Warren & Clint | Very Early Sunday Morning; Warren, Matt, & Clint | Sunday Evening

[x-hawkeye.livejournal.com]

Warren and Clint decide to ditch the party at Harry's for something more their speed.


Clint washed up at the bar when the crowd shifted him away from Matt and he found he didn't really mind. His ears, however, were killing him. So he unclasped the ridiculous earrings he'd worn and took off the crown so he could put them in the bowl of it before flagging down the bartender for a beer.

It'd been a while since he wore a costume - Halloween wasn't really his thing, mostly because he was always working, but he could appreciate other people's costumes. Particularly the ladies'. Turning to rest the small of his back against the bar, Clint propped himself up and scanned the room.

Well that was interesting, Warren thought to himself after Jean and Adrienne stormed off. In a strange way, he was oddly relieved. The only thing he would've changed was how Jean learned about Jessica. He would've liked to explain it. Regardless, he wasn't nearly as drunk as he would like to be. Nor was he as stoned or fucked up as he'd like to be. There was a reason he didn't party with anyone from the Mansion.

Heading to the bar, Warren ordered another whiskey before turning around, mimicking Clint's pose. Matt had introduced them earlier in the night, and just as he had predicted, he liked Clint immensely. Fellow player, and all. "There's no one here worth having that I haven't already had," he said, lifting his drink to his mouth. "Most of them are in relationships, and the rest will do in a pinch, but nothing to write home about." And in the interest of full disclosure, he continued by pointing out Jessica. "Except her. Ceiling sex." He gave a knowing nod. "She flies."

"Dude, there are so many different dirty things I could say to that right now, I can't even make up my mind about which one to pick," Clint replied, grinning even as he half-saluted Warren with his glass. "Anyway, I'm not like. An official member of the cool kid's club and Matt's barely in, so I wouldn't want to do anything that'd be awkward later. Mostly for him, since he's sort of living at the mansion now or whatever." He shrugged and took a sip, then hummed his appreciation of the beer before asking, "So you've got dibs on ceiling sex for the night, huh?"

Warren shook his head. "Never at the mansion. I have other places for that." He didn't bother explaining that he was fairly certain his psychic girlfriend would be able to tell if he was having sex with someone else right under her nose. This whole business was complicating. "Which are far from here. So." He took a sip of his drink, sighing at the lack of body. "That leaves me in a bit of a quandary. As lovely as the mansion is, it doesn't provide everything needed." He gave Clint a sideways look. "But don't let me stop you if you have a girl in mind. I can give an introduction. I'm an excellent wing man." No pun intended.

"Nah, like I said, don't wanna make things weird for Matt. Besides, dunno who he might be interested in and crashing the little bro's game would be uncool," Clint said, shaking his head. "Where're your usual stomping grounds? I've got a few bars in the city I rotate through when I'm not working. But it's been slim pickings recently."

"I stay away from the bars," Warren responded. "The socialite scene is cleaner. I don't have to worry about it getting out. Those girls are born with secrets, and anything behind the scenes can be used for favors." Emptying his glass, Warren set it on the counter behind him. "But if you're looking for something a bit more daring than here, I think I can find us an after party."

Cling grinned, taking a long pull from his glass before saying, "Sounds like fun. I'm in." It took him a couple more minutes to finish off his beer, but then he straightened from the bar and said, "Let me find something not this to wear, though. It's a bit cold for the emperor's skirt, y'know?"

Warren laughed. "Right. Go change into some pants, and I'll have everything arranged in no time." He looked down at his Hercules outfit and shrugged. Maybe he'd change, maybe he wouldn't.

~*~

It wasn't hard to find a place to party. A few text messages later, and Warren had found an old fraternity brother hosting a party in Westchester. The driving service picked them up from Harry's, and the Escalade was fully stocked with alcohol. Feeling slightly relieved to be free, Warren, who decided to change, was in a pair of grey slacks, a button up shirt and a jacket. Even though he didn't feel the cold, he didn't want to go to a party with a noticeable bulge on his back.

"Just so you know, anything goes at these kinds of events," Warren stated to Clint. "And when I say anything, I mean anything. No judgments. If you want to snort coke off a hooker's ass while getting pleasured by two women, have at 'er." Warren left out the part that he'd be making a significant cash donation to his frat brother for their entrance fee. If you didn't pay, no one thought you were serious enough about being there.

Clint quirked a brow at that, minor alarms going off in the back of his head. "Full disclosure - I'm a government employee. I work for SWORD, previously worked for SHIELD. So you should probably keep the hookers and the coke out of my line of sight. I wouldn't judge anybody, but I might still have to arrest them."

"Didn't say it would happen, just saying that you could do whatever you wanted," Warren pointed out. "And flashing handcuffs might actually get you more attention than you want. Unless you're into that kind of thing."

Shrugging, Clint said, "Never tried it, so I won't knock it." The was going to be interesting, one of those parties thrown by the too-rich-for-their-own-good types that probably would've made Clint fall over once upon a time. He could fake it, though, and have fun. "What about you? Into the kinky stuff?"

"If you're asking for your benefit, then the answer is no. Your breasts aren't nearly big enough to capture my attention." Warren responded, half-amused.

"Nah, I make it a policy not to hit on straight guys," Clint said, attempting and failing to suppress a smirk. "It get 'em all kinds of uncomfortable. Mostly I was asking cause you brought up the cuffs and implied people at these parties like 'em, so since it's your kinda party, the correlation follows..."

"Good point." He'd already forgotten how they'd gotten onto this conversation. Pulling into his jacket, he pulled out a flask and took a sip. It was an extremely expensive whiskey, better than what was in the vehicle. "No. I tend to go with whatever the other person wants. I've had some very interesting experiences that way."

"I'll bet," Clint said, still smiling. It was a little surprising, how short the drive was from Harry's and its relative proximity to the mansion to the other mansion to which Warren apparently had connections. Before he knew it, they were pulling through wrought iron gates and rolling down a lengthy driveway that ended in a majestic circular garden surrounded by the drive itself. It was clear that, despite the hour, the party was nowhere near stopping.

Just another party for Warren. "Just stay cool, alright? I'll make sure you're kept to the tamer parts but I can't vouch for what's happening." A pause. "And if you have to arrest someone, don't mention my name."

Clint laughed. "Don't worry, I don't need a chaperon. You do you, I won't get you banned from future events." Stepping out of the SUV, he straightened his shirt and tipped his head toward the door. "After you."

Following Clint's lead, Warren strolled into the mansion as if he owned it. A quick glance of some of the people showed he was worth more than most. Good. That meant he had some power, even if this wasn't his event. He caught the eye of a couple socialites but they weren't who he was looking for.

As he'd said before, he was the best wingman possible. "Felicity," he called out, arms out stretched. The stunning brunette turned her head and smiled. Felicity Hale, heiress to a successful shipping company came their way.

"Darling, this is Clint. He's new. Make him feel welcome, will you?"

Letting an easy smile slide into place, Clint accepted the hand the lovely Miss Hale proffered and raised her fingers to his lips. That kind of overblown gesture seemed remarkably appropriate in this setting. He couldn't decide whether he felt like he should've tried hitting up these kinds of parties earlier or if he was disappointed he wasn't going to have to work for it tonight.

Pleased with himself, Warren allowed a different socialite to take him by the hand and lead him to the back. Felicity was rather tame, she'd ensure that Clint didn't get too far into this den of depravity. Warren on the other hand...well, it wasn't his first time there. And he knew exactly what was waiting for him in the upper floors.


Later, they wake up in an unfamiliar room, only to realize Clint is going to be late for a prior engagement.


Afternoon came quickly. Somehow managing to have the forethought to close the drapes of the hotel room, the sun didn't shine in and wake the men up. In fact, if it wasn't for his phone buzzing annoyingly, Warren would have continued sleeping. He hadn't slept in in....a long time. It was obviously well-deserved, especially after all the debauchery. Fragments were invading his brain, and all he wanted to do was go back to it. If only his stupid phone would stop...

Reaching over, he frowned as he saw Jolene's name come on. He swiped to ignore her call -- his assistant could take care of things -- and he looked around the room. It was hideous, that much was for certain. A painting of a boat hung on one wall, and the sheets...well, they were a geometric disaster. Sighing, he sat up and rubbed at his face. The room was so ugly. "Where the hell are we," he asked incredulously, not really expecting a reply.

Clint muffled a curse in the pillow on the other bed, his head half-buried under it, before reaching over to the table between them and scrabbling for the small pad of paper there. Once he'd gotten hold of it, he pulled it toward himself and opened one eye just enough to make out the words at the top of the paper. "The Marriott."

The Marriott, Warren mouthed, shaking his head. Of all the places, this was not somewhere he expected to be. Standing up, he squinted an eye out the window. How long had it been since he'd had a hangover? Too long. Picking his phone up again, he scrolled over the missed phone calls and text messages. Matt must be having a field day, he thought, wondering where his brother and Warren got to. Warren grinned at that thought.

Padding over to the bathroom, Warren peeked his head in cautiously. It was tiny. And white. With absolutely no style. "People stay here? Was this your idea? Because I highly doubt this is 5 star, and I can't remember the last time I stayed anywhere less than that."

Squinting over at Warren from beneath the pillow, the pad of paper discarded and now on the floor, Clint said, "Stop talking so loud. I think this was the driver's idea. But I can't be sure. There was a lot of alcohol involved in our decision making processes last night."

"I'm not talking loud," Warren responded. Clint did make a good point though. A lot of alcohol was injested. More than he usually did. He tried to remember why, and then it clicked. "Oh. Jean got mad at me, didn't she? I definitely deserved that. Did you know girls don't like it when you're sleeping with someone else? I mean, it's not like we were sleeping together..."

Clint squinted at the other man, one eye completely closed as he contemplated the many replies he could make to that. "Dude, chicks generally don't dig it when you cheat on them. Even if you're not sleeping with her. Y'know, emotional components and shit. She probably thought you two were like. Leading up to sleeping together or something. Don't be a dick, cheating on girls is bad. Especially with other girls that they actually know. How did you not know this already?"

"I didn't think they knew each other," Warren said idly. "Besides, how is it cheating if no commitment was made?". He shrugged his shoulders. "No matter. What's done is done." Ignoring Clint, Warren walked over to the window and peeked out. Oh, this wasn't morning....grabbing his phone, his eyes widened. "It's 4 in the afternoon?" How was that even possible? "Has Matt been texting you? I have at least three missed calls here...."

"Motherfucker," Clint half-gasped, sitting bolt-upright in bed and scrabbling for his phone. No luck - Warren could definitely read a digital clock correctly, hangover or not. "Shit, shit - dinner. Shit." He started chanting curse words as he grabbed for his pants, head pounding more violently now that he was mostly vertical. "I am so late. They're gonna kill me."

Warren watched Clint's theatrics with an amused look. "This is why you fall asleep in your clothes. No awkward looking around the room.". Reaching for what he assumed to be Clint's shirt, Warren tossed it over. "Did you say dinner? I need food. I'm coming with. I left the Jag back at Harry's, so we can cab it there and pick it up. Where are we going?" He was impossibly chipper once the mention of food arose.

"Yeah, but if you fall asleep in jeans, it's just all kinds of uncomfortable and you wind up taking them off halfway through the night, anyway," Clint said, voice muffled as he pulled his shirt on over his head. "And my dads' place in Manhattan. Sunday dinner, pretty much every Sunday. Matt'll be there. You're more than welcome, they're always trying to get us to bring friends. Andre's stopped trying to cook, at least, so everything should be edible. C'mon, let's go, we're going to be so late, shit."

Warren could relate to that. Thankfully, his father was out of town so family dinner wasn't mandatory for him. "I drive fast, we'll be fine. I bet Matt will be thrilled to see me." Grabbing his jacket and his phone, he nodded to Clint. "I'll check us out, and get a cab." Warren walked.out, shaking his head. "The Marriott," he muttered. "Unbelievable."

They met the cab at the front a few minutes later and were on their way back to Harry's. From there, it was a break-neck ride into the city, then a slightly slower route through Manhattan until Clint indicated the parking garage for his fathers' building. After handing over the keycard he rarely ever used to get them in, Clint directed Warren to the space Steve and Andre reserved for visitors. He'd explained about their situation, sort of, on the ride over, but for the most part he'd been attempting to curb the vague nausea his hangover was giving him.

Opening the apartment door before Clint could, Matt leaned against it, more amused than bothered, "You both smell like a brewhouse and brothel," he informed them with a grin.

"To know what a brothel smells like implies you've been in one," Warren responded cheekily. "And is that your way of saying I don't pass muster?"

"I was born in Hell's Kitchen," Matt informed Warren not bothered, by the implication. "C'mon." He headed to their bedrooms, a shower was across the hall. "There's probably clothes in your room, Clint, but I dunno if anything'll fit Warren," he let them in now, "You missed Mass, too." Then again, Matt had been the alter boy as a kid, not Clint.

"Probably for the best, since I don't think God approved of half the things I did last night," Clint said, waving Warren into the apartment as he made his way toward his room. He called out an oblique greeting to his dads, then continued, not bothering to raise his voice because he knew Matt would hear him anyway, "I'll see about going on Wednesday with you, if you want, but you know repenting's not really my thing." He'd never do something he knew he'd regret later, that was just bad planning, so far as he was concerned.

"Yeah, yeah. Wednesday then," there was no point in arguing with Clint.

Turning with a wave, Clint walked down the hall toward his bedroom, grabbing a change of clothes before heading into the bathroom and closing the door.

Matt pulled out a shirt from his closet and tossed it at Warren, "That might fit you." His room was still decorated from college, not that he had lived in it for years now. An embossed picture of his dad was perched on his desk along with a respectable bookcase of braille and audio books and martial arts trophies.

Warren stripped off his shirt and replaced it with Matt's. It was snug, and the halter was definitely visible. He'd have to put a jacket over. "Aren't you going to ask what we did?"

"I assume each other," Matt replied, unbothered by it. "And our dads know we're mutants. If you need to tell them you are, it's fine," he added, hearing the shower kick on. "Then you can be comfortable."

"Wait -- what? No... what?" Warren wanted to make it very clear to Matt that he hadn't slept with Clint, but his brain was still a bit fuzzy. "Clint's not ditzy enough to be my type."

That was probably true. Clint was a lot of things, but he wasn't really ditzy. "He's blond though," Matt pointed out. "So long as you used protection, it's not really a big deal. I just know where you've both been. Protection. Every time."

"I was just cursed out at a party for sleeping with too many women. Women. I don't like men. Sexually. No brojobs. Boobs." Warren gave him a look followed by the words, "I don't only date blondes. It's just easier. That way I don't worry if the girl finds another girl's hair -- all the same color." He was rambling but only because he was so uncomfortable with this conversation.

Warren was not winning himself points right now, both for the comments about hair color and for how he was talking about guys. Crossing his arms, Matt was wholly unimpressed. "We're a modern family," he stated flatly. "Two happily married gay men, their adopted pansexual son, and the orphaned nephew they took in. You want to impress people? Don't pull the ignorant fratboy act."

"That's wonderful," Warren responded, rubbing a hand on his face. "I still didn't sleep with your brother."

Well. Warren completely missed the point. Thankfully, the shower turned off and a moment later Matt could hear Clint moving about. Warren might be his boss, but he was Clint's problem right now. He was the one who brought him over. "Don't care," he informed the other man.

"What don't we care about?" Clint asked, walking out of the bathroom across the hall as he pulled a shirt on over his head. "Because dinner actually smells amazing and that's definitely something I care about right now. I'm starving."

"Who you sleep with," Matt replied, "And we're having duck. It's this two day recipe from Emeril and if you make me listen to how to make it again, I will make you wear it!" He reached out and touched Clint's shoulder, "Hey, is that the sweater I liked? I thought you got rid of that thing?"

"No, just buried it at the back of my closet," Clint said. It was a nice sweater. "You can have it, if you want. But after food because I think I mentioned - starving. Also, wait, who'd I sleep with?"

"Me," Warren answered dryly, still trying to tug the shirt down. Being tall had it's disadvantages. "No matter how many times I tell Matt otherwise. It seems all he cares about is that protection was used because apparently we are as slutty as one other."

"Oh," Clint said, turning to head down the hallway. "Nah, your boss is a little too concerned about his sexual partners having boobs for my taste, bro. We covered that last night."

"He denies it so strongly though," Matt answered as if Warren wasn't even there and couldn't hear. "You gotta wonder if he's repressing." Yeah, he'd had this sort of conversation with his uncle's years ago. He had even experimented with a guy in college long enough to confirm that guys weren't his thing.

"Methinks," Clint said, looking back toward Warren. "Thou dost protesteth too much."

Warren threw his hands up. "Fine. I'm repressing. Whatever gets me dinner."