entrancelogs | The love I sell you in the evening by the morning won't exist.

Entry tags:

The love I sell you in the evening by the morning won't exist.

Who: Max Caulfield and Tim Wright
Where: Tim's room (6th floor, room 19)
When: Feb 3
Rating: Heck I dunno PG?
Summary: Chloe's gone.
The Story:

She woke up cold and-

The morning light poured in through the-

Chloe was gone.

The rest of the details don't really matter.

For a few days she didn't bother telling anyone. Who would she tell, anyway? Chloe's friends were hardly hers. And Chloe didn't even have very many friends.

But at some point, being alone in her room and doing nothing... just lost its appeal. She needed to do something, anything, if only to stop the deafening silence of her room and the insistent blankness of her thoughts, that threatened over and over to slip into darker places.

And the ability of her own mind to come up with distressing images and words scared her.

Like how she would think about the uselessness of it all, of Chloe coming and going, and leaving her alone again- that it wasn't even some malicious plot on Wonderland's part, but that life was just fucking random and terrifying.

That nobody was out to get her. There was no deeper destiny or fate to everything that had happened. That Chloe dying was just some meaningless accident, a blip in the grand scheme of things, and that nobody fucking cared about any of it, because why would they?

People come and go from Wonderland. Eventually everyone forgets.

She could rewind and rewind and rewind, and people would die, and it wouldn't matter. Who would remember by the time everyone went home? Or ended up like Alice?

Today is just another timeline, with no real permanence, and no real point.

A new reality is only a rewind away.

No, no, she can't think like that. That's the start of a bad habit, a dangerous routine, and this time there's no living Chloe to snap her back into this reality, and gratefulness for the things she has... Even if it's only by turning over in the middle of the night to wrap her arm around her best friend, and to know that she's alive.

Still, it's comforting to think that life might get worse and worse, and her pain might grow, but in the end none of it matters. And she doesn't have to care.

So to keep herself from going stir crazy in the emptiness of her room, in the emptiness of the room across the hall, where she'd hung an "occupied" sign like some dumb hopeful fucking child, she jerks herself out of bed and several floors up to Tim's room. Because she loathes Tim, and loathing seems like an appropriate emotion, and he seems like a fucking messed-up sort of guy.

She knocks on his door, looking worn and generally unkempt, eyes downcast and unfocused.

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She knew.

Past tense. Way more indicative than it should be. He grimaces, and she really doesn't need to keep going but keep going she does. She left. She left.

No one ever "leaves" on purpose. And he doubts, given how she'd spoken of Max, with the unmistakable fondness in her tone, that she intended to leave without her, if she'd had a say in it. So she's gone. Wonderland clawed her out of the fabric of the world and left Max. Max who, for reasons utterly beyond him...chose to come to him.

"I'm sorry." He flinches as he says it, sickeningly aware of the inadequacy of the words, like they'll mean a damn thing. "I mean, I...you guys were close. I'm sorry."

Bullshit. It's all bullshit. Why'd she come to him of all people? Like he can help her any with processing grief? He doesn't know how to process anything. He barely knows how to process his own garbage, let alone someone else's.

STOP FUCKING REWINDING-

Shut up for once you-

You're going to ruin everything because you can't-

SHUT UP SHUT UPSHUTUPSH

Stop it

LEAVE ME ALONE

YOU'RE FUCKING STUCK WITH-

WHY WON'T YOU LEAVE M-

"Ghh-" Max moans slightly as she clutches her head, and a small trail of blood worms its way out of her nose, staining the skin above her lip. She bends over slightly, and the blood drips onto the floor, as she digs her fingernails into her scalp.

"It's-" she blurts out, her voice too loud. She raises her hand again, and it shakes with the effort of her rewind.

Edited 2017-02-04 00:25 (UTC)

"It's nothing," she says, a little too loud, a little too fast, as she stumbles backward down the hall, blood leaking from her nose in a line down to her lip.

"It's- it's whatever. Right?" She clutches her head, and finally straightens up, wiping away the blood with a sleeve. The red stain shows prominently on her gray jacket.

She turns slightly, as though confused, unsure where to go. "S-sorry. I- I need to... uh, to go." Finally the hallway starts to make sense to her, and she turns her back on him, taking two steps away before she comes to a slow stop, her head bowed, wiping her eyes.

It's too much, too fast. She staggers back like someone who's had too much to drink, and he catches the reflexive jerk of a hand to the face. He's pressed hands against his mouth, trembling, to hold the red in as it dots the palm of his hand, every cough shaking his shoulders, too many times not to recognize the motion for what it is.

The burgundy streak clings to her jacket sleeve in a rusted smear as she turns to leave, looking like someone who's just screamed her lungs out rather than someone who's wandered to his room and muttered little more than a few words before retreating once more.

Unless she - did.

How's he supposed to know if she did? A prickle creeps up his spine in a slow, inexorable crawl.

You know, like an... anxiety attack?

Yeah. Like that.

She called it something special in the dream. Something like a - I rewound, Tim. Because you hurt yourself... And he's got no idea if blood has anything to do with it, but either way, something here doesn't add up. And as long as they're dealing in secrets, hey, he's got one of hers to match the one she's got of him.

"Did you just - was that a rewind?"

The words crack out with more sharpness than he intends them to, clipped and accusatory, his brow curving in a frown.

She rounds on him with a sharp expression, the word 'rewind' ringing in her ears. How does he know that? Who told him? Someone broke her secret, again, and of course they would.

Good. Someone should call her out on it.

I've been trying to-

But no, no, this isn't how she wanted this conversation to go. Her hand clutches tightly around the small pack in her pocket, crumpling it. She'd just now remembered why Tim is the one she approached, and it has nothing to do with the word rewind.

A new reality is o-

She holds up a hand, straining her brain, the familiar migraine creeping its way into a sharp pain. Time obeys.

"It's- it's... just whatever." She ignores the blood that seeps into her lips, leaving an iron taste on the tip of her tongue. She ignores the stain on her sleeve, the insistent throbbing pain of her head, though it blurs her vision and makes her eyes water. She ignores Tim, cutting him off before he can speak.

Before he can mention rewinds.

"Actually, Chloe uh, before she- she left, she let me try a..." She brings out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. "Uh, one of these. And- and I just end up coughing a lot."

The smell of cigarette smoke. The burning sensation on her mouth. Chloe's laugh as Max hacked and wheezed.

Better days.

"I was wondering if you could..." she trails off, looking at him expectantly. Hopefully. "It's... it's silly. Sorry."

Plainly it's not whatever. She looks like someone who's had too much to drink, and he catches the reflexive jerk of a hand to the face. He's pressed hands against his mouth, trembling, to hold the red in as it dots the palm of his hand, every cough shaking his shoulders, too many times not to recognize the motion for what it is.

The burgundy streak clings to her jacket sleeve in a rusted smear as she turns to leave, looking like someone who's just screamed her lungs out rather than someone who's wandered to his room and muttered little more than a few words before retreating once more.

Unless she - did.

How's he supposed to know if she -

She interrupts, holding out a pack of cigarettes, momentarily derailing.

"Smoking doesn't usually leave you bleeding," he says, slowly, with a cautious lift of his eyebrows. Something's up here. It's like he just - like he blinked, and suddenly there's a red line from her nose to her upper lip. "But, uh...what'd you have in mind?"

If he knows, he'll bring it up eventually. But at least it'll feel like it's on her own terms... or at leat different terms than just... blindsiding her with it when she's upset.

She looks down at the cigarettes in her hand. Crumpled and worn. Desperate to keep the smell in her room. To have something to remind her. Or distract her. To just... feel better.

"...I thought... maybe you could... teach me how." She doesn't look up at him. But she does finally wipe the blood off her mouth before rubbing the back of her neck. "Ch- Chloe said she liked that... that time you guys smoked."

Well, it's a pretty decent tactic as far as distractions go. He's not really clear on the wisdom of teaching someone to smoke while they're grieving, while they're apparently bleeding from some kind of phantom injury. But he's pretty sure turning her aside won't help her any, and it's not like he can make things even worse than they have been between the two of them.

He couldn't talk River down from it either. She'd been underage, but hey - better to start while you're in the eyesight of someone who can tell you when to stop and make sure you don't kill yourself in the process.

"If you want, yeah." His eyes flick down to her sleeve again. "You sure you're okay? You get..." He almost makes a quick, incisive motion across one wrist with a fingertip before something in him recoils in disgust. Why would she - she's not a freak, c'mon. He's the only one who'd default to a thing like that.

"You get hurt or something?"

It doesn't even occur to Max that the dried blood on her sleeve could be seen that particular way. She shrugs away his concern. She's hurting... but that's different.

"N- no." She's not sure what else to say. Between the migraine and the near-breakdown that she's barely managed to rewind her way out of, she's not even sure she's thinking, period. "I... I just wanna smoke," she says, waving the pack at him. She wipes her nose again with her other hand. "Ple- please? It'll... it'll be fun?"

Inwardly she sighs at her poor attempt to get him to play along. But hey, he probably doesn't have any reservations about smoking himself into an early grave, so it'd be pretty hypocritical for him to disagree, right?

She's not okay. Yeah. All right. Dumb question on his part, he'll admit it. She wants to smoke, and this is probably a recipe for disaster, but - hell, he's not about to take a bad situation and make it worse.

"All right, all right." He puts up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender before glancing over his shoulder. The window's shut to keep the cold out, hence why the room stinks as it does.

Looking away itches, like he's scared she'll nip out in the space it takes for him to blink, so he glances back her way. Keeps his tone as neutral and evenly paced as he can. Just normal stuff. Don't treat her like she's about to break down into nothing. They can work up to the apparent nosebleed later, if they have to.

"Outside, maybe? I mean, we can just stay here if you want. Either one. No problem."

When he glances back, her head is lowered, staring glumly at the cigarettes in her hand. Her brown hair falls in a messy sheet around her face. At least the bleeding seems to have stopped.

He said okay. But in the kind of way that... well, obviously he doesn't really want to. Obviously this is like a chore to him, or like a pity-favor. With Chloe it was kind of a... smoking buddies thing. But Max isn't the kind of girl that hangs with the smokers, right?

...Well. Just the one.

She looks up when he talks to her. "...Yeah. Outside. Maybe... the roof? There's, uhh, less people to see me... completely fail."

Hopefully there's no one at all up there.

She motions down the hall toward the stairway with some determination. This is something she's going to learn. If it has to be from a half-hearted Tim, well, whatever.

Whatever.

Her hair curtains off her expression, though he can take a few educated guesses as to what it might look like beneath. Sullen, maybe. Angry. Lost, undoubtedly. Turning to him of all people, for reasons utterly beyond him.

"Sure," he says, keeping his tone neutral. Lighter and pills in his pocket and - yeah, he's set. He moves to head out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

"It's not too hard. Just don't breathe in too deep. Shouldn't be too cold either."

That last bit's a lie, but he doubts Max will get on his case about it. She doesn't look like she's up to get on anyone's case, much less his.

"..." She says (or rather, doesn't say) as she turns to lead the two of them up the stairs and onto the roof. She's content to walk in silence until they get outside. Tim probably won't mind, she thinks.

Smoking, silence- no one trying to cheer her up, no pressure to be friends. No one asking probing questions about her well-being. He may not see it, but she's glad she chose Tim.

She jogs up the last few steps to the roof door and pushes her shoulder against it, opening the way into a cold wind, and the fresh air of the outdoors.

One thing he knows to do is not pry. He's had his privacy violated, his secrets exposed, every ounce of control in his life torn from him, too often to inflict the same on someone else.

It's cold outside. No colder than Alabama can get to be in the winter, so he doesn't mind it much. A smoke will warm him up, and hey - not like he was the type of guy to sleep.

He almost asks something inane, along the lines of - Chloe ever reach you how? But bringing her up will probably set them back to square one, and frankly, he's still not over the bizarre nature of how this encounter started.

He withdraws his lighter from his pocket and clicks it on.

"Need a light?"

"Uh, yeah... I guess." She fumbles with the pack, eventually drawing out one of the cigarettes, which she holds out awkwardly between two fingers for him to light. She holds out the whole pack, too, offering him a stick because that's probably the polite thing to do.

She doesn't mind the cold. She hopes they can still smoke well (she believed him when he said it shouldn't be too cold), but she'd probably give it a try even if it was raining.

If it were a normal day she'd laugh at herself. Who knew Max Caulfield would ever want to smoke. It's not even a e-cig.

"...How long have you been smoking?"

He's got a pack of his own buried in his pocket but - sure, why not, right? She's offering. It'd be rude to refuse. He slides one of them out, and it's not a brand he's familiar with, but maybe that makes sense: this is Wonderland, and if the closet was keyed to her memory, she's from California, not Alabama.

He's very definitely overthinking this. He lights her up and does the same for himself, taking a slow, demonstrative drag before exhaling.

"Since I was eighteen," he says with a limp shrug of his shoulders. "Not the healthiest habit but - I wasn't exactly a good kid."

She watches how he does it- doesn't seem so different from inhaling a lot. But she doesn't try it out for herself yet.

(She's pretty sure Chloe started way younger than eighteen. What does that make her? Probably downright a bad kid. That's her Chloe.)

Max waves the cigaretter around slightly as she talks, obviously not sure what to do with it. Do you hold it with pointer and thumb, or squeezed between two fingers like an artiste?

"Your, uh... mirror kinda. I dunno, likes to advertise that."

There's a moment where his expression thins, and his typical wearily indifferent mask flakes away. He scowls, briefly, looking out across the wind-chilled Wonderland with the subtle hunching of his shoulders.

"Talked to him, have you?"

He jabs the thing back in between his lips, cramming his hands into the pockets ofh is jeans for a moment.

"What'd you think?"

Max continues to not actually put her own cigarette to her mouth. Awkwardly, one handed, she tries to wrap her jacket tighter around herself.

"Uh. Sounds like a troublemaker. Obviously doesn't like you and... I just think he's trying to start shit."

It worked, a little. Got Max curious. Maybe even involved.

Okay, maybe more than a little. Time will tell.

"Have you met him?"

Edited 2017-02-05 21:43 (UTC)

It's evident that she didn't really come out here for a smoke anyway. Probably just to clear her head. That's about all you can do when you lose someone important to you. You give yourself a minute to process, or several. You quietly grieve.

You move the hell on, lock it all into obscurity so no one sees it. Make it quiet, palatable, easy to deny and even easier to ignore.

He hums his acknowledgment, nodding.

"That about sums him up," he says, wryly. "Just kinda tries to keep you on edge, I guess. Lying about things that're obvious, just 'cause he can."

"...He called you a liar, too." Which means, at this point, that Max has no idea who to actually believe.

Probably neither of them. All she knows for certain is what she saw on that tape.

...Unless that was fake, too. It all makes her head hurt. Or maybe that's just the rewinds. Or maybe there's no real reason for it.

"Is he the one who told you about the rewinds?" she asks, casually, but there's a sharp undercurrent to her voice that smooths over all her usual pauses and stammers.

She brings the cigarette up to her lips, finally, to keep from looking at Tim. It's about time to actually try it. But she inhales too quickly, trying to hide her...

...whatever the hell all these emotions are.

Smoke floods her throat and makes her gag. She coughs, lightly at first, then harder as she fails to pass it over gracefully.

He called him a liar. Yeah, well, he kinda does that once per day, assuming Tim hasn't painted or covered or otherwise rendered his mirror inert for the next hour. HE IS A LIAR, scrawled messily in great jagged letters.

He's right, anyway.

The question jabs at him with an unfair weight and poise, and he shoots a look at her from beneath furrowed brows, the reaction for the moment slipping outside the typical muted spectrum he operates on. How'd she -

Unless she already figured it out, and then spun things back?

He decides in that moment that he hates time travel, purely on principle. He can't even glean any amusement from seeing her try and smoke awkwardly, for the first time, his jaw clenching.

"No," he says, drawing the word out slowly. "You did. In that...winter...Wonderland dream."

She settles down as he talks, still not meeting his gaze. As the coughing subsides she brings up her hand and wipes her eyes, which shine with tears, either because of the smoking or because of other things. She doesn't bother to think about it further.

But the action is slow, not the harsh swipe of someone who's frustrated or angry- rather the surreptitious motions of someone who's tired. Resigned.

She doesn't notice his look. Doesn't pick up on how it bothers him. She can only tell, distantly, that he might be annoyed. Between the mirror talk and the unexpected social call from Max, she doesn't blame him.

He probably doesn't like her. She sees the feeling as general and not specific to her power.

She nods first in understanding of his words. Winter-Wonderland. "...It's a secret," she finally mumbles, head bowed. People don't like her power. They probably don't like her, too.

Edited 2017-02-06 04:11 (UTC)

Does it matter, ultimately? So she's got a secret. Who here goddamn doesn't. He glances out across the Wonderland grounds so he can pretend he doesn't see the glittering in the corners of her eyes.

He closes two fingertips around the cigarette between his lips and exhales, slowly.

"I figured."

The words are quiet.

"Don't worry about it. Not like I've got a ton of friends to spill secrets to."

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cw lil self-harm ref

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Lemme know if youd rather they not get up to the roof yet!

nah ur gravy

I live in a boat. A gravy boat.

skipper!!

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