InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Pooh Bear ( Chapter 9 )

~Chapter 9~

~~Pooh Bear~~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle pulled the door closed behind her and let out a long sigh. Dropping her purse on the small table as she kicked off her shoes on the tiny indoor-outdoor mat beside the stand, she glanced at her watch: nearly five a.m.

 

Froofie didn't run to greet her. That figured. It seemed that the dog she adored had decided that he much preferred Griffin. In the few weeks since she'd moved in with the man, she'd come to realize that Froofie could be more fickle than any woman ever could be.

 

She sighed. There was no help for it, she supposed. At least Froofie had good taste, after all . . .

 

The living room was quiet in the thin light of the rising sun that was just starting to filter through the windows, casting everything in a pallid sort of grayish hue that lent a certain melancholy to the world at large. Isabelle stopped in the doorway as a gentle smile quirked her lips, lighting the depths of her eyes as she leaned against the frame, a soft giggle slipping from her but not loudly enough to disrupt the silence.

 

Griffin sat in the ratty old recliner with his feet kicked up and his hands clasped on his chest, holding a notebook in place. The journal peeked up beside him. It had obviously slipped off his chest when he'd fallen asleep. Froofie was curled up around the edge of the recliner as though he were protecting Griffin from anything that might disturb his rest.

 

Pushing away from the doorframe, Isabelle grabbed the brown afghan off the back of the sofa, letting it fall open as she shuffled over to the sleeping youkai. She tucked the blanket around him, noting with a bemused grin that he looked so much younger when he relaxed. She wasn't sure how old he was, but she knew that he'd lived for awhile. He had his face turned, his scars hidden from view, and her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. He really was a devastating man, and the scars didn't detract from that, at all. No, they lent him a rather dangerous air, and while she knew damn well that youkai in general could be a violent lot, the Griffin she knew was the furthest from violent as they came.

 

`Careful, Isabelle. Don't discount what could very well be just because you think that he's nothing but a pushover,' her youkai warned.

 

`I don't think he's a pushover,' she argued, reaching out to ruffle his bangs but stopping short with a soft sigh. She'd been drawn to him from the start, hadn't she? There was just something about him that seemed to whisper to her, regardless of whether he admitted as much or not. She wished that she felt confident enough to touch him; wished for that more than anything. Trouble was, she wasn't sure she dared do that; not really. As much as she liked to think that the two of them were inevitable, even she had to admit that Griffin had never allowed as much as a slight ray of hope that he thought she was anything other than a trial to him . . .

 

`What's this? You mean your legendary confidence is faltering?'

 

Biting her lip, she rubbed her forehead and padded off to take a shower. `No,' she argued as she strode into her bedroom to grab a change of clothes. `I'll just have to try that much harder, right?'

 

Her youkai snorted. `Hard to do that when you promised that you wouldn't come on to him while he's translating the research notes.'

 

Isabelle made a face as she stomped into the bathroom and quietly closed the door, wondering absently just how it could be that something as innocent as conversing with her youkai voice never failed to ruin the best of her moods. `That was the barter made in hell, wasn't it?'

 

`Hmm, quite possibly . . . can you blame the poor man, though? Let's face it, Isabelle. Your `in-your-face' style of doing things just isn't going to work on him. Best you learn some subtlety, and do it fast before you scare the man off forever.'

 

She grimaced. She'd never seen the need to play the games that some women insisted on playing. They didn't make sense. In her mind, it was better to lay it all on the table and see what happened. After all, what was the point of pretending to be looking for something that she knew wasn't meant to be? With Griffin, she'd known intuitively that he was the one. It was a feeling more than anything else, but it was one that she'd never felt before . . .

 

She sighed as she stripped off her hospital scrubs. She'd had to change into them at work when a three year-old girl puked all over her. Poor thing had been running a temperature of one-hundred-and-three degrees. She'd contracted a new strand of influenza that was particularly nasty and difficult to deal with. They'd been able to lower her temperature, but only by dosing her with ibuprofen and acetaminophen. Hopefully that'd work to keep her fever down until the antibiotics had enough time to work through her system . . .

 

It was dragging her down, wasn't it? The long hours; the incongruity of working in a public hospital emergency room . . . In the beginning, she'd kept the position at the hospital where she'd done her rotations because she'd come to care about the people she worked with, but she was starting to wonder if she was crazy for choosing to stay in a place where the patients were transient and where she only saw the worst of things.

 

Even then, there was the question of the research, too. She'd never be able to devote as much time and energy into completing it if she stayed on at the hospital. She'd be crazy to try. Working twelve hour shifts was trying enough. Dealing with new interns just starting their rotations was always difficult. Most of them had preconceived notions about what being a doctor really meant, and it wasn't really an odd thing for Isabelle to spend hours at a time correcting blunders or having to explain to a wayward student that they had to do things in a certain way . . .

 

She had a friend who ran a clinic downtown. Catering to the wealthier residents of Bangor, the clinic also had a spa and a center for mental well-being. `That was what they're calling psychiatrists these days,' Isabelle thought with a snort as she turned on the shower and waited for a minute for the water to warm. `Mental well-being . . . people don't want to admit that they're seeing a psychiatrist, so they cover it up by saying that they're going to see a well-being specialist . . . it's a load of crap, but whatever floats their boats . . .'

 

`Maybe Griffin should see one of those well-being specialists,' her youkai piped up as Isabelle stepped into the shower and squeezed her eyes closed against the flow of water.

 

`There's nothing wrong with his well-being,' Isabelle thought with a derisive snort. `He's fine . . . just fine . . .'

 

`Do you really think so? I mean, think about it. He's keeping something secret, don't you think? People who are saddled with excess baggage tend to act a lot like him . . .'

 

`We all have baggage, don't we? We wouldn't be normal if we didn't.'

 

`And I'm telling you, that man has more baggage than most. Mark my words: there are some things that even you can't do.'

 

`I can,' she insisted, lathering her hair in the thorough manner borne from watching her father scrub his hands every day. It was the surgeon in him, she supposed. Kichiro Izayoi's hands were always meticulously clean . . . `I can help him. I know I can.'

 

`Only if he wants your help, and at this point, I'd say he doesn't,' her youkai pointed out with a tired sigh. `Face it, Isabelle: you might be biting off more than you can chew.'

 

`I still have to try,' she stated, determination setting in. She grimaced when her claws scraped against her skull a little harder than she'd intended. Sometimes she forgot about those . . .

 

`In any case, Bitty, best you keep your expectations in check. If you're actually going to get to that particular man, you need to do it by degrees.'

 

`By degrees, huh . . .?” she repeated, rinsing her hair under the warmth of the flowing tap. `I can do that . . .'

 

Her youkai snorted skeptically. `Can you?'

 

`Yes. Yes, I can . . .'

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin groaned softly as he sat up in the recliner and shook his head in utter dismay, pushing the afghan onto the floor in a careless heap as every bone in him protested movement of any kind. The entire left side of his body was numb; the residual effect of having fallen asleep. He normally didn't sleep that long at a stretch. It was surprising that he had this time. Usually the aches and pains in his body roused him well before he'd managed more than a couple hours at a stretch. As unusual as it was, he knew that he'd be feeling the screaming aftereffects of this indulgence for a few days to come . . .

 

Charlie sat up, too, his thick tail thumping heavily against the floor, a rather daft look gracing his morbidly ugly features. “Glad one of us is in a good mood,” Griffin grumbled as he reluctantly pushed himself to his feet but stumbled when his left leg buckled beneath his weight. Catching himself on the arm of the chair before he ended up flat on his face, Griffin blinked in surprise when Charlie pushed against him, using his body to steady Griffin and uttering a soft whine when Griffin's hand came down rather hard on his head. “Sorry,” Griffin mumbled, righting his stance and sparing a moment to scratch the animal behind his ears.

 

Charlie wuffed low in his throat and followed Griffin's limping gait into the kitchen.

 

“I suppose you want something for helping me,” he mused, watching as the dog lumbered over to sit beside his empty food and water bowls. Shaking his head, Griffin bent down, grimacing as his knees cracked and popped as he opened the cupboard where he'd stashed the huge plastic tub that contained the beast's fodder. Isabelle had said that she simply filled the bowl and let him eat as much as he wanted throughout the day, but after having read the instructions on the bag and looking the dog over, Griffin had decided that Charlie was sorely overweight and needed to be fed accordingly.

 

“But he gets hungry,” Isabelle protested, her golden eyes pleading despite the hint of a smile that lingered in the depths of her gaze.

 

Griffin snorted as he closed the new plastic container and stowed it in the cupboard under the sink. “Too bad. You might be a fat ass, but your dog doesn't need to be, too.”

 

She rolled her eyes at that and shook her head, obviously deciding that she needed to try another tactic since the current one wasn't working for her. “You know, he's my dog, and he whines to tell me he's hungry if I don't fill his bowl for him,” she pointed out.

 

“Dogs don't have big enough brains to know when they're hungry and when they're not. He eats out of habit . . . kind of like you,” Griffin retorted.

 

She snapped her mouth closed, the corners of her lips twitching with barely contained amusement. He shot her a warning glance meant to quell her humor. It apparently had the opposite effect as she burst into gales of laughter . . .

 

With a sigh, he carefully measured a cup of food out of the container and stowed it back under the sink after snapping the lid in place.

 

It didn't take the dog long to devour the food. Griffin shook his head, still kneeling on the floor but leaning against the cupboard for support since he wasn't entirely certain that he'd be able to stand up just yet. Still licking his chops, Charlie sat down beside the drawer and half-whined, half-growled in an effort to get Griffin to give him more.

 

“Forget it. You're a fat ass, too,” he said, grimacing as he braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet.

 

Charlie scratched the floor as Griffin filled the tea kettle and put it on the burner, ignoring the animal's antics.

 

He almost tripped over Charlie as he headed out of the kitchen. Uttering a terse growl, he shot the dog a menacing glare but stepped around him with a long-suffering sigh. “Between you and her, I'm going to end up dead,” he mumbled under his breath as he headed for the bathroom.

 

Charlie crouched on the floor and pulled himself along in Griffin's wake, much to Griffin's reluctant amusement.

 

“Oh, no, you don't,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the living room when Charlie tried to scoot into the bathroom. “I'll let you get away with a lot of things, but there's no way in hell you're coming in here.”

 

Charlie growled again but stretched out across the threshold. Griffin made a face and closed the door, reaching for the light switch as he wondered just how he'd been reduced to this. `I knew there was a reason I've always said I don't like dogs.'

 

`It's not that bad, you know. In fact, it's not bad, at all. Charlie might be ugly, but he's not a mean animal, and Isabelle? It's not so bad, having her living here . . . Besides, she can be pretty thoughtful sometimes, or didn't you notice?'

 

Griffin opened the medicine cabinet, retrieving his shaving gear. `Can't say I did,' he lied, flexing his fingers before splashing hot water on his face and squeezing a fair amount of shaving cream into the palm of his hand.

 

`Oh, so you didn't notice that she covered you up with that afghan?'

 

`You're saying she's nice just because she spared a minute to drop a blanket over me?' he demanded as he carefully spread the shaving cream on his face.

 

`Sure . . . when's the last time that anyone's tried to take care of you?'

 

He snorted but didn't answer as he checked the straight razor for any sign of wear. It was the old fashioned type that most people didn't know how to use anymore. He'd never been able to reconcile himself to the t-razors, and he really couldn't tolerate the electric ones, either.

 

`I don't need anyone to take care of me,' he thought at length, scraping the blade over his cheek, careful to avoid the puckered scar tissue.

 

`Maybe you don't need it, no,' his youkai agreed. `Doesn't mean that you can't enjoy it.'

 

Grimacing when the blade slipped out of his clumsy fingers, Griffin picked it up again and rinsed off the residual shaving cream before turning his face to tackle the other side. `I think you've lost your mind. I wasn't sure before, but I am now . . .'

 

`Hmm, that's right; I forgot . . .'

 

`. . . Forgot, what?'

 

`You like torturing yourself. You think it makes you a martyr or something.'

 

The razor froze in mid-stroke, and Griffin stiffened against the truth behind that statement. `That's not right . . .'

 

`Yeah, I don't think so, either . . . Seems a little twisted if you ask me.'

 

He snorted and resumed shaving. `Maybe it'd be different if she weren't who she is,' he admitted as the fleeting image of her smiling expression lingered in his mind. `It's no good.'

 

The only reply he got for that assessment was a resigned sort of sigh.

 

`Even then . . .'

 

`Yeah, I know . . . even if she is fixated on you now, once she finds out about your past, right?'

 

Grunting tersely, Griffin washed the residual shaving cream off his face and rinsed off the razor blade, carefully dried it off before stowing it back in the medicine cabinet once more.

 

It was the truth of it, wasn't it? Those smiles that she offered so freely, regardless of her teasing nature that unnerved him . . . He could grow dependent upon them, couldn't he? And that . . .

 

That was something that he simply could not let happen . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

`How long . . . have I been kept here . . .?'

 

The sound of heavy breathing echoed in his ears as he jerked his head from side to side in a vain effort to dislodge the blindfold that impeded his vision. The underlying hum emanating from the shackles locked around his wrists and ankles was monotonous: a sound guaranteed to drive him mad . . .

 

The air felt damp, smelled musty. The reek of dustiness that could only be created in the darkness of a cave or underground far enough that the noises of humanity were forever quelled.

 

He'd known that it was only a matter of time. Back then, he'd thought that the only real chance for redemption would be if he kept his mouth closed. He should have known better. How many times had he said it before? “No mercy . . . no mercy . . .”

 

No mercy.

 

The scrape of a door against a swollen wood floor resounded in his ears like the tolling of a death knell. Restraining the reflex to grimace, he jerked his head to the side, following the direction of the noise as he struggled to maintain a calm that he was far from feeling. The slight motion of his body set off the electro-locks that bound him, and he sucked in a sharp breath as four jagged zaps of electricity shot through his limbs.

 

“My patience is wearing a little thin with you, Avis.”

 

Gritting his teeth as he willed his muscles not to jerk involuntarily, he paused before responding. “I told you: they don't know anything.”

 

The dull thump of shoes against the floor drawing nearer . . . “Are you sure you didn't find out where the research is now?”

 

The question was asked in a mild enough tone. He didn't try to delude himself into thinking that he was off the hook. “I never asked,” he admitted. “Even if I had, do you really think they'd tell me anything considering I had her kidnapped?”

 

The blinding pain exploded in his cheek as his head snapped to the side, setting off the electrodes in the shackles once more, and he couldn't help the low moan that slipped from him. He leaned over him, grasping the arms of the wooden chair so tightly that it groaned under the stress. “Are you really so useless or did you honestly think you'd escape me?”

 

Avis bit back the desire to shrink away. “I did what you wanted. I told Zelig that I was working on my own volition. He doesn't suspect that there was someone else. You're in the clear.”

 

A frustrated growl erupted, and Avis gulped hard. “Incidentals, damn it! You're no use to me now. Zelig doesn't have a clue as to what, exactly, he has possession of, and before he figures it out, I—want—that—research.”

 

A thin, cold hand closed around his jugular, the prick of razor-sharp claws digging into the tender flesh calculated, contrived to exact pain: intense pain. Avis' gasp was audible in the quiet, and he squeezed his eyes closed, his mind oddly blanking as one thought replayed itself over and over again: `I'm going to die . . . He's going to kill me . . .'

 

“I have no further use for the likes of you, Dr. Avis,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

“Wait! You know, maybe . . . maybe you should . . . hold off on doing anything,” Avis blurted—anything to pacify the enraged youkai . . . anything to stall for precious time . . . “Carl . . . He didn't trust anyone else in the lab other than Kennedy.”

 

“Of course he didn't!” he thundered, rapidly losing control over his escalating temper as his claws dug in a little deeper. The scent of his own blood infiltrated Avis' senses as a vague sort of haziness enveloped the edges of coherent thought. “He wasn't a fool, even if he didn't prove difficult to take care of in the end.”

 

Avis grimaced, choking and wheezing as he struggled to draw breath enough to speak. He'd known, certainly, that he had been responsible for Kennedy and ultimately, for Carl's deaths, but it was something else entirely to have that information verified. “So if he didn't trust anyone . . . then it stands to reason . . . that he probably encoded the research . . . don't you think? I mean, why else would Zelig and the rest of them not know . . . what they're dealing with?”

 

The hand released him abruptly, and Avis swallowed hard, shaking his head to dispel the fuzziness in his head. Ribbons of blood trickled down his throat, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine as the blood-dampened fabric of his collar rubbed against his skin. He was still struggling to regain his composure when the scrape of shoes on the floor echoed through the cavernous room. “Hmm . . . perhaps you're not as useless as I thought you were . . .”

 

Avis almost sighed in abject relief, satisfied that he'd managed to save his own hide, at least for the moment. “Carl was a . . . language buff,” he rasped out, his throat raw, aching. “Wouldn't . . . surprise me . . . if he . . . wrote everything . . . in some sort of . . . code . . .”

 

“That's not a problem. I'll find someone to translate it for me.”

 

Avis wheezed out a terse laugh. “You think it'd be that simple? If he went to the trouble . . . of writing everything in code . . . then it's a safe bet . . . that the code isn't as simple as literal translation. You said you don't believe that Zelig knows the sort of information he's got? Then it's likely that he is having trouble finding someone who can translate it.”

 

He considered that for several long seconds. “So what you're saying is that I'd do well to let Zelig worry about getting the information translated . . .”

 

Avis nodded, turning his face to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood.

 

“I see . . . very well, then. You've been quite useful today, Dr. Avis.”

 

Avis nodded, his body relaxing just a little at the pacified sound of his voice.

 

“I think I have another job for you, but make no mistake: I'll be watching. If you try to betray me, you'll be dead.”

 

Avis winced inwardly. The very last thing he wanted was to be given another `job' by the youkai, but . . . but if it kept him alive . . . “A . . . job . . .?”

 

He felt the jerk on the electro-locks and gritted his teeth as a stronger current shot through him seconds before the shackles fell away from his ankles then his hands. He yanked him roughly to his feet. Avis nearly stumbled. It had been . . . days . . .? weeks . . .? since he'd last stood. Stifling the pained groan that surged through him as his muscles twitched and jerked, Avis gingerly rubbed his wrists before lifting a hand to his throat to assess the damage.

 

The voice—little more than a hateful hiss in his ear—sent a shiver down his spine and back up again. “Go home, Dr. Avis, and when that little bitch calls, get her to tell you what the status is on that research.”

 

Avis opened his mouth to say that he didn't really think that Jillian would know, and even if she did, the chances of her telling him any such thing were slim and none, but he thought better of it. If he refused, then he really would die today . . . “All right,” he agreed, grasping the blindfold and tugging it off, his eyes unable to focus as the relatively dim light in the old chamber stabbed at his weakened senses.

 

The blur of a youkai before him wavered as a menacing chuckle filled his ears. “If you fail, Avis . . .”

 

Avis nodded, clearing his throat as the implied threat hung thick in the air. If he failed this time, there would be no way save himself; no eleventh-hour reprieve . . .

 

No, if Avis didn't do exactly as he was told, Eaton Fellowes . . . He really would kill him . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Dropping the ink pen on the notebook with a frustrated sigh, Griffin slumped in his chair, letting his head fall back as he closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his slightly shaking hands. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered whether Dr. Carl Carradine was an idiot savant or just an idiot. After having spent the last two hours trying to decipher one measly paragraph, he was leaning toward the `just an idiot' theory . . .

 

The trouble was that there were a few phrases that could be interpreted a few ways, and not one of them really made more sense than another. The best he'd been able to do was to write down every literal translation and hope that Isabelle could figure out which was the right one. Of course, that would mean that Griffin would also have to concede that Isabelle wasn't as useless as he liked to think she was. All in all, it was enough to set him on edge as he wondered absently just where she'd run off to—easily the hundredth time he'd wondered that since she'd wiggled her fingers in jaunty farewell and told him that she had `errands' to do hours ago . . .

 

`Errands, maybe . . . so why did she look like the proverbial cat that ate the canary when she'd said that?'

 

Wrinkling his nose, he let his hands drop to his sides as he shook his head in self-disgust. He didn't care, damn it . . . He didn't . . .

 

Grabbing the notebook, journal, and pen off the desk, Griffin stood up and glanced at the sliding back door. It was sunny outside: probably one of the last really nice days of the year. There was a crispness in the air like the barest hint of the changing season, and ordinarily, he'd have taken advantage of the weather to go on a nice, long walk, but since his left leg was still dealing him a ration of grief, he didn't figure that indulging himself would be quite as enjoyable as it normally would be.

 

Charlie paced back and forth in front of the glass doors, which just figured. Ever since he'd seen the squirrels that Griffin fed every morning, he was convinced that they were Charlie-snacks and was literally dying to get out there and see if he could catch one. Of course, with his amended diet, the stupid creature was like to eat anything he could get his gaping maw on. Yet something else Griffin could blame on that maddening woman, he supposed . . . “Forget it, dog,” he grumbled, dropping the work on the coffee table in lieu of chastising the animal. “I'll chop you up and use you for fertilizer,” he warned.

 

Charlie just wagged his tail.

 

Griffin sensed Isabelle seconds before she breezed into the house, her arms weighed down by brown paper grocery bags. He made a face, seeing them and calculating in his head how many trees she'd killed by being too lazy to take a basket with her to the market . . . “Tree murderer,” he mumbled under his breath as he stomped over to her and ungraciously swiped the bags away from her.

 

“What was that?” she said, that damned bright smile of hers lighting on her face as easily as the sunrise.

 

“Nothing,” Griffin grumbled, turning away to head toward the kitchen but not before Isabelle caught the telling hint of a blush that had crept into Griffin's skin. Her laughter followed him, and he winced as his blush deepened.

 

“What's the matter, Dr. G? Did you miss me?”

 

He snorted, setting the bags on the counter with a heavy thump and digging into one, only to make a face when he pulled out a flimsy plastic container of oversized chocolate chip deli-style cookies. “Great . . . yet something else to add more weight to your already overly-fat ass.”

 

She laughed even harder at that, bracing herself on his arm to lean around him and snag the container of cookies. The infuriating woman winked at him when she caught his scowl. “Want one?”

 

“No.”

 

“Mmm!” she exclaimed softly, letting her eyes roll back in her skull as she stuffed half of the huge cookie into her mouth. She collapsed back against the counter, clutching at her heart in a melodramatic way. “These are so-o-o good . . . You sure you don't want one?”

 

“Yes, I'm sure.”

 

She looked like she wanted to say something, but got sidetracked by the basement door. He'd inadvertently left it open earlier after he'd taken a break to work on one of his carvings. Charlie had followed him downstairs, and he'd left the door unlocked so that the idiot dog could get out when he was ready. He'd forgotten to push it closed and lock it, and since he'd given Isabelle explicit instructions that she was under no circumstances allowed to as much as look through the doorway, it wasn't entirely surprising that she was intrigued. “You do remember that you're not allowed anywhere near the basement,” he reminded her gruffly.

 

She heaved a sigh and reluctantly turned away from the cracked open doorway. “That rule shouldn't apply when you leave the door hanging wide open,” she complained.

 

“It's not hanging wide open,” he grumbled. “It's just slightly ajar. If you wanted to look down there, you'd have to pull the door further open; ergo it is not a breach of the rules.”

 

“You have a lot of rules, big guy,” she remarked ruefully. “Is there a dead body down there?”

 

Griffin froze for a moment before peering over his shoulder at her. She was smiling, of course, and when she caught his eye, she winked. He snorted. “. . . Yes.”

 

“I knew it!” she exclaimed with a soft giggle. “Just one or could you raise your own zombie army?”

 

“Just nosy females who don't know when to leave well enough alone,” he said mildly.

 

“Oh? So you're planning on adding me to the body count, too.”

 

“Yes, as soon as I figure out how to get rid of your annoying dog.”

 

She laughed outright at that, obviously discounting Griffin's claims. “So you say; so you say. I think I'm growing on you.”

 

“You can think that.”

 

“Admit it: I'm getting under that thick skin of yours.”

 

Griffin waved her off and pulled a loaf of white bread out of the bag—marginally healthier than the cookies, sure, but still not what he'd consider `good for her' . . . “Your eating habits are deplorable,” he commented as he frowned at a vacuum-sealed package of olive loaf. He could feel his sodium levels rise just looking at the stuff and sighed. “Did you buy anything that hasn't been processed a thousand times and therefore leached of what little nutritional value it had, to start with?” he complained.

 

“Don't diss the olive loaf,” she reprimanded though her eyes retained the amused sparkle that he was really starting to dread.

 

“Do me a favor and don't let your unhealthy crap touch my food. It'll lose vitamins just by being in the vicinity of yours.”

 

She grinned and dug another cookie out of the box. “Well, we could always get a second refrigerator,” she mused.

 

“Thinking about it,” he mumbled. “At least drink a glass of milk with those.”

 

“Oh, milk!” she exclaimed, pushing herself away from the counter and reaching around him to grab a half-gallon of skim milk from the other bag.

 

Griffin snorted. “I meant real milk, not watered down milk byproduct,” he pointed out.

 

“But skim milk has less fat! And anyway, the only time I can stand to drink it is when I'm having cookies.”

 

He spared a moment to pin her with a serious glance. “Skim milk and cookies . . . if you're going to eat something fattening, drinking that isn't going to do much to counter it, you know.”

 

She just laughed at him. It figured.

 

It shouldn't have surprised him, really. Watching with a raised eyebrow when she pulled five huge, thick slabs of steak out of the bag, Griffin couldn't help the look of disdain that marred his features as she pushed his salad greens aside to make room for the artery-clogging meat. Even the potatoes she'd purchased bore the ink-stamp of the brand on their clean skins, and Griffin shook his head. “You mean you do eat something that is somewhat healthy?” he questioned, nodding at the potatoes in her hands. “I thought you hated vegetables.”

 

Isabelle giggled, a strand of her bronze hair falling over her cheek. She shifted her mouth to the side and blew a short gust of breath out to get it out of her face. “Potatoes aren't the same. They're a starch—not nearly as vegetable-y as your green stuff . . . You know, historically speaking, finding green stuff in one's refrigerator isn't necessary considered a good thing.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “They're vegetables. They're supposed to be green, and for the record? `Vegetable-y' isn't a real word.”

 

“You should be happy,” she informed him as she headed out of the kitchen once more.

 

Griffin narrowed his eyes but followed her, pausing long enough to push the basement door closed and securing the lock to keep nosy women from succumbing to temptation. “Why?”

 

“Because I bought the stuff to make a really great dinner for you.”

 

“Oh, God . . .”

 

She laughed harder, pausing at the threshold of the living room long enough to wink at him before sauntering away.

 

Griffin snorted loudly, wondering just how hard it would be to get out of eating anything that Isabelle tried to feed him. True enough, he had nothing against meat, and from time to time, he had to admit that he actively sought it out. That didn't mean that he wanted to eat it all the time, and certainly not in the amounts that Isabelle seemed to prefer. In any case, the idea of her making dinner for him was a little intimidating. She'd probably end up cooking those huge steaks with overcooked potatoes served with a layer of gravy so thick that he wouldn't be able to find the food underneath it all . . .

 

Deciding that he'd had enough of a break, Griffin retrieved the research materials and dropped into the chair at his desk. Most evenings when Isabelle was there, he could effectively ignore her if he concentrated on the journal. She didn't seem to mind it, either, settling down on the sofa with the translated notes or a book or magazine if he hadn't gotten much done for her. As chatty as she tended to be, she didn't seem to mind the prolonged periods of silence, and as much as he was loath to admit it, he . . . he didn't really mind it, either.

 

Isabelle kicked the front door closed behind her and hurried through toward the kitchen once more.

 

`Good lord, can't she do anything without making a screaming ruckus?' he wondered as the distinct sound of crashing pan lids echoed through the otherwise quiet house.

 

His answer was another resounding clatter as his cast iron skillet hit the floor followed directly by a very unladylike curse that had Griffin shaking his head in dismay. Charlie bounded off the floor and broke for the kitchen, and Griffin heaved a sigh. She'd apparently dropped more than just the skillet, and the dog thought it was his job to suck up the mess . . . `She's hopeless; just hopeless, and that dog . . .' He scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully and decided that he was better off not stepping foot in the kitchen at the moment. `Social pariahs; the both of them . . .'

 

“He already ate,” Griffin called out anyway though he seriously doubted Isabelle would care.

 

He figured he was right, too, when Charlie re-emerged a minute later, licking his chops and looking entirely too pleased about something.

 

Isabelle stepped out of the kitchen, smiling brightly when she noticed that he was looking. The smile was enough to give him pause, but coupled with the conspicuous way she held her hands behind her back, he had to wonder just what she was up to . . .

 

“So I saw something when I was at the store, and it reminded me of you,” she said as she made a show of sauntering over to him.

 

“Perish the thought,” he murmured, turning his back on her rather abruptly and burying his nose in the journal once more.

 

She laughed. “Do you want it?”

 

“. . . No.”

 

She came closer, leaning over his shoulder, her hair falling to brush against his cheek. “Are you sure?”

 

Swatting her hair away from his face, he snorted. “Yes.”

 

“Aren't you even a little curious?”

 

He snorted. “Can't say I am.”

 

“Humor me?”

 

Heaving a sigh, he turned to face her, opening his mouth to tell her in no uncertain terms that he really didn't want a thing from her, least of all this `thing' that she'd found that reminded her of him. She stared at him in that direct way of hers, and he blinked, forgetting for the moment that he was better off to keep her at bay. She really didn't have any visible pores in her skin, and that skin looked incredibly soft. She didn't look away, and she didn't say anything outrageous. No, instead she just stared back at him, looking entirely too hopeful—too pleased. “What is it?” he growled, his gaze narrowing just slightly—enough to offer her a silent warning that she'd better not be trying to pull a fast one on him.

 

With a triumphant little smile, she stood up straight, and with a dramatic flourish, she pulled . . . it . . . out from behind her back. “See? Doesn't he look like you?” she asked, proudly offering him the stuffed animal—Winnie the Pooh.

 

Griffin's mouth fell open in abject horror as he stared at the ridiculous bear. Violent color exploded on his features as he knocked her hand away and shot to his feet. “That's not—I don't—You aren't—” he cut himself off abruptly and drew a deep breath before leveling a fulminating glower at the maddening hanyou and stomping past her. “I do not look like that!” he rumbled.

 

She threw her head back and laughed as she set the bear on the desk and tugged the little red shirt into place. “Sure, you do,” she argued between giggles. “You're cute and cuddly, and you like honey, just like he does.”

 

Snapping his mouth closed on his retort, he scowled murderously at the floor before stomping off toward the basement door that he'd just locked.

 

“Wait, wait!” she called after him, running over to catch him before he could disappear into `No-Isabelle-Land'.

 

He shook her off but stopped, planting his hands on his hips as he shot her a warning glance. “What now?”

 

She waved her hand dismissively as he realized something he hadn't before: she still had one hand behind her back, and the thought of just what she was still hiding wrenched a long-suffering groan from him. “Do you want your other present?”

 

Griffin snorted. “I'd hardly call that stuffed animal a present,” he said.

 

“But I bought these just for you . . .” she tried to coax him.

 

Griffin wasn't about to fall for it a second time. “Don't want it,” he informed her, digging into his pocket for the key to the basement door.

 

“Okay,” Isabelle said, spinning around on her heel and striding away as she whipped whatever it was she'd been hiding out from behind her back and shielded it from his view.

 

Telling himself that he didn't care what else she'd purchased to torment him with, Griffin reached for the door knob but stopped. The crinkle of a plastic bag being pulled open drew his attention, and moments later, the unmistakable smell of honey roasted pecans filled his nostrils.

 

Isabelle dug a few out of the bag and tilted her head back to drop the nuts into her mouth, happily munching on them as she wandered back over to the desk to look over Griffin's translations.

 

Before he could stop to think about it, Griffin stomped over, plucking the bag out of her hand and nudging her away from the desk with a bump of his hip before sitting back down at the desk and twisting away when Isabelle tried to reach over his shoulder and into the bag of pecans.

 

“Hey! Haven't you ever heard of sharing?” she asked.

 

Griffin snorted. “You said you bought them for me,” he pointed out, stuffing a handful of nuts into his mouth while protecting the bag from her overzealous fingers.

 

“You said you didn't want them.”

 

“Changed my mind.”

 

“Ha! Let me have some!”

 

“You didn't say you bought something for me to share with you,” he argued, slapping her hand away and eliciting a giggle from her. “They're mine. Get your own.”

 

“But I bought those.”

 

“Yes, and I will eat them without any help from you.”

 

“You could at least say `thank you'.”

 

“After you gave me that?” he countered, nodding at the stuffed animal on the desk.

 

“Especially after that.”

 

He snorted. “No way. You owed me. Now we're even.”

 

She heaved a sigh and stepped back, but he didn't miss the smile gracing her lips. “All right; you win,” she said with a shake of her head. “I'm going to go check on dinner, anyway.”

 

He waited until she was halfway to the kitchen before dumping the rest of the bag into the half-empty bowl on his desk. They weren't quite as good as the ones he roasted, himself, but they weren't bad, either. Grabbing another handful, he pushed the stuffed bear aside and frowned.

 

`I don't look like that,' he fumed, scowling at the sewed-on smile. `That bear looks absolutely daft . . . not at all like me . . .'

 

`Oh, I don't know . . . I can see the resemblance . . .'

 

Griffin snorted and slowly shook his head. `I realize it's been awhile since I've really looked in the mirror, but I know damn well I do not look even remotely like . . . like . . .'

 

`Winnie the Pooh?'

 

He could feel the heat gathering just below the surface of his skin yet again and grimaced as his youkai voice laughed at him.

 

He ought to throw the damn thing away. Regardless of why Isabelle had bought such a ridiculous gift, she should have known that he wouldn't find it flattering, at all.

 

With a sigh, he reached for the bear, glaring at it for several long moments as he considered tossing it into the trash can beside his desk.

 

Thing was, he could count on one hand, the number of times anyone had ever thought to buy anything for him, ridiculous or not. Maybe that was the real reason he set the stuffed animal on the desk shelf. It certainly didn't have anything to do with the person who had bought the gift. That'd be even more asinine than the gift, itself . . .

 

He stared at the glassy black eyes of the cartoon character and took up his pen once more as he groped around for the bowl of honey roasted pecans.

 

He didn't see the gentle smile on Isabelle's face as she leaned in the kitchen doorway and watched him.

 

 

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A/N:

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Reviewers

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MMorg

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Final Thought from Isabelle:

My Pooh Bear!

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Avouchment): I do not claim any rights to InuYashaor the characters associated with the anime/manga. Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al. I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

 

~Sue~