InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Little Victories ( Chapter 16 )

~~Chapter 16~~

~Little Victories~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin scowled up at the tree, asking himself for the millionth time just how she'd managed to talk him into the debacle that was fast taking over his living room.

 

It wasn't bad enough that she'd wanted to decorate the tree in all things red and gold. He hadn't figured out at the time that she had a method to her madness, but he did now. Oh, yes, he did . . .

 

It wasn't bad enough that the store was disgustingly crowded—almost crowded enough to send him into a complete and total meltdown—he'd never done well with crowds.

 

It wasn't bad enough that Isabelle had seemed to draw off the energy of so many people gathered into one place to do one thing and one thing only: to drive him absolutely mad, and it had very nearly worked . . .

 

It wasn't bad enough that, because of his stature, perfect strangers had felt no qualms in asking him to retrieve items off the top shelves, “Would you please; thank you very much; it must be wonderful to be so tall; oh, and by the way, your wife is lovely, just lovely . . .” The wife part had made him blush crimson every time he'd heard it, which only made Isabelle throw her head back and laugh . . . It just figured.

 

It wasn't bad enough that for every kind word he'd heard, he'd also received at least ten of those looks: the revulsion, the horror, the morbid curiosity . . . It was all there, wasn't it? In the eyes of the people who hadn't had the courtesy to realize that they were staring—gawking—at him. After all these years of having that particular reaction to the way he looked, why was it that it could still unsettle him?

 

It wasn't bad enough that by the time he'd finally managed to talk Isabelle into leaving the store—and much to the detriment of his poor, battered check card—he'd bought almost everything that he'd summarily told Isabelle that there was no way he was ever putting in his yard, and add to that the idea that he'd had to stand in line for nearly an hour as they tried to get out alive, he hadn't been in the best of moods when they'd finally stepped outside only to be accosted by the bell-ringers who had plucked him clean faster than a vulture on a coyote in the Mojave Desert.

 

It wasn't even bad enough that Isabelle had then decided to drag Griffin out into the forest behind the house to find what she called `the perfect tree'. It had struck him at the time that it was completely senseless to cut down a tree for the sole intent and purpose of having it emasculated with garland and lights and whatever else Isabelle had tossed into the cart that she'd carefully maneuvered through the department store. It never sat well with him, the idea of destroying nature just because one could. It was one thing to cut down a tree because someone needed the wood for something; it was another thing entirely to do the same just to have it dying in one's living room. The only times he ever did such a thing was when the trees were too dense to flourish, when he needed the lumber for furniture since he tended to scavenge the fallen ones for firewood. Even the idea of planting a couple to replace it did little to alleviate the nearly overwhelming feeling that he'd wronged nature in the worst way . . .

 

No, none of that even began to measure up to the worst thing—the gravest of trespasses—in Griffin's mind. He hadn't been paying enough attention in the store, he supposed, because he hadn't realized at the time, just what she'd picked out to put on the tree, and now that he did . . . well, he wasn't impressed; not in the least, and he opened his mouth to tell Isabelle just that but stopped instead, watching as she carefully hung three stockings from burnished pewter hooks she'd bought especially for the task. When he was fighting with the uncooperative strings of lights, she'd busied herself by writing their names on the stockings with a tube of lurid red glitter fabric paint, and as she hung the stockings, he could only watch as she carefully, almost lovingly, arranged them before moving on to hang the next one: Griffin, Isabelle, and Froofie in the middle.

 

But it was the gentle smile on her face that stopped his burgeoning tirade . . . she really was enjoying the simple task of decorating for the holiday, and even the sight of the Winnie the Pooh topper didn't bother him quite as much as it had when she'd asked him sweetly to put it on top of the tree.

 

As though she sensed his perusal, she turned that smile on him, and for a breathless moment, Griffin couldn't do more than stare before her gaze moved up, away from him, settling on the insipid grin on the stuffed bear's face. Holding onto a bright green `hunny' pot, hand poised just above it with a silicone substance colored to look like the `hunny' dripping from his fat little paw, the bear looked entirely daft, in Griffin's considered opinion.

 

Isabelle laughed and leaned on Griffin's arm without taking her gaze off the ten-foot tree that she'd managed to talk him into putting where his recliner normally sat. He still wasn't sure how she'd talked him into that . . . temporary insanity, maybe . . . it had to be.

 

“Oh, that's so cute!” she gushed, tightening her grip on Griffin's arm. “Will you plug it in?”

 

Griffin stared at her hands for a moment then grunted. “It looks like the tree got shoved up his ass,” he muttered but did as she asked, narrowing his gaze when the lights on the tree blazed to life.

 

Isabelle's laughter escalated seconds before she latched onto his arm again to drag him out of the room. “Come on, Pooh Bear,” she insisted.

 

He offered token resistance that she summarily ignored. “Why are you manhandling me now?” he demanded though his tone lacked the normal censure that it normally held.

 

“I want to get the full effect,” she insisted, leaning on his arm as she slipped her feet into the boots she had left by the door.

 

“Are you sure those are yours?” he deadpanned, tilting his head to the side as he made a show of staring at her boots.

 

“Yes, why?”

 

“Because they're huge,” he commented. “I thought women were supposed to have delicate feet.”

 

She wrinkled her nose, her cheeks pinking in an uncharacteristic show of embarrassment. “Leave my feet out of this,” she said, her voice taking on a prickly sort of pitch as she hurriedly jammed her foot into the remaining boot.

 

“I think they may be bigger than mine,” Griffin added, scratching his chin in a thoughtful sort of way.

 

“I can't help it if I have big feet!” she blurted. “It's genetic!”

 

“Genetic.”

 

She nodded curtly, jerking her coat off the peg on the wall and swinging it over her shoulders. “If you haven't noticed, all the men in my family are big, ergo, big feet run in the family. Genetics.”

 

“Maybe,” he agreed as he reached for his coat, “but you're not a man.”

 

She snapped her mouth closed on whatever retort she'd been forming and scowled at him, yanking open the front door and stomping out onto the porch.

 

With a sigh, he followed her, seeing no way out of it since she was set on making him enjoy the scene, he supposed. She hunkered down beside the porch to plug in the bright orange outdoor extension cord.

 

Griffin made a face—he couldn't help himself—at the eyesore that greeted him. Isabelle laughed and darted across the yard to stand by the street, ostensibly taking in the sight that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to see. She called out to him, and he heaved a sigh, asking himself yet again just how she'd managed to talk him into—he winced as he turned to eye his yard—that . . .

 

“Oh, my God,” he muttered, shaking his head as a sinking feeling not unlike the sensation of drowning deluged him. From the giant Santa to the plastic candy canes lining the sidewalk to the lurid flashing of Rudolph's nose on the cheap plastic reindeer standing in the midst of his yard, the entire tableaux was enhanced by the racing tube of lights that delineated the roof and porch of what used to be his domain, Griffin couldn't help but wonder how he could go about destroying the items without drawing Isabelle's suspicions.

 

“Isn't it fantastic?” Isabelle gushed.

 

“That's not exactly the word that comes to mind, no,” he said slowly.

 

“It looks great!” she went on, taking no note of Griffin's less-than-enthusiastic reaction. “I still think we should have gotten the giant Frosty the Snowman . . .”

 

“There's more than enough crap in my yard,” Griffin stated flatly. “No Frosty.”

 

“The neighborhood children will love it,” she predicted, clapping her mittened hands happily.

 

He snorted, noting with a heavy sigh that from his vantage point, he could see the damn Winnie the Pooh tree topper illuminated in blinking lights. “Why do I have the feeling that I'm slowly losing all credibility?” he grouched.

 

“It's for the children. Just remember that,” she chided, linking her arm around his as she took in the results of her efforts with a bright smile.

 

Griffin wasn't as inclined to believe her, but he grunted in response and slowly shook his head. “Don't stay out all night or you'll freeze,” he mumbled, carefully shaking her arm off as he started to lumber toward the house once more. He had to be losing his mind, he reasoned. There was a good chance that all the flashing lights were going to give him a migraine by the time all was said and done. Maybe he ought to consider boarding up his bedroom window until the holidays were over . . .

 

His house looked absolutely ridiculous, and he still wasn't sure exactly why he'd let Isabelle do all of the decorating, and yes, he hated to admit as much, but he'd helped, too. Wincing as a sharp pain stabbed at his lower back, he sighed yet again. He'd played right into her hands, hadn't he? Adamantly refusing to admit that dragging the tree through the forest and forcing it through the back door just might have been too much for him, he'd gritted his teeth and done it anyway while Isabelle moved things aside to `make his job a little easier'.

 

No doubt about it, he'd be feeling the overexertion by morning. He'd count himself lucky if he was able to stand up tomorrow, let alone walk at all . . .

 

`You know well enough why you agreed,' his youkai blood piped up.

 

`Do I?'

 

`Sure, and you're right. She has a damn nice smile, doesn't she?'

 

The truth in his youkai's words hit home, and Griffin grimaced. Was he really as shallow as all that? Agreeing to something that he never, ever would have agreed to otherwise simply because Isabelle Izayoi smiled at him?

 

And somehow he didn't dare answer that question, either. As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, there was a hint of truth to those words, and recalling the brilliance of her child-like awe, Griffin couldn't escape the raw surge of panic that swept through him. He felt as though he were losing control of his body, of himself. Everything that he'd ever wanted seemed to float just out of his grasp, off in the distance, wavering like a dream or a fantasy, and yet the smiles that illuminated her entire being were for him; just for him. All he had to do was reach out and touch her . . . but that was the impossibility, wasn't it, and even if it were, she deserved better than to be relegated to little more than the woman living with the town freak, didn't she?

 

Snorting indelicately at the direction of his thoughts, Griffin's scowl deepened as he stomped toward the basement door. Completely disgusted at himself for his perceived weakness, he sorely needed to distance himself from her before he started spouting poetry or worse. He'd almost reached his sanctuary—his hand was touching the cool brass knob—when Isabelle's voice sounded behind him.

 

“Do you want to try those cookies now?”

 

He stopped but didn't turn to face her. He could smell the brisk night air emanating from her as she moved toward the kitchen though he couldn't hear her. “No,” he mumbled, absently wondering why the sound of her voice could rip him wide open yet soothe him at the same time.

 

“Are you sure? Pecans and molasses? Then I guess I'll just eat them all by myself . . .”

 

She just had to mention the pecans, didn't she? Silently cursing himself for arming her with the knowledge about his affinity for nuts in general and pecans in particular, he let his hand fall away from the door as he slowly pivoted on his heel to pin her with a bored glower. “Don't touch my cookies,” he stated.

 

Isabelle laughed and strolled into the kitchen, pouring him a glass of farm-fresh milk and retrieving a can of Diet Coke as she nodded at the cookies still arranged on the wire cooling racks. “I don't suppose I can have just one?” she mused, an amused glimmer sparkling in the depths of her bright golden eyes.

 

“I don't suppose you can,” he agreed mildly, shoving a whole cookie into his mouth.

 

“But I should sample the recipe, don't you think? See if it's worth making again?”

 

“Good enough,” he allowed, still chewing his cookie as he held out his hand for the milk.

 

Isabelle handed it to him, a triumphant little smirk on her face as she watched him grab another cookie and repeat the shoving process.

 

`All right,' he thought as he stacked the remaining cookies and headed for the living room. `So she can bake . . . passably.'

 

`Among other things.'

 

Griffin snorted, making a face at the sight of his recliner shoved back into a corner so that it would be out of the way of the Christmas tree. `. . . Among other things . . .'

 

His youkai blood just laughed.

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

The soft clatter of claws drumming against the surface of the wide desk resounded in the quiet of the darkened office. The creak of the chair interrupted when she sat back, resting her elbow on the armrest as she scowled at the artificial glow of the computer monitor. It was exactly as she'd told Gunnar a few days ago: there simply weren't any viable leads that pointed to the existence of one Griffin Marin in any way, shape, or form prior to the date on his birth certificate, and not for the first time, she had to wonder if he weren't searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

 

Still, Gunnar was one of the brightest minds she'd ever had the opportunity to work with even if she adamantly refused to acknowledge such a thing to the puppy. His ego was inflated enough, she figured. She didn't need to add to it, now did she?

 

Myrna flicked her wrist and glanced at her watch. She'd been making phone calls all day, attempting to schmooze information out of contacts she hadn't had to use in years, and all of them had taken the time to poke at her for being, in their terms, one of Zelig's lap-dogs . . .

 

She had a handful of people left that she could call, but she honestly wasn't holding out much hope that any of them would be any more helpful than the ones she'd already tried.

 

Still . . .

 

Heaving a sigh, she pushed in the keyboard shelf and reached for the telephone. If she only had a little more information to go on, maybe she could dig up something more on the elusive bear-youkai.

 

Scrolling through her Digi-dex to find the number she was looking for, Myrna dialed it into the phone and leaned back with a defeated exhalation. It was fairly late, but if memory served, he didn't keep normal hours, anyway . . .

 

“Masta.”

 

“Attean, how are you?” Myrna greeted.

 

The hanyou chuckled softly. “Well, well . . . now here's a voice I've not heard in years. How are you?”

 

Myrna rolled her eyes but smiled to herself. “I'm fine, thank you, and you're as charming as ever, Attean . . . I trust you've been taking good care of Maria?”

 

“Always,” he agreed easily enough. Of all of the youkai in her network of communication, she had to admit that Attean Masta had always been one of the more personable to deal with.

 

“Good. You'll have to tell her that I said hello.”

 

“I can do that,” he allowed. “Suppose you tell me why you called? Surely it isn't social . . .?”

 

Smiling at his indulgent tone of voice, Myrna laughed softly. “I was being polite,” she pointed out though her amusement hadn't diminished. “If you insist, though . . . I wondered . . . I'm looking for information on a bear-youkai . . .”

 

“Hmm, a bear-youkai . . . that's a fairly broad request.”

 

“Yeah . . . The records show that he was born in 2017, but there's reason to believe that he's been around awhile. He goes by the name of Griffin Marin . . . think you can help me out here?”

 

Attean was silent for a moment, and she could hear the squeak of his chair as he leaned back and pondered her question. “Unfortunately, I don't think I can. Has he drawn the ire of the Zelig?”

 

“No, not exactly . . . We just had a few questions about him; that's all.”

 

“Quite a lot of trouble to go to just to ask a few questions.”

 

“Maybe,” she agreed slowly. “If you hear anything . . .”

 

“I'll be sure to get a hold of you,” he promised.

 

Myrna sighed and rubbed her face. “Thanks, and, uh . . . happy holidays.”

 

“You, too.”

 

The line went dead, and Myrna dropped the receiver into the cradle with a shake of her head and flopped back, letting her head rest against the high headrest and closing her eyes.

 

Nothing made sense, did it? Surely someone somewhere had heard of Griffin Marin. There had to be someone who knew something. It was just a matter of tracking them down, and the longer that Myrna spent working on it, the more determined she was to uncover the truth. After all, her reputation was on the line, wasn't it? She was the best in the business, damn it.

 

It was just a matter of time . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle tucked her feet up under her and adjusted her glasses as she scowled at the notes that Griffin had managed to translate, barely taking note as he shuffled over to drop another log on the crackling fire.

 

“It makes sense, right?” he asked, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen in the room.

 

Isabelle blinked and pulled off her glasses as she lowered her knees, letting the notebook slide off her legs as she turned her full attention on Griffin. “Yeah, it does,” she assured him with a wan smile. After the excitement of the day, she had to admit that she was feeling a little tired from it all. “You're making faster progress than I figured you would.”

 

“Not nearly fast enough,” he mumbled, grimacing slightly when he bent over to pick up a few fallen pine needles.

 

“Are you all right?” she asked slowly, carefully. She knew very well that he hadn't intended for her to see what he would perceive as a vulnerability.

 

He shot her a dark look and stubbornly shook his head, straightening up slowly before stomping off to throw away the needles. She didn't miss the slight stiffness in his movements, and she didn't miss the marked tightening of his jaw, either.

 

It wasn't the first time that she'd wondered about the physical state of his body. She'd had way too many hints over the time since she'd moved in with him to ignore, and she frowned as a pang of guilt shot through her. He'd carried that tree back by himself, and while she'd jokingly said she would help, she had a feeling that she'd done little more than sting his pride with her offer, and he was suffering for it, wasn't he?

 

She hadn't thought of him at all, and because of that, he was in pain. For a woman who swore that Griffin was the man for her, she had a horrible way of showing it, didn't she . . .?

 

`Don't beat yourself up over it, Bitty,' her youkai said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. `You didn't think about it because he didn't want you to think about it . . . there's nothing more to it than that . . .'

 

`That's not true . . . I should have known . . . He's hurting, and it's my fault, and—'

 

`And if you make a fuss over him now, he's going to retreat again. You know he will.'

 

`Still, there has to be something I can do . . . there has to be some way I can make him feel a little better . . .'

 

`Leave it alone, okay? Leave his pride intact . . . You're making progress; slow to be sure, but progress is progress . . .'

 

`Am I?' she wondered with a shake of her head, frowning unhappily as she rubbed her thighs through the thick material of her flannel lounge pants.

 

`Yes, you are . . . you got him out of the house, didn't you? You got him to decorate for Christmas even if he did grumble the entire time. You know damn well that he never would have allowed it a few weeks ago. He's softening a little. You just have to be patient.'

 

It was true, wasn't it? Bolstered by her youkai's pep-talk, she smiled wanly, leaning her temple on the back of the sofa as a soft laugh escaped her.

 

He wandered back into the room with mugs in both of his hands. Isabelle masked her surprise as he set one on the coffee table beside her and refrained from comment since he'd never done that before. While he had herbal tea in his mug—she could smell the fragrant tang of the leaves he used—her mug contained coffee—doubly surprising since he never failed to inform her that it wasn't good for her in the least.

 

“Thank you,” she said, twisting around and patting the sofa beside her.

 

Griffin narrowed his gaze as though he were waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. In the end, he sat down and sighed before slowly sipping his tea. “Before you get any more bright ideas, I'm not going Christmas caroling,” he stated flatly.

 

Hiding her amusement behind the thick earthenware mug of steaming coffee, Isabelle peered over the brim. “I'll leave the singing to my cousin, thanks,” she murmured as her smile widened. He'd added honey to her coffee instead of sugar—gentle censure, she supposed.

 

“Your cousin?” he echoed, casting her a quizzical glance.

 

“Sure,” she agreed with a shrug. “Evan's much better at it than I am.”

 

“You mean there is something you can't do?”

 

While he'd made the observation in a cynical sort of tone, Isabelle was still touched by the unspoken sentiment. He never said exactly what he meant, did he, and yet somehow she always understood. “There are lots of things I can't do,” she admitted quietly.

 

“And you're willing to fess up to that?”

 

She giggled. “Why not? I'm not perfect . . . far from it, actually. I tend to be a little too impetuous, or so they tell me.”

 

“Who'd have thought it,” he muttered, cheeks reddening as he shifted his gaze away from her.

 

Isabelle grinned. “And I follow my heart too much—at least that's what Mamoruzen says.”

 

He paused with the mug poised at his lips. “Mamoruzen?”

 

Setting her mug back on the coffee table, Isabelle turned on the sofa, drawing one leg up against her chest and leaned to the side. “Another cousin—my closest cousin: Mamoruzen Inutaisho . . . Of course, he tends to be a little too pragmatic, if you ask my opinion—and he's always sticking his nose into my business though he says it's because he is concerned about me.”

 

“But you don't believe him?”

 

She shrugged. “No, it's not that . . . I believe that he does in his own sick and twisted sort of way. Mamoruzen just tends to be a little too distrustful of everyone on the whole.”

 

Griffin pondered that for a moment then shrugged as though it were of no real consequence. “Trusting anyone without reason is just asking for trouble. Sounds to me like your cousin's just trying to save you from yourself.”

 

Smiling despite the small quirk of irritation that Griffin really would side with Gunnar, Isabelle sighed. “And I say that trying to live while constantly looking over your shoulder to see who is out to get you isn't really living at all.”

 

“Spoken like a true woman,” Griffin decided. “Nothing wrong with thinking things through, and there's nothing wrong with being realistic . . . and you never know just who is behind you, for that matter.”

 

“Realistic, huh . . . Is that what you are?” she asked softly.

 

He grunted and finished off his tea as a faraway sort of expression entered the depths of his eyes. There was a certain sadness there, too; a melancholy that she wished she understood. “S'ppose,” he admitted at last.

 

He sat there for another minute before pushing himself to his feet and leaving her there to ponder exactly what he'd meant. In the end, she sighed. Realistic, maybe, but still . . . sometimes she thought that she was getting closer to understanding him, and others . . .

 

Other times she wasn't sure she understood a damn thing about him; not at all.

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

Delightfully tacky …

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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~