10
Every. Single. Time. Shirayuki thought that this was it, that she'd finally crashed to the bottom of this hellhole and things couldn't possibly get any worse—he kicks her feet out from under her. Sends her sprawling, desperately flailing to regain her stance.
"And how," Obi retorts, his own footing immutable as stone, "am I supposed to know that if you won't tell me?"
She finds her feet. "Oh, so now it's all my fault."
It just kept on going, kept on getting better and better, didn't it?
"You," he stabs a finger at her, emphasizing every word with a slow twist, "are too good a pretender!"
That knocks her off balance, but she recovers, comes back swinging.
"I wouldn't need to pretend if you'd just do your job!"
Obi swings his own arm around, slaps her counterattack aside. "I can't, unless you let me!"
And then—then there is a lull, a brief respite.
A stilling of limbs, and a catching of breath.
But not a calming of minds, nor of wills.
For each seeks the next opening, and each tries to guess the other's strategy.
Each searches for the quickest way to end this nonsense.
Shirayuki glares hard at her guard, trying to puff herself up, look more threatening than she felt. It's no good. She can't read him. She doesn't know what to expect, but she knows she won't like it.
Obi leans forward and she steels herself.
"I'm on your side, Miss." He sounds earnest, but his face is blank, ill effects of the previous exchange wiped clean off.
Such an abrupt change of tactics—a feint?
"Really?" So she drenches her own voice in venom. "I'd have never guessed."
The facade crumbles.
"You stubborn little –!" Obi's hand flies to his mouth—but it's too late, far too late. Because there it is again, that little warble –
– and this time, Shirayuki lunges.
"Little what?" she punches, throwing all the force her tiny frame can muster behind it.
He meets her gaze but doesn't respond. His hand remains frozen between them—palm out, fingers half splayed.
So she fists her own fingers into her skirts and goads him.
"I'm the punchline, right?"
It lands, she knows it does, from the twitch of his jaw, the tremor in his hand, and the sharp whoosh that accompanies each breath he forces through his nose.
But he simply stares.
Unblinking, unyielding, unmoving.
Her carefully contained rage threatens to boil over once more, but she checks herself. Checks her breathing, loosens her death-grip on her gown. It's a testament to the quality of the fabrics that she hasn't put a hole in it yet.
Still, she can't take much more of this.
Finally, he lowers his arm, if only just a bit.
"You don't have to trust me – "
"Don't patronize me." Shirayuki snaps.
Obi gestures for calm before settling back into the sofa, tilting his head until he is the one studying the ceiling. The rest of his limbs slowly slacken as he shakes off the pent-up tension.
And that—that is new.
" – Just, tell me how to help you."