|Location||Bounty - Midtown - NYC|
|Summary||Because Tiffany totally is.|
| Right off Times Square are dozens of shops and advertisements, but several avenues east offers something a bit more upscale in the form of Bounty. A large holodisplay of a woman in swank attire and an attractive man on her arm strut near the lounge's front door, and guests are greeted by a doorman.
Inside, the bar is decorated with a primarily wood interior. The walls are a dark pine, and the floor is an original oak from 1952. The bar is polished mahogany, long, and frequented by New York's wealthiest residents.
Beyond the bar is a lounge. The couches and chairs are curved, comfortable, and made from mahogany and ankole leather. Bistre colored carpet sections off the lounge, along with an original, carved, wooden support.Male and female servers, dressed in business attire sans ties, serve drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Bounty is not very loud - soft, live, piano music is usually played in the evening.
| It is a summer night. The weather is hot and overcast.|
This bar is about as far from the bars of Mutant Town, with their pounding music and mould on the ceiling, as one can get. This one smells faintly of rare woods, and the air is filled with the tinkle of piano music and the soft babble of voices.
Alistair is seated at the bar, with a sheaf of actual papers before him, and a glass of some amber liquid at his hand. He looks pensive.
The gentleman to Alistair's left clears his throat in an attempt to discreetly attract the bartender's attention. Tapping his heavy signet ring on the bar, he nods his chin in an arbitrary direction. "On my tab," is all he says as his and the bartender's eyes slide across the room past Alistair.
Draped over one of the leather couches, Tiffany has pulled her blackish hair into a tidy top-knot. Only a few curled strands left deliberately loose in order to frame her face. She wears a velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline and gentle bust pleating. The lush plum color stands out against her tanned skin. It's longer than most dresses that she buys and then, returns. The side slit, which makes up for that, climbs up her thigh as she crosses her leg. Pensive as well, she stares down into a leatherbound notebook so tiny it could fit into a clutch. Taking a moment to pause as she writes, she brings an electronic cigarette to her lips and takes a drag. Strawberry flavored, its end lights up pink.
"Hrm," comments Alistair, mostly to himself, with a long Gaelic roll of the r. He considers for a moment, taking a long swallow of his drink, and then arises, papers beneath his arm, crossing the room toward Tiffany. "You may be interested to know," he comments toward her, "that a wealthy gentleman over there has volunteered to take care of your expenses for the evening."
Tiffany's large, lazy eyes trail up Alistair. Languidly and without comment, she extends her arm to reach for her cocktail glass. She swirls what little remains of the pinkish liquid within it towards the bar. She won't finish it until she recieves the new one, however. "I think congratulations are in order," the poet finally says, leaning in such a way as to invite Alistair to sit, "I heard you've been nominated for Father of the Year?"
Alistair settles on the couches very carefully. "I think I may safely say," he says, taking a sip of from his glass, "that, whatever my own talents and strengths, that is one award I shall never been in the running for."
"That's an understatement," Tiffany agrees in dark amusement. Bringing her glass to her mouth, she watches Alistair as she lets the liquor slide through her parted lips. "Thank you," she looks away to smile with her eyes to the server to takes her glass and very dutifully offers her a full one. "Not that it is much of a consolation, but I don't think your competition in Mutant Town is very steep." The place is positively brimming with absentee fathers.
"Perhaps not," says Alistair. "But I am quite certain that, even then, there are fathers who did not have one child run away from them, and then discovered there was another they did not know about." His voice is wryly cutting, but directed at himself.
"You had your child run away?" Tiffany asks without outward interest. She balances her cocktail in one hand and her e-cigarete in the other. "That must be devastating." She takes a drag.
"Yes," says Alistair. He does not elaborate. His gaze wanders away, toward the bar.
"When I was a little girl," Tiffany shifts her body in an attempt to re-attract the man's attention. There's nothing for you back at the bar. "All I ever wanted to do was run away."
Alistair glances back to her, one eyebrow quirked. "Ah," he says. "But did you actually? Pack up your things, leave in the night, and flee across the ocean?"
Tilting her head in though, she gives the tiniest of inclines. As if to say, 'No.' "I went to sleep. And I never woke up." Bringing up the hand with the cigarette, she gently tap-taps on her temple.
"I think you did wake up," says Alistair, skeptical. "As I see you before you. Or are you only a thought form, and my hand will go right through you?"
"I don't know," Tiffany pouts in mock confusion. She bats her long lashes just once nice and slow. "I guess there's only one way to know for sure."
Alistair glances at her sideways. His mouth twists. "Should I do a complicated series of tests to ascertain whether you are solid?" he murmurs.
"I have enough complicated in my life, thank you," Tiffany smirks despite herself, turning to face away from him as she does so. Shifting on the couch again, she moves her hand to gently close her small book. She tucks it under her hip.
"I could make it a very simple series of tests," offers Alistair, all graciousness.
Slinking her leg down, Tiffany very slowly switches her crossed legs. Her eyes drop to the crushed purple fabric that bunches in her lap. For the brief moment that they are uncrossed, she keeps her knees close together. Her eyes lift back up to Alistair. She says nothing.
Alistair raises the other eyebrow, just for variety. He considers Tiffany for a long moment, blue eyes thoughtful. He reaches out with his free hand, and very lightly rests it on Tiffany's knee.
Tiffany looks to the hand. And looks to Alistair. Her knee is certainly there. Warm. Soft. Smooth. Not at all an apparition. Carefully, Tiffany sets down her glass on the nearby side table. It doesn't even really require her to move at all. "Incorrigable," Tiffany offers in a quiet critique.
"Oh, trust me," says Alistair, voice mild. "I can be a great deal more incorrigible. This is very minor on the incorrigibility scale." He considers. "You do seem real enough."
"That's funny," Tiffany responds dryly, without missing a beat. "I could say the same thing about you." She cocks her head somewhat, as if to imply that Alistair weren't real. Quite pleased with herself, it shows in her eyes and mouth. "I'm done with my drink." She informs him. She never touched it.
"I am accused of not being real all the time," says Alistair a little dryly. "I think that is because I am simply too good to be believed." He raises an eyebrow. "Or possibly the reverse." A pause. "Not to your taste?" he wonders. "Or you simply in a hurry to be away from it?"
Carefully, Tiffany brings her hand down to press atop Alistair's. Wrapping her fingers under his palm, she lifts the hand away and gently casts it aside. "The wrong person bought it for me," Tiffany explains. She's sure to move her lips in a manner that makes them easy to read. With a swivel of her hips, she rises to her feet -- sliding her notebook into her tiny, purple-sequined purse.
Alistair glances over to the bar and the benefactor of the night. He gives him an apologetic shrug, before looking back to Tiffany. "Maybe the next time the right person will buy it," he says, arising with a straightening of his long legs.
Confident and stoic as she may be, Tiffany is not without her elements of fragility. As Alistair stands and she watches him do so, her lashes flutter with the dizzying effects of her psionic mutation. Pouting, a thin crease forms between her eyebrows. A single line of concentration. A small hand floats up and reaches out into a room which, for a moment, she percieves not as herself but as... everyone. Tiffany's breath hitches.
Alistair turns to her, gaze rapt on her face and--frowns. "Are you all right?" he asks, reaching out to her. For a moment, she can see herself through his eyes; likely just a bit disorientating.
Tiffany's hand finds Alistair's forearm and although it may be a firm grip to her, it's likely rather weak compared to what he is capable of. "Sometimes I still try to run away," she says dreamilly. "I can't control it." Lax and serpentine, her swooning body teeters and leans into his. Her other hand finds the center of his chest, where she lays her small palm.
Alistair reaches out to catch her, to steady her, his arms going around her. "Tiffany," he says, a trace of concern in his voice. He holds her upright steadily, arms strong. "Perhaps you need to lie down?" he suggests, voice low.
Tiffany stretches up her long neck. From somewhere distant behind heavy lidded eyes, she studies Alistair's mouth and face. Eventually, the pretty psionic is able to ground herself. It shows in her body and joints as they grow firmer once more. Her lucidity returns. "I need you to take me back to your bed."
Alistair laughs. It's not a mean laugh, but a soft throaty chuckle. "I think," he murmurs, "you are absolutely without shame, aren't you?" He does not let her go, not yet. "And are you intending to lie there very quietly until you feel better?" he asks, voice warm with amusement, but very close to her ear.
"I don't intend to be quiet at all," Tiffany wets her bottom lip before sinking her teeth down into it.
Alistair's gaze flicks down to her lips, and then back up to her eyes. "I think," he says, "that you should go back to the apartment you share with my daughter and rest." He releases his grip on her, taking a step back, but as he does so, he takes her hand, raising it to her lips. He kisses it--not the back of her hand, but the palm, lips teasing at the sensitive skin there, eyes still on hers as he does so. "Until we meet again," he tells her, with a trace of a smirk.
Not having expected ...well, even an ounce of decency, Tiffany let's out a light two-toned laugh of delight. It's girlish, which may or may not come as a surprise. She smiles faintly as he kisses her hand, allowing it to happen and then pulling it back in a sortof of faux shock after he's already done the deed. There is a moment where in jest, she feigns some sort of offense to her delicate sense of propriety. However, it should be fairly clear that her pride is not hurt by the gentle rejection.Alistair smiles at her for a moment. It is faint, and brief, but it is a genuine smile. "Good night," he adds, and inclines his head, before turning to slip silently away.