20344/Pizza, Peace Offerings, and a Dash of Trouble.

Pizza, Peace Offerings, and a Dash of Trouble.
Date of Scene:	30 March 2025
Location:	Sherwood Florist, Second Floor Apartment
Synopsis:	Clint Barton attempts to charm his way out of trouble with Dinah Lance... if only she'd let him inside.
Cast of Characters:	Clint Barton, Dinah Lance

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Clint Barton has posed:
Clint Barton stepped up to the door of Sherwood Florist, the six-pack of Coca-Cola sweating in one hand, a plastic bag with garlic cheese bread and two pizzas in the other. His Hawaiian shirt stretched a little too tight across his shoulders... he told himself it was the fabric, not the way his heart kicked up as he knocked.

The memory stick in his pocket pressed against his thigh, a last-minute gamble. He wasn't great at grand romantic gestures, but pizza, movies, and a ridiculous shirt? That was his love language.

The scent of flowers curled around him, mixing with the heat rising from the cardboard boxes in his hand. He shifted his grip, resisting the urge to roll his shoulders. He wanted to look casual, like this was no big deal, but the truth was, he'd been replaying last night in his head all day. The mix-up. He wasn't quite sure if she would be exasperated or charmed.

He was betting on charmed.

Clint leaned against the doorframe, letting the light cast just enough shadow to sharpen his grin. "Special delivery," he called out, voice easy, teasing. "One peace offering, one potential date night, depends on how forgiving you're feeling." The 'd' word had entered the conversation.

He shifted the pizza box in his arm, glancing down. "Picked up a little bit of everything. You can argue with me about pineapple after I'm inside?"

His stomach was tight, but he didn't let it show. The ball was in her court now, and if he'd read this right, tonight might just be the start of something. If not... well, at least he'd have pizza.

Dinah Lance has posed:
It was about a full minute when he would hear the sound of a door opening on this floor. There she was coming to the front of the shop where he was knocking. She probably should've shown him the side door that led directly up to her living area but then again, this would be far more enjoyable.

Because she hadn't quite given up on letting him squirm. For no other reason thatn it was kinda funny for her. Thus why not? If he couldn't handle her humor, he was barking up the wrong badass. Perhaps this would be the ultimate test of that.

She had her expression schooled into a careful neutral that was almost crossing over into resting bitch face.

She flipped open the lock on the front door to let him in, as it was after hours which was shown by the Closed sign that had been about just below his eye level displayed in the window of the door.

She looked at his shirt, the boxes then at the drinks. "You mentioned a peace offering? Doesn't look like chocolate and dahlias to me."

Clint Barton has posed:
Clint shifted the drinks and pizza to one hand, the sweat from the Coke cans slick against his palm. With his now-free hand, he dug into his pocket, fingers brushing the memory stick. He pulled it out with a little flourish, holding it between two fingers like a magician revealing a card.

"Chocolate and dahlias?" He let his grin widen, easy, teasing. "I guess I should've read the fine print on peace offerings. But..." he held up the memory stick, letting it catch the light, "... I have Doc Holliday, Roman Holiday, and The Holiday on here. Figured I'd cover all the bases. Michael J. Fox, Audrey Hepburn, and whatever the hell Jack Black was doing in that one."

He watched her, searching for any crack in that perfectly schooled expression. The slow burn of anticipation settled in his stomach, twisting tight. She hadn't shut the door in his face, which meant he was still in the game. But was he winning?

He tilted his head, letting his weight shift just enough to suggest he wasn't in a hurry. "And, if this all goes well, I've got a surprise dessert lined up. But that's classified until I'm at least halfway through a slice of pizza."

His fingers tapped against the memory stick before slipping it back into his pocket. His heart was still kicking harder than it should, but he covered it with a smirk. He was laying it all out... cheese bread, rom-coms, and worse shirts. Now it was her move.

Dinah Lance has posed:
Dinah was dressed comfortably as she'd been off work and not expecting company. Thus she was dressed in a pair of sweatpants with a pair of socks, no shoes. Her upper body was covered with a tank top, leaving her arms completely bare. She folded those arms, showing the toneness of her musculature in the process. She was fit and toned without being overly bulky like a bodybuilder.

"You seem awfully confident of yourself for someone who got me chewed out by a customer. Who I'm sure I have lost forever." Nevermind it wasn't Mrs. Montgomery that had ordered the flowers but instead her granddaughter. Those were details that would let him off the hook far too easily.

Clint Barton has posed:
Clint exhaled slowly through his nose, tilting his head just enough to give her a lopsided grin. Yeah, he was in trouble. Not real trouble, if she were actually pissed, she wouldn't still be standing there, arms crossed, giving him that look like she was deciding whether to let him twist or toss him straight into the fire.

"Okay, so in my defense," he started, shifting the pizza and drinks again, "I was trying to be romantic. And technically, I was. Just? not in a way that made you look great, which," he furrowed his brows, "is actually a lot harder than you'd think. But I can see the issue now."

He let his eyes flick over her, bare arms, toned and flexed just enough to remind him that she could absolutely wipe the floor with him if she wanted. Sweatpants, socks, tank top. She wasn't dressed for company, and yet, she still looked damn good, nope, not the time to get distracted.

"Look," he continued, letting just enough of a plea sneak into his voice to keep it playful, "I'm not saying I didn't screw up. But I am saying that if you let me in, I have hot food, an acquired sense of humor, and the kind of dedication that led me to pick three different versions of 'Holiday' movies just to hedge my bets. That's gotta count for something, doesn't it?"

He dropped his voice just a notch. "And if you're really mad, I guess I could just stand here all night looking pathetic until you feel sorry for me." He lifted the pizza slightly. "At least let me keep the food warm while you decide my fate?"

He held her gaze, waiting, the teasing edge softening just enough to show that, yeah, he really did want her to let him in.

Dinah Lance has posed:
Dinah reached out as fast as a cobra, taking the pizza boxes from his hand. Then immediately the door was nudged closed by her sock covered foot. Free hand then flipped the lock into place.

Leaving him outside. "I'm waiting for you to look pathetic," she offered by way of explanation as she stared at him over that little Closed sign. Though on her side, at the interior, it said Open. It was all a matter of perception really.

"Then I will determine just how long you have to continue based on your performance." There what the tiniest hint of a smirk. Which didn't necessarily mean she had forgiven him. He didn't necessarily know her well enough to be able to tell.

Clint Barton has posed:
Clint blinked at the door now firmly shut in his face. The warmth of the pizza boxes was already fading from his hands, replaced by the cooler weight of the six-pack, which she had curiously left. He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the sting.

Alright. She wanted pathetic?

He took a single step back, then another, exaggerating his movements just enough to sell it. His head dipped forward, shoulders slumped, and then, because he never missed a chance for a good bit, he started humming.

An old, melancholic piano tune from that old Lou Ferrigno show, one that played when his character had to hit the road, alone, and defeated.

He dragged his feet as he turned, pacing slow down the sidewalk, head down like a man who had lost everything. The streetlamp above cast his shadow long across the pavement, adding to the tragic effect. He even gave a little hitch in his breath, just for good measure.

Not that he was actually giving up. No way. But if she wanted a performance, she was getting one! He kept the tune going, humming it louder, waiting to see if the door would crack open again, if she'd let him back in, or at least call him an idiot before he got too far.

The air was cooling, the scent of flowers still lingering around him, and his stomach gave an impatient growl. He shot a glance back at the door.

Any second now... right?

Dinah Lance has posed:
Three seconds later he could hear it. Despite the door between them, he would be able to hear the giggle. Then the flip of the lock being disengaged. She pushed open the door with her free hand, holding it open in invitation. "Get in here before those drinks get too warm. I'm starving."

And with that, she was giving him a bright smile. "I loved the flowers. Dahlias are one of my favorites. Amazing plants. And the note, as read to me by a very offended Mrs. Montgomery, was far better than your grocery store list."

The smile now was softer, more genuine. "Thank you for humoring me. Considering yourself forgiven."

Clint Barton has posed:
Clint froze mid-step, the sound of her laughter cutting through the night like a lifeline. He barely had time to school his expression before the lock flipped and the door swung open.

She was smiling now... really smiling... and for a second, it knocked the wind out of him worse than any fall he'd ever taken.

The shift in her voice, from teasing to something softer, settled something in his chest. His grip tightened on the six-pack for just a second before he eased it, stepping inside. The warmth of the shop wrapped around him, chasing away the cool air from outside.

She liked the flowers. The note, even as it got him chewed out, had landed. He hadn't completely fumbled this one. That was a win.

He let his weight shift just enough to drop the last of the tension from his stance. His grin, easy and slow, pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Guess that means I'm off the hook," he said, meeting her eyes. His stomach growled, and he huffed a laugh. "Now, about that starving part... I'm thinking we start with garlic bread, and then you tell me which Holiday movie is about to ruin my street cred."

The drinks were still cold. The night wasn't a total disaster. And as far as second chances went... he'd take this one.

Besides, he still had that special dessert for her.