Done for the DRRR! kink meme on LJ. A friend of mine saw it and requested I do something for Izanami, so…here it is. Edited and revised because the original was rather poor.

These two are basically my OTP, but I've never written anything for them before. Either way, this story isn't all that shippy unless you want it to be. Enjoy~.

"Oi, Namie," Izaya breathes, leaning back in the leather chair at his desk.

Disinterested, Namie simply raises her eyebrows, staring blankly at her laptop.

"What should we do tonight?"

"I have work to do," she replies in her typical distant fashion. "And so do you."

He says nothing, but his face falls. He stares at her and waits for her to look up at him.

Eventually, her face stiffens and her rapid typing slows. Her thin eyebrows furrow together.

"Wait," she says, with a vague air of curiosity. "Why would you even suggest we do something in the first place?"

She looks up at him for the first time since she arrived at his apartment, and notices his hard stare. In return, her face lowers and relaxes into her usual uninterested expression.

"Whatever. It's not like it matters, anyway," she dismisses, and continues typing out an e-mail to Shiki of the Awakusu.

"Because it's my birthday today," Izaya states suddenly, as he stretches his slender arms above his head. "And it's no fun to stay stuck here on the wondrous day that I was brought in to this world – not when I could be gracing my lovely humans with my incredible presence, that is."

"Would you stop that? Your forced narcissism is getting on my nerves."

"Oh? Whoever said it was forced? I-"

"It should be obvious to anyone who doesn't worship you how strained that smirk of yours is getting."

Namie discontinues typing once more. She rests her chin on her palm, her face still not leaving the screen. Izaya simply assumes she's proofreading. She tends to take e-mails like this very seriously. It's good, really. She might be a dull and dangerous woman, but at least she's not a lazy or vindictive employee.

"At any rate, aren't you twenty-one forever, or something along those lines? Why would you celebrate your birthday if you don't even want to grow up in the first place?"

He is silent in response to her accusation, his mask of a smile still frozen on his face. Sighing, he rises from his seat and turns to face the window, his sharp features softened by the setting sun.

"Ah, I knew I shouldn't have trusted you with that secret. I should have just told you: 'Namie, I simply adore the prospect of aging!', and that there are no greater pleasures in life than ordering sushi and fatty tuna, watching movies, baking a cake, and having a relaxing time with my closest friends."

He laughs, but the sound is hollow and embittered. His narrow eyes seem to be searching for something in the distance, and yet they are present and observant, as though some part of him knows that what he's looking for mustn't be too far away.

"Or something like that," he muses.

"Mhm."

"You know," Izaya says abruptly, his thumbs tucked into his jean pockets. "I could just order you to go out with me."

As he says this, the knowledge broker turns to face his secretary to better examine her body language.

"It figures you'd say something like that. I wouldn't put it past you."

"Goodness, don't you ever get appalled when I say things like that to you? Most women would be in a huff if they received a comment like that, but you didn't even blush."

"I'm used to it by now," Namie states, plainly.

Izaya's smirk finally vanishes into a sour expression. The conversation, muddled with Namie's aloof disposition and his own contrasting personality, is going nowhere. His arms fall straight to his sides. He stands there still and stares at her once more, squinting at the glare of the laptop screen reflected on her tired, navy eyes.

The stiffening of her slim shoulders doesn't get by him. He is aware that she knows he's staring at her; examining her like a child examines ants through a magnifying glass. While most regard Izaya in a tentative, but curious manner, she always deals with his affinity for social science by completely ignoring him. When he scrutinizes her (as he does everyone), she erases as many traces of emotion as possible from her face in an attempt to evade his excellent profiling skills.

"You're like the kid who doesn't dive unless his parents are watching," he remembers her telling him once. "Seiji once sought attention in that same way, too. So I'm going to deal with you the same way I dealt with him back then: by not giving you an ounce of my thought."

At the time, he simply shrugged and made some sleazy comment about how much her turtleneck exemplified her bust size, and she just walked out of the apartment. Now, however, his one-liners faze him. He leans his weight against the window, trying to think of another way to ask Namie to get some cake with him.

The silence is broken by the sound of Namie's cellphone sliding open.

"Are you calling Seiji?" Izaya murmurs, without really thinking.

She doesn't respond, but she gives him a sharp glare as a steady warning.

Faintly, Izaya hears a familiar accent coming from Namie's phone.

"Yes, hi," she replies. "I'd like to order a sushi platter. Yes. Sure, whatever you want. Just make sure there's extra fatty tuna. Mhm. Thanks. The address is..."

Izaya stares at her blankly, and after a beat, he smiles. It's a warm smile this time, an almost apologetic one. He lets out a soft breath and turns away from her, staring at the city of Shibuya below him.

How unfortunate, he thinks to himself. It appears my precious humans will simply have to wait for me tonight.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!