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Open to 3rd floor of dorms [300 block?]

If someone has VISION, or super-VISION, or REALLY STRONG GLASSES, or is just mildly observant, will you please come to room 309 and help me find my second-string glasses? I can find my laptop (obviously) and I managed to secure my bed for a couple hours of sleep last night, but I'm going to miss all my classes today if I can't see.

My favorite pair of glasses were busted by the reactionary coozebag psychobitch (who couldn't take a joke gracefully) yesterday. It took me two hours to get back to my room. (Thanks for the help, dorm mates.) I'm not even sure I'm going to be able to find the clinic.

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Rory is woken up by some noises coming from a room across the hall from hers, and, concerned about what could be going on, knocks on the door to find...Max there.

"Max?" she asks groggily. "What are you doing here? What happened to your glasses?"

The voice is familiar enough. And there's a blurry pale face with a dark shape around it that is probably hair. Using his finely-honed powers of deduction, Max — who took an awfully long time opening the door, because he kept opening and closing his closet door and fumbling for the lock above the appropriate doorknob — decides that this is a girl. And since she knows his name, she's either the girl who punched him out or one of the two girls he met yesterday. Dark hair-shape, not red hair-shape. So: Rory.

He opens his door. His room is completely obliterated. There is a laptop on the bed, an overturned glass of water on the nightstand, a shoe on the pillow, boxes of paper everywhere, a mess of calligraphy implements on the desk, and clothes all over the carpet.

"Rory?" He says, pathetic and nasal. There's still a wad of tissue in his left nostril with blood on it (he reopened the scab in his sleep), and he's squinting valiantly. "My glasses were destroyed by a skanky whore last night. And I can't find my other pair. Do you know what time it is?"

"Oh my God..." Rory says, surveying his room. "Um, it's about 7:30, so unless you have a really early class, I think you have enough time to get stuff under control. And in any case, the teachers'll understand."

She gingerly rights the glass of water, mostly because the dripping was annoying her, and looks around for his glasses. Deciding to deal with that after taking care of Max himself, she guides him to the bed so that he can sit down without tripping over something and further hurting himself.

"Who is this 'skanky whore' who did this, Max? And I assume you don't mind me looking around your room a little, so I can see if I can find those glasses."

Max sits and shakes his head. He's in perfect little old man pajamas that are mis-buttoned brutally. Also, for reference, Max is about 5'4 and 120 pounds. He's tiny and without his glasses, looks like he's about 12 years old. "You can look at my stuff. There's nothing — oh, except for my screenplay. Try not to read any of it. But, other than that, I have nothing to hide."

His walls are covered in framed photographs. Lots of shots of plays, both behind-the-scenes and in progress. Max in different costumes. A little blond kid in a nun's outfit. A pretty Asian girl, dressed like a vata. An older guy (who looks like Bill Murray) with a younger woman, smiling and holding archaic weaponry. Club photos with various props: hats, kites, soapbox derby cars, rifles, berets, bee hives, rollerskates, etc. And a large one of Max in a fencing uniform, standing next to a trophy that's almost as big as he is, and a smiling older man with thick glasses like Max's.

"And I don't know! Someone named... Parker. Lewis? I think? Apparently, she can't lose, except her virginity. And face. Yeah. I read this thing about her and inquired into her health and she fucking smashed me," Max explains, sadly. He gingerly takes the tissue out of his nose. "Do I have a black eye? Or ...two? Everytime I break my nose, I look like a stupid raccoon."

Aside from the laptop, Rory might notice that there is almost nothing modern in the room. Everything Max owns looks like it belongs to someone six times his age. He has a SMOKING JACKET, for crissakes. An old typewriter. A record player. No TV. A chessboard and Scrabble, he's got. But there is no iPod, no fruity 2005 Nikes.

"Seven-thirty," he muses. "I can do this. If I can find my glasses. Or, at least I can get to the clinic. ...And destroy that hooker. Wherever she lives. Do you know if she's allergic to bees?"

Rory listens to Max's tale of woe, taking in the oddness of his room as he speaks. She wants to ask exactly how old he is, but decides now may not be the time.

She sifts through the clutter, looking for anything that vaguely resembles Max's glasses, and curses herself for getting involved.

Suddenly, something registers with her, and she turns to him. "Wait...Parker did this to you? Max, whatever you do, do not try to get revenge on her. Seriously. You'll regret it. She can be vicious, and she'll make your life a living hell. Saturday night, she pushed me into a pool and nearly let me drown...and she likes me."

She considers his appearance, and then goes back into her room. She returns a second later with a few cubes of ice wrapped in a washcloth. "Here," she says gently placing it over one of his eyes, "this should take down the swelling, at least."

Max accepts the compress and lays back on his bed. His head collides with the shoe that is in his pillow and he chucks it on the floor. "Thanks, Ms. Gilmore. You're my Florence Nightingale. I appreciate it."

He accepts that he can't beat this Parker hooor at vindictiveness... but that doesn't mean he won't try. Mr Bloom had millions of dollars, and Max still beat him at his own game. This was just some stupid high school girl with a bad reputation. He twinges a little, inside, at that thought: why does he only meet girls who put out under the worst circumstances? When, oh when, is his time going to come?

"We'll see..." Max grumbles. Realizing the irony, he adds, "Or, at least, one of us will. So, my back-up glasses: I think they were in a shoebox with a stapler and pushpins and paperclips. Office supplies. I was still setting up my desk before The Incident. So... you might look there. They're black and have a safety pin connecting the stem to the eyepiece?"

The ice helps with the swelling, but his headache remains. You know what Max could really use right now? Oral. Definitely oral. That would really help.

Rory can tell Max isn't going to forget about Parker, but she figures there isn't a lot she can do to sway him. So, instead, she decides to let it go, and just watch the fireworks when the time comes.

She looks in the shoebox that Max indicates, and finds a sorry-looking pair of black glasses. "These them?" she asks, handing them to him.

When their hands brush, Rory realizes that she may be sending the wrong impression by being nice to him. At least, she hopes he doesn't read more into her actions than just niceness. She has her hands quite full enough with boys liking her at this point already, thank you very much.

Well, thank YOU very much, lil' Miss Gilmore, but you are way, way too young for Max. He prefers women, actually. Young women, sure. But, girls? Thanks, no. Margaret Yang seemed like she was a woman, but she was actually a girl. And Max has had enough of that.

He still wouldn't turn down action, obviously. But it would have to be a casual thing — side action, if you will. Don't ask, don't tell, and don't tell all your friends that I'm your boyfriend. That kind of thing.

Max cleans the lenses of his glasses and puts them on. He grins up at Rory, both eyes black in the inner corners. "These will do!"

Looking down at his pajamas, he realizes that he kind of blew it on the buttoning process. He tugs on the shirt with a frown on his face and apologizes, "Sorry that I'm in such a state. I really do appreciate the help, though, Ms. Gilmore. I thought I was going to be stuck here all day. You're a peach."

Yes, well, Rory's not really the casual-encounter sort of girl, anyway. She's already freaking out because of something that happened on Saturday night, and even though that whole situation's been repaired, she's still very careful to make sure she's not attracting still more male attention.

Rory blushes slightly, and smiles. "No problem, Max. Any time you need anything, I'm right across the hall in 305. Um, just be careful of my roommate, though...she might not like you, and she has a history of rage blackouts. Oh, and really - call me Rory. I'm used to thinking someone's talking to my mom when they mean Ms. Gilmore."

Max knows nothing of these party antics. He wasn't in town yet. But he nods knowingly, like he does. Even though she didn't actually say anything about it, he nods; a knowing nod never hurt anyone.

"Thank you. 305. Noted. Rage... blackouts. Also noted, for future reference. But, thank you. Rory. I really appreciate the help. And if there's anything you need, or if you just want to come over and make collages or work on your writing... my door is always open to you," Max says. He stands, a little woozily, and looks apologetic. "Now, if you wouldn't mind... I need to pull myself together and get to the clinic. This is an old prescription and I'll have a bitch of a time with my calligraphy if I don't get a new one."

"Of course," Rory says with a smile, wondering why Max was bobbling his head like that. "Glad I could help. And, um, I'll keep that offer about my writing and the...uh...collages in mind," she adds, knowing perfectly well that she probably won't stop by, at least for those reasons.

But she's coming to the conclusion that it's entirely possible that Max doesn't have many friends here, and that being kind to him might be a good idea. If nothing else, she might be able to talk Parker out of beating him up again.

ooc: Oh, believe me. *I* am aware. :-D Logan!mun is actually who lured me into this place! How's that for six degrees?

[ooc: That's pretty rad. I love that. I've gotten so used to playing with the same people playing different muses at

theatrical_muse that I'm hardly phased by it now... but this is a whole group of new-to-me writers. I'm torn between being completely overwhelmed and getting really strong writer-envy. There are some good MF'n writers over here. It's really nice. But, anyway, thanks for being a friend to Max. You're the only person who has really spoken to him. I get why -- I mean, he has no superhero powers, he's not good-looking, and he's a pompous ass. I asked for it, though: I wanted to play a muse who was funny and didn't get smutted up all the time. Looks like I found my guy! :-) ]

[ooc: Eee! So, see? Look at that! I was talking to you when I squeed about Donnie! He really was the other person I was thinking about bringing in. But, compared to my "main" muse (Tucker Wells from Buffy), Max would be more fun and less misanthropic. Although, ahem. Max is turning out to be pretty goddamned misanthropic. Well, yay for us! This'll be fun. Hopefully, playing here won't get me divorced. And now: back to work I go!]

[ooc(x2): Oh, and I hope I didn't imply that I write Logan. Because I don't. I'm just friends with the person who does.]

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Open to 3rd floor of dorms [300 block?]

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