a/n: While writing this, I realized that I have over forty stubs of Steph/Dami drabbles, story beginnings, and random crap. They now have their own file on my computer. When I reach fifty, I'll know for sure that I've lost touch with reality. And have no attention span. Hooray for obsession!
"This has got to be torture." Damian gripes for about the sixteenth time.
I slip my finger under the backsling on the pair of sandals that I'm trying on, drawing it up over my heel, and ignore him.
"Cruel and unusual punishment."
I totter to my feet, unsteady in the wedge heels. The sandals do wonders for my legs, but I'm worried about the state of my neck as I teeter over to the nearest mirror. One wrong step and it's splitsville for me. Not exactly the first impression that I want to make this weekend.
"You know what's cruel and unusual punishment?" I say conversationally. "Having to go to your ex-boyfriend's wedding. That's cruel and unusual punishment."
"This is child abuse." Damian protests.
"It's shoe shopping. Get over it."
"Exactly. I'm a sixteen-year-old boy and you took me shoe shopping." he replies. "You are obviously trying to kill me."
"Please." I scoff, pivoting to see my calves. I'm seriously loving these shoes, but for a girl who turns gymnastics into a fighting style, I'm having an inordinate amount of trouble keeping my balance. "Name one thing in this store that could cause you minor discomfort, let alone kill you."
Damian rests his palm on one of the shoe racks. "These metal bars could be pried apart and used as clubs or throwing knives."
I shoot him a look. "I doubt the cashier is versed in ripping steel."
He looks at her-a girl a couple of years younger than me, in a mini skirt and heels so high, they make my wedges look like toddler wear-and quickly glances away. "Therein lies a greater danger." he mutters, and whips out his phone.
"What?" I stomp over to him, precarious, and snatch the thing out of his grip. Since he turned fifteen, Damian's been attached to his phone by glue. God only knows what he does on it. "What was that, Damian Wayne? An interest in something other than crime? And a girl, no less?"
He mutters something in Arabic and pointedly doesn't look at me.
"Damian. Look at people when they're talking to you." It's been five years, but I still feel like I'm lecturing a child whenever I'm with him. "Damian!" My impatience causes me to forget that I'm still on stilts, and when I lunge at him, intending to put him in a headlock until he finally admits that, yes, he is attracted to female presences, I lose my balance and have to grip his shoulders for support.
He instinctively grabs my elbows, and my head slams into his collarbone. He barely winces. "I wouldn't recommend those shoes." he says mildly, but with just the right amount of snark to irritate me. "You look like a circus performer."
To make matters worse, the cashier is now looking our way. I give her an "everything's-fine-nothing-to-see-here" wave, and plop down on the bench across from the one that Damian is perched on, grumbling.
"You never like any of the shoes that I pick out." I accuse.
He arches an eyebrow. "My apologies. You look gorgeous in those death traps. May I have my phone back, now?"
"What do you do on this, anyway?" I don't give it back. Instead, I flip it around to face me, unashamedly snooping. "Text your girlfriend?"
He makes a grab for the phone. "Why are you so hung up on the idea of me being romantically entangled with a female?"
"Jealousy?" I shrug, and laugh. His face flushes. "Don't tease me."
I wave the phone at him. "Give me the passcode?"
"Like hell. Give it back, Brown." Damian tries again to take it from me.
"Ooh-Brown. Now we're getting serious." I coo, then toss him the phone. He catches it in one hand, not taken off guard at all, and goes back to ignoring me.
I take off the "death traps" and go hunting for another pair. "What do you wear for shoes to your ex-boyfriend's wedding, anyway?" I call over my shoulder to Damian.
"Why is Drake getting married?" he calls back. "The divorce rate is up by nine percent, and he isn't very easy to get along with."
I snort. He's one to talk.
"Besides, twenty-two is too young for that sort of thing." Damian says, sounding like an old biddy. I suppress another snort and pick out a pair of lower, safer sandals.
"Is it okay to wear white after Labor Day if it's for a wedding?" I ask, once I've brought the shoes back to the bench to try on.
"Also, people in our line of work rarely stay in relationships long. Drake, in particular, has an extremely bad record." Damian goes on. I don't think he's paying attention to me at all. "Why take the risk when he's perfectly fine as he is now?"
I slip the shoes on. "In my opinion, the one being punished here is me. After all, I have to listen to you."
"Marriage is an institution of the state, and therefore I am bound to be suspicious of it to begin with." Damian says.
He really isn't paying attention.
"Maybe I'll just off myself right now."
"That would be a refreshing change." He almost smiles at me. I throw a shoe box at his head.
"You know what? Balls to this-I'll pull a Bella and just wear sneakers. Let's grab lunch at the food court." I shove my current pair of shoes-simple flip-flops-back onto my feet and haul him up. He slips his phone into the pocket of his jeans and makes an exaggeratedly relieved face. "Thank God. I thought that we would be here forever."
"It was barely twenty minutes!" I object. The cashier is looking at us again. Damian strides over to one of the shelves and pulls a box out, tucking it under his arm. He throws a hundred dollar bill on the counter and leaves the store.
The clerk looks at me, blushing slightly. "Is your boyfriend usually that . . . assertive?"
"What?!" I balk. "He isn't my bo-"
"Brown!" Damian barks from somewhere outside. The girl's blush deepens. I trot after the seriously exasperating little twit who's standing just outside of the shoe store, beside one of those weird leafy mall plants, scowling. "Must you talk to everything that breathes?" he demands as soon as I'm in his sight.
"What's that?" I gesture towards the box. He thrusts it at me, eyes on the floor. "Ergonomical. Fashionable. The perfect shoe. And no, I did not get it for you. I got it so that you wouldn't be tempted to haul me to another six footwear stores after we ate."
I open the box, and gasp. "How did I not see these?"
Okay, he lied. They aren't perfect. They're actually kind of ugly-but he's a guy. And he's probably making up that whole ergonomical thing just so that I'll take them and shut up. But I am surprised I didn't notice them-what with the flowery Hawaiian print and gigantic toe flowers, they're easily the loudest pair of shoes I've ever laid eyes on. They could probably double as traffic signs, or pass as the latest in circus clown chic. For me to have not seen them means that it's time to think seriously about getting glasses.
I put the cover back on the box and say, unconvincingly, "Thanks, Dami. They're awesome."
He looks at me for a long moment, until I get paranoid and demand, "What?!"
"Your left eyebrow twitches when you lie," he observes, and smirks. "You have a terrible poker face, Brown. And I truly hope that you don't intend to actually wear those shoes."
"Then why did you get them?" I ask, exasperated with his condescending attitude.
"Wedding present," he says smugly. At that, I laugh outright. I can only imagine the face that Tim will make-but still-
"Damian, that's really mean. You should give a gift that's nice and thoughtful and from the bottom of your heart. Not something that you picked out on a moment's whim to mock me with," I lecture.
"Stephanie," he says seriously. "Your left eyebrow just twitched."