I hope this prompt will talk to someone because I had it for sometimes and I still love it so much! I hope you'll like it too! So Coulson: "Babe, what'd the little paper in your cookie say?" Clint: *muffled chewing noises* "The little what in my cookie?". Honestly, you can redo the dialog but the idea in itself is just great and perfect. I wish you to have fun!
The fuck is this? Clint signed frantically, reaching across the table for his plastic glass of water with a lemon wedge in it. His tablemates, the rest of Strike Team Delta, were probably laughing at him, but it didn’t matter, because the mission was over and Clint had taken out his ‘aids, and if anyone wanted to talk to him, they could fucking sign. He was tired, he had a headache, and he’d just taken a bite of something that wasn’t quite recognizable as food.
Clint didn’t quite spit out the mouthful of food he’d taken; entirely too much red pepper sauce over a deep fried chicken nugget. Clint had been to China, and this was nothing at all like Chinese food.
Chinese-American take-out. That was Rollins, who at least knew enough sign language to get the point across, even if his finger-spelling of Chinese was stilted and labored.
“It’s crap,” Clint said, finishing his mouthful and speaking out loud for the sake of the three other agents on the team who did not know sign language. Clint was pretty sure Rumlow knew enough to get by, even if the man would never lower himself to use it. Rumlow liked it when Clint stared at his mouth, trying to get the gist of the conversation. Once Clint had realized that little morsel, he’d spent most missions with eyes on Nat, who could at least be counted on to make sure he’d gotten the entire plan.
“Here,” Nat said, using her chopsticks to flick a pile of brown noodles onto his plate. “You’ll like that better.”
The mission, at least, had gone well, Clint thought. He took a bite of Nat’s noodle stuff, dripping with dark sauce and mixed with slivers of vegetables that Clint knew for a fucking fact did not grow in China. “What is this?” He held up something that looked like Hank Pym had gone wild on an ear of corn. Where was the bok-choy? The kai-lan? Clint hated broccoli. He pushed the greens to one side. He wasn’t eating that.
Phil Coulson said something behind Clint’s head and Clint whipped around, but his mouth had stopped moving by the time Clint had eyes on. “Sorry, got exactly none of that,” Clint said.
Phil sat down, his own plate crowded with little steamed buns, and those, at least, looked familiar. Dim Sum. “It’s baby corn,” Phil said.
“You’ve never ate Chinese before?” Rumlow asked.
One of the biggest problems with being deaf, Clint thought, was that people communicated so much with tone of voice and inflection. Things that Clint was missing out on. Even with his ‘aids in, he didn’t always hear the subtle stresses, so he had to make do with other things, like body language. There was something… lewd in Rumlow’s question, the way his head tilted, the– oh, ick. Clint connected the dots; Rumlow was hinting that Clint may (or may not) have performed oral on someone of Asian descent. Rollins was laughing and he made a triangle with his index fingers and thumbs, sticking his tongue into the open spot. Which might have been funny – Clint was no stranger to making sexually charged jokes, except Rollins tipped his makeshift vagina sideways, turning a crude remark into a racist one.
Clint decided the better part of not having to kick ass for a second time today was to ignore them both.
“‘Zat boazi?” Clint jabbed at Phil’s little bun with his chopsticks.
“Crab ragoon,” Phil said. “Decidedly not authentic. I’m pretty sure that cheese is still a novelty dish in mainland China. You’ll like it. And these are pork buns. Not quite what you’re used to but… just pretend it’s not Chinese.”
“Ain’t Chinese,” Clint said, but he took one anyway. He knew he was being a hypocrite, because this was as Chinese as pizza was Italian. On the other hand, Clint didn’t order pizza when they were in Italy. Pizza was an American speciality.
The little pork buns weren’t too bad, he decided, and Phil rather tolerantly let Clint eat off his plate, stealing egg rolls from Rollins, instead.
No seed buns? Clint gestured when Rumlow threw him a little wrapped cookie. Rumlow ignored him. That was okay. Clint was pretty sure Rumlow didn’t know what lotus seed paste was, anyway.
Clint popped the little hat-shaped cookie out of its plastic wrapper and stuck the whole thing in his mouth.
It was a crime against humanity when cookies were gross. This one was dry, crumbly, and didn’t taste like much of anything. Brittle dough and vanilla, mostly.
“What’s your fortune?” Phil asked, flicking a tiny strip of of paper between his fingers.
“Luck is the residue of hard work,” Nat said, reading off her own piece of paper.
“My what?” Clint blinked.
“The little piece of paper inside your cookie,” Phil said.
“There’s a piece of paper inside the cookie?” Clint fished around inside his mouth with a finger. Well, if there was, he’d swallowed it.
Stuck with it now, Rollins signed, then added, unless you puke it back up.
“It’s the myth,” Phil said. “Well, there’s a couple of them. The first one is, if you eat the cookie, you’re accepting the fortune. The other one is to tack the words ‘in bed’ on the end of your fortune.” He handed Clint the little strip of paper.
Whatever you do, do it with great enthusiasm.
In bed. Phil added the sign when Clint got to the end of the ‘fortune.’
Clint looked back at the fortune, then at Phil. Eat your fuckin’ cookie, babe.