"A failed inventor, Mack." Fitz pounded back his fourth shot and dropped a heavy palm on Mack's arm, stumbling over his words. "Hah," he chuckled sourly. "So, so then, so- was Da Vinci a failure, just b'cause he couldn't get a helicopter t' fly?" He grabbed a fistful of pretzels and messily shoved them into his mouth, talking around a mouthful of spraying crumbs. "You mark m' words, Mack." He swallowed, grimaced against the dryness of the salty snack, and lifted two fingers to signal Hunter to refresh his whisky. "Highway SkyTray's goin' t' be huge."

"Yo, man, maybe slow down on the booze, okay?" Mack's large face wrinkled in concern. "I gotta share a bathroom with you."

Fitz continued as if he hadn't heard. "Wha's… what's not t' love abou' it? It's food." He thunked his finger against the bar to emphasize his point. "Delivered by drone, t' your moving car. By drone, Mack." Going by Fitz's expression, this was apparently the best argument for anything. "It's th' wave of the future! It's gonna take off, I jus' know it." He giggle-snorted. "Take off, Mack. B'cause drones." At his friend's blank look, he sighed. "No one understands me…" Fitz cradled his empty glass and looked at it like a pessimistic crystal ball.

"Aw, don't go gettin' all sad, now, Turbo." Mack clapped Fitz on the shoulder. "You have a lot of good ideas - helped me redesign pretty much every machine we use at the business. And you always know what's wrong with the broken equipment just by looking at it. I gotta read the instruction manual." Seeing Fitz's despondent pout, Mack let out a sympathetic breath. "Don't worry about what anyone else thinks, okay buddy? It'll happen when it happens."

"Get you something else, mate?" Hunter appeared at Fitz's elbow, reaching under the counter for the Glenlivet.

Mack gave him a discreet cut-him-off wave. "I could use a couple extra olives for my martini, though. You know how I like three."

Hunter regarded him, forehead screwed up in thought. "I don't… actually have olives, anymore. I think. Idaho? Olives?" he called.

Idaho stuck his head around the kitchen door and frowned at Hunter. "Dude, seriously? Quit snacking on the damn garnish!"

"It's my bar, Idaho! I'll snack on whatever I bloody well want!"

Idaho pointed a warning finger at his friend. "Next time I'm buying the habanero flavored ones."

Mack sighed. "Ahh… on second thought, hold the olives. Maybe some fries?"

Fitz, whose eyes were now grinding firmly into the heels of his hands, perked up at the sound of that. "Wait. Wait, Lance!" His head bobbed unsteadily as he took a few seconds too long to focus on Hunter. "Chips."

There was a pause as Mack shrugged a silent Hell-if-I-know.

"Chips, Lance!" Fitz motioned towards Jemma's booth and flattened his palm firmly on the counter. "Tell me you haven't betrayed me?"

Hunter seemed to be having some difficulty controlling his amusement, but Fitz was in no state to notice. "No worries. Your vendetta's safe with me."

Fitz breathed out, shoulders sagging in profound relief. "You're a true friend." Over his head, Hunter and Mack shared a double eyebrow raise.

Then Fitz had a thought that made him chuckle, though as it turned out, chuckling, and indeed moving his body in any particular way, was a terrible idea. Should everything be spinning? Wait. He'd been thinking of something. Something vengeful. Right, that's it. "Lance. Laaance." He waved in Hunter's general direction, managing to paw him across the nose and jaw.

Hunter swatted his hand away, ducking, and took away the empty glasses within arm's reach. "You all right?"

Fitz fixed him with an intent gaze. "Your ex-wife's Bob-hic!-bi Morse, yeah?" She definitely was. With how much Hunter mentioned her, Fitz didn't think he'd ever be drunk enough to forget her name.

"The hellbeast herself!" True to form, Hunter's enthusiasm for discussing his troubled marriage meant he was easily distracted. "Did I ever tell you about the time she-"

"Lance. Lance." This is gonna be great. "You know who I heard loves divorce stories?"

-o-

"Ugh. My hair's super cute tonight, and now nobody gets to see it." Skye was slouched down in the back corner of the padded booth, the high back of Jemma's seat hiding her from view as she sucked angrily on the narrow straw in her Long Island Iced Tea. "I mean, why am I the one who has to stay out of the way? He's the asshole."

"Skye…" Jemma sighed, watching where Ward was hovering over an incredibly pretty brunette in a flowered dress. "You did technically steal from him."

"I know that," Skye jutted her chin out, "but he's a jerk, and it was for a good cause." At Jemma's wry glance, she protested, "He is! Yesterday it was all, you and me baby ain't nothin' but mammals so do you wanna see the back of my pet shop if you know what I mean" she paused in order to breathe, "and today it's, my anaconda don't want none after you jacked my bun… I mean, I knew he was a creep, but that's just gross, Jemma." She took another sip of her drink, then snorted in disbelief. "He's gross, right? Screw all this hide-and-seek bullshit. I should go warn that girl."

"Oh, she looks like she can handle herself." Jemma was torn between wincing and laughing as the woman in question upended her vibrant blue cocktail onto Ward's perfect hair and sashayed away, looking back once and smiling enigmatically up at his flabbergasted face. Across the booth, Skye clapped both hands to her mouth, holding in a guffaw.

"And to be fair," Jemma continued, "you have no idea how Grant feels about you, because you've been hiding back here all night. Why not go talk to him?"

"Eww… no." Skye crossed her arms on the tabletop. "Ugh, he's on the prowl again." She pointed with her head towards the bar, where Ward was attempting to simultaneously chat up a leather-clad older woman and a striking redhead in a chunky necklace. "Like I said. Gross."

Jemma waved a hand, conceding the point.

Skye tapped her mouth with an index finger as she surveyed the dance floor. "Although…" she crushed her greasy napkin with slightly excessive force. "There are a lot of fine guys here… and Miles was months ago." She puffed out her cheeks. "I need to get laid so bad, if I have to wait any longer, I might just book a flight to Hawaii."

Jemma just rolled her eyes, refusing to acknowledge that terrible pun, and stole a fried pickle from her basket.

-o-

Jemma carefully reapplied her lipstick and sharpened a tiny smudge of liner on her brow. Perfect. Nodding at herself in approval, she rinsed off her hands in the bar's tiny single-person bathroom, moving quickly out of consideration for the queue of waiting women just outside. She was just blotting her lips' berry-pink top coat when the alert chime went off on her phone's MoreThanThat app. New potential match? This town wasn't that big, and she thought she'd weeded out most of the candidates by now.

Pulling her mobile from her purse, she just about choked on her own breath when she saw the Amazing Leopold's head shot staring up at her. 97% compatibility? That's got to be a mistake.

Certain there must be something wrong with their algorithm, Jemma made up her mind to complain to the company - I'm not paying an exorbitant monthly fee to be subjected to computer errors - and walked out of the bathroom. She needed a drink.

As soon as she opened the bathroom hall door, the rhythmic bass hit her like a croquet mallet. Jemma pushed her way through the swaying, gyrating throng towards the bar, pausing when she arrived to squint at - isn't that Fitz's business partner? The massively built man seemed to be coaxing a staggery Fitz towards the exit by jingling a set of car keys. As he stumbled past Jemma, Fitz suddenly whirled, catching onto the top of her arm and staring oddly into her face.

"Why're you so pretty?" He seemed upset by this. "Can y'... jus'... not-"

"That's right, buddy. One foot in front of the other. Here we go." His partner dropped a hand onto Fitz's shoulders and maneuvered him away, unperturbed by the exchange - though, if she were being paranoid, she thought she might've caught him biting down a smile.

By the time she turned to face the bartender, there was no mistake. Hunter was laughing at her, and quite openly too. She wrinkled her nose in mild offense as she hopped up onto the stool. "Is something funny?"

"I haven't got a clue what you're on about," he grinned infuriatingly.

Whatever comeback she might have had died in her throat, as she heard the last strains of the music fade out behind her and Trip's voice boom across the microphone. She turned in her seat.

"That's our set, y'all! Show some appreciation for Grant Ward!" Applause erupted across the room. "You murdered that drum solo, man!" Trip grinned his easy, blinding smile and gestured toward his other side. "Cal Zabo on the cowbell! We call him Doctor Groove!" A slightly smaller response from the audience this time as the older, slightly crazy-eyed man took a bow. Well, he seems to have one fan. The flower-dress girl from earlier was jumping up and down in the front row, whooping his name in adoration and screaming 'I gotta have more cowbell!' while Cal coughed and pretended not to see her. "Izzy Hartley on the bass, give her a hand!" The woman in question raised a fist to the crowd, tipping her head in acknowledgement. Then Trip lifted his guitar in the air and called out, "All right, everybody, I'm Trip, and we have been The Noise & The Funk! Good night!"

Clapping along with the crowd, Jemma cut off cheering when she heard Hunter asking a question, and spun back to face him. "Yes?"

"Just curious if you were planning to order a drink, or if you were just here for the pleasure of my charming company."

"Considering the company, I'm definitely here for a drink." She arched an eyebrow, and he raised his palms in submission.

"So what can I do for you? Bellini? Cosmopolitan?" Hunter let out an abruptly loud titter, seemingly recalling a private joke. "Maybe a small single scotch?"

"No thank you…" Her forehead quirked at his strange behavior. "Erm, amaretto rocks, please. And another of whatever beer Skye was drinking."

"Coming right up, sweetheart." Hunter bent down to shovel a few ice cubes into a short cocktail glass. "But if you ask me, it looks like your friend's found someone else to buy her drinks." He indicated the corner of the room with a tilt of his head, and Jemma craned her neck to see Skye, standing far too close to Trip, running her fingers down his arm as they clinked bottles in a toast.

Jemma sighed, wishing she'd remembered to point him out to Skye before so she could call 'dibs'. Jemma Simmons, you stop being selfish this instant, rang her mother's voice in her head. She breathed in, shook out her hands and resolved to be a good sport about it. Still... sometimes it just felt like there was no one in this town for her.

She blew out her cheeks in disappointment, catching sight of her phone on the bar in front of her and rolling her eyes at a certain photo still up on her screen. With options like that, it was no wonder she was focused on her career.

"Ugh!" she whined. "Why is dating such a massive pain in the arse?"

"Preaching to the choir, love." Hunter wiped his hands on his apron and leaned his forearms against the counter. "Did I ever tell you about my ex?"

Author's Notes:

Quite a few cameos and show references in this one! (Not to mention nods to things outside the show, like song lyrics and SNL skits.)
The whole "I don't actually have olives" bit is kind of an inside joke from tumblr, harking back to the #idaholives campaign. Thanks to tumblr user agents-of-frickle-frackle for getting that whole thing off the ground :-)
Ward as the drummer was inspired by quibbler's a concerto for two on AO3.
The 97% compatibility is a tip of my hat to May Our Stories Catch Fire theradiointukyshead on AO3.