Disclaimer: I don't own Durarara!, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Ryohgo Narita and Suzuhito Yasuda. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
Permanent
How perfect it would be, she thinks, if she could have what he gives to that girl. That fake, that stalker, that useless mass of sin. She's a sinner, too, of course, but she admits it. The girl, who clings so happily to her brother's arm, has no sense of self. She doesn't understand that, once Seiji grows tired of her, of that mask she calls a face, he'll come back to her. That's how it had always been.
Her Seiji had always come back.
But the thought does little to suppress the hysteria that wells up inside her head. She spins with vain assumptions, all designed to drive her insane. Somehow the idea, the nightmare, creeps in again. What if she can't find him? What if he's gone so far that she'll never see him again? What if he really does fall in love with that damned experiment of hers?
"It's not about protecting your brother, is it, Ms. Yagiri?"
She glares at him, the broker, trying to erase that smug grin from her mind. If only Seiji were here, he'd turn it upside down and make the man beg for his life. A nice fantasy, but unlikely.
"That's none of your business!" she shouts, slamming her hands on his desk. The computer screen shakes slightly, unlike his gaze. He just keeps staring at her. She grimaces, falling back into the chair. "Your only job, Mr. Orihara, is to find my brother. If you insist on making rash assumptions and avoiding your duty, I'll be forced to find another source."
Oh, yes. Rash assumptions. What a load that is. In fact, he's correct, though she hates to admit it. She loves Seiji, lives to make him happy and to protect him, but she hopes that someday he'll return the warmth she's given to him.
Those ideas, wicked as they are, are the only things about her that she's certain are permanent.
"My duty?" he laughs, fingers flying across his keyboard. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Ms. Yagiri, but didn't you come to me? Did you, or did you not, pay me a visit in hopes that I'd locate your precious Seiji?" Another laugh. "It's horrid of you to tell me not to assume things, you know. You see, I'm left with very little, besides my assumptions, to alleviate my boredom."
It's irritating, that snide giggle of his.
There's a sound, a sharp click, that startles her. She feels her eyes widen, the knife tip beneath her chin.
"This is what you'd like, isn't it? To have me under your thumb like this. To hold my life securely in your hands." He lays his fingers over hers, the knife handle pressed into her palm as he guides the blade towards himself. "Do you treat your beloved Seiji like this, Ms. Yagiri? Do you fantasize about making him beg for it? About having control over him?"
She almost nods, the images in her head playing like a film on the window behind him. Yes, she'd like that very much. To pry her brother away from that nasty little girl and her revolting remains.
"I think we're done here," she says, dropping the knife onto the desk. "It's clear to me now that you only said what you did so that you could work to interrogate me."
"I thought that's what you liked. To control and be controlled." He laughs, shaking his head. "You just can't make up your mind, can you... Namie?"
She grabs her coat, glowering at him as she pulls it on. "Goodbye, Mr. Orihara," she says snidely, emphasizing the title. "I doubt I'll have the displeasure of meeting with you again."
"Be careful, little Namie," he calls as she heads out the door. "If you're not, you might very well choke on those sweets you fancy!"
A vulgar insinuation, even from the likes of Izaya Orihara. Stepping into the elevator, she remembers that there was steam rising up from the cup of tea to his left, and she wishes that she'd had a bit of cyanide on hand to toss into the mix. That would have silenced him.