ArchivedLogs:Brunch Prep

Brunch Prep
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Nick, Shane
In Absentia	Easter Sunday "{It's a very distinctive smell.}"
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Treehaus - Lower East Side
A spiral of sturdy slatted wooden stairs winds up the trunk of an enormous oak, leading the way up to this treehouse positioned between a pair of trees at one side of the Commons yard, abutting the river. It's clear enough upon ascending that this is no ordinary treehouse, built sturdy-strong and with a polished finish that would rival most /regular/ residences. Spanning the distance between the pair of oaks, the treehouse is a long one-story building, equipped with both plumbing and electricity. The stairs lead up onto a wraparound balcony that projects out at one side to overlook the East River rushing by below. The doorway inside leads to a furnished sitting room, long low futon-couches on the pale wood floors, walls painted in leafy shades of green, exposed-beam ceilings that seem to have worked some of the actual branches of the tree into the curvature of the roof. The front room is bright and airy, large windows looking out on the Commons grounds and the river outside. Recessed lanterns in the wall give the room a warm glow, come nighttimes, and in the center of the room amid a stone-tiled patch of flooring there is a squat glass-encased gas fireplace providing warmth in winter. Off to one side of the room there is an elevated loft up nearer the ceiling, accessible by ladder and furnished with pillows and plush futon mattress and lots of blankets. The adjoining room is decorated in watery river-blues instead of leaf-greens; in here there's a small kitchenette to one side with sink and stove and toaster oven and counter space, cabinets on the walls. A long dining table in this room seats eight; by the windows, plenty of cushioning sits in the wide window-seats. Off in the very back, a tiny half-bathroom holds a sink and toilet. No stove in here; the wintertime tends to find this room much chillier, but there's generally plenty of warm blankets lying around the house. It's a grey rainy kind of Easter. Glum, drizzly, wet. Across the courtyard rain drips down onto the broken ground of the new construction -- what /will/, one day, be the New Workhaus. One day. /Here/, there's the ceaseless patterpatterpatter -- falling on the leaves of the huge oak, dripping from the leaves down to the roof of the Treehaus, splashing off the overhanging eaves onto the roots down below. It's dry enough on the balcony, though, where at the moment Shane is leaning back against the side of the house. The pipe in his hands is ornate, a brilliant black-purple-blue silvery-flecked glass creation styled like some sort of tentacled monstrosity. Probably unintentionally, it matches the silver-accented blue brocade vest he wears over crisp black button-down, paired with neat black slacks and polished saddle shoes. His gills press flat against his neck as he lights the krakenpipe, takes a hit, passes it off. "{I feel,}" his Vietnamese is slow and kind of lazy, "{vaguely like I should check on Steve in the kitchen but --} nah." Nick's shaggy brown coat is still a little damp at the tips from some previous foray outside, but he's out of the rain now, slouched beside Shane on the balcony of the treehouse. He's wearing a pastel green dress shirt, top button undone now, purple-blue stripe tie loosened, and heather gray slacks that have seen better days. He accept the pipe, though it takes him a moment to figure out how to hold its peculiar shape in his long-clawed hands (/his/ nails do not retract, after all). "{You afraid he's gonna burn something down?}" His furry brows lift up as he flicks his lighter and takes a hit. When he leans back to exhale, the smoke rises from his nostrils in a long, pale stream like a silent howl in cold air. There's a flutter, a shimmer, a quiet thump of arriving footsteps on the damp wood. Flicker is similarly church-dressed -- pale grey suit, blue tie, light blue dress shirt, hair neatly combed -- if faintly speckled with rain. His prosthetic is trying even less hard to look organic than usual, not just decorated (green with silver leaf-and-vinework) but not actually a hand at all, anymore. Kind of prong-clawed where it emerges from the end of his sleeve. "Happy Easter." His smile is quick and cheerful. "I've heard rumors there's brunch coming but I'm -- skeptical." "{Noooo -- well maybe.}" Shane considers this with an uncertain purse of lips. "Yo. Fliiicker. Has Steve -- burn the /house/ down yet? Bad timing fire's supposed to be for -- for /last/ night, right?" His head thunks back against the wall, gill fluttering slowly open. "I'm just afraid he doesn't know his ass from his fucking -- elbow when it comes to. Cooking. Who hired Captain America to cook I don't --" He shakes his head, reaching out a fist to Flicker to tap. Quite seriously: "We could order brunch." Nick lifts his muzzle and snuffles at the air. "{Nah, I'd smell the house burning if he had. It's a very distinctive smell.}" He passes the pipe back to Shane. "Hey man, happy Easter." He looks at Flicker's hand, then back up at his face. "I dunno, he was always helping your pa cook, some of it must have rubbed off, right?" His ears press back, though. Maybe he's worried. "I second ordering, if he can't get it together." Flicker sucks his cheeks in between his teeth. Leans in to tap his fist carefully against Shane's, head shaking. "It'll be fine. Hive's helping out. There'll be food." His good shoulder shrugs. Another shimmer-jump carries him over to the other side of Nick -- upwind of the smoke. He leans kind of stiffly back against the wall as well. "Anyway I think it's important. To him. We can go out for dinner if it's that terrible." "Pa should be cooking. Can't we just. Go /get/ Pa." Shane scrapes a claw absently into the bowl of the pipe. His brows rumple as he lifts it to light it for another hit. "Do you think they actually got him a priest? He usually goes to church on weekdays /too/ they /have/ to let him go on Sundays, right? -- We should get Korean. We haven't gotten Korean in forever." Nick's shoulders slump inward a little. "I don't think they /have/ to do anything for him," he rumbles, his voice practically a growl. "But I hope they did. Get him a priest." He fidgets with his tie. "Korean would be nice. Could go for some bulgogi." He licks his nose, and looks down, abashed, when his stomach rumbles. "Forever? Dude, we had Korean last week. Bulgogi /does/ sound nice, though." Maybe not the /most/ important of the topics at hand, but. Yum. Flicker blips away from the wall. Sinks into a nearby folding chair, a small spasm of wince crossing his face as he sits down. "Please don't suggest that in earshot of Spence." "/Forever/," Shane doubles down all the more emphatically this time. He passes lighter and pipe both back to Nick with a small huff. "Spence would have him back here in two seconds. Plenty of time to make waffles /and/ be back in his damn. Cell. For lights-fucking. Out. Do we have kimchi? I want kimchi on my scramble. I want kimchi on my /waffles/. Shiiit why don't we have Captain America waffle irons yet?" "A week can /seem/ like forever." Nick ears swivel toward Flicker, and his nose twitches. "You still hurting much?" Then, a bit less shy, offering the pipe, "You want a hit?" He tilts his head to one side. "I've seen Captain America shield-looking pancake moulds, does that count?" "Only if they haven't put those --" Flicker's claw-hand shifts. Waves, vague, in the air. "Neutering machines. In /his/ prison too. Then that breakout plan would sour real fast." He shakes his head at the offer of the pipe, waving it away easily. "I'm good, thanks. Hurts, but. It's -- getting better." He brightens soon after this though: "Don't worry! We totally ordered some. No guarantees on how waffles will /taste/ but they will be /one-hundred percent/ patriotic." Shane's eyes open abruptly wide at this thought, his gills opening up in a sudden flare. A tiny growl rumbles in his throat, his head shaking quickly. He straightens, looking out towards the Commonhaus. "Right. I'm kind of feeling like patriotic panc... waffles might hit the spot, actually. Let's see if he needs a --" He frowns towards Flicker, then Nick. "Claw."