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It was somewhere between the seventh dress she tried and the fourth hour of them walking through the mall that Ziara finally lost track of where they'd already been. Thrawn, of course, didn't seem to share her issues - he'd printed out the forms the Academy had given them, everything they needed for the ball neatly itemized.
“Why are you complaining? I remember offering to give you a copy,” he said, squinting as he searched for the price tag on one of the suits.
"That's precisely why I am complaining. This whole thing is a loss of time,” she shot back. “Believe me, once you've spent enough time with the Mitth, you'll see for yourself how many useless parties they all throw. And it's always the same, too - fake smiles, food you can't eat, clothes designed to kill you-”
He arched an eyebrow at the last part.
“Fine,” she huffed, “men's aren´t, so you'll get to skip that part of the fun.”
“And women's are?”
Ziara exhaled sharply through her nose and held up the hem of the dress she'd tried last - one that covered less than what her mother would have ever called proper. “Exhibit A,” she said, her gaze shifting to the stockings lying neatly on the rack. “Exhibit B. Those scar your thighs.”
Finally, she steadied herself against the wall and lifted up her foot, revealing the high heels she'd picked - the shortest pair she could reasonably wear. “And don't get me started on exhibit C. Modern day torture devices.”
“Or,” Thrawn said mildly, “maybe you are just not trained enough.”
“You can't train your body into that.”
“From my point of view, it's a test of balance. Balance can be learned.” He noticed the dangerous flush on her cheeks, and added hastily, "Of course, I'd be happy to be proved wrong.”
The glare she leveled at him could cut through transparisteel. At last, she tore the shoes off and handed them to him. “Prove yourself right instead.”
To her surprise, Thrawn accepted the challenge without hesitation. His eyes scanned the shoes like they were high grade weaponry, before he set them down on the ground. With smooth precision, he slipped into them, fastened the straps and straightened - towering over her now in absurd elegance.
That did not seem to bother him. He took a small, elegant step forward, followed by a second one, measured, unshaken. Ziara watched him walk to the other end of the suit section with the confidence of a model on a catwalk. She could swear she saw his hips sway. Her dignity was in pieces - he must have noticed it, because he stood even taller now.
“Oh. My. Stars.” She gasped. “Do a turn.”
A turn he did. She bit her lip, struggling not to laugh and bring the other customers' attention over to them. At least they weren't in uniform - they'd be disgracing only themselves, not the Academy.
Or at least, only Thrawn would be. He slid off the shoes at last and handed them back to her. “You're better at this than half the girls in the dorms,” she admitted.
“As I said: balance. It can be trained.”
She considered asking him how he'd trained it, but decided against it, shaking her head instead. If he knew that, the chances were high that he knew other things, too. Ziara could use those talents - and maybe the forms he'd printed, too.
“Fine. You win. Let's just hope you're half as good with makeup,” she said, tucking the shoes and the second copy of the form under her arm. “Because that's next.”