🎵 𝄞 🎸 𝄫 🎷🎶 🎻 (jukejoint) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-09-16 23:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, dylan mckendrick, max main |
PDT: Max/Dylan
Who: Max/Dylan
What: Drinks
Where: PDT
When: Nowish/In-progress
Warnings/Rating: Maybe language
Max hadn't bothered dressing up. She was closer to forty than to thirty these days, and maybe it said something about her insecurities that she didn't even consider trying. True, she'd never been one for heels and makeup, but the jeans and t-shirt she wore were loose, and her hair was messily half-tucked up. She was a woman who wasn't trying, plain and simple. Trying was nearly a decade earlier. It hadn't gone well; she had a track record for things not going well. Luckily, she'd given up on it all after Dhaka. She put on a good show, but the scars from half a decade in that hell went deep, and she'd exceeded the baggage requirement before she'd even been locked in.
She chose PDT because their domestic on tap was good. Maybe, too, she thought McKendrick would appreciate the stupid novelty of having to step into a phone booth to get into a bar. It was cute, whimsical in a way Max had never been, but that she figured anyone who had it in them to love Mario and Luigi would appreciate. It was also within walking distance of home, which was more important these days than it had been when she was younger. Getting drunk, which had been about fun once, was more about escape now, and escape didn't want to bother with calling a taxi.
She waited inside, a cool glass of domestic between her fingers as she leaned elbows against the bar and half-listened as the man beside her talked about next Sunday's game. She mentioned Adrian Peterson's suspension, which shut him up quick, and she wondered if men actually got worse as she aged, or if she was only imagining that shit.