ArchivedLogs:Cracknight

Cracknight
Dramatis Personae Alyssa, Dusk	2016-03-16 "You have to be willing to /commit/."
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. There's quiet around the Commons, tonight. Plenty of lights still on, though most people seem to be staying /in/. Not that Dusk has much of an in to stay; it'll be a short while yet before ground is broken on the New Home to replace the charred skeleton of the old. So tonight -- for now -- he is here, nestled among a lot of piles of first aid supplies and thrift-store'd clothing that has turned the treehouse into makeshift storage for the moment. /He's/ sprawled on his stomach the futon, in ragged brown corduroys and no shirt, laptop on the pillow in front of him, enormous black wings lazily draped down across his back and spilling over onto the ground. A tall thermos stands near to his elbow, a plate that once had A Lot of cookies and now only has a /moderate/ amount beside the thermos. There /was/ work on his screen -- at one point -- probably. There is not work there now, attention kind of divided tabbing between Tumblr and AO3. /Almost/ like work. Almost-almost. At least it's a consistent kind of transient existence, with a forseeable end-point -- provided nothing interferes with construction. Putting that thought aside: there are footsteps up the stairs, and then some jingling; footsteps again and then a muffled sort of thud, weighted-down canvas heavy against the treehouse floor. Then there is -- a disgusted sort of noise, good-natured, off the edge of the futon. "You know," follows it, Aly's voice tired-bright but familiar, "I was /going/ to dramatically flump down onto the futon, but /some/body's wings aren't very good for /landing on/." In other words: hi. Incoming? "/Somebody/? Can't imagine who," Dusk's voice is just a little muffled, his mouth haaalf smooshed up against his arm where he's nestled his scruffy-beareded face into the crook of his elbow. "Horus hates his feathers ruffled s'true. /My/ wings --" One of them is lifting, its enormous expanse stretching-curling outward to hook around Aly. Scoop her in. "-- Are fantastic for being in, under, /or/ on. -- Also I was really curious about this AU fic of Old West Sunnydale except it turns out all the characters /are/ horses and I'm not sure how I feel anymore." "Unexpected landings on them, though," Aly /tries/ to huff, she really does, but it doesn't last. There's tension strung through the set of her shoulders, but it's tired that weighs down the line of her back; they both ease, just a little, just enough to be /noticeable/ as she's reeled in. She braces herself against it /very/ briefly so that she can get her shoes off, but that doesn't take long; she ends up settled beside him (we, well, mostly beside; a little bit snuggle-sprawled on, to be more accurate) in short order, and leans over (unnecessary, but more cozy) to read his screen. "So, wait -- are we talking My Little Pony style, or, like -- /actual horses/, only -- talking?" Her brow furrows, "--probably not /just/ talking." Dusk's wing curls inward, wrapping Aly up closer to his side. His other wing stretches over his head, one wingtip hooking down to tip the laptop screen slightly inward, angling a little more towards Aly for better reading. "/Actual/ for-real horses. That's the thing there /isn't talking/," he sounds slightly incredilous here. "Honestly I'd be so much less bemused by Ponydale Buffy I'd kind of /expect/ that crossover exists this is just. Like. /Horses/. But their /personalities/ are like the characters?" His brow is furrowed, head shaking. "We do," he clarifies helpfully, "get kind of an omniscient narrator into their minds though. That's helpful. It's --" He has to consider for a moment before deciding: "Not the weirdest fic I've read." "More," Aly draws out as she shifts and settles; she doesn't have quite as many limbs for curling around and pulling closer, but she makes up for it, one hand warm against Dusk's bare back, one leg hooked over his, and her face kind of half-mushed into his shoulder as she reads. "Or less weird than the SGA Girl Scout Cookies fic?" Dusk's lips purse -- stay pursed, his eyes fixing on the screen in /intent/ contemplation. "Differently weird," he finally decides. "Less weird that it /exists/. /More/ surreal to actually read. I read one once where Dean and Sam and Castiel were all bagels and that one was just," he sounds actually disappointed in this lament: "very poorly written." Under its dusting of freckles, Aly's nose wrinkles -- and stays wrinkled, as she reads a little bit more. "What," comes out a little bit too flat to be a question. Not that she gives him time to answer, anyway, not really; in response to his disappointed statement she groans, and declares, "Oh, no, that's the /worst/. Weird concept but good execution, or great concept, distractingly written -- sure, okay, /probably/. But weird /and/ poorly written?" "/Right/?" Dusk's eyes widen, a more emphatic uptick to his voice. His thumbclaws twitch downward toward the screen to puncuate this statement as well. "If you're /going/ to turn all your characters into bagels you /have/ to treat that with the respect it deserves. Like come /on/ go big or go --" His head is tipping to the side (kind of incidentally fetching up in a small bonk! against Aly's) as he peeers at the screen. His brows are knitting in some -- /concern/? His sigh definitely has more warmth to it, now. "Tara is really the lifeblood of this herd, man." "You have to be willing to /commit/. Or at least invest in a trustworthy beta." Smol-headbonk is answered by Aly rubbing her head back up against his, like a cat chasing down the hand that strokes it. "I'm not sure if I should be more or less worried about your word choice," she says, half-muffling a laugh against his shoulder, "given who's doing the choosing." It's teasing, but gentle, delighted. Dusk turns his head, bares his teeth in a small chomp-chomp-chomp in the general direction of Aly's face. "I just call it like it is." He settles lower against the mattress, lower against Aly's side, wing rubbing softly against her back as his eyes close. "I should go get sleep," there's a small crease forming between his brows, "but --" One eye cracks back open, skims briefly over the stacked boxes stored and waiting around the treehouse. Closes again as his wing squeezes a little tighter. "... there was this other one with a Sonic the Hedgehog/Sense8 crossover and I'm really curious how /many/ bad life choices I can cram into tonight." Aly: reckless, trusting, /delighted/; she leans in toward the playful chomp-chomps rather than pull away, smile brilliant and laugh only just contained. "Calls it like you sees it, huh?" she asks, light, then lets the question fade. Her hand echoes his wing, but a little more firmly: slow, sure strokes up and down the middle of his back. "You should," is quieter, a little more serious -- almost disappointed, but not -- not quite. Something else, then. "Sta--." she starts, only to let it be interrupted by his consideration of /terrible life decisions/. "All in," she says instead, "right? Let's do this." When she turns her face back to the screen, she ducks, too, and sort of awkwardly rubs one (now-damp) eye against his bare shoulder. Dusk turns his head, rubs scruffy-scritchy beardfuzz against the top of Aly's head before tipping his face down to press a kiss to her forehead. "Got cookies, got cocoa. It may be a bumpy journey but I think we're /well/-armed for this." The breath he draws in is deep. /Marshalling/ himself. Before reaching for the mousepad to tap at it and dive back in. Alyssa makes a noise that's might grow up to be a sigh, some day; she breathes "Thanks," against his skin, then pulls herself up so she can /properly attend their appointed task/ while also maintaining as much contact as possible. "In that case," she declares, "let's /do/ this." It's longer than is wise for either of them, before she claims gritty, tired eyes as a reason for stopping; it's transparently obvious, but so /sincere/, when she talks him into not spending the night alone. For her sake, of course. (Of course).