Jemma woke the next morning with almost all of the usual hallmarks of a hangover. Only a slight headache, but an awful taste in her mouth, a distinct need to shower - and everything smelled like garlic. She wasn't entirely sure why everything smelled like garlic, but it was as though she had slept with a clove of it under her pillow. At least she only felt slightly nauseated instead of like she was going to spill the entire contents of her stomach at any moment.

Instead of thinking too hard about it, she shuffled into her bathroom for a shower and some serious teeth brushing. After throwing on a set of clean pajamas (she was certainly not going outside today), she padded into the living area of the apartment to find Skye and Bobbi perched on the sofa with a box of pastries on the table in front of them.

There was also a cardboard box on the table from the pizza place nearby (which explained the garlic that Jemma was smelling) and several empty beer bottles.

Bobbi was clutching a cup of coffee and eying the box of pastries warily.

"I'm surprised you're up," Jemma murmured to Skye, collapsing into a chair. She vaguely remembered the three of them returning to the apartment with a box of pizza, courtesy of Lance, and Skye spending much of the night grilling Bobbi on the matchmaking process, and then the bartender, while they drank their weight in alcohol. For Jemma that probably hadn't been the best plan since she had lost count of how many vodka sodas she'd had before Lance had cut her off. Both times.

"Nothing cures a hangover like Mama May's chocolate croissants," Skye responded, pulling one from the box and pushing it toward Jemma.

She wrinkled her nose, but accepted the box and grabbed a pastry for herself, inhaling the smell of chocolate and butter before taking a bite. Mama May's was a bakery just up the street, and Skye was correct. Her chocolate croissants were one of the best things they had discovered when moving into their apartment. There was nothing for a hangover quite like one of the chocolate croissants.

Bobbi still watched them eat, unsure until Jemma shook the green paper box in her direction. She leaned forward with a groan and grabbed a pastry as well.

"So… I can't exactly remember," Skye said before taking another bite of her pastry and speaking around it, "but how did the matchmaking go?"

"Oh, god," Bobbi groaned again, setting her coffee on the table and dropping her pastry back in the box. "I hope I didn't match people up while we were drinking." She groped around under the coffee table with one hand and found her bag, where her company tablet and the envelope with all the comment cards from the night before were stored.

Jemma shook her head, but Skye laughed gleefully as Bobbi turned on the tablet and started spreading cards out on the table. Once she had the 25 cards in front of her, she feverishly began tapping the screen.

"Oh, thank god. I didn't send out any matches." Bobbi sighed in relief and allowed her eyes to scan the cards in front of her. "You guys don't mind if I do this here, do you? We're supposed to get clients the matches by noon the next day."

"Nah, I wanna see how this works," Skye told her, crossing her legs beneath her and leaning around Bobbi to peer at the comment cards. "What if five people pick the same dudes?"

"Everybody fills out a profile for us too, so the computer program has already analyzed the likelihood of matches in the pool. We give preference to the best matches if people pick the same guy. Everyone knows they could wind up with multiple matches. But we don't match anyone with more than three people. It's the rule. Then, they decide."

"You didn't make Jemma and I fill out any profiles."

"Jemma and me," Jemma corrected quietly before taking a bite of her croissant.

Skye waved a hand at Jemma. Grammar was the least of her concerns.

"You guys were fill-ins. I didn't think you'd actually want to be matched up." A slow smile spread across Bobbi's face as she leaned back against the arm of the couch and poked Skye with her foot. "Skye, did you meet a boy?"

"Pfft. No." Skye grinned. "I did, however, meet a man. A fireman as a matter of fact."

The two of them laughed, and Jemma determinedly chewed her pastry and tried to remember everything from the night before.

"What's his number? I'll see if he's matched with anyone else."

"Six."

"What?" The word escaped Jemma's mouth before she registered it, and she coughed as a bit of croissant went down her throat the wrong way. After a moment of spluttering and getting herself under control, she asked, "did you say six?"

"Jemma Simmons," Bobbi teased, "did you find someone you liked?"

"You couldn't possibly have picked number six," Skye said with a chuckle. "We never have the same taste in guys!"

"I didn't-" Jemma started to say.

"Who is he?" Skye asked Bobbi. "Show us his profile."

Bobbi went through her spreadsheets, finding the list of guys assigned to the previous night's speed dating. "Let's see… six is… Antoine Triplett. Goes by Trip. Volunteer firefighter. Paramedic. Originally from North Carolina. Likes sports cars, extreme sports, and Sunday dinners with his mom. He's such a boy scout, but pretty hot." She turned her tablet around to show Skye his profile, complete with picture.

"That's not number six," Jemma muttered as she leaned forward and looked at the profile as well.

"Yeah, it is," Skye sighed.

"No, he was pale, shorter, dark blue eyes, curly hair, and," Jemma cleared her throat, "Scottish."

"Scottish?" Bobbi echoed. "Hmm." She took the tablet back from Skye who made a disappointed sound in the back of her throat. "Maybe his number was upside down. Let me see who nine is." She tabbed back through to her list and brought up the profile for number nine. "Jasper Sitwell. Definitely not Scottish."

She turned it around so Jemma could see the picture and Jemma blanched. She remembered Jasper Sitwell. He'd gone on and on about the decision to shave his head. The most she'd got out during the conversation was that it looked nice. She shook her head.

"That's not him either."

Bobbi's brow furrowed, and the pastries sat forgotten on the table as she asked Jemma question after question about him, going through all the registered participants for the night. Twenty minutes later, all three women were shaking their heads.

"There's no one in here that matches anything you said. Not his description, not his hobbies, nothing. He wasn't registered." Bobbi looked up at her, concerned. "Who jumps into a speed dating night without registering for it?"

-o-

Jemma decided, after getting worried looks from both Bobbi and Skye that maybe she was misremembering things. After all, she'd had a lot to drink the night before. Much more than she usually would, even on a girls' night in with them. She could have imagined the accent. Or maybe she was confusing several of the things people had told her. She waved off their concern, and helped Bobbi keep track of the numbers as she began matching everyone up.

"Okay… Raina… she only put down one number… Ah, yes, Gordon. Good." Bobbi nodded, sending out the alert for Raina. "The program matched them at 98%. Highest match out of this pool. I was hoping they'd hit it off."

"98? Really? That seems so… unlikely." Jemma sipped on the tea she'd made for herself.

"They have a lot in common. Both grew up in the foster system and actually work for the Department of Children and Family Services now. Kind of surprised they've never crossed paths before." Seeing Jemma and Skye's raised eyebrows, Bobbi rolled her eyes. "The system accounts for differences too. We give everyone a list of 40 interests to rank, and they have almost the exact opposite in interests despite how much they actually have in common in everyday life. So, there's enough in common for them to get along, but enough different to keep things interesting."

"That's kind of genius," Skye said.

"It just means there's a lot of complicated math involved. Koenig redesigns the personality tests every few months." Bobbi put all the cards back in her bag with her tablet. "Oh, this is all supposed to be confidential, so - no telling anyone about the matches, right?"

Skye gave her a mock salute. "You forwarded me Trip's info though, right?"

"Yes, Skye."

-o-

Jemma spent most of the weekend hanging out with Skye and Bobbi, but Monday night, not exactly the typical date night, Skye had her evening out with Trip and Bobbi was working another round of speed daters. Jemma, deciding to be productive, went through job listings online for a couple of hours, but found herself discouraged with the amount of people paying minimum wage for jobs that certainly required specific skill sets. She closed her laptop with a snap, and stared at the green paper box from Mama May's still sitting on her kitchen counter.

Since she and Skye had moved into the apartment, she hadn't baked a single thing. Skye was always stopping by Mama May's on her way home from work or suggesting they pop in after a night out, so Jemma hadn't felt the need. But now, home alone, without a job, and with the image of the mysterious Number Six, who wasn't actually the number six floating around in her brain, she decided she needed something to take her mind off things.

She set out enough butter to sufficiently clog her arteries so it would soften, and started perusing the pantry to see what exactly it was she could make.

Their pantry was depressingly void of any real ingredients, but she did have the basics, so she put on some music and set about making a simple Scottish shortbread recipe - a cookie that wasn't too sweet, and with the right amount of butter would just melt in your mouth.

She couldn't remember the last time she made Scottish shortbread, and was sure she could figure out the reason she was making it now if she chose to think about it. Even if as she measured out ingredients, mixed dough, and pricked holes in the top of cookie bars, she was replaying the conversation she'd had with Number Six over and over in her mind.

She sighed and put the first batch in the oven.

She wanted to know who he was. She was about 90% certain that he wasn't stalking her because she had never seen him before. Unless he was really good at it. And he didn't seem like a psychopath. Then again, did you always know someone was a psychopath when you met them?

Jemma loaded the dishwasher.

No, I would know. We clicked.

It wasn't that she was even looking for a boyfriend. It wasn't like her to actively seek one out. But he seemed like he would be interesting to spend time with. Even just as friends. He painted murals, after all. Illegal murals. He probably had good stories to tell.

Illegal murals.

Jemma grinned and grabbed her computer to start searching. Wasn't there a whole movement going on online with people who documented street art?

When Skye came through the front door with a doggie bag for Jemma and a flower tucked into her hair a couple of hours later, she found the kitchen counter covered in cooling shortbread cookies, and Jemma with a half empty plate of them next to her as she read from her laptop screen.

"Whoah. I brought you dinner. Trip took me to this great Brazilian place I thought you might like. But I see you've already eaten your weight in cookies." Skye set the bag down on the only available counter space.

"Mmm." She absentmindedly reached for another cookie.

"Jemma! Put the cookie down."

"What?" Jemma turned her head and saw Skye trying not to laugh at her.

"Since when do you sugar binge?"

"There's not that much sugar in these. It's mostly flour and butter." She held the cookie in her hand out so Skye could try it, and when Skye took it, nibbling cautiously before smiling, Jemma nodded her head. "See?"

"These are really good! You should sell them to May. I bet she'd love to have these in her shop!"

"I don't know if there's a huge market for Scottish shortbread in the neighborhood."

"Scottish?" Skye started to raise her eyebrows.

"How was your date?" Jemma asked before Skye could start pumping her for information instead.

Skye rolled her eyes at her, but flopped down backwards over the arm of the couch that was just a few steps away from the kitchen in the tiny apartment. "It was great," she remarked, running one finger over the edge of the cookie still in her hand. "The place he took me to had dinner and dancing, and we talked about his family because I told him I didn't really have one, and he didn't push, and he didn't think it was weird that I ate enough food for like, five people, and he didn't order for me, which you know is always a deal breaker, and he didn't even suggest wine, and thought it was cool that I ordered this huge fruity blue drink thing, and he's really funny, and I knew he was cute and everything already, but I think I really like him."

Skye said it all in a rush before closing her mouth with a snap and looking at the ceiling, so Jemma closed her laptop and moved to sit down next to her.

"You really like him, huh?" She asked, and Skye tilted her head back on the couch to peer up at her, her forehead pressing into the side of Jemma's thigh as she sat.

"Yeah… I do." Skye's face softened and she let out a slow breath. "He seems like a good guy."

"Good. If you're happy, I'm happy." She paused. "I suppose speed dating isn't a complete waste of time, after all," she teased her for good measure.

Skye laughed. "Yeah, who knew?" She nibbled on the cookie again. "So… how's the job search going?"

"Ugh." Leaning back and shifting away from Skye, Jemma covered her face with a throw pillow.

"I take it you don't want to talk about it?"

There was something of a sigh and a frustrated growl that came from underneath the throw pillow, so Skye reached up and yanked the pillow away.

"There's no way I'm going to be able to make what I was making before at any of the entry level jobs in any restaurant in the city that's hiring. I never should have quit."

"Jemma. The restaurant was a front for an illegal gambling ring. If you'd stayed, you'd have lost your job anyway… I still think you should talk to May. She loves you."

"May doesn't need a hostess. Or a bartender. Or a waitress. Or someone to do her books. She'd only want me as a full time baker and I don't know how to make half of the things she sells."

"What about Lance?"

Jemma wrinkled her nose and met Skye's gaze. "You think I should work for Lance?"

"He doesn't own the bar!" Skye cocked her head to the side. "He doesn't, right? I feel like he would have been rubbing that in our faces at some point that we're practically the same age and he owns his own business."

"No… I don't think so. But I got the impression he basically runs the place. He didn't make me pay for any drinks." As Jemma spoke, the nausea inducing memory of eating a bowl of maraschino cherries made its way to the surface of her brain.

"Hm. You should see if they need another waitress. You can totally handle drunk dudes. And you can probably mix drinks better than he can."

"Yeah, okay. I'll go see him tomorrow." Jemma picked at an imaginary thread on the bottom of her shirt. For some reason, the idea of asking Bobbi's ex for help didn't sit well with her, but it would give her a much needed paycheck while she looked for something better.

-o-

Jemma was up at dawn the next morning, but she forced herself to get things done around the apartment and not show up at the bar immediately and have to wait for someone to be there at a time of day when there was no reason for anyone to be there. Because it was a bar. Who showed up at a bar in the middle of the morning? Not people she wanted to be around, probably. She didn't even know if Lance worked that day, but decided if he wasn't there, she'd just say he could act as a reference.

She took her time getting dressed, moving as slowly as possible, delicately applying makeup, and traveling nearly soundlessly throughout the apartment so she wouldn't wake Skye.

When she finally made her way down the street, the snow from the weekend had nearly melted away, and the sidewalks were slick with the water escaping down storm drains and a grey slush that stuck to her boots. To earn herself some points with Lance, she was armed with a container of Scottish shortbread and a jar of maraschino cherries, which she thought was especially clever.

But when she reached the bar, it was locked up tight with no one in sight.

Maybe I should have called Bobbi?

Jemma sighed and eyed the concrete steps next to the bar's entrance with some trepidation. Who knew how many people had vomited on that very patch of concrete? She wrinkled her nose and inspected the area before she took a seat, placing her gifts next to her and propping an elbow on one knee, chin in her hand, and waited.

And waited, with nothing but the cold steps to keep her company. She shifted slightly in her seat.

And waited some more, stomping her feet a little on the concrete and turning to look up and down the street.

Didn't they have anything to prepare before opening the bar that evening?

After waiting for nearly an hour, and receiving strange looks from people passing her on the street - one woman even prepared to hand her a five dollar bill before Jemma glared at her and snapped that she was waiting for someone - she stood up with a sigh, the muscles of her backside tingling where they had fallen asleep.

She bent and picked her offerings up from the pavement, straightening up just in time to see Lance sauntering his way down the street.

"Of course," she muttered to herself in annoyance. "Where have you been," she called to him when he was in earshot, "I've been sitting here for an hour!"

Lance did a double take over his sunglasses. "Jemma? Was I supposed to meet you here?"

Shuffling her feet and trying to hold on to the fact that Lance was likely late for work and she should be angry with him, she mumbled, "well…. no. But-"

"Then what the bloody hell are you doin' here?"

Jemma pasted on her winningest smile. "I thought I could replace your maraschino cherries that I, uh, stole?" She held out the jar in one hand as Lance gave her a bemused grin. "And," she added, "as a thank you for the pizza, I made shortbread." She gestured with the container in her other hand.

Lance grinned wider, but asked as he unlocked the door, "what is it that you want, Jemma?"

She didn't answer him, just waited for him to get the door opened, and followed him inside, before he carefully twisted the lock behind them.

"Huh," she mused, looking around her at the faded wallpaper and dark wood paneling, "this place looks different in daylight."

"Yeah. Old," Lance agreed, starting to pull chairs down from tables. Jemma set her offerings on the bar top and followed suit, speaking quickly as she did.

"Did Bobbi tell you that I lost my job?"

"Oh, Jesus. Jemma-"

"I'm a great waitress. And bookkeeper. And I've tended bar before. Not that you aren't a great bartender." Jemma slid a chair into place under a table as she spoke.

"Jemma, if I could hire you, I would."

"Just one night a week? Just so I can make a little extra cash?"

Lance turned away from her to another table and pulled a chair down and righted it. "It's not up to me. I manage the place, but the owner's in charge of all the new hires."

"Couldn't you recommend me for something?" She took a step back from the table just as he turned around and she reached into her bag. "I can leave my resume with you."

"Nah. He doesn't really do resumes. If he clicks with someone, he hires them."

Her hand stilled over the surface of her bag. "That doesn't seem like a very good hiring practice."

Lance shrugged. "It seems to work out okay. We got a couple good kids working here." Jemma's hands twisted in front of her and she blinked at him. "Look, I'll ask okay? Come by tonight during business hours and we'll see?"

"Thank you!" Jemma jumped forward and threw her arms around him before quickly stepping back. She planted a kiss on his cheek and wrinkled her nose. "You should really shave."

"Bobbi likes the scruff."

Jemma rolled her eyes. "You two are divorced. I don't know why we have to keep reminding you of that."

"Just a piece of paper," Lance waved as she started to walk away. "Oi! You're leaving, just like that? I thought you were helping!" He pointed to the chairs that still needed to be pulled down.

"Well, I've got to make sure I have something bar-waitress-appropriate to wear tonight."

He laughed. "You should probably go shopping. Or ask Skye for help."

"I'm taking the cookies back."

"What? I'm trying to be helpful!" Lance ran around the bar to beat her to the cookies, successfully removing the container from her reach so he could lift the lid. "Is this Scottish shortbread?"

"Yes. We only had so many ingredients in the pantry," Jemma explained with a shrug.

"Yeah… you should really leave those here. The boss loves them. Might help me put in a good word for you." He pulled one out of the box and took a bite to emphasize his point.

"Right. I'm sure no one else will even see them," Jemma teased. "I'll see you tonight."

"Bring some more of these with you!"

-o-

"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?" Skye was flopped on the couch, head hanging over one arm in the same position Jemma had left her in when she had disappeared into her room to change.

"Normally I don't take my roommate on job interviews…" Jemma teased as she came back out.

"Yes, but it's at a bar, where someone trusts Lance Hunter to keep things running, and - okay, you are so getting the job." Skye had tilted her head back so far over the side as Jemma walked towards her that she almost tumbled off the couch.

"If I don't freeze to death before I get there," she responded wryly. She rolled her eyes and spun as Skye sat up and gestured for her to move so she could see the whole look. Boots and tights were going to have to do to keep her covered from the possibility of the evening chill, but she had one of the shortest form fitting black dresses on she could find with the lowest neckline she could handle. She grabbed her jacket from where it was draped on the back of the couch.

"Eh, it's been warming up," Skye waved off her concern. "I didn't even wear a jacket today. You'll be fine." She took another look at Jemma's ensemble. "Seriously, people will be buying you drinks all night. That place is going to make a fortune tonight." She cocked her head to the side. "I maybe would have gone more vampy on the makeup, but you look great."

"Okay, Skye. I'm accepting your vote of confidence now, thank you." Jemma laughed. "I'll let you know how it goes."

"Just stay away from the slush! It's melting and I don't want those boots ruined!"

With a "yes, Skye," she grabbed her phone and keys, stuffing them in her pockets, and headed out.

-o-

When Jemma walked into the bar that night, the place was nearly wall to wall people. She edged her way to the bar, maneuvering herself in between and around arguing couples, fist bumping friends, and a bachelorette party before she could find the side of the bar and Lance, who was hurriedly pouring tequila into a full tray of shot glasses.

"Jemma!" He called to her over the noise. "You haven't seen a tiny girl with dark curly hair, have you? Callie? She was supposed to be here for her shift an hour ago!"

"Errm…" Jemma looked over her shoulder, but a tiny girl with dark hair could have been any number of a dozen women in the bar. "No?"

Lance passed the tray of tequila filled shot glasses off to a guy with close cropped hair and a baby face who gave Jemma a shy smile. The waiter made his way through the throng to the bachelorette party where he was promptly manhandled by the already sufficiently buzzed women.

"Do you want some help?" Jemma asked, one eyebrow quirked as Lance mixed up a series of drinks and lined them up on trays.

"Can you really mix drinks?"

"Of course I can." She tapped her temple with one finger. "Memory of an elephant. Read a bartender's handbook once."

"Then get back here."

She didn't ask if he was sure, just walked through the swinging waist high "door" that separated the back of the bar from the customers and eyed the equipment, quickly cataloging where everything was stored.

"Trial run?" She asked breathlessly as she shucked her jacket and stowed it on a shelf beneath the bar where there was nothing sticky or wet.

Lance eyed her appreciatively, then nodded his head without commenting on her wardrobe choice. "We'll see what the boss says when he gets here." He turned as a couple leaned on the bar. "What can I get you?"

"White Russian for her, whatever you have on tap for me."

Jemma got to work as Lance nodded at her and moved on to the next approaching customer.

It wasn't hard really, bartending, Jemma thought to herself nearly an hour later as she slid a tumbler of whiskey to a man in an eye patch. All she had to do was smile and mix drinks. The customers did most of the talking. He slid her a twenty in response to the tumbler and her smile.

"Oh, no, this is far too much," she told him, inclining her head with another shy quirk of her lips. She'd already had three customers buy her drinks. But that would be one very large tip.

"Not if you're putting up with him all night," he told her gesturing to Lance with his glass at the other end of the bar where Lance was chatting up a couple of women who looked like they had just reached the legal drinking age.

"You make an excellent point." Jemma watched as Lance fed a cherry to one of the girls and curled her lip up in disgust.

"Don't get any ideas. I don't even like cherries," the whiskey drinker deadpanned.

"After eating an entire bowl full of them, neither do I."

"Did you lose a bet?"

"Worse. I was drinking on an empty stomach."

The man nodded sagely.

He sat on his barstool for the better part of the next hour, nursing the same drink - it was like he was waiting for something, but Jemma wasn't sure what. Every so often he would shift on his stool, his one good eye carefully roaming the room. But Jemma just kept working until a tiny girl with dark curly hair in skinny jeans and an off the shoulder sweater was barreling her way to the back of the bar as she removed her coat.

Lance, who had been at Jemma's end of the bar grabbing a bottle of peach schnapps, turned to her and just folded his arms over his chest, the bottle dangling from his fingers and making him look much less intimidating.

"I'm sorry!" She shook her head as she shook out moisture from her coat. "I had to take the subway, and it broke down, and I have no cell reception in the tunnels!" She tied an apron around her waist as she spoke. "Also, it's finally warm enough for rain, so we're probably going to get some looky-loos blocking the front door."

"Terrific," Lance muttered.

"Looky-loos?" Jemma echoed, turning the tap off for the pitcher of beer she had been filling.

"Oh, hey, new girl, right?"

"She's just helping because you weren't here," Lance cut in. "Jemma''s waiting for an interview."

"Again, sorry!" Callie shook her head again, but she was smiling as Lance walked away. "Yeah, there's this crazy good street artist who paints on the building across the street. He uses that specialty crap that you can only see when it rains though. It's awesome. No one knows when he does it, but his stuff just appears." Her eyes widened as she looked more closely at Jemma. "Holy shit. You're her."

"Yes. New girl. Possibly. Waiting on that interview."

"No. You're her."

"I'm who?"

"The girl on the building." Callie laughed. "I can't believe it, but it's totally you."

"I'm sorry, I don't know…"

"Go out front and look! I've got this." Callie practically shooed Jemma out from behind the bar. The man in the eye patch had an expression on his face that might have been a smile if he had done anything that even remotely looked like he was smiling the whole time he'd been there. "Hey, Nick. Want a refill?"

Jemma pushed her way through the crowd, though it had thinned out considerably as the bachelorette party had moved on, and exited through the front door.

And found that Callie wasn't wrong.

She stood carefully against the building, shielding herself from the rain, but across the street, just above eye level, was her face, propped up by her chin as if she was sitting at a table made by the window and leaning on it, an enigmatic smile on her face. Considering she only knew one person who would ever paint her face on the side of a building, it was an amazing likeness for having only met her for three minutes.

Jemma stood there in silence, heart pounding in her chest as people under umbrellas kept stopping to look. The harder it began to rain, the starker the white paint was on the side of the building, and other images started to surface. There was a teacup next to her on the sill instead of the vodka soda she had been drinking that night, and she bit down on her lip as she remembered her story, but when a bowl of cherries also became visible, she laughed out loud.

But she had long been done with the bowl of cherries when she met him.

And he had mentioned seeing her talking to Lance.

Jemma spun on her heel and went back inside.

"Callie," she called as she made her way back over to the bar, "do you know who does the paintings?"

"Nope. Like I said, they just show up. Wish I did though. I'd get him to paint something for my apartment. Maybe on my bathroom wall so the steam would activate it? How cool would that be?" She balanced a tray of martinis on her hand and walked past Jemma to a group of women in pencil skirts and blazers.

Jemma chewed on her lip, and instead of moving back behind the bar, she took a seat on a stool next to Nick.

"Never had anyone paint you on a building before, huh?"

"Can't say that I have, no," Jemma told him, offering him another smile.

"Convenient that he managed to get a new piece up right before the rain came through… Any idea who he is?"

"No." She sighed.

"You know what I think?"

"Hmmm?"

"The guy's either a regular or an employee."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well…" Nick took a slow sip from his glass and Jemma found herself tapping her foot impatiently on the bottom rung of the barstool. "His whole thing is painting with that specialty paint that only shows up in the rain? Stuff lasts for a few months, so he's got a few different abandoned buildings he paints on, but he always comes back to that building as soon as the last picture's worn away." At Jemma's surprised eyebrow raise, he added, "I'm a regular, I see things. Gotta be somebody who's in here as much as I am. And," he paused dramatically, "the building across the street isn't abandoned."

"It's not?"

"Owned by the bar." He nodded his head and turned back to his drink.

"Really?" Jemma didn't wait for a response, she was out of her seat and rushing over to Lance. "So, when's your boss supposed to get here?"

"Should've been here by now. Rain's probably got him stalled."

"Does he like the rain?" Jemma pressed.

"Nobody actually likes the rain, Jemma." Lance shook his head, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Look, if there's somewhere else you need to be, you can go. I'll let him know you waited a couple hours and he didn't show."

"No, it's not-"

"Besides, Callie's here now, and with the rain, we'll get less people coming in."

"But-"

"You can keep your tips."

He had been stacking shot glasses on a display behind the bar as he spoke, and he turned to her with a smile.

Jemma didn't smile back. "Who does the paintings on the building across the street?"

Lance seemed to freeze for a moment before going back to stacking shot glasses. "I don't know. Something like that, probably not legal. They'd probably get in trouble for it."

"Unless they owned the building," Jemma prompted. "Or got permission from the owner."

"Sure… I guess." He stacked the last of the glasses. "Why the sudden interest in street art?"

"Have you seen what's painted out there?" He shook his head. "It's me!"

Lance laughed. "That's impossible."

"You don't think I could inspire an artist?" Jemma's hands found their way to her hips and she stood to her full height, which put the two of them nearly eye to eye as he was slouching against the bar laughing at her.

"That's not what I meant." She waited, but he started laughing again.

"Ugh." Jemma made her way around the bar and grabbed her things. "Sometimes," she snapped at him, "I think we're actually friends, and then I remember I only know you because I'm friends with your ex-wife, and I realize that she's right about you in a lot of ways."

"Oi!"

"I'll come back tomorrow when your boss is here."

She pushed by him before he could say anything else, in such a hurry to get outside and snap a picture of the building to send to Skye that she didn't notice that someone else had entered from the storeroom at the back of the bar, his eyes following her all the way out the door. She also didn't hear him ask Lance what was going on, his words stilted and somewhat strangled as his eyes took in her dress; she was already snapping her picture and speeding down the sidewalk. By the time he got the story out of Lance and was outside looking for her, she was gone, just her likeness left on the building across the street.

-o-