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Rushing hot air spews from the hatch leading up to the Armament Base's rooftop, condensing along the steel walls. It's a mid-July. The sun a bright, red unrelenting spot in the clear sky.
"Here you are! I've been looking for you all day, man," Clint laments, crawling up the steel ladder.
Sam looks up from whatever he's scrawling over with a blue pen. He smiles. "Sorry, needed somewhere high up to think. What's up?"
Clint dusts off his combat pants, making his way over. "Well, nothing really. Just curious," He lies, the broiling sun turning his neck and ears peach red. He hopes it covers for any actual blushing and nervous sweating.
Somehow he knows Sam can tell the difference. That makes his knees wobble a bit.
The cement roof is a scathing pinch, even through his pant fabric, and Clint wonders if he could of waited till later in the day. The sun would have nestled somewhere behind a cloud, the afternoon a humid sort of wetness; Sam would be in the break room brewing coffee with a cream bagel.
Natalia, consequently, would also be in the break room. Clint doesn't regret telling her he'd confess —partially— he just wishes he hadn't been so adamant on it.
A nest of starlings perch themselves along the perimeter of the roof, lowly cooing and chastising the heat. Sam hums along with them. He has an old, beaten notebook sat on his lap, lined top to bottom with drawn out strategies and mission notes.
Small finches take off along the margin and Clint smiles at the clumsy doodles. Sam's bird enthusiasm is specially cute, although Clint refrains from jokingly telling him as much. If only for today's purposes.
"Hill says she's finally giving Special Officer's some off time," He small-talks, leaning back on his hands and catching sun in his eyes. Sam bites the blunt end of the pen, rolling it between his teeth.
"About time," He says distractedly. "I mean, a week is probably a month to her— but I'll take what I can get at this point."
Sam crosses off a few lines from his notebook and twirls the pen between his fingers. "What'd'you plan on doing? First day."
"Uh, sleeping myself into a coma? What else is there to do," Clint answers.
Sam laughs. The sort of breathy laugh that wheezes out between his teeth and exentautes his tooth gap; one of Clint's favourites.
"Well," He puts down the blue pen. "Some of us can't afford the luxury of actually sleeping, so I'm going to an Art Museum."
"Nerd," Clint coughs.
"Asshole," Sam retorts. "And they're actually kind of interesting, you know, in that pretentious way."
"Still makes you a nerd, Sammie."
Sam puts the notebook down beside him. "How did Nat take the news?"
"Oh, she's ecstatic."
"She hates it, huh?"
"I think free time makes her antsy," Clint places a solemn, sweat-stained hand on his chest. "Our poor babe. I'm gonna force her to watch pro wrestling with me. She'll thank me later."
"Or hate you even more."
"That's like impossible. I'm at my limit of annoyability."
"Oh, no. You could definitely go further," Sam encourages.
Clint nudges his thigh and gets a slap on the knee. "Any plans for the rest of the week?" He asks.
"Let's see: pretending non-threatening environments don't make me uncomfortable and probably a bunch of laundry," Sam counts over his bandaged fingers. "That should keep me busy for a while. You?"
Clint swallows, picks a starling to keep his eyes on and draws out a: "Well, there's this seafood restaurant downtown — totally shady, the chef probably worked for the mafia or something— but, they have really good lobster and cocktails. So."
Sam nods. "If you wind up thrown over the golden bridge, Barton, don't expect me to come looking," He quips, looking back at his notes.
"Nah," Clint waves off. "They'd probably throw me somewhere out by the road. Not cool enough to get the bridge treatment."
Sam laughs with his chest this time and a handful of starlings shuffle themselves in surprise. "Well have fun. Don't let Nat threaten the waiter," He says, still laughing.
Altocumulus come jacket the sun.
The spaces between them leave a mess of scattered beams to poke out and catch on Sam's features like mosaic, reflecting off his dark skin. 'It's...'
"I was actually hoping you'd come with me," Clint blurts, staring.
"And third-wheel you two? That's cold."
"No, I mean," Clint picks at the hair on his nape. "You and me go to the lobster place. Alone. Together."
Sam looks at Clint and the sunbeams wrap behind him like a halo. "You know it's sweet of you to ask me as your second choice after Nat rejected you," He jokes, a little drier. Less of a smile.
"She would never. And I'm serious."
"What, like a date?"
"Yeah, Wilson. Like a date."
The starlings, on cue, take off. All in one dramatic rush. It's almost funny, till the silence stays long after they've left.
"I mean," Clint draws his knees part-way up. "If you want to and if I totally wasn't reading our whole situation wrong," He babbles. 'This is bad.'
Sam hesitates. "I..."
"You don't have to. We can just— not go."
"Clint, no, it's just--"
"Or go as friends."
He puts a hand up. "Can I finish?"
Clint closes his mouth. Tries not to bolt.
Bright patches of freckled red grow like a rash on his face— half sunburn, half embarrassment.
"Going out sounds nice actually," Sam begins. "As in a date, with you. I'd like that. But--"
"It's not and you're looking for a polite way to put me down. I get it. It was a dumb idea. Pretend it never happened." Clint feels pathetic. He'll have to make up a story to tell Natalia; he'll have to convince Sam it's not awkward to still be friends with him.
"But I'm allergic to lobster. And, uh, most things seafood," Sam finishes with a boyish, coy smile. He then fidgets with his bottom lip. "So maybe a movie?"
Clint realises, almost blindingly, that Sam is flustered right now. 'This is..' He can't help staring. Maybe this is his favourite smile of Sam's: a timid one.
Sam continues. "You're not the only one who can have poorly veiled crushes. And to be honest, I kinda thought I was the one reading the situation wrong." He gives him a real smile, then. "You sorta flirt with everyone. Didn't wanna assume I was too special."
"You are," Clint snaps, beat red. "I mean. Yeah, pretty much."
The heat seems to get to him, because he doesn't look away when he says it and one of the starlings comes back unnoticed. And his brimming like a firework.
"Thanks." Sam chuckles.
Clint feels like laughing too. "So, uh. Movie? Saturday?" He offers.
"Yeah. I'd like that." Sam answers.