Re: quicklog -- steph/dami: stephanie's loft.
[He grinned at her and at her poor-poker face, and it was a little bit mean, but largely, he gave her mercy. He let it go, even after she swatted at his hands like some large, blonde bird.—No, he didn't care, see? He was sipping the whiskey, which tasted horrible. Damian knew nothing about drinking, and he knew even less about drinking etiquette. He didn't know to wait for a clink of glasses. He didn't know he was supposed to sip. He had never had time for drinking or learning how to do it, though he might be expected to know a good drink from a bad one as a Wayne.
That, rather less like the charm, didn't come in the genes.
Stephanie gave her dog attention, and Damian noted the heavy pour of whiskey she gave herself, and he noted it with a smile. Until she commented on the smoking. He made his usual sound—a T against the teeth like flint to fire—and he ignored her. She had her answer. She didn't need him to give it. He didn't care for her disdain.
He did, however, care about what it was she was doing with her glass when she lifted it. The taste of the horrible drink on his tongue, burning, he glared at Stephanie's whiskey.] What am I supposed to do? [He didn't like not knowing.]