#namie

He spends the worst part of the week icing his swollen eye and poking at the edges of the bruise, focusing on the hard edge of the discoloration as if he could find any inconsistency in the way it fades into his skin. Ugly purples and reds splotched together darkest around the edge of his swollen eye socket despite the bruise spanning up and around his eyebrow and temple. 

“You should have gone to the hospital.” Namie quips, tapping away at her laptop; pretending not to notice the way Izaya twists the mirror around himself. “Make sure he didn’t fracture anything.” 

Izaya laughs, the mirror in his hand clattering to the desk as his hand reaches for the ice pack instead. “Don’t be silly, I’ve had worse.”

“Suit yourself.” unphased by the reaction, she doesn’t even pause in her typing. “If you go blind don’t come crying to me about it.”

Izaya laughs, the mirror in his hand clattering to the desk as his hand reaches for the ice pack instead. “Don’t be silly, I’ve had worse.”

“Suit yourself.” unphased by the reaction, she doesn’t even pause in her typing. “If you go blind don’t come crying to me about it.” 

It’s easy to dismiss such a dramatic claim, after all, it was just a slap on the wrist. Izaya’s temple throbs and it hurts too much to look at the light from his monitor. He leans back in his chair to feel the warmth of the sun through his windows, both eyes closing with the icepack over the left. The pain radiates like a halo around his head, a throb in his temple spanning the entire hemisphere where his eye sits uncomfortably in the socket. Even though time has passed enough the pain should be starting to fade by now.

He doesn’t think about the discomfort of trying to see through his left eye for the past week, assuming it had been just a matter of easing the swelling. And sure, the swelling has gone down quite a bit compared to the first few hours after the blow.

The thud of something hitting his desk snaps his eyes open—well, the right eye at least—the left stays closed under the warming ice pack, and Izaya uses the chair to turn to see Namie standing with her bag slung over her shoulder. Her palm is flat on a stack of documents, the light of the day feels different than before. Warmer, darker, like the sun is lower in the sky than just a few moments ago when he first closed his eyes.

“Or maybe you should be more worried about a concussion.” She chides, smirk twisting her mouth into an ugly mimic of Izaya’s own mask. “I expect to be paid whether you die or not, by the way.”

With a huff, Izaya waves her off,  bidding goodnight before turning to his own monitor to get back to work. 

He doesn’t remember it being so close to quitting time for her, not that time as a structure has ever meant much to Izaya, but something just feels off about the whole thing. Had he fallen asleep? He could swear he was only resting his eyes for a moment, but that headache won’t ease up and he starts to consider maybe a trip to the doctor isn’t such a bad idea after all. It takes more effort to stand than he would like to admit, and even more to get around the office to put his ice pack in the freezer. Scrolling through his phone to find Shinra’s number feels like a task reminiscent of pushing that damnable boulder up a mountain as he unintentionally scrolls by the contact two or three times before finally catching the contact name.  He stumbles a bit, missing the distance between a step and the floor when he goes for his coat and shoes, irritation bubbling and growing at his such mundane missteps at every turn. It’s easy to blame Namie for putting the idea in his head, to blame her for noticing each and every little slip up, but it’s the easiest time he’s had maneuvering the office since getting hit and when he presses the little green call button for the third time the phone finally starts to ring.

Shinra, the bastard that he is, takes approximately forever to answer the phone and Izaya is not in the mood to beat around pretending to get rejected just because he wants to spend the evening with Celty. 

The line cuts, and through the phone Shinra’s voice is a beacon and a terror on Izaya’s headache. “Nnnyellow?” 

He does not admit to relief or surprise when Shinra actually picks up the phone. “You have time for a check up?”

There’s a pause, and Izaya doesn’t really care what the answer is because he’s already locked the door behind himself. Managing a straight line towards the elevator of the building and pretending the lights buzzing overhead aren’t needles at the base of his skull. Shinra’s initial uncertainty and then recognition evident alone in the way he hums and haws on the other end before he realizes, by way of Izaya’s tone or simply getting to the point that fucking around may not be the way he’d like to find out. 

“Sure, I’ll be home soon if you want to meet me there.” though he still sounds chipper as usual. 

Izaya can practically see the way his smile is beaming. 

“Great, see you soon.”