Title: Benefit of the Doubt
Summary: You hunted humans for experimentation and I manipulate people for my own sick amusement. We're twisted. We're cruel. We're the lowest of the low. We're alone. Nobody likes us. We're perfect for each other— Izaya, Namie.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Disclaimer: DRRR! is owned by Ryohgo Narita

-X-

EDIT: This was previously deleted on FF some time last year because apparently, you weren't allowed to have curse words in the summaries. I didn't know that it was an issue before since there were many fics that also had curse words in the summaries, but I guess they're getting pretty strict on that now.

I revised the summary, edited a few grammar mistakes, and reposted it to be read. I've been meaning to repost it sooner, but it took quite some time since I'm preparing to apply to colleges. It's a shame that it was deleted, but I remember working really hard on this fic so I wanted to share it again c:

-X-

"You know," Izaya drawls from his desk, staring up at the white-washed ceiling like he saw a revelation hidden beneath the cracks. "If you really think about it," He pauses then and places a finger on his chin, adopting an innocently curious tone, "We're perfect together."

Namie chokes on her drink. She smacks it down on the coffee table and muffles her ungraceful coughs with the back of her sleeve.

"Then don't think about it." She says curtly after clearing her throat and throws a cold glare his way.

He lowers his eyes from the ceiling and turns them towards her, sharp and dark brown. Sometimes they are dark brown. Sometimes they glow red in the phosphorescence. Sometimes, in the right light, he succeeds and appears like he's just another man.

His smile is humorous, though it holds a certain wryness."Fine, fine, whatever. It was just a passing thought." Izaya sighs complacently and laughs underneath his breath.

Namie's eyes narrow, but she leaves it as what he said it to be. A passing thought. She was too callous to care for his notions.

They both eventually return to their work.

But it's not.

It never is.

It just simply starts out like that—

Passing thoughts.

It was kind of funny, really— ironic in the way suicide pacts were, or sick jokes. Well, at least to him, anyway. They suited each other so well. He was twisted. She was cruel. He was insensitive. She was indifferent about it. He was heartless. She was cold-hearted. And they were perfect for each other.

And yet, despite that compatibility, he didn't find himself attracted.

Oh yes, she was very attractive.

But he was never attracted.

He supposed that it was because he already loved all of humanity in general that his attentions just couldn't be limited to a mere individual. It was too selfish of him, denying the world his love. Too boring. Or perhaps his attention just couldn't be bothered at all.

If so, then if Cupid did exist, along with Valkyrie gods and Dullahans, then he must've been giving him one hell of a time.

He suddenly laughs, because it's such a stupid joke.

"Put the manila folder—"

"—in the file cabinet, I know. Where do you want—"

"Just leave it there. Have you typed the—"

"—business transaction on the Arakawa deal? I have. From all the past deals you've had with him, you're seriously—"

"—cheating him? Ha! You should've seen that stunt he tried to do on me two years ago. He's lucky I'm still even providing him with some information—"

"Some? These are all irrelevant stuff, you know, just tiny details."

"If he's smart enough like he says he is, then he'll figure it out."

"Eventually."

"It can happen. If he's smart enough."

A sigh. "Whatever. What do you want for—"

"Rice omelet."

Namie hesitates as she looks up from her own laptop and to the man at the desk, buried amidst his own set of paperwork.

He's currently wearing his reading glasses; a trait which he only does when they were elbow-deep in paperwork. It's because he always slacks off, easily getting amused and distracted by his passing fancies that they had to have days like these, like it was perpetually tax season.

But it suddenly disconcerts her. Something about the smooth and effortless way that they talk to each other in moments like these, moments when she's at the couch and he's wearing his reading glasses, busy yet technically comfortable; moments when they're finishing each other's sentences without even really thinking about it. Something about it— everything about it, disconcerts her.

He suddenly stands up from his seat and walks over to one of the bookshelves, dark eyes skimming over a paper in his hand. He doesn't have to look up to pull out the folder he needs, because she's already arranged all of it in proper order before, and somehow, he knows that.

Namie watches this, and she is instantly reminded of what he said the other day.

"We're perfect together."

It sounds alien and abrupt, sitting too cold and heavy in her stomach. She instinctively loathes it, because in that certain moment—

It fits.

The fact that they are not enticed by each other is obvious. But even so, it doesn't stop him from wanting to test out just how thick that certain line is and see how far he can break those boundaries before everything comes crumbling down.

So he pretends that he's attracted, just for a while, on the sole purpose that he merely wants to see what would happen. Reason is, of course, mixed out of his plans, because even if he's sharp and calculating, he's always been drawn towards the illogical.

He doesn't need to have a reason. Besides, he's such a nice actor.

One of the most intriguing things he likes about humanity was— is that they were able to learn, develop, and adapt.

So he tells her this; he says, 'You know, Namie-san, one of the most intriguing things I like about humanity is that it's able to learn, develop, and adapt in order to survive'. It's a fact that is both inevitable and brilliant, especially when he adds in a teasing voice; "Do you think you'll have to learn to put up with me, Namie-san, to develop, adapt, and survive too?"

Namie barely glances up from her work when he asks her this question. He ignores the clear disregard of his words, and merely carries on.

"Because we both know you're not going anywhere." He says quietly, lips quirking upwards in amusement. "Well, it's not that you won't go anywhere, actually, it's because you simply can't. In order to survive, you must stay here and learn to put up with me. But maybe, it doesn't just apply to you. Maybe, it applies to me as well."

"Are you trying to patronize me?" She suddenly erupts, invoking a pleased expression from him. The woman narrows her eyes at his ridiculous, though off-putting fronts. Every syllable that tumbles out of his lips is always something to be suspicious about.

"I'm merely stating something." He reasons.

"Like what?"

"Like, of course I don't need to put up with you in order to survive, but I can choose to take advantage of it. I can learn to love you, and you can—"

"No." She immediately says, dismissing the notion before he can even finish his sentence. It makes him blink. "It won't work. I don't care how great of an actor you think you are, Izaya, but you can't create nonexistant emotions." She stresses, shooting him a firm, acidic look that leaves no room for anymore retorts.

Her scathing glare lingers on his face, and his lips absently press into a thin line, the playful expression on his face instantly twisting into a haughty look.

He allows her a bit of credit for being able to call him out, but that's it. It's nothing spectacular. He just keeps on underestimating her capacity to hate him, that's all.

But it hurts his pride a little.

He starts to dedicate his time in proving her wrong.

More than six months has passed, and they slowly become more tolerant and somewhat comfortable in each other's presence.

She learns that if the office is too quiet, he'll randomly speak up and tell her facts about his life, as if he was reminiscing. Sometimes, he'll even open up about his thoughts, share a glimpse of his human side if he feels like it before abruptly shutting up and covering it with a secret smile. He has a dimple on the right side of his cheek.

And he learns all the small changes of emotions in her features. She bites the inside of her lip when she wants to laugh, but doesn't because its both unprofessional and embarrassing. She twitches when she's flustered. She mutters incomprehensible things when she drifts off into sleep. And sometimes, she allows herself to be something of a girl when she thinks he's not looking.

But it's been more than six months ever since they've started working together, and in horror, she realizes that she's slowly starting not to mind it anymore.

The cooking, the cleaning, all the irritating housewife chores that women typically do for their husbands, as well as her secretarial duties... she realizes that she's starting to get used to it.

One day, she actually finds herself sitting at the small kitchen table, idly waiting for him to come home before eating.

Her eyes widen when she catches herself in this act, feeling immediately dumbstruck and repulsed. She tries to excuse it by stating that her actions are merely from a force of habit.

She's done it so many times now—more than six months, in fact, that it's nothing to be concerned about. But it becomes more disturbing as the days drag past, and eventually, she finds that she's even more irritated about it now than before.

Where did her independence go?

You don't have it.

Where did her power go?

You don't have it.

Her career, her authority, her subordinates?

All gone.

Six months ago, she was the chairman of a corporation. She had her own office and people she ruled over with an iron fist. But now, look at her.

All these thoughts come rushing into her head like a hard slap. But she merely exhales and counts to ten, determined not to bristle, not to be provoked.

If she has nothing left—all those hard years of work that she's aimed for, gone, then she at least has her aloof. If she becomes infuriated with her own self, starts to hate her own self, then everything will indeed be lost.

So she picks up her plate, pops it in the microwave, and eats it in front of the TV, not bothering to wait for the man.

Every little thing she does is a step to regain back her independence, a sign of defiance that even if she's lost the title to her name and her reputation, then she still at least had her head perched high on her shoulders.

When he comes home, however, she notices that he's a little hurt by the gesture. She's not sure if it's mocked or genuine, but she's willing to bet half her life savings that it was the first one.

"You didn't even wait for me?" He asks, sounding incredulous and offended. His eyes are wide with what seems to be genuine surprise, but his posture— relaxed, casual, and a hand touching his chest as if to provoke her, screams an entirely different thing.

She barely glances at him when he strolls over and splays an arm over the sofa, the other propped up and resting underneath his chin.

"I'm rather disappointed, Namie-san." He tuts, shaking his head in morose and heaving a dramatic sigh. But then his voice lowers, growing slightly colder, and it shows her a glimpse of his cynical view of the world.

"I kind of thought that we had a good thing going on here," He drawls slowly, before tilting his head and smiling at her.

"Oh well, but I guess not. I liked it, though, while it lasted." He says, and the smile comes out with a certain edge, holding a trace of a warning—a threat. Something tells her that he doesn't enjoy being deliberately left out on things.

Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn't say anything back, keeping her aloof, nor does she move when he suddenly reaches over and steals a bite from her fork.

"Hmm, pretty good."

He decides to up his performance a little. After all, if he was ever going to make her realize that she was indeed severely wrong, then he has to put more of an effort into it.

He wants to see how she'd react when she finds out, or perhaps, maybe she already had—but then, he still wanted to make her acknowledge it. Admit to it. Admit defeat.

It's a game. And she's unlocked a whole new level. Something that he's never had to do before, until now. It makes him giddy and excited and he laughs even louder because of it.

Yes, their relationship is pseudo, but it's not impossible. He can see it work, and he can see himself destroying it if it does work, and he sees that he'll enjoy it. Wrecking her, ruining her.

But one thing he can't see is a happy ending, and for a slight second, his smile breaks.

A few more months pass, and the honorifics drop.

He's stepped his game up, and it works. He takes too much pleasure in teasing her, provoking her, getting her all riled up, and she becomes too tired of his acts, too irritated from it all.

So she asks him, one day, angered and sour, "What do you want?"

He smiles and answers her in a heartbeat, never losing face. "You already know what I want." He takes a strand of her hair and holds it tenderly.

She immediately pulls away from him. "Don't touch me." She hisses, eyes hateful.

But for a short while, it works. She gives up and gives in, and he gets what he wants, like always. Their relationship transverses from being something forced to using each other.

He still occasionally puts on a romantic act, though, on days when he spots something pretty and thinks of spontaneously buying it, because it's both funny and ironic all at the same, and it'd be something to cover up their disfigured relationship, made out of business deals and spider-web lies, ready to break, betray, and back-stab each other under a mere second if it would benefit either one of them.

Because then, if he did that, it wouldn't seem so fabricated. So flawed and warped and insincere.

It'd just seem like he was merely another man, buying another present for his lover.

Then, it wouldn't feel so distant.

He smiles, and it comes out a little twisted. But hey.

She likes the bouquet.

-X-

"Namie~" He purrs softly into her ear, voice low and husky. She glances at the corners of her eyes, looking at him through her peripheral vision. His arms are suddenly wrapping themselves around her waist, snaking for a touch.

She's expertly able to hide the surprise in her face with an expression of irritable contempt. She hadn't even heard him come inside, hadn't heard the soft jingling of keys or the gentle padding of footsteps behind her.

What an enigma... She muses off-handedly, wondering whether he just suddenly felt lonely or bored. Because there were times when they saw each other and he'd merely give a charming smile, keeping his distance, and then there were times when he'd all of sudden come out of nowhere and latch himself unto her.

She doesn't know what he's thinking about when he does it, doesn't have a prepared hypothesis about the kinds of thoughts that might be running through his head when he spontaneously switches personalities. She's long ago learned that he's something of an anomaly. He changes his mind too often for her to care to keep up.

He inhales softly then, and she can feel his lips smiling behind her head. "Hmm, your hair smells good." He murmurs, laughing slightly. "Maybe I should start using your shampoo."

She lifts a wooden spatula to her lips, eyes gazing at the ingredients inside a broiling pot. "What do you want?" She asks as she places the wooden spatula back, slowly stirring the ingredients around before adding a pinch of salt.

He doesn't give a reply to her question, which she finds a bit strange, since he was all about answering questions. Instead, he opts to stay silent. The grip around her waist suddenly tightens.

Namie's eyes flicker to the side of his face, a bit disgruntled at the lack of a response, and just when she's about to tell him to go away and let her cook in peace, his mouth opens.

"Want to be mine, Namie-san?" He asks unexpectedly and she's momentarily struck. She swivels around then, gazing into the cocky smirk that's already stretched out upon his lips. And although his expression is the epitome of playful and devious, she can't help but think that his voice sounded a little bit empty. Bare.

"Want to be mine, Namie-san?"

He asked her that, and yet, he didn't even mean it.

It's bullshit, after all. They'd grow on each other if they were even lucky, but it's not love. It will never be love. It won't be the same.

But he still wants her there, nonetheless, in a sort of selfish, bizarre way. Besides, she was the only one who ever managed to stay by his side up until this point. And it wasn't because of some silly thing called love. But by circumstances. By force.

Because he saw an opportunity, and he took it, and he offered it to her. And because the universe stuck her to him, and she has to stay by his side if she wanted to continue living comfortably.

She was one of the few good constants in his life. A natural routine, you could say, like watching TV late at night, or drinking hot coffee when it was cold.

There was just something homy about her presence being in the kitchen, something that his apartment had always lacked, and for some reason, he took quiet satisfaction in it. Like how it was satisfying to a child when he didn't need to turn around to know that somebody was there.

She already hated him, so it wasn't like he had anything else to lose.

At his words, she couldn't help but pursue the thought that maybe— maybe, the glorified Izaya, who practically thought himself as a god, was somewhat unhappy with the way his lot turned out. Dissatisfied, despite his playful and teasing nature.

She thinks that maybe it's the reason why he continuously troubled his rival, because he was jealous of the life that the other man led.

She thinks that maybe it's the reason why he loves the entire human race, to fill that frighteningly empty void inside his chest.

So for the third time in her life, the woman found herself relenting.

"Fine," Namie says, closing her eyes and sighing. But when she opens them again after a few seconds, she finds his crimson-brown irises boring straight into hers. "I will be a companion, but I will not be yours."

Izaya smirks, filling in the distance between them. "Close enough."

There's a fine line between love and hate. And they are threading on it.