InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Puppies and Kittens ( Chapter 20 )

~~Chapter 20~~

~Puppies and Kittens~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin glanced at the clock for the seventh time in fifteen minutes and shook his head, snorting inwardly at his perceived lack of discipline as he glanced at the telephone and gritted his teeth, telling himself yet again that it wasn't that late and that he didn't really need to worry about Isabelle and where she was—or wasn't.

 

It was nearly seven o'clock—well past the time when she normally got home from work.

 

`Relax, Griffin . . . she probably stopped by the store for something or other. You know how she is.'

 

He snorted indelicately and forced his attention back on the notes that he'd been staring at without making much progress for the last couple of hours—about the time that she should have busted through the door with the normal commotion that seemed to accompany her everywhere she went.

 

`I'm not . . . worried,' he grumbled. `I'm hungry, and she's not here to make dinner yet.'

 

His youkai voice judiciously decided to ignore the ridiculousness of his claim since he'd been fending for himself for too many years to count for his excuse to hold water.

 

`You could call the clinic if you're worried about your . . . dinner . . .'

 

He snorted. He didn't need to do that, either, damn it. No, everything was fine—just fine—and it'd be even more . . . `fine' . . . when that thoughtless little girl walked through the door . . .

 

Heaving a sigh, he pushed away from the desk and stomped over to the window, scowling outside at the darkened landscape. It had been getting worse of late, the feeling that something was moving in the shadows. Over the centuries that had comprised his life thus far, he'd learned over time to trust that instinct; to rely on it even if he didn't think there was anything to be worried about. No, he'd learned long ago that if something really bothered him, he had reason to be worried . . .

 

He stood still for a long time, unconsciously willing the brightness of her headlights to split the night. The longer he watched for her, the more his mind conjured twisted scenarios—scenarios that were too impossible to be believed and yet . . . and yet he couldn't quite help himself, either. It had gotten warm enough to melt some of the snow blanketing the road, but as evening gave way to night, the temperature had dropped, too, resulting in a thick sheet of ice that could have easily manipulated that little toy she called a car . . . She could have been abducted by a mad Santa outside the store, or . . . or she could have been found out, couldn't she? If he was right and if this Eaton Fellows person had traced the research to her . . . He didn't hear the low growl that rattled from him, didn't feel his claws dig into his palms, didn't smell the copper tinge of blood—his blood—that tainted the air . . . The worse the images in his head became, the more irritated he grew, and the more irritated he grew, the more he wanted to hurt . . . something . . .

 

`Get a hold of yourself, Griffin . . . call her cell phone. She'll answer it.'

 

The growl cut off abruptly as Griffin's chin snapped up. He hadn't thought of that, had he? He hadn't wanted to call the clinic, no . . . He wasn't overly fond of the idea of talking to anyone that he didn't absolutely have to. Still . . .

 

`Admit it; you're worried about her.'

 

He snorted and grimaced as he held up his hands and blinked at the tiny ribbons of blood seeping from the lacerations on his palms. `I'm not,' he argued stubbornly, stomping off toward the bathroom to wash his hands. `She's just too helpless to take care of herself; that's all,' he rationalized.

 

`Yeah? Well, helpless or not, you're worried about her.'

 

He snorted again but didn't argue it.

 

He'd just shut off the faucet when he heard the click of the front door closing, and without bothering to do more than shake his hands, he stomped out of the bathroom and down the short hallway in time to glower at Isabelle as the maddening woman slowly shuffled into the living room. “Just where the hell have you been?” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering at her, daring her to lie.

 

The smile that was on her face faded quickly as she met Griffin's darkened gaze, and she took a step toward him but stopped when he uttered a terse growl—a warning—and she sighed. “I'm sorry,” she said though she didn't sound like she really was in his opinion . . . “I got held up at work, and then I stopped by the store to pick up a few things for dinner.”

 

He grunted, narrowing his eyes since she wasn't carrying any bags. “Groceries, huh?”

 

“Oh, those are still in the car,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

 

He nearly growled in complete frustration but settled on glowering at her, instead. “You know, there is such a thing as the telephone,” he pointed out.

 

“Of course there is,” she replied lightly, pasting a placating little smile on her face. “But you never gave me your phone number.”

 

“Incidentals,” he growled. “Or don't you know how to call information?”

 

“Everything's fine,” she insisted again. “I was just a little late . . .”

 

Crossing his arms over his chest, he narrowed his gaze at her and stubbornly shook his head. “Need I remind you that you could very well be in danger, and you're off running all over hell's half-acre without a care in the world.”

 

That got her attention quickly enough. She looked a little taken aback for all of a moment before dissolving in helpless laughter.

 

“It's not funny, damn it!” he growled.

 

“You make it sound like the mafia's after me,” she pointed out between giggles.

 

“It's entirely possible—and it's not funny,” he snarled.

 

Isabelle's laughter waned a little but didn't dissipate completely. “Aw, did you miss me, Dr. Marin?” she asked, inclining her head as she took a step toward him.

 

“Hardly,” he snorted, willing himself not to blush and failing miserably as he glowered at the floor. “I was hungry, that's all.”

 

Her lips twitched ever-so-slightly as she carefully regarded him. “Were you rumbly in your tumbly?”

 

“Jezebel—” he began in a thoroughly menacing tone.

 

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry!” she relented, her apology sounding completely insincere. “I couldn't help it.”

 

He stifled a growl, asking himself just why it was that Isabelle simply refused to take anything seriously. “Next time you're running late, you'll call, understand?”

 

“I understand,” she agreed easily enough. “I promise.”

 

And somehow, that didn't really appease him, either . . .

 

Something moved in the deep pocket of the oversized wool sweater she wore, and for some reason, he just didn't think that she was wiggling her fingers . . . “Oh, God,” he grumbled when a slightly muffled but still discernable sound wafted to him. Shaking his head in abject disbelief, Griffin stared at Isabelle as he tried to decide if she really had lost her mind. She looked sane enough, standing there with a smile on her face, as though she didn't realize that Griffin might not be overly pleased with the—the—the thing in her pocket. “Tell me that's not—”

 

Her smile brightened as she carefully pulled—it—out and presented the beast to Griffin with a flourish. “Isn't she precious?” Isabelle crooned, stroking the cat? rat? as she lifted the vile thing to rub against her cheek. The only fur on the nasty thing was the white fuzz on its four feet and a little fluff on its tail . . . it was ugly—hideously ugly—possibly uglier than Charlie, and that was saying a lot. Huge ears that made the animal look more like a genetically altered bat and tufts of mud brown fur sticking out along its spine just didn't do a thing to endear it to Griffin, and he couldn't help the disgusted growl that slipped from him as he stared it down. He supposed it might be considered a kitten in some warped and twisted alternate universe. It might even look like a kitten if it actually had any hair . . .

 

“No, it's not,” he stated flatly, irked to no end that she came home late, completely disregarded the thought that he might be worrying about her, and to top all that off, she'd brought home a kitten in rat's clothing . . . “You're not keeping it.”

 

That got her attention quickly enough, and she turned an imploring eye on him. “But she was alone in the parking lot at the store! She's just a baby! I mean, look at her!”

 

Waving his hand as Isabelle stepped toward him, extending the kitten for his perusal, Griffin made a face and leaned away before she managed to infest him with—whatever was causing the little monster's hair to fall out. “Forget it, Isabelle. That animal's got the mange.”

 

She twisted to the side, sheltering the kitten against her chest as she screwed up her face in a thoroughly incensed scowl. “She does not!”

 

Griffin snorted. “The hell it doesn't. Look closer. There's obviously something wrong with it. You should have left it where you found it. It's just going to die, anyway.”

 

He regretted his words about the moment they were out of his mouth. Wincing inwardly as Isabelle's expression shifted into one of complete and utter distress, she looked like she just might cry—a prospect that completely horrified him. “She's not,” Isabelle finally said, her voice barely more than a whisper, and she refused to even glance at Griffin. “I'll take care of her. I'll take her to the vet, and you won't even know she's here . . . It's not a big deal.”

 

Heaving a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he struggled for a calm that he just wasn't feeling. “You're still not keeping her,” he growled.

 

“You wouldn't make me put her back outside in the cold, would you?” Isabelle asked, eyes widening in a shamelessly pleading sort of way.

 

“You're a dog, aren't you? Dogs hate cats,” he pointed out.

 

“Only half dog,” she argued as the little cat mewed.

 

“Charlie!” he said sharply as the dog danced around Isabelle's feet. He wanted to see what he smelled, and whether he wanted to play with the animal or eat it, Griffin wasn't sure, but he did know that neither of those options boded well. When the dog didn't listen, Griffin heaved a sigh, striding over and grabbing Charlie's collar to drag him toward the back door. “Forget it, you,” he grumbled.

 

“Oh, he's fine!” Isabelle called after Griffin.

 

He just snorted, shoving Charlie out the back door and pivoting on his heel to glower at Isabelle. “Get that out of here,” he insisted.

 

“But—”

 

“Now.”

 

“Griffin—”

 

“Now.”

 

“Oh, come on, I—”

 

“Now, Isabelle! Now!”

 

He wasn't sure exactly what he'd expected. He supposed that he thought she'd argue with him. After all, in her mind, it was one of the pathetic creatures that needed her help, wasn't it? He'd figured she'd give him a little fight, anyway . . . What he didn't expect was for her shoulders to slump, her chin to drop, and he watched in a sort of suspended reality as she jerked her head in a nod once, twice, before turning to go back the way she'd come.

 

The door clicked closed behind her minutes later, and Griffin blinked in the silence of the house. It took a few minutes for him to make sense of what just happened. He'd won? Against Isabelle . . .? He shook his head, scratched the back of his neck as a confounded scowl surfaced. He never won against Isabelle, did he? Why now? And why . . .?

 

Deliberately slamming the door on that train of thought, Griffin snorted indelicately and stomped over to let Charlie back into the house. He didn't feel bad, damn it. He didn't.

 

The flash of Isabelle's slumped shoulders, the absolute defeat in her aura mocked him, and he paused with his hand on the door handle before yanking it open with a slight growl.

 

`You do, Griffin; you know you do.'

 

`I don't. She should have known that I wouldn't want a dirty little creature like that in my house.'

 

`Now, now, the cat's not that bad. Sure, she looks a little rough, but you'd look rough, too, if you were abandoned in a parking lot.'

 

`Maybe . . . Listen, you, this is my home, and I don't want any cats, damn it.'

 

`Sure, it's your home. It's also Isabelle's home, at least for now. You're the one who insisted that she move in, right? Would it really be so bad to give a little on this? Besides that, you have to admit that you were rather mean about the animal, to start with . . .'

 

He snorted at that since he didn't really think he was being mean, at all. The truth hurt sometimes, didn't it? Isabelle might as well get used to that. `That wasn't mean; it was honest . . . and I've done nothing but give in to her since she moved in. Christmas decorations and the crap she calls food that is gradually taking over my refrigerator . . . I even brought her dog over, didn't I? And just what is it with Isabelle and butt-ugly creatures? Charlie . . . that cat . . . me . . .'

 

His youkai sighed. `And maybe she sees past the outside to what's inside, and maybe that's far more important, don't you think?'

 

`No, I think she needs her eyes checked; that's what I think.'

 

`Yeah, you would.'

 

Heaving a sigh, Griffin crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at the front door as Charlie sniffed around the spot where Isabelle had stood with the hairless wonder she called a kitten. Whining softly, the dog tried to figure out where Isabelle had taken the beast.

 

Griffin slowly shook his head and stomped toward the foyer, muttering under his breath about cajoling women and really ugly cats.

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Myrna didn't glance up as the heavy steel door clicked and swung open to admit the intruder into her small realm.

 

“Hey, Myrna, did you get a chance to check into that case I asked you about?” Bas Zelig asked, carefully closing the door so that it didn't bang shut.

 

Myrna nodded and patted the printed out stack of papers beside her; all neatly collated and stapled once in the upper left corner. “Everything I could find that might pertain to that, yes . . . There wasn't much.”

 

Bas sighed and pulled the papers off the desk to flip through the pages. “Yeah, I didn't figure . . . Dad already had an extensive file, and if they couldn't figure it out back then . . .”

 

Pushing herself to her feet as the chair slid back on its casters, Myrna pivoted to eye the man. It struck her once more, just how big he really was. Easily a good couple inches taller than his sire and most assuredly quite a bit broader, the next North American tai-youkai was formidable—maybe more so than his father, really. Though Cain Zelig's authority went without question, there was an intrinsic gentleness in the man that was harder to see upon first glance in his son. Bas tended to look a little more intimidating most of the time, likely because of the stark quality of his golden eyes. They shone like gemstones, quick and calculating, and, as she had found out so long ago, easy to discern and process danger in moments. He was a true force to be reckoned with, and while Myrna didn't fear him, she could understand why others might.

 

Still, she knew that there tended to be more bark than bite to the man, and while he fiercely protected those he considered his own, he was also fair and slow to cast aspersions most of the time—qualities that would serve him well in the centuries to come, she was sure. Those were some of the reasons that he'd been able to win Myrna over in the beginning. He was, as the cliché went, just a really nice guy.

 

“Yes, well, I didn't say it was going to be impossible,” she went on airily. “After all, you've got me, right?”

 

Bas peered up from the papers he was scanning over to grin just a little. “Right,” he agreed. “So you're telling me that you can dig up more information?”

 

She shrugged and shot him a calculating smile. “I'll see what I can do, Baby Zelig.”

 

He chuckled at the nickname she'd bestowed upon him long ago. He had a surprising sense of humor at times, Myrna had to admit, and while she'd been told that it was relatively recent development—one that coincided with his taking a mate—Myrna had to admit that he was one of her favorite targets since he couldn't help but be amused when the huge man blushed.

 

“Thanks, Myrna,” he said, inclining his head before ducking out of her domain.

 

She waved absently as she turned back to her work.

 

“Did you find out anything?”

 

She almost jumped at the impatient sound of Gunnar's voice. As it was, she couldn't help the slight stiffening of her back as she turned enough to peer over her shoulder at the man in question. Leaning against the wall just inside the door, he must have let himself in as Bas was leaving, and while he looked almost bored, the slight tightness around his eyes spoke volumes about his current mood. It'd been a while since she'd last seen Gunnar quite so irritated over something, and that was saying a lot since the man in question tended to pride himself on the stoic façade he often presented.

 

“Not a thing,” she allowed, foregoing the usual banter since the puppy looked like he was ready to snap.

 

She didn't have to look back at him to know that the tightness around his eyes had very likely given way to a narrow-eyed scowl designed to let her know that she had sorely displeased him.

 

“I need a little more to go on,” she remarked when he remained silent, “even something small . . . anything, really . . . `bear-youkai' is just a little too vague.”

 

“He's scarred,” Gunnar said suddenly.

 

Myrna stopped still and slowly turned to eye him. “Scarred?”

 

Gunnar nodded. “Yes, scarred . . . the left side of his face . . . his hands . . . and I'd imagine he's got more, but I didn't see them.”

 

Myrna digested that for a moment as she pushed herself to her feet and paced the length of the floor. “Youkai don't scar,” she pointed out quietly, thoughtfully.

 

Jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his immaculately pressed black dress-pants—designer, she was certain. Gunnar Inutaisho was, after all, the complete package, wasn't he? Effortless precision . . . that was a good way to describe him . . . “Not under normal circumstances; no . . . that's why it's rather remarkable, don't you think?”

 

“A scarred bear-youkai,” she mused, rubbing her forearms at the lingering chill in the pretty prison she called home that never quite went away. “Thank you, Spot . . . you've been a great help.”

 

He snorted, most likely at the nickname she used from time to time. “Next thing you know I'll be doing your entire job, Myrna,” he goaded. “No cheesecake for you.”

 

She stopped mid-stride to level a look at him—a blank expression with the barest upturn at the corners of her mouth to give her away. “You know, I think you're deliberately trying to bait me,” she pointed out.

 

Pushing himself away from the wall, he made a very deliberate show of flicking away a bit of lint from the sleeve of his pristine linen shirt. “Now would I do that to you?” he drawled.

 

“Yes, I think you would.”

 

He chuckled—a lazy sound that Myrna was certain had seduced more women than she'd like to think about. In her ears it sounded wholly predatory—an affectation that came a little too naturally to the man, in her opinion. Though she hadn't actually had the privilege of meeting Gunnar's grandfather, she'd heard more than enough stories over the years. According to all of them, Sesshoumaru Inutaisho had perfected the same sort of elegance, the same contrived indifference, and he'd obviously passed that onto his grandson in spades. In any case, he shook his head and slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers, lazily blinking as his bright amber eyes seemed to take on an incandescent glow. “I don't trust him,” he said.

 

“Makes sense,” Myrna agreed. “If you trusted him, you wouldn't be trying so hard to dig up dirt on him, would you?”

 

Gunnar snorted—an inelegant sort of sound that bespoke his overall frustration with the given situation. “He's managed to blindside Isabelle, and while she thinks he can walk on water, I'm not nearly as easily convinced.”

 

“That's because it's in your nature to distrust everyone,” Myrna scoffed as she grabbed a thick cashmere sweater off the back of a chair and slung it around her shoulders. “Man's best friend, indeed . . .”

 

“Just do your job, Myrna,” Gunnar intoned, cocking an eyebrow in silent challenge.

 

“I take it you've met him?”

 

“If you can call it that,” he allowed.

 

She nodded. “Anything else you can tell me?”

 

Gunnar narrowed his eyes, tipping his head back enough to scowl thoughtfully at the ceiling. “About the same height as me . . . Big, of course. Makes sense. He's a bear-youkai, after all . . . short, shaggy brown hair . . . brown eyes . . . and the scars.”

 

“Hmm,” Myrna mused, considering Gunnar's description. “You've been most helpful.”

 

His response was a slight quirk of his eyebrows as he turned to head for the door. Myrna couldn't help the little smile that surfaced as she watched his departure. The poor puppy just didn't deal with frustration well, did he? Of course, she wasn't very good with it, either, but Gunnar tended to take things much, much worse in that way, viewing his rare inability to produce viable results as some sort of personal slight; an imperfection in his skill as an investigator. It normally also led to his insular resolve to get his answers, and Myrna had to admit that it normally served him very well. In this case, however, it was bound to be more irritating than anything since he had promised not to tell Zelig about his inquiry, and because he had other things that he was supposed to be pursuing, which left him more or less dependent upon Myrna's ability to gather the desired information.

 

Shaking herself as she let out a deep breath, she strode over to the desk once more and sat down to consider the things that Gunnar had told her. `A scarred bear-youkai,' she mused, biting her lip and tapping her claws thoughtfully against her chin as a slow smile spread over her pretty features. `Thank you, Gunnar . . . thank you very much . . .'

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle smiled as she peered over the notebook braced against her raised knees at the dog lying on his side in front of the roaring fire and the kitten, curled into a tiny ball nestled against Froofie's belly.

 

`I can't believe he let you keep that kitten,' her youkai voice chimed in.

 

Isabelle's smile widened as her gaze shifted to the man in question. Hunched over his desk as he worked on the translations, he hadn't spoken to her since he'd strode outside, only to find her sitting on the porch steps with the kitten in her lap.

 

She hadn't been trying to make him feel guilty. If anything, she'd been suffering that emotion, herself. Not once had she considered that Griffin wouldn't be happy about the kitten she'd found in the parking lot of the grocery store, and that made her feel even worse. How could she ever expect to get Griffin to want to be her mate if she didn't stop to consider his feelings on things more often?

 

Heaving a sigh, she lifted her chin to stare up at the weak light of the crescent moon high in the cloudless sky. The kitten mewed softly, and without stopping to think about it, she wrapped her arms a little tighter, slumped a little more, sheltering the creature from the wind—gently blowing but cold enough to make Isabelle shiver slightly.

 

She was trying to figure out if there was anyone in her family that she could ask to take the kitten in, because she just couldn't put the creature out in the cold again, even if Griffin didn't want to keep it. Her first thought was to ask Bastian and Sydnie to take her since Sydnie was a cat-youkai. Then she'd remembered that Bastian had said once that he'd brought a female kitten home once, thinking that Sydnie would like it, only to discover that she saw the animal as a rival on the basest of levels, and he'd ended up giving the kitten to one of his friends.

 

Next she'd considered guilting Gunnar into taking the animal, but decided that it probably wouldn't work. If Gunnar didn't feel badly about digging around in Griffin's past, then he certainly wouldn't have second thoughts about putting out a kitten, either, heartless bastard that he was . . .

 

`Okay, so that was a little unfair,' she thought, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head sadly. Sure, she was still irritated with him, and if she saw him again anytime in the foreseeable future, she would probably take him to task over his perceived high-handedness. Still, she knew deep down that the only reason he was concerned was because he cared about her, and while she could appreciate his worry, she knew that he was wrong about Griffin . . .

 

Maybe she could talk her grandfather and grandmother into taking the kitten in. She wasn't sure exactly how Cain felt about cats, in general, but Gin adored all animals other than rodents, and Isabelle was relatively certain that she could convince them, if she really tried . . .

 

She considered begging Griffin to let the kitten stay overnight since it was late, and she didn't really relish the idea of driving all the way out to Cain and Gin's house outside of Bevelle at the moment. She discarded the idea almost instantly. No, she'd imposed upon him enough of late, hadn't she? Granted, he had insisted that she move in with him. Still, she knew damn well that it wasn't something he wanted, and if she weren't careful, she'd end up scaring him off or making him think that she was too high-maintenance overall to bother with.

 

It was the most depressing idea, wasn't it? In fact she was so lost in contemplation that she hadn't even heard the front door open behind her; didn't notice Griffin's presence until he muttered rather gruffly that she was going to end up freezing since she hadn't had the common sense to grab her coat, and if she was cold, the little `monster' probably was, too . . .

 

And she'd understood, hadn't she? It was something that she'd realized long ago. She knew, didn't she? Knew exactly what he was saying even if he didn't actually say it at all. That was something, at least to her. Griffin never, ever said exactly what he was thinking or feeling. As if he were trying to deny things, even to himself, he would say things, often the opposite of what he really believed, and Isabelle . . . she heard the truth behind it all whether Griffin realized it or not.

 

Rolling his head back and forth, he seemed infinitely weary, and yet he still worked on, and she smiled a little sadly as she wondered why it was that he never, ever complained. Griffin lived his life in pain, didn't he, yet even as she realized this, she knew deep down that he would never willingly give up that pain, either. The questions whispered in the back of her mind; the knowledge just beyond her grasp . . . He'd been through something, hadn't he? Something terrible . . . something that he clung to despite the agony it caused him . . .

 

`What can I do . . .?' she asked herself, biting her claw as she stared at the wide expanse of his shoulders. She wanted to heal him, didn't she? That was the reason she'd wanted to become a doctor ever since she could remember: to heal people, and yet . . .

 

And yet she wasn't at all sure if she could heal the one person who needed her most: the one person she wanted to help above all others . . .

 

`Do what it is you do best, Bitty,' her youkai prompted gently.

 

`What I do . . . best . . .?'

 

`Laugh for him, Isabelle . . . show him that life is worth living. He's just forgotten . . . You can do that, you know. Gin might not be your real grandmother, but you're more like her than you think you are . . .'

 

She wasn't inclined to believe that. Gin Izayoi Zelig . . . the woman who had given life back to Cain . . . She'd told Isabelle once that a smile was always the best medicine; better than any conventional cure could ever be. She could do that, couldn't she? She could laugh for Griffin because he couldn't find the strength to laugh for himself . . .

 

Clearing her throat, she couldn't help the little smile that quirked on her lips when he shot her what could only be described as a longsuffering glance before dropping his ink pen on the desk and slowly turning in the chair to face her. “What?” he said, dismissing all preamble as he slowly shook his head.

 

Isabelle leaned over, dropped the notebook onto the table and arched her back to stretch. “I didn't get my guess for the day,” she informed him.

 

He grunted in response but didn't comment.

 

“Let me think,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she tapped her lips with her index finger. “Hmm . . .”

 

“Don't hurt yourself,” he muttered.

 

She giggled, linking her hands around her ankles. “Ah! I got it!” she said, snapping her fingers and sitting up a little straighter as Griffin's expression turned a little more foreboding. “You got into a fight with the can opener of doom?”

 

He did a classic double take, his stoic expression faltering as his eyebrows disappeared beneath the heavy mass of his bangs. For a moment, she almost thought that he was going to break down and laugh out loud. He didn't, though his eyes were brighter than she'd seen them in a while, and that, she supposed, was reward enough. “Yes,” he said without missing a beat.

 

“I knew it,” she said then laughed. “Face it, Dr. G; I've got you completely figured out.”

 

He made a show of rolling his eyes, shaking his head as his cheeks pinked just the littlest bit. He opened his mouth to say something but cut himself short as he wrinkled his nose and snorted. “Uh, don't you think you should put a stop to that?” he grumbled, glowering at the floor near the fireplace.

 

Following the direction of his gaze, Isabelle couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up inside her. Froofie hadn't moved an inch, but the kitten was shamelessly rooting around, obviously looking for something to eat. As though he sensed their ardent perusal, Froofie lifted his head to stare at the kitten. With a loud sigh, he flopped back down, completely nonplussed by the kitten's attention.

 

“Aw, that's just sweet,” Isabelle said.

 

Griffin snorted. “He's a boy, Jezebel . . . and he's a dog.”

 

“Oh, the kitten's just being cute,” she argued, waving a hand dismissively.

 

“Completely emasculated,” Griffin grouched, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the kitchen, probably for a mug of tea. “Find something for that little monster to eat before it gives my dog mange, too.”

 

“Your dog?” she blurted.

 

“Yes, mine. You gave up all rights to ownership when you brought that thing home.”

 

“I did not!”

 

He didn't stop walking. “You did. Anyway, I'll thank you to stop calling him that name you use. His name is officially Charlie now. Get used to it.”

 

Isabelle rolled her eyes but laughed, getting to her feet to retrieve the kitten on her way to the kitchen. She purred loudly, cuddling against Isabelle's chest in a completely contented sort of way. At least she'd cleaned up well. Griffin had insisted that Isabelle give the kitten a bath before she was allowed to let her down to get acquainted with the place. The bath had uncovered a fluffy, clean coat of baby fine fur that had been matted down by car oil and other various things from her stint as a parking lot kitten.

 

“Froofie likes his name,” she pointed out as she followed him into the kitchen.

 

Griffin didn't glance up from his task of adding honey to his tea. “Charlie doesn't. All his doggy friends make fun of him.”

 

She giggled and set the kitten on the floor so that she could rummage through the refrigerator for table scraps since she hadn't gotten a chance to buy food for the kitten. “His doggy friends, huh?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Speaking of names, what do you think we should call her?”

 

Griffin snorted. “Butt-ugly.”

 

She snapped her mouth closed but laughed. “I am not naming her that,” she insisted.

 

“Accuracy in naming. Very important, Jezebel,” he stated.

 

“Oh? So your real name is `Sexy-as-Hell', is it?”

 

The violent blush that surfaced was immediate and intense—and completely irresistible, in Isabelle's opinion. “Jezebel,” he muttered under his breath, snatching the mug off the counter and striding out of the kitchen as quickly as he could go.

 

Isabelle couldn't stop smiling as she flaked a small piece of leftover salmon and set it on the floor. The kitten found it almost instantly, purr cutting off as a low growl rumbled from her as she attacked the food with gusto.

 

Isabelle sighed, rubbing her arms though the smile remained on her lips. She supposed she ought to stop saying such things since they were technically against the agreement she'd made with Griffin in the beginning. Still, she couldn't help it; not really. There was just something entirely endearing about a man who blushed . . .

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought fromGriffin:

That is one butt-ugly cat …

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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~