“You want me to do what, now?”
Ronin’s arms prop him over the table, his head tilted as he glares at the lady sitting across from him. He looks dominant, imposing. He knows he does. Leaning on desks menacingly is a relic from the force that never goes out of style.
Meanwhile, she’s the pinnacle of composure, even as he towers over her, and even as the hardwood underneath his hands dents at the unnatural pressure. Her hand reaches for the clay pot on the nearby tray with all the patience in the world, slow, deliberate. His eyes trail it, and her eyes trail his, as she fills her cup with tea and then she brings it to her lips. Her gaze stays locked on him. “I don’t think it bears repeating, does it?”
“Well, I think that bear sure needs some repetition,” he snarks, his brow furrowing. “I’m not fucking babysitting.”
“Well, luckily for you, Ronin,” she starts. She’s got that fucking tone again, like she’s caught a child in a lie, “You aren’t. Think of it more as witness protection, if you will.” Her body leans forward to meet his defiance, her left hand resting over his. “Come on. Don’t make another table come out of your paycheck again.”
His arm wavers. Their eyes meet. It’s strange, looking her in the eyes, because only recently does he know where to look. This whole ‘his boss being real, sort of’ is something that he’s surprised he hasn’t grown accustomed to.
But he can’t keep the staredown forever. Well, that’s a lie: they could both reliably sit here forever, further damaging the sanctity of this table. But he knows he shouldn’t. Nothing’s going to get done if he does. And then he just…
“Fine,” he mumbles. Ronin stands straight, hands going to adjust his tie. Faint etchings of where his palms were resting stand out from the oak desk. “Whatever. Just fill me in, boss.”