shoulder with the hand that could turn back time, and everything new and sad and wishing inside her takes a breath.

They'll be okay. They'll be okay.

a/n: This fic is based on a prompt from anonymous: "Max and Chloe's first kiss, post bae over bay. Give me cavities." The title is from "Obstacles" by Syd Matters.