Warren & Clint | Saturday Evening

[x-hawkeye.livejournal.com]

Clint drags Warren and his beard out for some fun.


Checking his phone, Clint squinted at the date and did some quick calculations in his head before frowning and walking up the stairs to Warren's penthouse. It'd been weeks since things had gone down with the corporate espionage thing and Clint had decided it was long since time for the other man to get out - really out. He'd given Warren personal time and self-imposed exile time and brooding time, about one week each, but brooding time was over. Now was the time for action.

Walking down the hall to Warren's Central Park overlook, Clint knocked. He didn't actually wait for an answer before trying the handle and, finding it unlocked, opened it. Sticking his head inside, Clint looked around until he spotted the other mutant and then said, "Hey. Are you ready?"

Warren returned Clint's question with a glare. What was this, Grand Central Station? He kept having to approve people to the doorman, and it was getting annoying. Clearly, by NOT being at the mansion, he was trying to avoid everyone. Did he have to take out an ad?

"No. I'm not. Because we're not doing anything." He frowned. "Who gave you my address? If it was Matt, I'm firing him."

Clint gave Warren an amused look as he walked into the penthouse proper. "Pssh, please. You say that like you don't know I used to work for the world's shadiest government organization." He looked the other man over once, very obviously, then raised his eyebrows and asked, "Dude, what're you wearing? You can't go out like that. C'mon, put on jeans and a t-shirt. If you're gonna brood, you need to brood in style. And also someplace not here."

"Jeans are not acceptable brooding wardrobe," Warren protested, almost offended at the situation. He gestured to what he was wearing. "I do believe that I'm appropriately attired for the brooding gentleman." Slacks, sweater over a button up shirt, sleeves rolled up. All dark colours. Entirely inappropriate for summer, really. "And I'm not going anywhere with you. Matt still thinks we're sleeping together and I'm appalled he thinks I'd settle."

"Okay, first - please. If you and I were sleeping together, you'd be reevaluating the entirety of your sexual history and realizing none of your previous partners measured up. Let's just be real about that," Clint said, holding up one finger. He raised another as he continued, "Second, no. You're brooding like an asshole, not a gentleman. So go put on a pair of jeans and a white tee, we're going somewhere so I can introduce you to my kinds of people."

"Your people are dirty and poor," Warren grumbled. Or was that Gabriel? "Where are we going? Why? I have a schedule. This hour of the night is meditation and reflection." He narrowed his eyes at Clint. "You don't even do drugs. How much fun am I going to be having tonight?"

"My people are the kind of dirty your people wish they could be," Clint said, unbothered by the assertion. "We're going to a club, we're meeting my friends, you're going to get laid, and you're going to love every minute of it. We'll pour enough liquor down your throat to make sure you don't miss the heroine or cocaine or whatever too much. Seriously, go change."

Warren caught Clint's eye, and when the other man didn't lower his gaze, Warren nodded approvingly. "Fine. But I'm paying because I'm not subjecting myself to anything less than perfect." Turning on his heel, he headed into his room, and looked at the closet. And debated. Looked at his jeans and shook his head. None of his button ups looked right either.

And if he changed his clothes, he probably needed to do his hair. Pick out a different cologne. He wondered if he had time to shower.

Minutes crept by, two lengthening into five turning into ten. Checking his phone again, Clint saw they'd lost almost fifteen minutes. Rolling his eyes, he abandoned the living room and walked into Warren's room without so much as a knock. "Oh my God, you haven't even taken off your shirt." Moving to the dresser, he opened it and found a t-shirt, which it tossed at Warren's head. Then he walked to the closet and pulled out a random pair of distressed jeans and tossed them at the other man, too. "Put those on. Seriously, man, you're gonna be taking them off within a half hour of getting to the club, anyway."

Sighing heavily, he looked at the outfit. It was passable. Nothing meeting his standards, but if they were going to a place he never frequented, maybe it wasn't a bad thing. And if he wore that outfit, he wouldn't need to do much else... shrugging, Warren reached down for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off. "So do I get a hint on this field trip of ours?" He started to unbutton his dress shirt. "Because alcohol is wonderful, but it just doesn't do the job like a good tab of E." Letting that slide to the floor, he picked up the t-shirt. Thick enough that his harness wouldn't show too much. "Or maybe a few lines of coke."

"Someone'll probably have some E and if you happen to find somebody with something harder, be my guest, but I don't think you'll actually need it," Clint said, shrugging. His phone buzzed with a text message, which he checked. He grinned at what he saw on the screen but didn't share, choosing to meander toward the door as he replied. He got a reply almost immediately. "Also," he called over his shoulder. "It's August in New York City. We could go anywhere to get nitty and gritty and very, very dirty."

Shrugging into his jeans, Warren grabbed his leather jacket, wallet, and condoms from his nightstand. "Alright. Lead the way. I'll call a car service."‎

"Nope," Clint said, shaking his head as he continued texting. Parking in the city was a bitch but they didn't actually need to drive to get where they were going. "No cars. We're walking. You live in the middle of the fucking city, Worthington. We are taking advantage of that."

Warren physically shuddered. ‎"Look -- I am wearing jeans. I am less than perfectly coiffed. And now you're making me walk?"

Pausing in the living room again, Clint looked up from his phone and raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Warren. Because you're a big boy. Also, the bar we're hitting first is like three blocks that way." He tipped his head to the left. "So c'mon. Shoes. Let's roll."

Making a mental note to destroy Clint's family at a later date, Warren grabbed his shoes and glared. "Fine. But if I end up on a newspaper later on with a less than flattering picture, a pox on your family."

Clint just sent Worthington a vaguely unimpressed look before walking to the door and out into the hall. Fifteen minutes later they'd exited the building into the heat of a New York City summer evening and made their way to a dive bar several streets down from Central Park. Get a few drinks in Warren and he loosened up enough to keep from putting everyone off with his attitude - and then they headed for the club, the lights flashing and the music loud. He had no idea what Worthington took or didn't take, but Clint let himself get swallowed up by the crowd on the dance floor. He came up for air a few times to buy drinks and once when he let his dance partner drag him toward the bathrooms.

Hours later, the night taken over by that odd moment where, even in the city that never sleeps, everything sounds a little muffled, Clint had propped himself up against the wall in the booth they'd snagged at an IHOP, his legs pulled up so he could rest one arm across his knees as he ate plate after plate of hashbrowns and pancakes. The bottomless pot of coffee kept disappearing and reappearing. Life was good.

"I know I keep asking this," Warren began, pouring syrup on his second stack of pancakes, "but what is up with your family and pancakes?" He narrowed his eyes at Clint and put the syrup bottle down. The E had long ago worn off, but the random joint laced with PCP (probably not but everyone looked sketchy at that dive bar) was still going strong. "And a real answer, not a circus one."‎

Pause.

"And by real answer, I mean something Matt would say. He may have an unhealthy obsession with pancakes but he is eloquent and to the point."

"Pancakes are delicious," Clint said, his mouth half-full. "Why do we need a reason to love them? Also, don't discriminate against the circus, they're good people, most of the time. And they train big cats. Big cats that would totally eat you if their very nice trainers sicced them on you." Reaching for his coffee, he took a sip and then, pancake fork poised to stab another slice, finished, "What d'you have against pancakes?"

Rubbing his eyes, Warren meticulously started to cut his food. He hated starting and stopping when eating, so the only real answer to that was cutting all his food at once.

"Pancakes are fine but it seems every time I go out with Matt, there's pancakes. Or talk to pancakes." He speared a piece of his pancake and chewed methodically. ‎"Wait. About. Not to. Never to pancakes... although," he added excitedly, "I would go to a circus of food. Pancake tamers."

"You're ridiculous," Clint said. "Also, there's a 'I'll tame your pancake' joke in this conversation somewhere, but fucked if I can figure it out." He laughed, though, at the fact that even high as a kite and messing up words, Worthington still managed to neatly slice up his pancake. All similarly sized little squares of tastiness.

Warren carefully folded a napkin onto his lap and grinned. "Don't forget the obligatory 'I got your syrup right here'‎ and 'you'll be sticky for days' comments."

He took another mouthful of food and stared into the restaurant before suddenly focusing on the room.

Maybe he'd done some shrooms too because he was not where he thought he was. "What kind of place is this, Barton? Where did you bring me?" ‎

"International House of Pancakes," Clint answered. "It was this or The Waffle House. And IHOP has... I don't know, strawberries."

Warren watched with a slight panic as a couple of teenagers devoured the greasiest skillet he'd ever seen. ‎ "I don't think I had enough sex to burn off the calories in the air."

"You got at least three different phone numbers and I can tell you two of the people you got them from will still be awake right now if you want to go remedy that," Clint said, stealing a bite of Warren's pancakes. They were just so symmetrical.

Warren glared at Clint's hand, smacking it lightly on the top. "What is wrong with you? You don't eat another man's pancakes!" He pushed the plate towards Clint. "Take them. I feel a sudden wave of bulimia coming on."

"Don't be an ass," Clint said, picking up a piece of bacon and putting it on Warren's plate before he pushed it back toward him. "Eat your pancakes, idiot."

Choosing not to answer back, Warren instead watched Clint warily, as if at any moment the other man would steal his food again. "Hey, let's go bug Matt. The loser should be here."