InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Dormant Emotion ( Chapter 12 )

~~Chapter 12~~

~Dormant Emotion~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“So who is he?”

 

“Him? That's Griffin.”

 

“Oh . . . he's cute!”

 

“Isn't he?”

 

“Doesn't talk much, does he?”

 

“No . . . though he's coming around a little bit . . .”

 

“Well, good . . . it's not healthy to keep everything to yourself.”

 

“I know. I've tried to tell him that . . .”

 

“Rather reminds me of my Gavvie that way.”

 

“You think so?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

Griffin stifled a sigh and dropped the pen on the desk with a pronounced clatter before pushing himself to his feet and stomping out of the living room toward the kitchen. `If they're going to talk about me like I'm not there, I might as well not be there,' he thought with a loud snort.

 

`Oh, come now. It's not that bad.'

 

He snorted again, snatching up his glass off the counter and filling it under the tap. `And I thought fat ass was bad . . . her aunt . . . cousin . . . whatever . . . she's worse.'

 

`Who? Jillian?'

 

He stopped with the cup poised in midair. `You . . . you know her name . . .?'

 

`Of course I do which means you do, too . . . I am a part of you, you know.'

 

Griffin shook his head and gulped down the water. `There's no way in hell I'm going back into the living room.'

 

His youkai sighed. `Yeah . . . it is a little unnerving, isn't it?'

 

`I was thinking more along the lines of `vastly irritating', but sure, that, too . . .'

 

Taking his time washing out the glass before setting it on the counter beside the sink, Griffin paused long enough to straighten the dishcloth under the glass before shaking his head and heaving a long-suffering sigh. He was going to go work on the translations a little longer, but with Isabelle and her cohort in evil sitting in the living room dissecting his every move, he thought better of it.

 

Glancing over his shoulder at the two women as he made a beeline for the basement door, he was somewhat relieved to see that they were talking quietly and not paying the slightest bit of attention to him. Satisfied that he'd be able to escape unnoticed, he quickly unlocked the door and slipped into the stairway.

 

`You know, they could very well be discussing us,' his youkai blood pointed out.

 

Wrinkling his nose, he slapped the switch to turn on the lights below and lumbered down the steps. `Don't care so long as I don't have to hear it,' he grumbled.

 

`. . . They think we're good looking . . .'

 

Griffin snorted loudly but blushed just the same. `Not saying much. Look at fat ass' dog, will you? She thinks he's . . . cute . . .'

 

`Yeah, and another thing: she doesn't really have a fat ass, you realize.'

 

Flopping down on the ragged old sofa before swiping up the latest carving he'd been working on, Griffin made a face. `Yes, she does.'

 

`Uh huh. If you think so . . .'

 

It was simply not to be borne. The woman was obsessed with making his life miserable, wasn't she? If it weren't bad enough that she was constantly underfoot, wheedling her way into his life just a little more every day, now she'd brought outsiders into his home, too? And not just any outsider, mind, but one that perpetuated her penchant for driving him absolutely insane . . . `Must be a martyr,' he grumbled.

 

`Oh, please! A martyr? Ri-i-i-ight . . . Admit it, Griffin: you don't really mind having Isabelle underfoot. In fact, you rather like it.'

 

`And you're pressing your luck,' he shot back, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on the carving in his hand.

 

`She's not so bad, you know. I realize you like to think she's the devil-incarnate, but she's not, and . . . and she's comfortable . . . Well, maybe not comfortable, per se, but . . . familiar . . . and you know she is, too.'

 

`Familiar . . .' Griffin echoed, both comforted and completely repulsed by the very idea that Isabelle was insinuating herself in his life as much as she was. She frightened him, didn't she? Maybe not frightened, but something about the feelings that she stirred deep down . . . he wasn't sure he wanted to understand what it would mean . . . `No,' he argued feebly, brow furrowing as he swallowed hard and tried to ignore the unsettling surge of panic that swept through him. `No, she can't . . . she . . . can't . . .'

 

`She understands a lot more about you than you'd like to believe . . . She understands more than you want her to, doesn't she?'

 

`. . . She'd never understand. She was cherished, adored her entire life, and she should have been, but . . . but she'd never understand . . . and I don't have any right to ask her to try.'

 

`Yeah, because you don't want her to . . . Thing is, that doesn't matter, you know? She wants to, and maybe that's enough.'

 

`Enough?' he spat, gaze narrowing as the tiny figurine in his hand cracked and broke. A stabbing pain registered in the depths of his conscience when the remnant splinters embedded themselves in his palm, but he barely noticed. `It's not enough. It could never be enough! What would she say if she knew . . .? What would she say if . . . if I told her . . .?' Leaning forward, letting his injured hand dangle between his knees, he buried his face in his other hand and heaved a tired sigh. `She just . . . she just feels sorry for me . . . that's all . . . and if I told her . . . if she knew . . .'

 

She'd despise him. Of course she would. He'd cost her a lot, hadn't he? If she ever realized that . . .

 

Griffin sighed. As if it weren't bad enough to dwell on the past that he couldn't change, she'd invited her cousin over to visit, and that was more than enough for him. Sure, he supposed that people would find Jillian Zelig Jamison charming and the like, but Griffin never had been one to enjoy being the center of attention, and that's exactly what happened almost the very second the young woman had walked through the door.

 

And then . . .

 

Brow furrowing in an exaggerated grimace, Griffin shook his head and wondered just how Isabelle was able to twist things around to suit her so easily, which was exactly what had happened mere moments after Jillian had stepped into the house.

 

“I take it the two of you are dating,” Jillian said, her pale blue gaze sweeping over Griffin as though she were sizing him up.

 

“N—” he began.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Isabelle blurted, narrowing her eyes at Griffin as she shot a meaningful look at Jillian's back then on to him.

 

Gritting his teeth—he didn't have to like it, even if he understood what she was trying to do—Griffin could barely contain the pronounced snort that might have drawn Jillian's suspicions. He was the one who had insisted that no one know about the fact that he was helping her with the research, wasn't he, and even he wasn't stupid enough not to realize that the next logical question in Jillian's mind would have been why Isabelle was staying with him if they weren't lovers.

 

His grimace shifted into something more akin to a scowl though his face darkened with embarrassed color nonetheless. He ought to thank her for covering up for him, he supposed. Too bad he was more inclined to throttle her, instead . . . Life had been so much simpler before Isabelle Izayoi had breezed into it . . .

 

No, he was definitely better off, staying out of sight and out of mind for the duration. Heaving a sigh as he uncurled his fist and grimaced at the splintered wood embedded in his palm, he slowly shook his head. Isabelle . . . Charlie . . . Jillian . . . he had a feeling that his life was never, ever going to be simple again . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“So Dr. Avis did call you, then?”

 

Jillian leaned against the counter and nodded as a relieved little glint entered her pale blue gaze. “Yes, he did. He said that he'd been feeling a little off . . . something about the strain of adjusting to the difference in the climate.”

 

Isabelle smiled, too. “Good. I'm glad that there was nothing wrong.”

 

Letting out a heavy sigh that lifted the bangs fringing her forehead, Jillian nodded again. “You're telling me . . . I was starting to worry . . .” Trailing off, Jillian waved her hand and wrinkled her nose. “I'm just being silly; I know.”

 

“No, you're not,” Isabelle contradicted gently, rinsing lettuce leaves under the tap and gently shaking off the excess water. “I have to admit, I was a little worried about it, myself, even though Grandpa and the others all insisted that nothing was wrong.”

 

“You were?” Jillian questioned as she reached for a tomato and carefully sliced it into wedges with her claws.

 

“Sure . . . I thought it seemed odd that Dr. Avis would simply disappear . . .”

 

“So did I,” Jillian allowed then shrugged as a little smile surfaced on her pretty face. “Then again, Gavvie promised he'd take me back soon so that I can talk to him a little more.”

 

Isabelle nodded, her brow furrowing in a thoughtful frown as she arranged the clean lettuce leaves on a dishtowel to air dry. “And it doesn't bother Grandma or Grandpa? That you want to talk to Dr. Avis?”

 

Jillian winced slightly, biting her lip as the smile disappeared only to be replaced by a slight scowl. “They say they're okay with it,” she said slowly. “Mama always smiles and says that it's only natural that I'd be curious about my biological parents . . .”

 

“But . . .” Isabelle prompted when Jillian trailed off.

 

With a sigh, the water-youkai rinsed her hands and slowly dried them on a clean towel. “But . . . but you know Mama. She'd bite her own tongue off before she ever said that any of this hurt her. She doesn't seem like it bothers her that much, but then . . . but I've seen it on Daddy's face a few times. It bothers him, as much as he hates to admit it, and if it bothers him, then I'm sure . . .”

 

“I don't blame you,” Isabelle said softly, sparing a moment to give Jillian's shoulders a quick squeeze. “It's natural to wonder where you came from.”

 

Jillian's smile was thin, wan, but the slight tension around her eyes ebbed away. “You're right,” she said with a sigh. “Mama and Daddy love me. They are my parents. I just . . . I just wanted—needed—to make sure that I wasn't some sort of . . . freak.”

 

“You're hardly a freak,” Isabelle chided, turning away from Jillian to retrieve the rest of the vegetables for the hearty salad she was preparing for a certain surly bear-youkai. “Anyway, I'm really glad you came by today.”

 

Jillian giggled, letting go of the more serious overtones of their conversation in lieu of something else entirely. “I am, too . . . and enough about me! I've got to get going soon since I promised Gavvie I'd be home when he got there, so . . . tell me about this Griffin . . .?”

 

“`This Griffin'?” Isabelle echoed with a little giggle. “Okay . . . what do you want to know?”

 

Jillian shot her a raised-eyebrow-ed look. “The normal stuff,” she assured Isabelle with an impish little smile. “You know . . . how long have you been dating him? What's his astrological sign? How impressive is his packaging?”

 

Isabelle blinked and let out a terse laugh. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Jillian could be as base-minded as she her brother, Evan. The young woman was far too sweet-looking, and it could be quite misleading—the main reason why it always amused Isabelle when Jillian would whisper into Gavin's ear only to make the shy man blush down to the soles of his feet. In the end, Isabelle shook her head and waved a hand, giggling all the same. “Not long . . . I'm not sure . . . and . . . have you seen the size of his hands and feet?”

 

Jillian thought that over and nodded slowly but couldn't repress her laughter as she waggled her eyebrows at Isabelle. “Nice,” she approved as the impish smile turned a little cheesier. “Where did he disappear to?”

 

Isabelle paused, tearing lettuce leaves into manageable hunks and dropping them into the large wooden bowl. She glanced around and shrugged as her gaze came to rest on the closed basement door. Froofie was stretched out on the floor along the threshold, looking positively miserable at the perceived abandonment. She didn't doubt for a moment that Froofie would rather be downstairs with Griffin than upstairs with her. Somewhere along the way, he'd decided that the bear-youkai was a better companion than she was, which amused her more than it upset her. If she had her druthers, she'd follow Griffin around all the time, too . . . “Oh, he's holed up in his den,” she quipped, wrinkling her nose at her dog's defection to the Griffin camp.

 

“His den?” Jillian repeated with a soft laugh. “Really?”

 

“Well, he won't tell me what's actually down there,” Isabelle allowed with a shrug. “It's off limits.”

 

“Hmm, intriguing,” Jillian decided. “So how are you going to find out?”

 

“Everyone needs their privacy,” Isabelle insisted.

 

Jillian snorted. “In other words, you don't have any good ideas yet.”

 

Isabelle didn't confirm or deny that statement, opting instead to concentrate on tearing up the last of the lettuce.

 

“All right, I'd better get going,” Jillian said with a sigh, scooping the tomatoes together and dropping them into the salad bowl before rinsing her hands in the sink.

 

“Okay. I'm glad you stopped by.”

 

Pausing long enough to give Isabelle a quick squeeze, Jillian hurried toward the doorway as she wiggled her fingers over her shoulder in a jaunty wave.

 

Isabelle slipped the prepared salad in to the refrigerator and grabbed two thick steaks out of a drawer before kicking the door closed as she turned to face the stove. She'd laughed when Griffin had explained that the stove didn't have an automatic ignition for the burners—she hadn't realized they still made stoves like that anymore. It had taken her a couple of weeks to get used to cooking on the old appliance, and she had to admit that she rather liked the simplicity of a device that lacked the bells and whistles and timers that the newer models possessed.

 

In fact, everything about Griffin's domain smacked of an era long past. As though he refused to allow himself anything that he might consider to be a `modern convenience', the simplicity of his existence was oddly appealing to her.

 

Strange, really, if she stopped to think about it. She'd been raised by thoroughly modern parents with every comfort that money could buy. Still, she couldn't quite shake the idea that the same things that had made life so much simpler might also have softened her a little too much. Youkai had evolved so far in the passing centuries . . . the overwhelming need to fight and to dominate had given way to the struggle to survive, hadn't it? They'd assimilated into human society in a last-ditch effort to keep from being decimated by the human tools that had proven to be more powerful than a youkai's will. Guns had presented the biggest threat. As fast as youkai were, there wasn't one who could outrun a bullet. That had been the beginning of the end, she'd heard Uncle Sesshoumaru say once. They caused too much damage at one time, and while youkai could heal at remarkable rates, even the restorative powers of their bodies could not compete with the devastation that a well-placed bullet could wreak.

 

She's learned these things over the years from stories and legend. Though her grandfather, InuYasha had effectively skipped the darkest of times, he'd seen enough in his life before he'd passed through the Bone Eater's Well for the final time that he had admitted that Sesshoumaru's edict that all youkai hide their true natures; that they try to assimilate into human society was for the best, though he'd likely bite his tongue off before he'd ever acknowledge that he thought Sesshoumaru might be right about anything at all.

 

Still, it made her wonder. Though Griffin had never said anything one way or the other, Isabelle knew that he was quite old. How much had he seen, and of those things, how much of it still impacted him today? Somehow she had a hard time believing that he'd always been as closed up and distant as he was now. Had he smiled much as a child? Did he laugh out loud and run and play? Did he have the same kind of memories that she had, or at least enough of them to cherish?

 

Arranging the steaks on a stovetop grill, Isabelle frowned when her gaze came to rest on the nondescript white plastic jar that Jillian had dropped off. It was the salve that Isabelle had asked Gin to mix up for Griffin and the main reason that Jillian had stopped by. She and Gavin were on their way back to New York City but had opted to swing through Maine because Jillian had wanted to spend a little time with her parents, probably to reassure them that she still adored them both as much as she ever had.

 

`Dr. Avis is fine . . .' she thought slowly, gnawing on her bottom lip as her frown deepened. `What does that mean . . .? Griffin was wrong, after all . . . at least about the danger, wasn't he? And if he was wrong about that, then where does that leave me . . .?'

 

She sighed and shook her head, making a face as she shifted her gaze around the small but meticulously clean kitchen. She knew what it meant, didn't she? It meant . . . it meant that she could go home . . .

 

Damned if that idea sat well with her. She didn't really want to go home; not yet. It was too easy for Griffin to keep his distance from her. She'd started to think that maybe she was making some progress, even if it was only what amounted to baby-steps. Still, she'd take what she could get, but if she moved out, he'd be able to push her away; she knew he would.

 

`And maybe that's for the best, too, Isabelle,' her youkai voice chimed in.

 

`That can't be true,' she thought with a snort. `He's been alone for long enough. It's about time he realized that he can't be alone forever. Everyone needs someone, don't they? What's wrong with the wish that his someone could be me?'

 

`There's nothing wrong with that wish, no, but you misunderstand. You're smart. You know what I'm talking about. Griffin has his reasons, and whatever they are, he doesn't have any intention of telling you about them.'

 

`Maybe . . . I also know that he doesn't dislike me, even if he wants to . . . even if he tries to tell himself that he does. He needs me; I can feel it. He needs me, and I . . . I want to help him.'

 

`Nice way to put a pretty face on it. Need I remind you that you're nothing at all like either of your grandmothers? You're just a doctor, and while you might be able to mend broken bones and cure sickness, you're not the kind that can heal a broken spirit.'

 

She grimaced and shook her head as she flipped the steaks over on the grill. That was true, she supposed. Kagome and Gin . . . they were healers in every sense of the word, weren't they? Kagome had undisputed spiritual powers; powers that even Sesshoumaru acknowledged. In that vein, she'd been able to break through the bleakness that had been InuYasha's world for so long, and in her own way, she'd taught him that life was worth living, and that love was something precious; something worth fighting for. Gin had done the same thing with Cain, hadn't she? She'd saved him in every way that mattered without really trying, at all, and as much as Isabelle might wish she could do the same, she knew, didn't she? She would never, ever be like them . . .

 

She was too impatient, like her mother; too impulsive. She had a tendency to push too hard and to act before she really thought things through. Or maybe she was too much like her father; a one-track mind that would not rest until she'd gotten whatever it was that she wanted . . .

 

`Those two things are a dangerous combination,' her youkai voice chided. `It's gotten you into your fair share of trouble over the years, and if you stomp in there with all guns blazing, all you'll end up doing is pushing Griffin further away.'

 

`All right; all right! I'm a lost cause! I got that . . . Still . . .'

 

`No, that's not what I'm saying at all, Isabelle. I'm telling you that your normal no-nonsense approach just isn't going to work with that man, and you know it. For once in your life, you need to stop and consider another way to go about this . . . if you really want to help him . . . if you really want to be with him . . .'

 

`He's my mate,' Isabelle insisted, rising on tiptoe to pull two plates off the top shelf of the cupboard. `I know it, and you know it . . . and if we know it, then he knows it, too.'

 

`That's the thing, Isabelle . . . just because he might know on some level doesn't mean he's realized it or admitted it to himself, and even you have to admit that Griffin can be a little strange when it comes to certain things.'

 

`Then what do you suggest, O wise one?'

 

Her youkai blood laughed softly. `Show him.'

 

`Show him? I thought you said that I needed to practice subtlety. I'd hardly call showing Griffin the goods `subtle'.'

 

`That's not what I'm talking about,' her youkai scoffed. `I meant show him that he likes to be with you . . . show him that he can be happy, after all.'

 

Isabelle paused as she arranged salad in the large bowl that Griffin seemed to favor before reaching for the canister of dried cranberries on the counter. `That he likes to be with me, huh . . .?' A slow smile spread over her features as she sprinkled a few cranberries over his salad followed by a handful of lightly roasted pine nuts. `I . . . I can do that . . . I know I can . . .'

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin slumped to the side in the overstuffed recliner and sighed as he propped his forehead on his fingertips and scowled at the journal in his hands. The dull ache behind his eyes was ignored while he worked. It wasn't uncommon, anyway. He was used to minor aches and pains—he'd lived with them for the greater part of his life. They were minor annoyances at best; irksome, surely, but easily ignored.

 

Maybe he ought to go on a walk. It would probably help to loosen up his overly stiff joints since he felt quite bad otherwise. He'd spent too much time sitting today—something he normally paid very close attention to since the alternative was a fitful night spent tossing and turning that often resulted in one of his legs going numb. Attean had mentioned once that the pain and stiffness were probably caused by the overabundance of scar tissue he'd accumulated on the majority of his body, and he'd even mentioned that a good surgeon could probably do something about it. It wasn't something that Griffin had ever really considered, though. The pain was a reminder, wasn't it? Otherwise, it'd be a little too easy to forget . . .

 

`You can't really believe that, can you? That you could forget anything so easily?'

 

Griffin grunted but didn't respond. The sounds of Isabelle puttering around in the kitchen registered in the back of his mind, but he didn't dwell on that, either.

 

She'd been uncharacteristically quiet during dinner. Come to think of it, she'd been strangely quiet all evening. He wasn't sure if he should be worried or grateful for the reprieve . . .

 

`Yeah? So why did her odd silence worry you then?'

 

Setting the journal aside so that he could scratch Charlie's knobby head, Griffin snorted. `It didn't. It was nice. She wasn't babbling on and on about nothing for once.'

 

`Sure, it was,' his youkai agreed despite the hint of sarcasm that Griffin could discern. `Something was on her mind, and that bothered you . . . Admit it, why don't you?'

 

`Nope,' he insisted, making a face and shoving the dog back down when Charlie tried to climb into Griffin's lap. “You're as bad as she is,” he grumbled.

 

Charlie whined and wagged his tail in reply.

 

Speaking of `her' . . .

 

Griffin glanced up only to do a classic double-take as Isabelle marched into the living room with a white plastic container in one hand and a clear glass jar of honey roasted pecans in the other—one of the big ones that reminded Griffin of the huge pickle jars that he'd seen in bulk grocery stores. She didn't even spare him a second glance as she set the container on the coffee table and proceeded to sink down on the sofa, flipping the air-tight lid on the jar and settling down with the pecans.

 

He narrowed his gaze, scowling in intense concentration at Isabelle's snack. When it became obvious to him that she had no intention of sharing he snorted out loud and pushed himself to his feet, crossing the living room floor in a matter of three long strides before reaching for the jar cradled in Isabelle's lap only to have them neatly whisked to the side despite the fact that she still hadn't looked at him even once. “These are mine, Pooh Bear. I bought them with my own money.”

 

“Dogs don't like pecans,” he maintained, grabbing for the jar again and missing when she scooted away to the other end of the sofa.

 

“This dog does,” she insisted, popping a nice, fat honey roasted pecan half into her mouth. “Mmm . . .”

 

He couldn't contain the low growl that escaped as he tried to nab the jar for the third time—and missed again. “Consider them your rent,” he grumbled, intercepting her hand when she tried to feed herself yet another pecan. Forcibly guiding her hand to his mouth, he bit it, letting his teeth scrape over her fingers as fair warning, as far as he was concerned.

 

She giggled and scooted further away, wrapping both arms around the jar of pecans to protect them from Griffin. “You want these?” she goaded, arching an eyebrow in a completely coquettish way.

 

“Hand them over, girly.”

 

Her grin widened. “Okay, okay . . . on one condition.”

 

“What sort of condition?” he demanded, his frown as foreboding as he could make it as he snagged another pecan out of her fingertips and stuffed it into his mouth.

 

Isabelle laughed. “I'll let you have this jar of nuts if you let me do whatever I want . . . for twenty minutes.”

 

“You've got to be crazy if you think I'll agree to any such thing,” Griffin growled, cheeks pinking as he furiously tried not to think about exactly what Isabelle had in mind for those twenty minutes. Well, that wasn't exactly true. A few ideas did flit through his brain—ideas that he didn't even want to consider. Knowing Isabelle, she just wanted to torture him . . .

 

Her laughter escalated, having obviously interpreted the look on his face correctly, and she waved her hand, contorting her body to the side when he swiped at the jar of nuts once more. “I assure you, Dr. G, if that's what I had in mind, I'd have asked for a hell of a lot longer than twenty minutes.”

 

He could feel the rush of hot color burning under his skin and growled. “Never can tell with you,” he shot back. “Just hand over the pecans, will you?”

 

“Twenty minutes, Griffin,” she reiterated. “You agree, and I'll let you have the whole jar.”

 

“Forget it,” he growled, wondering if he'd be fast enough to grab the jar and make it to the basement before she had a chance to retaliate. No, he probably wouldn't be . . . But damn it, he wanted those pecans . . .

 

“Oh, come on, doctor! Surely you can withstand twenty minutes,” she goaded.

 

“Depends,” he grumbled, “and there's no way I'm willingly subjecting myself to any of your debased schemes for nearly half an hour.”

 

“Twenty minutes,” she nearly sang once more.

 

Griffin snorted. “. . . Five.”

 

“Five?” she echoed with a shake of her head. “For this huge jar? You've got to be kidding. Ninteeen.”

 

“Five.”

 

“Seventeen.”

 

“Five,” he stated flatly, crossing his arms over his chest as he glowered at the infuriating woman.

 

She shook her head. “Going once . . .”

 

He growled.

 

“Going twice . . .”

 

Griffin made a face. “. . . Ten.”

 

Isabelle's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Fifteen. Final offer.”

 

“Ten.”

 

“Fifteen.”

 

He couldn't help the low growl that started somewhere deep within him only to escalate slowly.

 

She heaved a sigh and shook her head, rolling to her feet as she dug a handful of pecans out of the jar and held them over her head. “Fifteen . . .” she said seconds before the first pecan fell into her mouth.

 

Griffin grimaced. “Nothing bad, right?” he demanded.

 

She rolled her eyes but let the rest of the pecans in her hand fall back into the jar. “Fine, fine, nothing bad . . . but fifteen full minutes—and no complaining.”

 

He wrinkled his nose and let out a deep, frustrated breath, feeling like a condemned man on his way to face the gallows. “Fifteen minutes . . . that's it,” he grudgingly agreed.

 

A brilliant smile was his reward as Isabelle handed over the jar of pecans with a flourish. She swiped the white plastic container off the table and spared a moment to smile at him again before biting her lip as she stared at him in an entirely too-calculating sort of way.

 

`I don't trust her,' he thought with an inward snort as he shoved a handful of honey roasted pecans into his mouth.

 

`Oh, relax . . . she promised she wouldn't do anything bad.'

 

`Bad is a relative term,' Griffin shot back caustically as Isabelle tapped a delicate claw against her lips thoughtfully, `and Isabelle is relatively bad.'

 

`Yeah, well, you know, you didn't have to make her promise that she wouldn't do anything `bad' during her fifteen minutes,' his youkai chided.

 

Griffin's retort was cut off when the woman in question abruptly grabbed his arm, neatly tucking it between her body and her own arm to effectively hold him in place—though he could have pulled away easily enough, he supposed, but a deal was a deal, even if he was starting to wonder if he hadn't been a little rash in agreeing to her terms . . . `Wh . . . what is she doing?' he wondered, his glower darkening as she carefully unscrewed the lid on the plastic container. He ought to have paid a little more attention to that, he supposed as he wrinkled his nose and tried to sniff the thick white cream inside without being too obvious about it.

 

`G-G-G-Griffin . . .?'

 

`Huh?'

 

“M-maybe this was a b-bad idea . . .' his youkai choked out harshly.

 

Blinking to clear his mind, he scowled at the strangled tone of his youkai's voice. `Eh?'

 

`Your . . . arm . . .'

 

It took a moment for Griffin to grasp just what his youkai meant, but when he did, he couldn't smother the sharp intake of breath that whistled into his lungs as his arm tensed of its own accord; as he pulled against her tightening grip as she held onto his wrist. His arm was indeed in a precarious state, sandwiched between her arm and her body—most pointedly, her breast—and the way she was holding onto his hand . . . Well, it was safe to say that any closer would have his hand effectively smashed between said-breasts, and while the idea wasn't completely loathsome, it was far more inviting than it ever should have been. “Listen, girly,” he forced himself to say, his voice a lot gruffer than he'd intended.

 

She rolled her eyes and shot him a quelling glance as she cocked and eyebrow and dug a glob of cream out of the container and rubbed it between her palms. “Fifteen minutes, Griffin. You agreed so deal with it.”

 

Snapping his mouth closed as he fought back the heinous stain of a tell-tale blush, Griffin growled low in his throat and tried to pull away once more.

 

Her hands—hot and slick, closed over his as her arm smashed down to lock him in place. Gently—a little too gently, she carefully rubbed the cream into his hand, massaging the scar tissue that still gave him twinges of discomfort despite her obvious desire not to hurt him. “What do you think you're—?”

 

“This is a special ointment my grandmother made up. It should reduce the swelling in your joints and help with the pain,” she cut in, her voice soft despite the determined set of her jaw. “But you have to apply it often for it to work best. Don't worry; it's all natural.”

 

He snorted. “Don't need it,” he grumbled under his breath, more to himself than to her.

 

She rubbed the expanse of skin between his index finger and thumb, and he grimaced. “Of course you don't,” she agreed in what could only be described as an indulgent tone.

 

“I don't,” he maintained stubbornly.

 

“I know.”

 

He snorted, his gaze shifting to the slope of her breasts once more. When he realized what he was staring at, he gritted his teeth, willing himself not to blush and failing miserably. It didn't do any good to keep his gaze averted. No, he could still feel the heat of her body radiating from her skin . . . “Do you have to manhandle me?” he grumbled.

 

She shot a quick glance over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowing as she stared at his ruddy face. “Suck it up, big boy. I'm not hurting you.”

 

His answer was a scathing grunt that she summarily ignored while she grasped his arm more firmly, bearing down with her elbow—not uncomfortable, per se, but enough to draw even more attention to the dubious placement of his hand in relation to her body. Snapping his mouth closed—it was suddenly dry—he tried to force his gaze away again but couldn't. If he turned his arm just the tiniest bit . . .

 

`The hell!' he blustered in his head.

 

`Hush, Griffin . . . just go with it . . .'

 

`G-g-go with it?'

 

His youkai groaned softly.

 

“It's been fifteen minutes already,” he blurted, desperately trying to get a grip on his rioting emotions.

 

“It has not,” she argued. “It hasn't even been five minutes.”

 

“Hmph,” he gritted out, tamping down the rising sense of panic that surged through him when she shifted his arm, effectively bringing his forearm up and into the vale under her breasts. `No . . . no, no, no, no . . .'

 

He had to get away from her. If he didn't, he was pretty certain that he was going to die. Held where he was, the heat of her body was magnified tenfold, and Griffin wasn't so sure he'd survive if he didn't find a way to put some distance between the two of them, and fast . . . She was too close, too nice, too damn hot to credit . . . he felt as though he were standing too close to a bonfire . . . or maybe he was standing in it . . .

 

But she didn't seem to notice Griffin's turmoil, and that wasn't exactly a bad thing. He wasn't sure what would have happened if she did realize what her proximity was doing to him, and for that, at least, he was grateful.

 

“Anyway, I want you to promise you'll use this stuff. I'll have Grandma make more when you run out,” Isabelle went on, blissfully unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on Griffin's equilibrium. She shifted slightly, allowing his arm to slide away from her and offering him a slight bit of breathing room that he sorely needed.

 

His grunt was noncommittal at best since he didn't have any intention to use the cream, never mind he could feel a distinct tingle down deep—a sure sign that whatever it was, it was working. “I told you; I don't need it.”

 

The expression on her face was hard to interpret. She paused long enough to stare at him for a moment before resuming her task once more. “I heard you,” she agreed mildly, “but I'd feel much better if you agreed, especially since I won't be here to make sure you use it, and—”

 

It took a moment for her words to sink in. He was still more than a little distracted by the relative proximity of his hand and her body to think clearly, he supposed. When her words finally took root in his mind, though, he scowled and nearly succeeded in jerking his arm away. “What do you mean, you won't be here? Just where do you think you're going?”

 

She paused for a moment in her ministrations before resuming her task once more. “Well, Jillian said that Dr. Avis called her just after she got back home. Seems that he's fine, after all, so I don't need to stay here anymore.”

 

Pulling his hand away and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Griffin scowled at Isabelle, who was avoiding his gaze and trying to look as innocent as possible. “That doesn't mean a thing,” he informed her, unable to contain the irrational surge of anger that nearly choked him.

 

She blinked and shook her head, finally meeting his gaze. “I thought this would make you happy . . .” she said slowly moments before she ducked her head. “I mean, I'm invading in your territory, aren't I?”

 

He didn't disagree with her. “Just because Dr. Avis is still alive doesn't mean that you're not in danger,” he pointed out in what he could only hope was a reasonable tone. An unsettling wave of panic shot through him at the very idea of Isabelle moving out, and he refused to give that too much thought. “He could have hired someone else to find the research.”

 

“Why would he—?”

 

“Because he did it before,” Griffin snarled, tamping down the urge to grab Isabelle by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. “Even then, what makes you so sure that Avis was the one in charge when your—your—?”

 

She watched him wave his hands around as he tried to come up with a term to describe Isabelle's relation to Jillian. “Aunt? Cousin?” she supplied helpfully.

 

She was rewarded with a fulminating glower for her efforts. “Yes, her—and your family is warped. Anyway, what makes you so sure that Avis was behind her kidnapping? He could have been ordered to take responsibility. It doesn't mean he was.”

 

Isabelle sighed and reached for his hand once more. “Haven't we been through this already?”

 

He snorted indelicately. “I thought so, yes, but you apparently didn't listen to a word I said, did you?” Griffin was agitated enough not to fight with her. He had bigger fish to fry, after all . . .

 

“I listened,” she rebutted as she continued to work the ointment into his hand. “I think you're being paranoid . . . Who would ever want to hurt me?”

 

He opened his mouth to reply then snapped it closed again. Isabelle just couldn't seem to understand that there really were people in the world who weren't quite so nice; who would hurt her given the chance. It was an intrinsic part of her, wasn't it? He'd known that from the start. Despite the street-wise demeanor she presented to the world, she really was insanely naïve in many, many ways. She hadn't seen enough of the world to know that there were nightmares lurking in the darkness; vile things waiting to feed off the optimism she possessed . . . They wanted to take hold of her; to possess her; to kill the beautiful parts of her soul . . . and it was that part of her that scared Griffin most because it was that part of her that made him . . .

 

`Don't say it,' he told himself sternly, scowling down at the indelible visage of her small hands clasping his. She wasn't a tiny woman by any means, and yet the sight of them in comparison to his . . . She reminded him of a child—no, not a child; not really . . . of a beautiful thing that he knew deep down could never, ever last. “There are people who wouldn't think twice about hurting someone else if it meant that they'd gain something,” Griffin said at last, a note of sadness inherent in his tone. “Even if you don't believe me, it's true.”

 

“Do you care so much?” she asked quietly. Her tone lacked any real challenge though there was something in the depths of her stare; something pleading and earnest. She knew what she was asking, didn't she? Knew that there was no way he could possibly answer her; not without giving away just a little too much of himself . . . not without losing the very last of his soul that he still retained.

 

Griffin looked away before he could be trapped into saying something that he'd regret. The trouble was, he wasn't certain exactly what answer he'd regret more: that he did care or that he didn't want to care . . . “Just . . . listen to me, all right?” he grumbled.

 

It seemed to him that she chose her words with extra care while she studiously kept her gaze averted as though everything in the world depended upon his answer, and maybe . . . maybe it did . . . “Do you . . . want . . . me to stay?”

 

“Course not,” he growled, cheeks pinking as a certain heat stole into his skin. “Why would I?”

 

She shrugged offhandedly as she massaged the scar tissue on his palm. “Of course not,” she agreed. She didn't look at him, but he could hear the amusement in her tone.

 

“Humor me, girly,” he mumbled. “You're not moving out of here until the research is finished.”

 

She digested that in silence, and he had to wonder if she was trying to tell herself that he was wrong. In the end, she nodded, forcing a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Okay,” she agreed slowly, hesitantly, as though she didn't want to give in. “I'll . . . I'll stay.”

 

 

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

So he's not immune to me after all …

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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~