"Whiskey neat," Fury hollered after him and went to his favorite corner table near the kitchen with a good view of the stage; not so far that he couldn't see the women but not so close that he had to be near any of the skeevy motherfuckers grouped around it. Those were the sweaty fucks who leered and groped and cat-called. Sleazy assholes. Nick was just here for some fine ass steak (any actual fine asses in the vicinity were a fortuitous bonus).
"Hey there, sugartits!" Fury hollered in greeting to a familiar waitress in a skimpy two piece leopard print costume that matched the place's weird jungle decor of fake vines and artful paintings of wild animals on velvet. When Tony returned with the drinks Nick was still chatting with the scantily clad brunette who was in the process of telling him, "-No, she comes in later. Don't think she's gonna last too long. Boss caught her popping particles."
Nick frowned and shook his head, offering a Stark a long suffering look. "Fucking Pym. Between him and Richards and, fuck even you-" he grumbled, jabbing an accusatory finger in the air between he and Stark. "Fucking scientists." His attention returned to the bemused waitress who he stared at for a moment in bewilderment before he smacked her on the backside and jerked his head towards the kitchen. "Get that steak order in, girl."
Before she even got to the kitchen he drained his whiskey and slammed it back down on the table top, then turned his gaze to Stark- only to immediately have it pulled away by a woman taking the stage. "How's the wife?" he asked, distracted.