Clint Barton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
xp_hawkeye) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
xp_logs2022-08-26 09:53 pm
xp_hawkeye) wrote in xp_logs2022-08-26 09:53 pm
Entry tags:
Gabriel & Clint | Meeting in the Unlikeliest of Places
Gabe and Clint meet up in a hotel bar. Discussion ensues.
"Hey don't hate me but stuck at work for another hour :( Raincheck???"
Swirling his martini in one hand, Gabriel stared at his phone, trying to decide if the extra question marks stood for real enthusiasm or if they were an overcompensating effort to fake real enthusiasm.
After a sip, he wasn't sure it mattered. Jake was a himbo who Gabriel could not have had less romantic interest in, and Gabriel had only agreed to drinks because after their third time at the other man's Midtown East apartment, as they were soaping up in the shower, Jake had pointed out they knew virtually nothing about each other.
To Gabriel, of course, this felt like a feature, not a bug. But Jake was sweet enough, and Gabriel wondered if there was more substance behind the muscles than he realized, plus Jake was lowering himself to his knees when he'd asked, and, well, Gabriel was who he was.
So they made a plan to meet at a fairly luxe hotel cocktail bar where Gabriel knew the bartender and could assure they wouldn't have to pay for all of their drinks. This was something that Gabriel appreciated more now that he was being stood up — or, he chastised himself, maybe not stood up, maybe tech workers really did have 4 p.m. meetings that turned into hours more work — and now that the only thing left in his martini glass were olives.
With one free hand, he waved down the bartender, and with the other, he tried to tap out a quick reply that conveyed how little Gabriel cared about this unexpected cancellation while also making it perfectly clear that he did, in fact, expect some kind of remuneration for his wasted time.
Clint loosened the tie around his neck, already shrugging out of the suit jacket he'd worn for the conference on applied plasma physics and its applications in various fields of research not related to space engineering. He half-rolled his eyes, as several people there knew of his connection to Doctor Jane Foster and her 'entanglement' with Thor. He'd shut down as many questions related to the pair of them than he'd answered about actual plasma physics and it grated, a bit.
Those people were supposed to be professional. Showed what he got for accepting a last-minute invite to speak, though. And it wasn't like he could actually share any of his most recent research, theories, or papers with any of them, anyway. Clint walked into the bar of the hotel where they'd gathered for the conference, tossed his jacket and tie over the back of one of the bar stool chairs, and started unbuttoning his cuffs so he could roll his sleeves up even as he motioned to get the bartender's attention.
Which was when he actually chose to take in the details of the person the bartender was currently serving and had a smile a little. "Well," he said, sliding onto the stool one away from Gabriel's. "I'm gonna take a wild guess and say you weren't here for the conference, which is lucky, because it sucked."
Gabriel looked up from typing, his eyebrows raised until he fully realized who had sat down next to him. "Oh! Hey." He relaxed a little, putting aside the half-completed message in his phone and watching as the female bartender filled his martini glass, then poured the dregs of the shaker into a second one. "Cheers," he said to her with a smile, then shifted on his stool to look at Clint. "No," he said after a second, "no conference. I don't think our interests merge that much."
"Probably not," Clint agreed, smiling at Gabriel before asking the bartender for a double of their top shelf vodka. He could either stop at the one drink and drive himself back to the mansion or he could just keep drinking until his frustration went away and grab a room at the hotel. As the bartender sat his shot glass in front of him, he asked, "So what're you doing here, if not hanging on every word of the most boring lecture I've ever given in literally my entire life?"
The thought of someone else cooking and dealing with dishes and making the bed was appealing, if only because he was tired and getting drunk enough to stop being annoyed while not getting a hangover felt like an excellent challenge.
"Good cocktails," Gabriel shrugged, because it wasn't entirely a lie, and he wasn't sure how much he wanted to expose his vulnerability just yet. "I don't love a hotel bar, but this is — I mean, it's not the Freehand, but they treat you right here. As good of a drink as you're going to get in this neighborhood, I guess." He swirled his drink with the olive skewer, then plopped it out of the glass and into the bonus drink he'd been given. "Plus I know the bartender. Helps."
Quirking a smile, Clint nodded before giving the bartender in question a jaunty salute. "That's always a plus," he said, then eyed his shot for a moment before picking up the glass and knocking it back. He exhaled the fumes and considered both of his options for the evening before motioning for another. "That vodka was smooth going down, not excessively harsh, and it burns just right." He waited a moment, then faced Gabriel properly and asked, "Do they serve food in this hotel bar as well? Because if not, I think I'm gonna have to get a room earlier than I planned. Unless I start drinking cocktails."
"That I don't know," Gabriel said after a healthy swig of the martini dregs. The corners of his mouth had turned up a little watching Clint throw back a shot; he wasn't sure why. "Didn't plan on eating until after." Oh, that first martini had hit. "I mean, you know, later. And I don't eat at hotels, as a rule, if I can help it." This was a new rule, one that came after he'd actually started traveling. But it had served him well. "I mean, definitely not in New York," he added, so he seemed like less of a douche. "There's, like, great food everywhere. You're not gonna find it here."
"I mean, you're not wrong," Clint said, nodding as he toyed with his second shot glass. "But there's some appeal to kicking back in a room you don't have to worry about messing up with room service and a bottle of something at least 60 proof because you don't have to get up the next morning." He returned that small quirk of lips, then picked up the shot and knocked that back, too. "Unless, of course, you can recommend something close enough to walk and they also serve good vodka."
"Ok, well first, I don't believe in the idea of good and bad vodka," Gabriel said with a shrug. "That is, like, all marketing." He withdrew the olive skewer and popped one in his mouth. "And second, I do know a good restaurant or two, but nothing in walking distance, because I would not be caught dead in this neighborhood except for, you know," he waved a hand, "now."
"Picky, picky," Clint said, smiling widely enough his eyes crinkled at the corner. "But there is such a thing as bad vodka and it tastes like turpentine, don't ask me how I know. It's not an experience I want to relive, not even in memory." Pulling his phone from his pocket, "If you're interested in food, I could get us an Uber or Lyft. Whichever one's not being awful to their employees this month for PR's sake. Cause I'll admit, I'm starving and I plan on having another shot before leaving, whether it's for a restaurant or upstairs."
"Oh my god, put your phone away, you bourgie suburbanite," Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Get another shot. And have some of this," he nudged at his martini. "And we are going to take the subway to a Ukrainian spot I know that the TikTokkers haven't totally discovered and that has good, cheap vodka, which is all good so long as you don't really ask where it came from."
Clint's smile turned into something a little bit softer around the edges, but he did go ahead and slide his phone back into his pocket. Then he reached for the martini even as the ever present bartender poured him a third double. "Sure, sure," he said, shooting the vodka and letting it settle for a moment before reaching for the martini. "I'm the boogie one but you're the one dodging TikTokkers. Unrelated: Fuck yeah, Ukrainian. I haven't had good deruny in what feels like ten million years and if they have salo, too, I'll die a happy man."
Gabriel playfully slapped his hand away from the drink. He picked up the martini glass and, with the practiced movements of an expert drinker, poured half of it in the extra glass, which he handed to Clint.
Laughing outright, Clint took the drink and sipped. "Thanks for this," he said, a little more serious than his expression might've led most people to believe.
Gabriel noted the tone shift — he was trained to try and notice such things these days — and so he studied Clint for a minute. Clint in a hotel bar, looking unusually put together, even with parts of a suit discarded. "For... the free alcohol? You're welcome, I guess." He took a sip of his own drink. "Once a bartender, always a bartender."
Letting his expression morph this time, Clint studied Gabriel for a long moment before saying, "I think we both know that's not all that you are or even all that you've ever been," with a seriousness that he rarely showed. "You're talented enough that Tasha speaks highly of you after a mission. You went after your GED and you got it. Whatever was or is still trying to hold you back, it's bullshit and you'll get past that the same way you have everything else."
Gabriel, taken aback, was quiet, his head spinning a bit. "Okay, serious," he said after he regained the ability to speak. He lifted his martini glass, still unable to look Clint in the face. His phone buzzed, and he tapped it without looking at the screen, then took a very healthy sip. The alcohol burned as it went down his throat. "Where the hell did that come from?"
Shrugging, Clint kept one eye on the other man and one on his martini as he took another sip. Literally. Sometimes it was nice, having eyes that could move independently of one another. "Callin' it like I see it," he said, speaking mostly into the martini glass before he finished off the drink. Turning in the barstool so he could lean back and also now focus exclusively on Gabriel, Clint continued, "Besides, what's that thing people are always saying? Know your worth."
“I do,” Gabriel said, not intending to sound quite as defensive as he came across. It wasn’t like he was feeling small these days. That definitely wasn’t the concern that had been preoccupying. He still wasn’t looking at Clint. “I just meant I like to ply people with booze.” He drained the rest of the martini.
"Okay," Clint said, nodding along easily enough. "So how come you won't engage eye contact? Is Ukrainian off the table? Did I overstep somewhere?"
“I don’t take compliments well,” Gabriel said, turning to look at Clint. It wasn’t entirely false. “Or, like — not earnest ones. Not ones like that.” He didn’t get a lot of compliments like that. And he’d been feeling, on some level, a bit shit since everything that happened with Costa or Olivier or whoever he was.
“It was nice,” he added quickly, his face a little hot. “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
"Would me telling you that your ass looks amazing in those slacks and I wouldn't mind going to town on it put you on more familiar ground? Help you regain your footing? Because, while true, I generally try not to be that crass or like, sleazy? But I mean. Whatever works. So long as Ukrainian's still an option after we're finished with this conversation," Clint said, eyebrows tilted at a very serious angle even though the corners of his eyes were crinkled a little.
Oops.
There went those pesky double vodkas on his very empty stomach. Clint thought about that for a moment, but he hadn't lied a bit and while brutal honesty wasn't for everyone, sometimes it was better than coming at a situation sideways. Maybe. Probably. He wasn't sure about this situation in particular very specifically but. There were no rewind buttons in life.
"Oh, I—" Gabriel stammered, surprised at how quickly this had escalated. "I—" He was not drunk enough for this. He wasn't really drunk at all, actually; just a little loosened up. And he'd been flirted with like this while he was sober, back in his bartending days, but there wasn't usually this much baggage. Well, not baggage, exactly. But... there was Clint in a suit, saying these things that — well.
"Well." He picked up his martini glass, forgetting he'd emptied it. "That is more familiar ground," he said. "And you're drunk."
Clint was never really sure whether he loved his ability to read microexpressions or hated it, especially at times like this when things could be so clean, cut, and dry but for some reason they weren't. "It'd take a lot more than what I've had in the last half hour to get me drunk enough to say things I don't mean. And you've yet to tell me whether Ukrainian's out of the question now or not. I need Ukrainian now. Gabriel Cohuelo, you're my only hope."
Gabriel couldn't help but laugh. Charming in any universe, apparently. "Oh, we're going to feed you." He grabbed his wallet and threw down a wad of cash on the bar — more than he knew the bartender would be expecting, because he didn't know that he'd gotten an honest job. "You're drunk, and you complimented my ass. I've done more for men for far less."
Clint put a few twenties down as well, standing from his stool without even the smallest wobble. He grabbed his tie and his suit jacket, looping the former around his neck to hang loosely while he draped the jacket over his arm. "Lead the way, just don't go too fast. I wouldn't be able to keep up and then you'd have a sad Barton on your hands the next time I saw you."
"Me? Go too fast?" Gabriel scoffed. "I would never."
"Liar, liar," Clint sing-songed. "Hot pants on fire."
"Oh my god," Gabriel rolled his eyes, as he led Clint out of the bar and into the hotel lobby. He snagged a matchbook off the side of the bar and nodded to the bartender as they left. "Of the two of us, you're the one being fast tonight, my guy."
"Your guy, huh?" Clint said, waggling his eyebrows a bit as the evening air hit him in the face. The difference between the AC and the outside made him glad he'd shed his jacket. "Happy to be of service. However you want."
"Yeah?" Gabriel's face was purposefully expressionless, because he knew the extent of Clint's capabilities. This, he knew, was a crucial juncture — an inflection point, a big decision that had to be made.
"Okay." In a split-second, he'd withdrawn a cigarette and lit it with a match. "I'll tell you what, Barton." He took a drag. "I want you to go get a room upstairs. Order in." He flicked ash on the sidewalk, ignoring the glare of a tourist pausing to take photos of the MetLife Building. "We can save dinner out for another night."
Clint chuckled to himself, having seen the mask fall into place. "Y'know. It feels like a good night to go exploring solo. And I really do want some Ukrainian now. So how about I find it on my own and I can tell you all about my inevitable adventure whenever I see you next?"
"Yes," Gabriel said, trying not to betray his sense of relief. "I think tonight we happen to be on different drinking journeys." He didn't intentionally emphasize the 'tonight,' but that's how it came out. "Hold on." He held the cigarette in his mouth and pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping off a text to Clint. "There. I sent you the address." He paused, considering. "But take the train. Don't take a fucking Uber. Car culture is poison."
"Well now you've gone and spoiled the exploration part of my evening," Clint said, half-laughing even as he checked his phone when it buzzed in his pocket. "But thanks." He waggled his phone just a little, the light from the screen briefly reflecting off Gabriel's eyes before Clint turned it around to check the address. "Pfft. I'm walking this." “It’s New York,” Gabriel pointed out, hating how streetwise he was sounding. But he missed the city, its rhythms and, especially lately, its constant distractions. “There’s plenty of adventure you can find even when you know when you’re going.”
His own phone buzzed, and he glanced at the text. Jake, asking to meet at his apartment. Wonderful. He needed to fuck someone — someone else — immediately. “You’d be surprised what kind of trouble you can run into.” He gave Clint a once-over. “Well, you probably wouldn’t.”
Smirking, Clint waggled his eyebrows, then actually allowed his expression to sober. He'd caught some of that text despite the angle. "Don't do that," he said, nodding his chin toward the phone. "He didn't have the time for you before, don't give him the time now. He doesn't deserve it or you."
Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He plucked the cigarette out from between his lips. “But it’s really not that deep.”
Exhaling slowly through his nose, Clint nodded and started walking backward down the street. "Well, have a good time, whatever you decide, friend." He swung around, neatly missing a street light and a couple of canoodling teenagers. "Catch ya later!"
Gabriel said nothing, taking a long drag, then another as he watched Clint go. He was not entirely sure what had just happened. But it felt like something weighty, some shift of the universe, even if he couldn't pinpoint it. And Clint had — well, they both had, and that was... well, that was... something he was unable to place or name. "Yeah, Barton," he murmured, ignoring another buzz of his phone. "I'll be seeing ya."
"Hey don't hate me but stuck at work for another hour :( Raincheck???"
Swirling his martini in one hand, Gabriel stared at his phone, trying to decide if the extra question marks stood for real enthusiasm or if they were an overcompensating effort to fake real enthusiasm.
After a sip, he wasn't sure it mattered. Jake was a himbo who Gabriel could not have had less romantic interest in, and Gabriel had only agreed to drinks because after their third time at the other man's Midtown East apartment, as they were soaping up in the shower, Jake had pointed out they knew virtually nothing about each other.
To Gabriel, of course, this felt like a feature, not a bug. But Jake was sweet enough, and Gabriel wondered if there was more substance behind the muscles than he realized, plus Jake was lowering himself to his knees when he'd asked, and, well, Gabriel was who he was.
So they made a plan to meet at a fairly luxe hotel cocktail bar where Gabriel knew the bartender and could assure they wouldn't have to pay for all of their drinks. This was something that Gabriel appreciated more now that he was being stood up — or, he chastised himself, maybe not stood up, maybe tech workers really did have 4 p.m. meetings that turned into hours more work — and now that the only thing left in his martini glass were olives.
With one free hand, he waved down the bartender, and with the other, he tried to tap out a quick reply that conveyed how little Gabriel cared about this unexpected cancellation while also making it perfectly clear that he did, in fact, expect some kind of remuneration for his wasted time.
Clint loosened the tie around his neck, already shrugging out of the suit jacket he'd worn for the conference on applied plasma physics and its applications in various fields of research not related to space engineering. He half-rolled his eyes, as several people there knew of his connection to Doctor Jane Foster and her 'entanglement' with Thor. He'd shut down as many questions related to the pair of them than he'd answered about actual plasma physics and it grated, a bit.
Those people were supposed to be professional. Showed what he got for accepting a last-minute invite to speak, though. And it wasn't like he could actually share any of his most recent research, theories, or papers with any of them, anyway. Clint walked into the bar of the hotel where they'd gathered for the conference, tossed his jacket and tie over the back of one of the bar stool chairs, and started unbuttoning his cuffs so he could roll his sleeves up even as he motioned to get the bartender's attention.
Which was when he actually chose to take in the details of the person the bartender was currently serving and had a smile a little. "Well," he said, sliding onto the stool one away from Gabriel's. "I'm gonna take a wild guess and say you weren't here for the conference, which is lucky, because it sucked."
Gabriel looked up from typing, his eyebrows raised until he fully realized who had sat down next to him. "Oh! Hey." He relaxed a little, putting aside the half-completed message in his phone and watching as the female bartender filled his martini glass, then poured the dregs of the shaker into a second one. "Cheers," he said to her with a smile, then shifted on his stool to look at Clint. "No," he said after a second, "no conference. I don't think our interests merge that much."
"Probably not," Clint agreed, smiling at Gabriel before asking the bartender for a double of their top shelf vodka. He could either stop at the one drink and drive himself back to the mansion or he could just keep drinking until his frustration went away and grab a room at the hotel. As the bartender sat his shot glass in front of him, he asked, "So what're you doing here, if not hanging on every word of the most boring lecture I've ever given in literally my entire life?"
The thought of someone else cooking and dealing with dishes and making the bed was appealing, if only because he was tired and getting drunk enough to stop being annoyed while not getting a hangover felt like an excellent challenge.
"Good cocktails," Gabriel shrugged, because it wasn't entirely a lie, and he wasn't sure how much he wanted to expose his vulnerability just yet. "I don't love a hotel bar, but this is — I mean, it's not the Freehand, but they treat you right here. As good of a drink as you're going to get in this neighborhood, I guess." He swirled his drink with the olive skewer, then plopped it out of the glass and into the bonus drink he'd been given. "Plus I know the bartender. Helps."
Quirking a smile, Clint nodded before giving the bartender in question a jaunty salute. "That's always a plus," he said, then eyed his shot for a moment before picking up the glass and knocking it back. He exhaled the fumes and considered both of his options for the evening before motioning for another. "That vodka was smooth going down, not excessively harsh, and it burns just right." He waited a moment, then faced Gabriel properly and asked, "Do they serve food in this hotel bar as well? Because if not, I think I'm gonna have to get a room earlier than I planned. Unless I start drinking cocktails."
"That I don't know," Gabriel said after a healthy swig of the martini dregs. The corners of his mouth had turned up a little watching Clint throw back a shot; he wasn't sure why. "Didn't plan on eating until after." Oh, that first martini had hit. "I mean, you know, later. And I don't eat at hotels, as a rule, if I can help it." This was a new rule, one that came after he'd actually started traveling. But it had served him well. "I mean, definitely not in New York," he added, so he seemed like less of a douche. "There's, like, great food everywhere. You're not gonna find it here."
"I mean, you're not wrong," Clint said, nodding as he toyed with his second shot glass. "But there's some appeal to kicking back in a room you don't have to worry about messing up with room service and a bottle of something at least 60 proof because you don't have to get up the next morning." He returned that small quirk of lips, then picked up the shot and knocked that back, too. "Unless, of course, you can recommend something close enough to walk and they also serve good vodka."
"Ok, well first, I don't believe in the idea of good and bad vodka," Gabriel said with a shrug. "That is, like, all marketing." He withdrew the olive skewer and popped one in his mouth. "And second, I do know a good restaurant or two, but nothing in walking distance, because I would not be caught dead in this neighborhood except for, you know," he waved a hand, "now."
"Picky, picky," Clint said, smiling widely enough his eyes crinkled at the corner. "But there is such a thing as bad vodka and it tastes like turpentine, don't ask me how I know. It's not an experience I want to relive, not even in memory." Pulling his phone from his pocket, "If you're interested in food, I could get us an Uber or Lyft. Whichever one's not being awful to their employees this month for PR's sake. Cause I'll admit, I'm starving and I plan on having another shot before leaving, whether it's for a restaurant or upstairs."
"Oh my god, put your phone away, you bourgie suburbanite," Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Get another shot. And have some of this," he nudged at his martini. "And we are going to take the subway to a Ukrainian spot I know that the TikTokkers haven't totally discovered and that has good, cheap vodka, which is all good so long as you don't really ask where it came from."
Clint's smile turned into something a little bit softer around the edges, but he did go ahead and slide his phone back into his pocket. Then he reached for the martini even as the ever present bartender poured him a third double. "Sure, sure," he said, shooting the vodka and letting it settle for a moment before reaching for the martini. "I'm the boogie one but you're the one dodging TikTokkers. Unrelated: Fuck yeah, Ukrainian. I haven't had good deruny in what feels like ten million years and if they have salo, too, I'll die a happy man."
Gabriel playfully slapped his hand away from the drink. He picked up the martini glass and, with the practiced movements of an expert drinker, poured half of it in the extra glass, which he handed to Clint.
Laughing outright, Clint took the drink and sipped. "Thanks for this," he said, a little more serious than his expression might've led most people to believe.
Gabriel noted the tone shift — he was trained to try and notice such things these days — and so he studied Clint for a minute. Clint in a hotel bar, looking unusually put together, even with parts of a suit discarded. "For... the free alcohol? You're welcome, I guess." He took a sip of his own drink. "Once a bartender, always a bartender."
Letting his expression morph this time, Clint studied Gabriel for a long moment before saying, "I think we both know that's not all that you are or even all that you've ever been," with a seriousness that he rarely showed. "You're talented enough that Tasha speaks highly of you after a mission. You went after your GED and you got it. Whatever was or is still trying to hold you back, it's bullshit and you'll get past that the same way you have everything else."
Gabriel, taken aback, was quiet, his head spinning a bit. "Okay, serious," he said after he regained the ability to speak. He lifted his martini glass, still unable to look Clint in the face. His phone buzzed, and he tapped it without looking at the screen, then took a very healthy sip. The alcohol burned as it went down his throat. "Where the hell did that come from?"
Shrugging, Clint kept one eye on the other man and one on his martini as he took another sip. Literally. Sometimes it was nice, having eyes that could move independently of one another. "Callin' it like I see it," he said, speaking mostly into the martini glass before he finished off the drink. Turning in the barstool so he could lean back and also now focus exclusively on Gabriel, Clint continued, "Besides, what's that thing people are always saying? Know your worth."
“I do,” Gabriel said, not intending to sound quite as defensive as he came across. It wasn’t like he was feeling small these days. That definitely wasn’t the concern that had been preoccupying. He still wasn’t looking at Clint. “I just meant I like to ply people with booze.” He drained the rest of the martini.
"Okay," Clint said, nodding along easily enough. "So how come you won't engage eye contact? Is Ukrainian off the table? Did I overstep somewhere?"
“I don’t take compliments well,” Gabriel said, turning to look at Clint. It wasn’t entirely false. “Or, like — not earnest ones. Not ones like that.” He didn’t get a lot of compliments like that. And he’d been feeling, on some level, a bit shit since everything that happened with Costa or Olivier or whoever he was.
“It was nice,” he added quickly, his face a little hot. “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
"Would me telling you that your ass looks amazing in those slacks and I wouldn't mind going to town on it put you on more familiar ground? Help you regain your footing? Because, while true, I generally try not to be that crass or like, sleazy? But I mean. Whatever works. So long as Ukrainian's still an option after we're finished with this conversation," Clint said, eyebrows tilted at a very serious angle even though the corners of his eyes were crinkled a little.
Oops.
There went those pesky double vodkas on his very empty stomach. Clint thought about that for a moment, but he hadn't lied a bit and while brutal honesty wasn't for everyone, sometimes it was better than coming at a situation sideways. Maybe. Probably. He wasn't sure about this situation in particular very specifically but. There were no rewind buttons in life.
"Oh, I—" Gabriel stammered, surprised at how quickly this had escalated. "I—" He was not drunk enough for this. He wasn't really drunk at all, actually; just a little loosened up. And he'd been flirted with like this while he was sober, back in his bartending days, but there wasn't usually this much baggage. Well, not baggage, exactly. But... there was Clint in a suit, saying these things that — well.
"Well." He picked up his martini glass, forgetting he'd emptied it. "That is more familiar ground," he said. "And you're drunk."
Clint was never really sure whether he loved his ability to read microexpressions or hated it, especially at times like this when things could be so clean, cut, and dry but for some reason they weren't. "It'd take a lot more than what I've had in the last half hour to get me drunk enough to say things I don't mean. And you've yet to tell me whether Ukrainian's out of the question now or not. I need Ukrainian now. Gabriel Cohuelo, you're my only hope."
Gabriel couldn't help but laugh. Charming in any universe, apparently. "Oh, we're going to feed you." He grabbed his wallet and threw down a wad of cash on the bar — more than he knew the bartender would be expecting, because he didn't know that he'd gotten an honest job. "You're drunk, and you complimented my ass. I've done more for men for far less."
Clint put a few twenties down as well, standing from his stool without even the smallest wobble. He grabbed his tie and his suit jacket, looping the former around his neck to hang loosely while he draped the jacket over his arm. "Lead the way, just don't go too fast. I wouldn't be able to keep up and then you'd have a sad Barton on your hands the next time I saw you."
"Me? Go too fast?" Gabriel scoffed. "I would never."
"Liar, liar," Clint sing-songed. "Hot pants on fire."
"Oh my god," Gabriel rolled his eyes, as he led Clint out of the bar and into the hotel lobby. He snagged a matchbook off the side of the bar and nodded to the bartender as they left. "Of the two of us, you're the one being fast tonight, my guy."
"Your guy, huh?" Clint said, waggling his eyebrows a bit as the evening air hit him in the face. The difference between the AC and the outside made him glad he'd shed his jacket. "Happy to be of service. However you want."
"Yeah?" Gabriel's face was purposefully expressionless, because he knew the extent of Clint's capabilities. This, he knew, was a crucial juncture — an inflection point, a big decision that had to be made.
"Okay." In a split-second, he'd withdrawn a cigarette and lit it with a match. "I'll tell you what, Barton." He took a drag. "I want you to go get a room upstairs. Order in." He flicked ash on the sidewalk, ignoring the glare of a tourist pausing to take photos of the MetLife Building. "We can save dinner out for another night."
Clint chuckled to himself, having seen the mask fall into place. "Y'know. It feels like a good night to go exploring solo. And I really do want some Ukrainian now. So how about I find it on my own and I can tell you all about my inevitable adventure whenever I see you next?"
"Yes," Gabriel said, trying not to betray his sense of relief. "I think tonight we happen to be on different drinking journeys." He didn't intentionally emphasize the 'tonight,' but that's how it came out. "Hold on." He held the cigarette in his mouth and pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping off a text to Clint. "There. I sent you the address." He paused, considering. "But take the train. Don't take a fucking Uber. Car culture is poison."
"Well now you've gone and spoiled the exploration part of my evening," Clint said, half-laughing even as he checked his phone when it buzzed in his pocket. "But thanks." He waggled his phone just a little, the light from the screen briefly reflecting off Gabriel's eyes before Clint turned it around to check the address. "Pfft. I'm walking this." “It’s New York,” Gabriel pointed out, hating how streetwise he was sounding. But he missed the city, its rhythms and, especially lately, its constant distractions. “There’s plenty of adventure you can find even when you know when you’re going.”
His own phone buzzed, and he glanced at the text. Jake, asking to meet at his apartment. Wonderful. He needed to fuck someone — someone else — immediately. “You’d be surprised what kind of trouble you can run into.” He gave Clint a once-over. “Well, you probably wouldn’t.”
Smirking, Clint waggled his eyebrows, then actually allowed his expression to sober. He'd caught some of that text despite the angle. "Don't do that," he said, nodding his chin toward the phone. "He didn't have the time for you before, don't give him the time now. He doesn't deserve it or you."
Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He plucked the cigarette out from between his lips. “But it’s really not that deep.”
Exhaling slowly through his nose, Clint nodded and started walking backward down the street. "Well, have a good time, whatever you decide, friend." He swung around, neatly missing a street light and a couple of canoodling teenagers. "Catch ya later!"
Gabriel said nothing, taking a long drag, then another as he watched Clint go. He was not entirely sure what had just happened. But it felt like something weighty, some shift of the universe, even if he couldn't pinpoint it. And Clint had — well, they both had, and that was... well, that was... something he was unable to place or name. "Yeah, Barton," he murmured, ignoring another buzz of his phone. "I'll be seeing ya."
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