ArchivedLogs:Riches

Riches
Dramatis Personae Alyssa, Shane	Tuesday, 10 March, 2015 (part of futuretp.)
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. 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 grown late, dark outside but a pleasant enough evening -- spring isn't /quite/ here yet but it almost feels like it is. Up in the Commons' treehouse, Shane is enjoying the nighttime air by clouding it /up/ with a healthy dose of cigarette smoke; the ember glows in the dim light that pools out of the treehouse windows. The diminutive blue teenager leans against the balcony railing overlooking the river, dressed dapper-neat as ever in pinstriped slacks, button-down, neatly pressed vest, bow tie; a light corduroy jacket wards off the nighttime chill. His huge black eyes focus out on the water rippling by, and he puffs a long stream of smoke out into the air. Near-spring is enough to draw more than just Shane outside: there is a clatter on the stairs below, a joyous noise of feet on wooden slats. In the lowlight, Aly's eyes gleam reflective-bright as she winds her way up, up. Rather than confined to braids her hair curls loose down her back, and where Shane is dapper she is darling: thick tights are layered under the swishy flare of a thigh-length skirt, //over// which she has added a shell top and a button-down (unbuttoned) and a slouchy-sleeved sweater, none of which should work together but all of which does. "I thought I'd find you here," is quiet so as not to surprise, but bright none the less. "The water's here," Shane answers lightly, not actually looking up but just /extending/ an arm to curl out sideways, clawed fingers hook-hook-hooking inwards like he is trying to /nab/ Aly in for Hug. "So tell me," might be a fairly standard end-of-day question, "we rich yet?" His other hand drapes down over the edge of the railing, letting cigarette-smoke curl upwards out of the way of hugging. "Because I told Peter we were going to take over Stark Enterprises, I'd hate to disappoint." Far be it for Aly to resist that hook-hook-hooking, because she fits herself into the outstretched curl of Shane's arm like that was her intended destination all along. (It probably was.) As for herself: she reciprocates with the curl of her own arm around the teenager's shoulders, and an inward shift to rest her head, briefly, against his. "You were rich before we started, remember?" she teases lightly, but even though it can't be //seen// the breadth of her smile can be heard in her, "We're getting closer, though. Are we considering diversifying? I think I could manage little robot-cakes, if we're not." Up this close, even with the cigarette smoke in the air, //she// smells like all good things: sugar and spice and fresh-baked bread, with just a hint of coffee. Up close Shane mostly, unfortunately, smells like cigarette; his morning shift's pleasant-coffee-smells have long since worn off. He nestles gladly up into the hug, wiry-thin arm squeezing in around Aly. "Pfft. /B/ was rich. But I guess my-other-half's money counts as good as mine. If we go bankrupt I'm just gonna mooch off hir wealth anyway." He frowns slightly before he amends: "So long as B /stays/ rich after leaving for college. I guess school might eat some of that up. We'll just," he resolves brightly, "have to not go bankrupt. Oh /man/. Robot-cakes. Spence would eat them /all/ the fuck up. That's almost as good as taking over Stark." "We've been solvent for most of a year," Aly points out, "solidly in the making-profits instead of breaking-even for the last six," her free hand extends out, tips from side to side, "ish months. I'm //pretty sure// we're not going bankrupt." Which might be a little bit over-confident, but it's also //cheerfully// so, as she further contributes to the hug-snuggling continuing, rather than ending any time soon. "I can definitely make robot cakes happen. Little ones." "Mmm. That's good 'cuz I want to take our /riches/ and take you out to the theatre," Shane informs Aly brightly. He lifts his hand for another drag of his cigarette, turning his head away from hugs to blow smoke out over the water. "Tonight my dads went to go see -- uh, a friend of theirs is playing the lead in Pippin and /apparently/ the whole production is /pretty/ kickass." He grins, serrated-sharp teeth glinting silvery in the nighttime light. "I'll just. Wear a burqa or something. But maybe if I know the lead actor they won't fuss too much." "I //think// we can manage that even without the riches," is Alyssa's counter, but she's laughing as she says it. "I'd like that. //Especially// Pippin--" She grins back, then pulls away //just// far enough to mock-consider him, all hmmms and furrowed brow. "I'll give you the run of all of my scarves," she says, and it toes the line between teasing and earnest, "and I own several //very// fetching hats." "I have a vested interest," Shane confesses, "the guy playing the lead is /drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous/. It's unreal. Sometimes he visits my dads and I ogle." He leaves his cigarette between his lips, lifting one claw to tap it beneath his eerily large black eyes. "I manage /excellent/ ogling let me tell you. -- I mean, I /guess/ also he can sing." Which is clearly a less relevant point than the first. Shane lifts his hand, primping lightly at his spiky mess of plasticky black hair. "I look pretty awesome in hats. -- Oh man do you have anything --" He flutters webbed fingers eagerly at his face. "I don't know, /silvery/ -- silver and blue is a hard combination to beat. /After/ the show," he adds with a return of his toothy grin. "I can take you out for coffee. I know this little place. Goddamn /amazing/ baker. Pretty awesome coffee, too though I hear their barista curses like a motherfucking sailor." "I have," Aly has her considering face on, the one where she looks up and closes her eyes and ends up with her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she //visualizes//. "I've got one that's navy and silver-thread plaid, and one that's //black// with a silver band, and one that's - white with silver pinstripe, um," she looks back down and her expression goes a little cheeky and a little sheepish all at once, "I may have a //hat problem//, it's an affliction." But her grin broadens, and she says "//Do// you, now. Anywhere I've ever heard of?" like Shane isn't totally talking about //their place//. "There are so-so-many worse," Shane says this as he takes another deep drag of his cigarette, "worse addictions you could have." He bounces on the toes of his polished-shiny Oxfords, crushing the nearly-spent butt of his cigarette against his palm after one last puff. "White and silver. I have a new white vest it will be /basically/ the most awesome of all clothings." He rocks back to look Aly over critically before declaring: "We'll just have to be careful, /together/ we might start upstaging the performers." He hooks his arm through Alyssa's, shaking his head once. There's a low grumble to his stomach -- it's /probably/ been like a whole five minutes since the last time he ate; on his metabolism this means time to remedy that problem. "It's kind of one of those places you have to /know/ about to know about it, right? But it's like the perfect end to an evening. S'possible by then they might even have some adorable little robot cakes in stock. /Trust/ me," he leans in to bonk his forehead lightly against Aly's shoulder, "you'll love it." "I can think of a few," //is// a tease, but it comes with a telling Look at his now-crushed cigarette butt. It is a familiar look, one that stands in place for a whole conversation's worth of dude-they're-gross-also-bad because occasionally, //occasionally// Aly indulges in a moment of actual-adulting at him. (Rarely, thoough). When Shane's forehead bonks against her shoulder, she tips her head down to rest it on top of his again, so that her quiet, "I already do," is spoken mostly to his hair; the moment doesn't last, though, because she //finally// pulls free of their mutual lean to pull him - via his arm hooked in hers - toward the stairs down. "I think the //neighbors// can hear your stomach from here," she explains, "so come on. I brought real food," as opposed to just the day's leftover tasty-noms. "Let's go eat."