The next time Fitz saw her, he was sitting at the bar in Scout's Honor, starting his third beer after a particularly bad day on the job, and trying to dodge another forty-minute rant from Hunter about his ex-wife. Fitz's morning had started much too early; he was sore and sweaty from setting up folding tables and chairs for an outdoor wedding that ended up being moved inside, doubling his work. Then his afternoon gig had taken things from bad to worse, when the rabbit had bitten him and the birthday boy had thrown cake at his face.

Fitz sighed into his pint. Why kids always wanted bunnies was beyond him, but perhaps he should have a chat with his animal guy about sending him off to entertain a bunch of 8-year-olds with a violent rodent in his hat. That's unfair. He trusted Ward; the man had kept him supplied with show animals for years now. He couldn't have known the rabbit was vicious. Before his thoughts could go any further down that path, however, a dulcet voice broke him from his stupor.

"Your little plan didn't work, by the way."

He jolted, whipping his head to the left to see the woman - Captain Chemistry, Jemma Simmons, life-ruiner - slipping onto the barstool one seat down from him and signaling for a drink. She looked fantastic, which seemed exceedingly unfair, given what he now knew. You weren't supposed to find your enemies attractive. But it was her insufferably superior attitude that rankled him from the first.

"What plan would that be?" Fitz's tone was full of lemons. The only plan Fitz had at the moment was getting drunk, and she seemed set on spoiling whatever was left of his night.

"Don't play dumb; it's unattractive." She leaned slightly towards him, lowering her voice but keeping the bite in it. "I know you sabotaged my lab table."

Wow. This woman was something else. In one breath, she'd called him stupid, ugly, and a saboteur. The memory of knocking into her chemicals flashed through his brain. Okay, well, technically, that last one might be true. But an unintentional saboteur. She had some nerve, just assuming he was responsible. Besides, she's the one with poor balance - spilled tea all over me. It was a wonder anyone let her around dangerous substances in the first place.

Defensiveness was bubbling up inside him like a tar pit. "Please. You seem fine t' me. And pre-recorded television… 's not like you couldn't edit out any mistakes. Try coordinatin' a full hour of magic tricks, without lettin' anyone behind the stage, smack in the middle of a first-grader's birthday party. Now that takes skill."

Her eyebrows spidermanned up her forehead in indignation. "What I do takes plenty of skill, thank you very much." She took a sip of her pisco sour and rotated on the stool to face him fully, annoyance playing the trombone across her jaw. "And that's not the point. The point is that you're so insecure about your own performance, you tried to interfere with mine." She tsk'd. "It's not very sporting."

Was that a smirk when she said "performance"? What in blazes was her problem? "Me? You're the one who was flirting, tryin' to soften me up so I wouldn't notice you were stealin' all my clients!" Fitz scoffed quietly into his glass, trying to shake off a spontaneous flush of embarrassment. "If anyone's feelin' threatened, it's you."

He'd just gotten a glimpse of her face, muscles gone rigid, a red wash creeping up towards white-rimmed eyes, when he was suddenly distracted by the sound of an explosion behind him.


Flirting? He thought she'd been flirting with him? The very brass. (She quickly suppressed the guilty worm of confirmation that burrowed to the forefront of her mind.) As if she would ever flirt with someone who behaved so horribly. Ruining my program... those poor sisters never even got to sing the final song! It was the highlight of the kids' afternoon, and if anyone should understand that, it was another children's performer. Yes, Jemma was certain that this Leopold Fitz was the worst person she'd ever met, and he should most certainly be ashamed of himself.

Before she could open her mouth to explain, however, that she had been doing no flirting whatsoever, the television set flashed white and gave off a crackling pop. Jemma squeaked, turning her face away from the unexpected brightness in the dim bar, and blinked a few times to try to dissolve the large glowing spot that had set up camp in her field of vision.

The bartender paused in the middle of pouring a line of shots and clapped his hands loudly, hopping onto a wine crate to give him a bit more presence. "Guys! Guys!" he called, over the protestations of a few patrons who were raucously upset at having their soccer game cut off. "Calm down, nothing to worry about, just a few crossed wires. We'll have it sorted before you can say Bob's your uncle."

A few customers got up to leave, one woman in particular muttering in a heavy Russian accent about "this is worst, every time" and "TV at WingStop is perfect". The barman - a fellow Brit, she was pleased to note - watched them walk out, calling, "Marta, sweetheart, come back!"

As they neared the entrance, the exasperation on his face took over and he struck a mocking salute. "That's great, guys! We appreciate your business!" The second the door closed behind them, she heard him mutter, "Bloody casuals."

"I can help," the "Amazing" Leopold volunteered, a bit wobbly as he got to his feet. Surely they won't want help from a man three sheets to the wind. "I've got money ridin' on that match."

Who apparently gambles as well. Charming.

"Right, then, hear that, everyone? It'll be back on in time for the next goal." He thumped the drunken magician on the shoulder. "Cheers, mate, you're a lifesaver."

Another man emerged from the kitchen area, apron on and a dish towel draped over his shoulder. "Hunter," he called to the bartender, holding the toolkit up in his hands. "I heard the bang. You need this?"

"Give it to Fitz, will you, Idaho? He's about to work some of his magic for us."

"Ha, ha, h- ha. Ver' funny." Fitz was looking grumpier by the second, slurring his deadpan retort, and Jemma couldn't help but wonder why this Hunter person would trust him with tools in that state, much less let him near anything electrical.

It wasn't her place to argue, however, so she went back to sipping her drink, eventually chewing up the garnish and crunching the ice. Meanwhile, Hunter was putting out extra dishes of pretzels and peanuts as a mollifying measure.

Fitz, for his part, had wasted no time pulling Hunter's wine crate over to the corner under the television to act as a step-stool, stretching up to fiddle with the panel on the back of the old, wall-mounted CRT.

She had to admit, though it pained her, as she watched him pull his torso up to its full length, he wasn't entirely unattractive. In fact, observing the muscles of his back and shoulders tense and release under the soft cotton of his tee shirt, his jaw clenched in concentration as he held a screwdriver in his teeth, Jemma found herself staring slightly, unconsciously sucking the juice from her maraschino cherry just a bit harder. And — it occurred to her, as he grabbed something from his back pocket — she hadn't even paused to consider the way his jeans hugged his…

"Aspirin..." Skye wheedled, settling into the spot next to her and running a hand through her hair. "Sorry I'm late; I had a crap-ton to do and everyone was the worst. You got any painkillers?"

Jemma chuckled, fishing through her purse. "Here you are. Someday, Skye, you should really get a proper night's sleep."

The corner of her best friend's mouth curled up in a wry grin. "But there're so many fun things to do at night! Speaking of which, I bet you've been fighting 'em off with a stick, sitting here all alone at the bar."

I wasn't exactly alone. Though, she supposed, she had been fighting, more or less.

"Actually, hold that thought." Skye pulled out her wallet and handed Jemma her credit card. "I gotta pee like a racehorse. Order me a mojito, okay?"

No sooner had she disappeared into the small alcove that led to the loo than Fitz slammed his palm against the side of the TV set, bringing it back to life in a blare of color and sound. A cheer went up from the sports fans gathered around the counter, and Hunter threw his hands up in the air, mildly surprised. "Hey… that was fast, mate!"

Fitz shrugged. "Used t' have this model - 's not so hard a fix." His disdainful expression, rather than indicating modesty or pride, seemed to imply that anyone with half a brain, even completely blotto, could have restored the television.

Hunter's smile faltered, unsure. "All right, no need to get your knickers in a twist. Everyone," he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to the room, "you lot have Fitz here to thank for returning the FA Cup to our fine establishment." A few of the men raised their glasses in approval, spurring him on. "And to celebrate, chips are on the house!"

The cook poked his head out of the back room, a long-suffering groan meandering through his next statement. "Did you just- how many people are we giving away fries to?"

"They're just potatoes, Idaho! Don't be such an old woman!" Now that his match was back on, Hunter appeared full of irrepressible enthusiasm. "Chop chop, now! They're not going to fry themselves!"

Fitz tapped Hunter on the shoulder, murmuring something unintelligible with a dark look towards Jemma, before taking his place back at the bar and draining the last dregs from his tankard. After a beat, he turned to her with an onion face. "Well, I can't say this hasn't been fun. Oh, wait - I can."

The smile Jemma pasted on dripped honey from its thorns. "Were you ever planning to vacate that seat? Sooner would be preferable. My friend could use the extra room for her handbag."

"Ahh, yes, your friend. At least now I understand now why Local 3's giving you so much attention."

Oh, he had not just tried to call nepotism on her success. That simply wouldn't do. "I'm sure I don't know what you're implying, but Skye is my friend, yes."

"Hey, granny panties!" The taunt came from behind her, its owner approaching with a sluggish gait.

Jemma flinched at the nickname, though she'd heard it enough times by now to have gotten over her shock, at least. A short, puffed-up man with a large head of receding grey curls stumbled up to the bar, leering at her through the beer-goggle fog of inflated self-confidence. "I saw your video. You got nice legs, girlie. Finest I've seen in a thousand years."

"Piss off, Randolph."

Jemma's eyes widened in surprise. Of everyone in the bar, she'd hardly expected Fitz to come to her defense.

"What? I'm just-" he hiccupped, then grimaced, as if something he'd swallowed had come back up, "paying the lady a compliment."

"Yeah, and I was in the middle of arguin' with her. It's not polite t' interrupt."

The two men squared off, inebriation pulling at their eyelids, swaying lightly through slow inhales and whuffly exhales like a pair of smaller-than-average hippopotami. After a second, Randolph shook himself like a freshly bathed dog and turned his leering gaze on Jemma. He sniffed loudly, reached into his pocket and adjusted himself. "You're missin' out, pretty thing. My 'staff' contains a very powerful ma-"

"Right, off you go, then." This time it was the bartender who intervened, leaning over the counter and motioning to the door before sweeping past them, picking up bits of peanut shell as he went. Randolph looked between Hunter, Jemma, and Fitz, and moved past them, crashing into Fitz's shoulder on his way to the till and ignoring how the crowd's eyes tracked him until he was out of earshot.

"Wanker." Fitz crumpled a napkin and threw it into his glass.

The mouth on him. And he works with children? Lovely. "You know, I could've handled him myself."

"Right," Fitz deadpanned. "I forgot, the illustrious Captain Chemistry can take anythin' life throws at her." He continued under his breath. "Big brave superhero, practically wet herself when the TV shorted out."

Did he not realize she could hear him? "At least I'm on television, instead of repairing them."

A winter wind blew across Fitz's narrowed eyes, and he rounded on her, scoffing. "You're on public access." His belittling tone left no question as to his opinion. "If it weren't for your connections at the station, the only person watchin' your show'd be that cat-sweater woman who's got the timeslot after yours."

"Um, excuse me?" Skye appeared, sudden and sharp, beside them. Her dark eyes held a dangerous glint and a fresh coat of mascara. "Jemma, I didn't just hear him talking shit. You weren't talking shit, right, David Blaine?"

Jemma smiled, pure iron behind her teeth. "Not at all, Skye. In fact, I believe he was just leaving."

"Gladly." Fitz huffed, slapping down a few bills and weighing them down with an empty beer bottle.

Skye grabbed his sleeve before he could escape. "Oh, and just so you know? She's got a friggin' buttload of fans." She held her phone out to him, open to the YouTube video of Jemma's on-stage mooning. "See that? Eighty thousand views. Thanks to your little stunt with the chemistry table, Lame-opold, our girl here is Treehouse Falls' biggest celebrity."

Fitz seemed flabbergasted, watching events unfold on the phone's tiny screen, but collected himself enough to snipe back, "Well, you'll forgive me if I'd rather not get ahead in life by showin' my arse."

Hmm. He wanted a fight? He'd gotten one.

"I'd rather show my arse than be one."

Skye chimed in almost at the same time. "I'm confused. Isn't your ass that thing above your neck?"

At that, Fitz stalked out, stomping his hmmph into the floor with every step, even as the women pretended to think. "If he wants to keep it hidden, he'll need a hat and a mask, for starters…"

After he'd gone, Skye turned to her with a raised palm and a canary-eating grin. "Up top!"

One triumphant high-five later, Jemma reached over to grab a chip from the greasy, paper-lined basket on the counter.

"Ah, sorry darling!" Hunter slid the dish towards a party of four at the end of the bar. "You see... Fitz didn't charge me for the fix," he grimaced in apology, "and his only request was, 'Don't give her any.'"