Samantha Stewart

"Yeah," Fitz says, staring at the waiters. He's pretty sure the rats are waiters.

Can he mention this without drawing her attention to it -- no.

"I'll, um, go ask at the bar."

He gets up again, and squares his shoulders before walking to the bar, folder tucked under his left elbow. He dribbles his fingers on the bar surface.

Between one drum-beat and the next, what's under his fingers is no longer wood but paper.

Fitz blinks down. It's a package of notes, with Jemma's writing, all on top of a notebook.

He clears his throat, on scanning the first note. "Uh, some tea and brandy, thanks," he says, and picks it up from the bar as it arrives.

He sets it down in front of the woman, but abruptly goes back to reading the pile of notes he's accumulated.