#EDIT: adding additional tags for the cameos in this crack!fic because apparently they continue to sail over people's heads.

[averbaldumpingground]

Dialogue Prompt: "That is way above my pay grade."

It had seemed like such a good idea on paper when Darcy had told her, armed with her nice curling iron and that one dress from the absolute back of Jane's closet that had been hanging there, still in its dry cleaner plastic, since probably some time in the Cretaceous Period judging by how many mom jeans and flannels Darcy had had to excavate past just to find it, that they were going out. An excellent idea, really. An absolute stroke of pure genius.

And, more importantly, her brilliant plan had been working. Jane, pleasantly tipsy, was actually making friends.

Well, one friend. One very easy on the eyes male friend. Who had been totally okay with Jane interrupting his pool game to lecture him and like half the bar about physics or applied geometry or something. Darcy didn't know, but it sounded smart and very Jane-after-two-shots-of-tequila, so it probably still made sense. To people with a bajillion graduate degrees. Or engineers or something.

But Darcy didn't need to understand. She could totally tell that Mr. Tall, Somewhat Bewildered, and Probably-a-Pool-Shark was into it. Like really into it.

And sure, the dude had been wearing some kind of shapeless JC Penney funeral suit, but he was hot. Like really hot but kind of trying not to be. It wasn't working. Darcy still knew he was hot. Because she knew these things. Better than physics or quadratic equations or whatever.

The stranger in the creepy flasher trench coat she sat next to had just nodded. So he had probably agreed. Or been confused. He'd looked a little confused. But Darcy didn't mind. She was so right and she knew it.

And Jane knew it too. Because she was actually flirting!

Or, well, she was talking about gamma arrays. And something about nucleuses. Nucleii. Nuclice? Those tiny little atom thingies that blew up. Yeah, those!

Flasher Dude just blinked at her and kind of cocked his head. So okay, Darcy was drunk enough to narrate these things out loud. It was fine. Totally fine. And Jane showing interest in a guy was worth like a whole David Attenborough documentary's worth of narration. Well a guy who--

And that's when it happened. Because apparently Darcy had jinxed them by thinking about it.

"Really, Foster? The GRETA project? That's how you start talking dirty?"

Darcy groaned. Just one night. Just one frigging night.

"But the structural advancements--"

No. Not this again. Darcy really didn't even want to hear it. She banged her head against the bar. Mr. Probably Drives a White Van poked her shoulder. He looked concerned. Or maybe constipated. Darcy didn't know and didn't want to find out and--

"--really so pedestrian of you. The readings out of Cheyenne--"

"--Uh, Jane, was it? I think I'm probably--"

"--but germanium provides a--"

--just gonna go now?"

The hot guy had set down his pool cue. Nooo! This wasn't how the evening was supposed to go. Darcy had checked both their lab schedules. She knew she did. Overly Pedantic Jerkface was supposed to be babysitting the freshman astrology section tonight. Astromony? Astromasomething. That thing where they stayed up past 2 and--

"Man, that is way above my paygrade."

Hot Guy had gotten his jacket. And Jane hadn't even noticed. No, not even a little. Because she was glaring daggers at Overly Pedantic Jerkface, still in the center of the bar, the two of them openly doing that thing, where they were whisper shouting and stupidly close and Jane was waving her arms in his face. Something something Berkeley blah blah blah Dr. Whatsherface said-- Darcy was very much done.

And the worst of it was that she wasn't even surprised. Nope. Not a little. She had been totally on track to finally getting Jane laid. Which Jane really, really needed.

But then of course he showed up. Of course.

Darcy turned her head, the sticky mojito residue plastering her hair to her cheek. She sighed. Even the trench coat guy had left.

"--the long term implications of--"

She sighed again, signaling for another of whatever was the last thing the bartender had given her.

It was going to be a terrible night.