Re: quicklog -- steph/dami: stephanie's loft.
[He actually laughed. It wasn't carefree, because Damian didn't do carefree, just like he didn't do fun, but he did laugh in wry, mean-spirited amusement at the woman.] What does that mean? [He asked of him knowing if she was actually drunk.] Don't vomit on me. [It was teasing, if said coldly, but before it was a thought that could be followed, he was distracted by the cat, then the dog. His dark eyebrows rose at the eyeroll and he scoffed again.] Dogs deserve more respect than a name like Flounder provides. [It was clear he believed what he was saying, but Damian patted the pup on the head and went for the drink.
Of course Stephanie's inner monologue regarding her worries and hopes was unknown to Damian, not that he would have endured it. He had never spiraled. Such a word implied a loss of control in such a way that he wouldn't have abided by it, not in reference to himself. His clone or whoever, fine, but he maintained they were not the same, save for face and name.
The woman's shoulder hit his, but he didn't so much as budge. He turned, watching Stephanie fetch another glass, and he couldn't help the smirk on his lips as she went self-conscious, fingers on the fringe of her shirt, tugging it down. His eyes dragged up from her grip, and he leaned forward, across the island, gaze fixed on hers. He reached, his own fingers opening toward her—, and it was all misdirection, an attempt to fluster her and have her focus on his face and what he was doing, because then he took up the whiskey bottle.] You don't have to be self-conscious about it, [he told her with disdain, pouring himself too many fingers of the drink, without any finesse.] Imagine if it were the opposite. [Damian smiled, a Wayne-inherited split of lips that skewed toward charming. He wasn't as good at it as he thought, but some of it was inborn, only to be swallowed back with that second splash of whiskey.]