Fitz was perched as far back in the booth as he could managed, looking the very embodiment of disgruntlement. He was seated between Mack and Hunter, nursing an overpriced and tasteless beer, and kept wishing his seat would somehow open and swallow him whole. He hadn't stepped into that kind of bar– the kind you went to when you wanted to meet people which, as a rule, Fitz did not– in a number of years. On the few occasions he had found himself in such a place, it was only because he'd been baited or dared into it by colleagues.
Evidently, he was way too sober to be sitting there under the aggressively colored spotlights, even more so on a morose weeknight. The speakers were blasting some generic dance music but the dance floor was desperately empty, save for two seriously intoxicated women who'd strayed from the bachelorette party that had raged on earlier. The group had left the bar shortly after Fitz's arrival– a loss Hunter had been lamenting ever since.
"I'm telling you, bachelorette parties are the best case scenario," Hunter hammered on. "The holy grail of bar pick-ups. It's simple arithmetic, really– we're three dudes, so we want a group of at least five girls. That's the minimum ratio if you want to have a chance to see some action. And there were nine of them, man. Nine!"
"Mmhmm," Fitz acknowledged distractedly, longing for his comfortable bed and the stack of comics he'd found in his mailbox when he'd gone home to change.
He was wracking his brain for an excuse to leave early when he noticed a tall, statuesque blonde sitting alone at the bar. It struck him as a little odd. Women who looked like that– gorgeous, self-assured and terminally intimidating– were not supposed to be sitting alone in bars as seedy as this one on a Thursday night. More alarmingly, she was eyeing Fitz's party with unrestrained interest. When she caught his eye, she smirked, and he swiftly looked away.
Unfortunately, Fitz's rapidly blushing cheeks were swift to spike Hunter's interest. "What, did you see some– Oh. Shit."
Hunter's face falling and rearranging itself into a mask of worry was a curious sight to witness. With the exception of their earlier, unexpectedly grave conversation, Fitz had never seen him express anything but boredom or amusement– his default expression being a mixture of both.
"Do you know her?" Fitz asked, intrigued, and glanced back and forth between the two.
"Do I know her," Hunter repeated darkly.
Fitz turned to the blonde again and saw her amused look morph into a sneer, which was solely aimed at Hunter. She tilted her head ponderingly for a few seconds, before she threw her bag's strap over her shoulder and got to her feet.
"Fitz," Hunter deadpanned, his nostrils flaring, "prepare to meet the devil."
"They could at least pretend not to be talking about me," Fitz complained as he watched the former couple conferring agitatedly a few tables over. They were practically pointing his way every other sentence.
Mack chortled over his beer. "Subtlety isn't their strong suit, either of them."
Shortly after Bobbi had joined them, Hunter dragged her away and the two engaged in a heated argument. From where Fitz stood, it didn't look like an actual argument, but more of a courtship ritual. He'd certainly never seen Hunter so animated before. And it wasn't just him, either. Bobbi's eyes were gleaming with defiance and– something else. Fitz wondered if the two of them were even aware of the way they looked at each other.
"I guess arguing as foreplay works for some," he said to himself, fascinated.
"Yep," Mack confirmed. "Too bad they don't know where to stop."
The next moment, Bobbi abruptly jumped from her seat and marched in Fitz's direction, her eyes set on him so intently, he couldn't help but gulp and shrink into the booth.
"Fitz," she said brightly as she approached, towering over him like a 50 Ft. woman ready to attack. "Let's talk."
"Huh," he replied lamely, but she was already pulling him away to another table. When Fitz caught Hunter's eye, he was almost positive the other man was mouthing the word 'sorry' from where he stood.
"So," Bobbi, started, her tone switching back to business. "Hunter told me about your… situation."
"Oh, that's– that's great. Perfect." Fitz made a face and scratched the back of his neck self-consciously.
"You know, I read people for a living," she said, not a question, just a worrying affirmation.
Fitz's eyes widened. "Are you a cop or something?"
Bobbi's mouth stretched into a carnivorous smile. "Or something."
"Right." He wasn't surprised, exactly. Bobbi exuded authority, but also something not quite legit. It was intriguing, for sure, but Fitz would sooner proposition Shield Tech's terminally stern Vice Manager Melinda May than ask Bobbi about her resumé.
"So, tell me, Fitz." Bobbi rested her forearms on the table between them, leaning over slightly. Her gaze was laser sharp, urging Fitz to confess. "What are you looking for in a woman? What kind of girls do you like? Athletic? Curvy? Long hair? Short? Would you say you're more of a leg man or a breast man?"
It was a good thing Fitz had abandoned his beer back at his and Mack's table. If he'd been drinking then, he'd probably have sputtered all over her, and he had a feeling Bobbi wouldn't take kindly to that.
"I– I don't know. I've never thought about it like that."
Bobbi wouldn't be so easily deterred. "Why the sudden rush, anyway? What's the plan after you finally lose the V-card?"
"Are you asking me about… my intentions? Toward hypothetical women?"
"Should I be? Are your intentions questionable?" she asked, flashing him another predatory grin.
"Look, I– I didn't ask for any of this. I was fine on my own, for the most part. Before Hunter asked me about it, I'd never stopped and thought about how… lonely it gets. Sometimes. Not always, but– yeah, I guess it would be nice to have– someone. To be more than just me."
She fixed him with a cold hard stare for what felt like several solid minutes. Under that suffocating scrutiny, Fitz felt compelled to revise his initial impression. Bobbi Morse wasn't merely intimidating– she was downright terrifying.
"Okay," she said suddenly, her face relaxing into an affable smile. Her assessment of him was complete and for whatever reason, he'd been vetted. "I'll help."
Somehow, that didn't make Fitz feel any better. Not one bit.
"I'm perfectly capable of riding home," Fitz grunted, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I'm sure you are, Turbo," Mack said placatingly as he loaded Fitz's bike on the back of his truck. "But friends don't let friends who've had a few beers ride their bike home alone in the dead of night, alright?"
"It's 10:30PM," Fitz stated, his voice full of reproach as he buckled up, exuding indignation. Mack and Hunter chatted amiably during the entire ride, ignoring him while he sulked.
"Are you gonna tuck me in, too?" Fitz asked snidely as he unlocked his front door, the two of them still on his heels.
Neither bothered to answer but when Fitz clicked on the light, there was a collective gasp. Mack remained rooted where he stood while Hunter strolled to the pair of rocker gaming chairs– one well-worn and one barely touched, Fitz had been too embarrassed to tell the pushy seller he only needed one– and grazed the armrest reverently.
"Can I be your girlfriend?" he wondered aloud, starstruck, before he resumed gaping at his surroundings.
Every wall of Fitz's living room was covered with either rare action figures– in mint condition, boxes untouched, except for the Doctor Who ones which Fitz secretly enjoyed actually playing with– or the thousands of comic books he owned, neatly organized and displayed on custom-made bookcases. Inexplicably, he had also amassed an impressive collection of monkeys of all shapes and sizes.
Mack whistled appreciatively at a row of ancient Captain America back issues.
"Now I see why you didn't bother dating all these years." Hunter couldn't resist anymore. He flopped down on the chair, letting out with a deep sigh of happiness. "Maybe you were on to something, mate."
"It's just stuff," Fitz shrugged.
"Sweet, sweet stuff," Hunter amended, eyeing Fitz with newfound respect.
Jemma Simmons was in the zone. She should feel thoroughly exhausted after slaving away for 36 straight hours– during her so-called rest days, no less– but she didn't feel the least bit tired. Not when she was running on adrenaline and the brain rush of a major breakthrough. This could very well be a career-defining find, her most important work to date and, false modesty aside, her most brilliant one, too. She was vibrating with excitement– that paper was going to get her a lot of attention, she just knew it. The recognition she'd been yearning for was just around the corner.
She was humming to herself while doing some light editing when, suddenly, her laptop let out a long, distressed screech– something more animal than machine– before it froze completely and refused to restart. Or do much of anything at all.
"No!" she shrieked. "Don't do that!"
But it was already too late. The touch pad felt scorching hot and she tore her hands away with a yelp, just before she noticed the smoke escaping from the computer's vent.
"Please," she bargained uselessly. "I need those files! You can die as much as you want, as soon as I make a backup."
As the cloud grew thicker, Daisy's head appeared in the crack of the door. "What's going on?" Jemma's roommate inquired, her brow furrowed.
"I don't know," Jemma cried. "My laptop's gone rogue."
"Huh." Daisy came closer, cautiously surveying the fuming machine. "I hate to be the bearer of crap news, Jem, but I think that computer literally halted and caught fire."
"It can't have," Jemma insisted, gesturing frantically to dissipate the smog. "All my latest research is in there."
"Ouch." Daisy winced sympathetically, and opened the window wide before the room became unbreathable. "You really should have left me set up that automatic backup."
"Now's not the time for I told-you-sos." Jemma's glare was powerful enough to force an repentant half-smile out of Daisy. "Can't you dosomething? Aren't computers supposed to be your thing?"
"If you want a flawless chunk of code or need to hack into a decently protected system real quick, then yeah, sure, I'm your gal. But I'm afraid spontaneous combustion is a little outside my area of expertise and–"
She would have gone on, but her voice didn't carry over the screeching sound of the fire alarm.
Jemma stared helplessly at the smoking mess on her bed. "I'm so screwed."
When Jemma stepped into Shield Tech, holding the heat resistant bag at arm's length, an air of imminent defeat was etched across her face. Usually, she was a rather optimistic person, but the past three hours had her rethinking that mindset entirely. She stood by the entrance and looked around to the rows of flat screens, ergonomic keyboards and robotic vacuum cleaners for a few moments, wondering what the hell she was doing here, wasting her time when she should be writing her paper again from scratch– until a very tall guy with an easy smile and a trust-inspiring face walked straight to her.
"Hi, I'm Mack," he said, pointing to his name tag with his index finger. "How can I help you?"
"Hi. I've been told you offered repair services," Jemma said, her restlessness evident in her voice. "And, well, I'm in need of some serious repair."
A second, smaller guy whose name tag read Hunter, appeared next to Mack. "Repair, you say? You have been told right," he said joyfully, wrapping an arm around Jemma's shoulder. "We've got just what you're looking for." He used his grip on her frame to march her gently but firmly toward the far corner of the store of the store.
"Okay…" Jemma trotted about hesitantly.
"So, what is it that needs fixing?" Hunter asked conversationally. "Blender? Hair-strengthener? Or is it, you know–" he leaned in to stage-whisper "–avibrator?"
Jemma snorted, rolling her eyes. "My laptop set itself on fire and now months of hard work are at risk, so I would appreciate–"
"Oh, good. Perfect," Hunter answered, sounding pleased, as he maneuvered her to the right. "Fitz will have that under control in no time."
"You think so?" Hunter's confidence was only reassuring to an extent.
"There you go, love," he said, stopping in front of a bright blue cabin. "Fitz is your man. Don't worry bout a thing. You're in good hands, now. Capable hands. Right, mate?" Hunter said cheekily, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him give two thumb-ups before he and Mack quietly walked away.
"Hi", she said with an uneasy smile and a little wave. "Fitz, is it? Are you the computer whisperer?"
The man behind the booth's counter nodded hesitantly, staring at her with wide, bewildered eyes and an air of flustered embarrassment.
"Huh, hello. What seems to be the problem?" he asked in a thick Scottish accent, and Jemma couldn't help but notice his ears were turning pink.
"I was working on my laptop when it suddenly decided to self-immolate and I–" She huffed a sigh and decided to let her worry show. "You're my last hope. I could just replace the computer but I really need to access the hard drive. I've been working on this paper for weeks–"
"You didn't back it up?" His eyebrow shot straight to his hairline.
Jemma fixed him with an irate glare. "That's hardly the point."
Fitz reached for the bag she'd left on the counter and carefully extracted her laptop. He eyed it cautiously from every angle before he grabbed a screwdriver to open the frame.
He did have nice hands, Jemma noted to herself, with long, gracile fingers. Now he was solely focused on the machine in front of him, she took the opportunity to study him properly. He had a nice face, with pleasant features and striking blue eyes. The springy curls on top of his head looked soft– she had the oddest urge to reach over the counter and pull on one.
"What were you doing when it– did the thing?" he asked without looking at her.
"Just editing some notes."
"Was it resting on a plane surface?"
"On my bed."
He looked up for a fraction of second before his head dipped down again. "You shouldn't put a laptop on a soft surface. You'll block the vent, make it overheat."
"Oh." Now that she thought about it, it was entirely possible Daisy had told her something along those lines.
"Any error message?"
"No. It just made a sound and then went black and started smoking."
The frame came loose and Fitz set the screwdriver aside, scrunching his nose at the distinct smell of burnt plastic. "Huh. That's not good."
"I figured." She watched him work, fascinated by the way his hands moved.
"What is it about?" he asked as he rummaged around the computer's carcass.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your paper." He looked up to meet her eyes. "What is it about?"
"Oh. It's about an antiserum I created. It counteracts an entire class of rare infections. Very rare, in fact, but it could have other applications."
"Are you a doctor?"
"Yes. Well, not a medical doctor. I'm a biochemist."
"Impressive," he said, shooting her a smile. His eyes were even bluer than she'd previously thought.
"Fitz? Pardon me for being blunt but– you do know what you're doing, right?"
His head shot up and the chip he'd been holding fell right off his hand. "Sorry, what?"
"Are you any good?" she rephrased, wringing her hands together. She didn't mean to offend him, but if she had to start over from scratch, she wanted to be mentally prepared.
To her relief, Fitz merely chuckled. "Yep, pretty good. Funny how no one ever thinks to ask before handing me their stuff."
"It's just– I don't want to get my hopes up if you can't–"
Fitz reached over the counter and put his hand over hers in a reassuring gesture. "Look, I can't tell you if the computer's worth fixing at this point, but you will retrieve your data. I promise you," he said earnestly.
"Really?" For the first time since the incident, her constricting chest seemed to loosen up some.
"Really." His eyes fell on their joined hands and he stared, taken aback, as he proceeded to blush scarlet. She watched, fascinated, as his entire face and neck colored in a flash.
"Oh, thank you. I'm so relieved." She grinned widely before she abruptly sobered up, narrowing her eyes at him. "You better not let me down, Fitz," she said, but there was no force behind her words, only teasing.
He smirked, unfazed. "I'll do my best to power through."
Reaching inside her purse, Jemma fished for a business card. "Here." She scribbled under her name. "You've got my work direct line, home number, and my personal cell, too. You can't miss me. Please call me if you've got anything. Or if– well, call me."
"Okay," he said, blushing once more. "I'll call you."
"I'm not calling her," Fitz ground out for the upteenth time, glaring defiantly at Dr. Jemma Simmons' business card.
"Why the hell not?" Hunter shouted back from the gaming chair, his eyes never leaving the screen. He was engaged in a ruthless game of Street Fighter V with Mack, while Fitz fought his own inner battle on the couch. "She gave you her number. All her numbers. She wants you to call her."
Fitz's frown only deepened. "For updates on her laptop situation. Not so I could creep on her."
"Then don't," Mack cut in. "Ask her out for coffee or something. No creeping necessary."
"I can't do that!" Fitz screeched, horrified.
Did they really expect him to pick up the phone and go, 'Hi, I'm that guy from the electronics store, do you want to be my first girlfriend ever?' Hadn't his ego and dignity suffered enough over the past few days?
"Don't you like her?" Mack asked, fixing him with a no-nonsense stare.
"Of course I like her," Fitz huffed. How could he not like her? She was a drop dead gorgeous biochemist, for heaven's sake– basically Natalie Portman and Marie Curie rolled into one resolutely out-of-his-league woman.
"Then call her!" both men yelled in exasperation, perfectly in sync for once.
Under his breath, Fitz muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a stubborn 'you can't make me.'