A/N: My first ever DN fic. Uhh… this is really more of an exercise to get back into writing. It's not as long (or as good) as I thought it'd be. Post-post-series oneshot (you know, the one with Yamamoto).

Hideki Ide really hated television. He barely ever touched his set—it was a huge waste of time. He would occasionally turn it on to watch the news, or catch the weather, but a newspaper generally did its job for him, and he was on the police force. He hated those ridiculous variety shows—he hated seeing people make fools of themselves for attention or money. He hated romantic dramas. Sitcoms and comedy shows were trite, useless things, and killed more brain cells than anyone could afford to lose.

Ide didn't laugh very much; he wasn't a cheery person, and didn't see why he should have to be. Nobody tried to make him laugh, except when Matsuda forgot and cracked a dumb joke, bright eyes sliding over Ide's sullen face. These were usually worth a grimace. Ide only smiled when there was good news on a particularly difficult case, or when Matsuda was unintentionally funny. Sometimes he remembered these moments, and allowed himself a private little smile, eyes closed.

Ide sometimes remembered the way Misa Amane would smile at Raito, her small hands grasping at him and childish laugh bubbling up in her childish throat. Ide didn't have much contact with women, and her behavior had repulsed him. He knew they weren't all like that, but he still thought he'd prefer something deeper and darker to something so small and high-pitched.

Amane and Raito were dead now, anyway.

There had been girls like that at the bar—the one time Ide consented to go. They sent several indiscreet looks to their table. Ide knew they weren't looking at him; he never captured anyone's attention, and he knew Matsuda was very handsome.

This was a good thing, though, because Ide really hated flirting. He'd never gotten the hang of it, even though Matsuda teasingly offered to help him. The entire act was ridiculous and inane, but probably the reason he'd slept alone for so long. Even Mogi, huge and silent, could pull it off—probably. He'd never seen Mogi in action, as it were, but the man had somehow acquired a fiancée. Ide couldn't imagine conversing that way with someone he'd just met. Wasn't it better to form an attachment with a friend—someone you already knew, whose moves you could predict, whose favorite food you had shared? You could love someone you didn't have to flirt with.

It wasn't that Ide was depressed. He felt what he considered to be normal levels of satisfaction, and happiness and relief when everyone made it through a dangerous bust. He was over the Chief's death. He could smile at someone, as long as they'd smiled first, but he just wasn't the indefatigable ball of energy that Matsuda was.

On Ide's forty-third birthday, Matsuda gave him two terrible romantic comedies and a box of Pocky. Ide hated Pocky. But later, Matsuda handed him three paperbacks he'd been coveting, popped the first DVD into the player, and threw himself onto Ide's sofa, already laughing his ass off.

Ide didn't like television, but Matsuda did. And Ide loved Matsuda.