STATUS: closed for @thephoebeyates LOCATION: weaver ridge, outside o'shea's
It’s fine. No one at O’Shea’s actually knows him — not since that one time he’d ordered a Sprite at the bar because the angry-looking brunette had glared at him for asking for water. It’s highly doubtful he’ll find anyone he knows, or, rather, anyone who knows why he’s not supposed to be there. It’d taken days to convince Jason maybe they should go to a bar — drink out in public, with other people. He eventually relented: something about Damian’s whining starting to grate on his nerves, but warned him they’d only stay for an hour after work, and not a second longer.
Damian’ll take what he can get, really.
He’s climbing out of his Jeep when his phone chimes with new messages from Jason, and Damian frowns down at them as he reads them.
JASON: Got stuck at work. JASON: I’ll be there in 30 mins. JASON: Don’t talk to anyone.
Heart in his throat, Damian is wondering if maybe he’d just be better off waiting in the car, then, and when he looks up to contemplate this, he spots Phoebe, of all people, walking up to him.
Fuck — he’d forgotten about Phoebe’s affinity for O’Shea’s.
He seriously considers jumping back in the Jeep and driving away, but she’s way too close to him now for it to seem natural, so he offers her a tight smile in greeting, instead. “Hey, Phoebs,” he clears his throat. Don’t talk to anyone. Jason had technically meant don’t talk to anyone inside the bar, right? Surely a short conversation on a public sidewalk with Phoebe won’t count against him. “What’s up? How’ve you been?” He injects as much cheeriness into his tone as he can; figures it’s easier to get rid of her quicker, that way.