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_logs2023-12-06 05:55 pm
xp_hawkeye) wrote in xp_logs2023-12-06 05:55 pm
Entry tags:
Sam & Clint | That First Dinner Date
Clint makes it to Sam's guest suite in time for dinner post mission and gifts are exchanged. (Backdated.)
After they'd arrived back at the mansion safely and only a little worse for wear, Clint had headed straight to the suite he shared with Tasha and showered off the humidity sweat along with the panic sweat. He'd left the Blackbird apologizing to Kyle for the stench he'd undoubtedly brought aboard, then promptly fallen asleep in his seat and all the sweat had dried. He'd felt like a freaking glazed doughnut by the time they deplaned -- but now he was clean.
So fresh and so clean, clean, he thought to himself, then snorted softly. So, dressed in a nice henley and his good pair of jeans, Clint headed over to Sam's suite. He wasn't actually sure who'd wound up rooming with him or if he had the suite to himself for the time being. Depending on how things went, he should probably figure that out in a not-creepy way.
Reaching the door, Clint rapped his knuckles against the hardwood a couple times, then tucked his hands in his back pockets and made himself be still. He was a sniper, he didn't fidget.
Sam had triple checked the Rube Goldberg machine he'd set up in his room and used the time Clint was in the shower to make dinner and bring it back to his room. When he heard the knock at his door he jumped up, running a hand through his hair before opening the door, hoping he didn't look as frazzled as he felt. "Clint! Welcome back! Happy birthday!"
Grinning, Clint barely managed to stop himself from ducking his head as he said, "Hey, thanks. Man, whatever you made smells great." Never let it be said that he in any way disproved the whole 'the way to a man's heart' saying. Because he definitely didn't, especially not when he was pretty much only capable of breakfast foods and carnie mash that he wouldn't serve to anyone but Tasha cause she liked it for some reason. "I really appreciate the invite." God, what was wrong with him?
Sam blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “‘S just ham steaks and vegetables, ain’t nothin’ fancy. Least I could do for your birthday, besides the real present is the Rube Goldberg machine.”
"You actually made one?" Clint asked, eyebrows rising in delighted surprise. "Nobody else did. And dinner's not coming from a box, a bag, or the freezer, so it's gonna be amazing," he continued, smiling as he stepped inside. "Looks like you've got the suite to yourself. I share with Tasha, but she's on mission a lot these days."
"Said I would, didn't I?" Sam said, a smile growing on his face. "It's uh, actually helpful with supper too, it'll pour your drink. Ain't nothin' too complicated, but nothin' a lil' redneck engineering couldn't make do.... yeah it's still odd livin' by myself- but the quiet's kinda nice."
"I'll bet -- gotta be nice, not being over a bar if you wanna get an early night," Clint said, pulling his hands from his back pockets. When he did, he brought out a little baggie he'd tucked in there so he wouldn't forget it, offering it to Sam. "Found these in some oysters while we were down in the Keys today. Oysters were good, but I ah. I dunno. Thought I'd give you the pearls." There were only three of them and they'd all come out of the same oyster when he'd cracked it open while they waited for Alani to figure out which way they should go to find the car rental place. A little misshapen, Clint couldn't actually tell what color they were, but they'd had a nice shine in the sunlight.
Sam’s mouth fell open a bit and he forced himself to close it, blushing a dark shade of red. “You got me pearls? Clint- they’re beautiful….you didn’t have to bring me a present while I’m tryin’ to give you your birthday present.”
The urge to open his mouth and stumble through some kind of awkward 'you're welcome' was strong in Clint, but he valiantly resisted. "Yeah, but I wanted to. I just figured..." How to end that sentence? "I dunno what kinda wine you like and I didn't have time to like, get flowers or anything. Dunno if you even like those. Anyway, my dads drilled 'bring something for the host' into my head as soon as they got me. And it's not every day you find pearls in oysters."
"Well it was very sweet of you." Sam said, biting his lip and blushing. "So uh, dinner? And you can test out the machine?"
"Yeah, that'd be great," Clint said, glad to be shifting topics. He did manage to say, "And you're welcome. And also thanks. For cooking and everything." So much for that not being awkward. "Where's the RGM?"
"Over here, set up by the table." Sam said, a bit more confident now that the focus was on his piece of redneck engineering. "It'll pour you a drink to go with dinner. A Kentucky bourbon my dad's friend Lewis got me when I turned twenty-one- thought it would go well with the ham."
Sam walked through to the bedroom and Clint followed, reminding himself that despite the flirting they'd been doing, he'd definitely gotten 'inexperienced with dudes' vibes off the other man and that his usual methods of handling things like getting exactly what he wanted for his birthday probably wouldn't be appreciated. And also, it'd be an asshole move to start things up so dinner got cold when Sam'd obviously put real effort into it. "This looks awesome!" He said, sitting on his heels so he could check out all the angles and mechanisms in the machine. "And I can't say I'm all that familiar with Kentucky bourbon, but I intend to enjoy this. You wanna start it?"
Sam grinned, then took a deep steadying breath before pulling on a roll of tape hanging from a string which got the machine started. The machine first moved a large piece of ice into a glass before tilting the bottle of bourbon to pour Clint a glass. At the end, Sam reached over to right the bottle so it wouldn't spill. "Ta-da!"
Reaching for the glass, Clint stood up and took a sip. It was more flavorful than his usual liquor - vodka - and he found himself trying to place what he was tasting. 'Sweet' was sorta right, but not all of it. Lacking the knowledge and vocabulary to discuss it in a way that'd do it justice, Clint swallowed and felt it burn hot all the way down, warming up his belly by the time it settled there. "I like it," said grinning. "It's better than the... two? Other bourbons I've ever tasted?"
Sam laughed softly. "Our water's different back home, makes it better. Supposedly that's why we've got the best horses too? I ain't never paid attention to racing, pert near only channel we got back home only showed wrestlin'." He shrugged. "Well.... supper's ready if you're hungry."
"Sure am," Clint said, following Sam even as he took another sip of his bourbon. "Oysters only go so far," he continued, eyeing the spread on the table and smiling appreciatively. "This all looks a lot better than the fast food we had while waiting on the Blackbird."
Sam blushed, “‘s hardly anything- next time I cook for ya it’ll be better than what I’d manage to throw together after baseball practice and before a shift at the mine…… assumin’ you want there to be a next time.”
"Yeah," Clint said, already digging in. "There's gonna be a next time." He grinned at Sam from across the table. "And I'd offer to cook for you, but basically all I can make is breakfast." He paused to consider that. "In pans my brother, Matt, though it'd be funny to get me when I told him I was pansexual. So all the pans... are of body parts. And kinda dirty. But they work fine and I've never felt the need to buy myself more. So uh. Sorry in advance? If I ever get to make you breakfast?"
Sam smiled softly across the table but nearly choked on a laugh when Clint described the pans his brother had gotten for him. "I use cast iron for just about everythin' but this was made in the oven so easy clean-up.....But uh....I also wouldn't mind you makin' me breakfast sometime."
He might be inexperienced, but he knew how to drop a hint.
Grinning, Clint nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, slow and warm like honey. "Yeah, me too?"
After they'd arrived back at the mansion safely and only a little worse for wear, Clint had headed straight to the suite he shared with Tasha and showered off the humidity sweat along with the panic sweat. He'd left the Blackbird apologizing to Kyle for the stench he'd undoubtedly brought aboard, then promptly fallen asleep in his seat and all the sweat had dried. He'd felt like a freaking glazed doughnut by the time they deplaned -- but now he was clean.
So fresh and so clean, clean, he thought to himself, then snorted softly. So, dressed in a nice henley and his good pair of jeans, Clint headed over to Sam's suite. He wasn't actually sure who'd wound up rooming with him or if he had the suite to himself for the time being. Depending on how things went, he should probably figure that out in a not-creepy way.
Reaching the door, Clint rapped his knuckles against the hardwood a couple times, then tucked his hands in his back pockets and made himself be still. He was a sniper, he didn't fidget.
Sam had triple checked the Rube Goldberg machine he'd set up in his room and used the time Clint was in the shower to make dinner and bring it back to his room. When he heard the knock at his door he jumped up, running a hand through his hair before opening the door, hoping he didn't look as frazzled as he felt. "Clint! Welcome back! Happy birthday!"
Grinning, Clint barely managed to stop himself from ducking his head as he said, "Hey, thanks. Man, whatever you made smells great." Never let it be said that he in any way disproved the whole 'the way to a man's heart' saying. Because he definitely didn't, especially not when he was pretty much only capable of breakfast foods and carnie mash that he wouldn't serve to anyone but Tasha cause she liked it for some reason. "I really appreciate the invite." God, what was wrong with him?
Sam blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “‘S just ham steaks and vegetables, ain’t nothin’ fancy. Least I could do for your birthday, besides the real present is the Rube Goldberg machine.”
"You actually made one?" Clint asked, eyebrows rising in delighted surprise. "Nobody else did. And dinner's not coming from a box, a bag, or the freezer, so it's gonna be amazing," he continued, smiling as he stepped inside. "Looks like you've got the suite to yourself. I share with Tasha, but she's on mission a lot these days."
"Said I would, didn't I?" Sam said, a smile growing on his face. "It's uh, actually helpful with supper too, it'll pour your drink. Ain't nothin' too complicated, but nothin' a lil' redneck engineering couldn't make do.... yeah it's still odd livin' by myself- but the quiet's kinda nice."
"I'll bet -- gotta be nice, not being over a bar if you wanna get an early night," Clint said, pulling his hands from his back pockets. When he did, he brought out a little baggie he'd tucked in there so he wouldn't forget it, offering it to Sam. "Found these in some oysters while we were down in the Keys today. Oysters were good, but I ah. I dunno. Thought I'd give you the pearls." There were only three of them and they'd all come out of the same oyster when he'd cracked it open while they waited for Alani to figure out which way they should go to find the car rental place. A little misshapen, Clint couldn't actually tell what color they were, but they'd had a nice shine in the sunlight.
Sam’s mouth fell open a bit and he forced himself to close it, blushing a dark shade of red. “You got me pearls? Clint- they’re beautiful….you didn’t have to bring me a present while I’m tryin’ to give you your birthday present.”
The urge to open his mouth and stumble through some kind of awkward 'you're welcome' was strong in Clint, but he valiantly resisted. "Yeah, but I wanted to. I just figured..." How to end that sentence? "I dunno what kinda wine you like and I didn't have time to like, get flowers or anything. Dunno if you even like those. Anyway, my dads drilled 'bring something for the host' into my head as soon as they got me. And it's not every day you find pearls in oysters."
"Well it was very sweet of you." Sam said, biting his lip and blushing. "So uh, dinner? And you can test out the machine?"
"Yeah, that'd be great," Clint said, glad to be shifting topics. He did manage to say, "And you're welcome. And also thanks. For cooking and everything." So much for that not being awkward. "Where's the RGM?"
"Over here, set up by the table." Sam said, a bit more confident now that the focus was on his piece of redneck engineering. "It'll pour you a drink to go with dinner. A Kentucky bourbon my dad's friend Lewis got me when I turned twenty-one- thought it would go well with the ham."
Sam walked through to the bedroom and Clint followed, reminding himself that despite the flirting they'd been doing, he'd definitely gotten 'inexperienced with dudes' vibes off the other man and that his usual methods of handling things like getting exactly what he wanted for his birthday probably wouldn't be appreciated. And also, it'd be an asshole move to start things up so dinner got cold when Sam'd obviously put real effort into it. "This looks awesome!" He said, sitting on his heels so he could check out all the angles and mechanisms in the machine. "And I can't say I'm all that familiar with Kentucky bourbon, but I intend to enjoy this. You wanna start it?"
Sam grinned, then took a deep steadying breath before pulling on a roll of tape hanging from a string which got the machine started. The machine first moved a large piece of ice into a glass before tilting the bottle of bourbon to pour Clint a glass. At the end, Sam reached over to right the bottle so it wouldn't spill. "Ta-da!"
Reaching for the glass, Clint stood up and took a sip. It was more flavorful than his usual liquor - vodka - and he found himself trying to place what he was tasting. 'Sweet' was sorta right, but not all of it. Lacking the knowledge and vocabulary to discuss it in a way that'd do it justice, Clint swallowed and felt it burn hot all the way down, warming up his belly by the time it settled there. "I like it," said grinning. "It's better than the... two? Other bourbons I've ever tasted?"
Sam laughed softly. "Our water's different back home, makes it better. Supposedly that's why we've got the best horses too? I ain't never paid attention to racing, pert near only channel we got back home only showed wrestlin'." He shrugged. "Well.... supper's ready if you're hungry."
"Sure am," Clint said, following Sam even as he took another sip of his bourbon. "Oysters only go so far," he continued, eyeing the spread on the table and smiling appreciatively. "This all looks a lot better than the fast food we had while waiting on the Blackbird."
Sam blushed, “‘s hardly anything- next time I cook for ya it’ll be better than what I’d manage to throw together after baseball practice and before a shift at the mine…… assumin’ you want there to be a next time.”
"Yeah," Clint said, already digging in. "There's gonna be a next time." He grinned at Sam from across the table. "And I'd offer to cook for you, but basically all I can make is breakfast." He paused to consider that. "In pans my brother, Matt, though it'd be funny to get me when I told him I was pansexual. So all the pans... are of body parts. And kinda dirty. But they work fine and I've never felt the need to buy myself more. So uh. Sorry in advance? If I ever get to make you breakfast?"
Sam smiled softly across the table but nearly choked on a laugh when Clint described the pans his brother had gotten for him. "I use cast iron for just about everythin' but this was made in the oven so easy clean-up.....But uh....I also wouldn't mind you makin' me breakfast sometime."
He might be inexperienced, but he knew how to drop a hint.
Grinning, Clint nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, slow and warm like honey. "Yeah, me too?"
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