InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Admonition ( Chapter 23 )

~~Chapter 23~~

~Admonition~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

She didn't know how long she'd sat there crying on Griffin's shoulder as the bear-youkai rather clumsily patted her back and mumbled silly things about how he'd already taken one shower today, thanks, and that she needed to do something about her `leaking' problem before she drowned them both. She wasn't even sure when she'd finally realized that he was holding her—uncomfortably, sure—his body was completely tense, as though he just didn't know what to do with himself, and yet the sweetness of the gesture wasn't lost on her, either, and for that, she'd adore him forever.

 

She cried until she'd cried herself out as she huddled against Griffin's chest. His shirt was damp and clingy from her tears, and her head hurt horribly, the result of having spent so much emotion, she supposed, and while Griffin kept grumbling, his tone had softened as though he were trying to distract her from her upset. She didn't have the wherewithal to sit up, though, and at least for the moment, Griffin seemed inclined to let her lean on him. Her hiccups and sniffles resounded in the otherwise quiet room as she drew on his strength. Maybe she could have cried longer, but it seemed like her entire being was just too exhausted to do it, and worse was the resignation in her, the sense that nothing would ever be right again . . .

 

“Look at you,” Griffin mumbled quietly, leaning back to gaze down at her, his eyebrows drawn together in a thoughtful scowl. “You're all blotchy and stuff.”

 

Choking out a little laugh, Isabelle sniffed again and sat up just a little. “Bad, huh?” she mused.

 

“Terrible,” he agreed with a curt nod. “Just when I thought you couldn't look much worse . . . see what happens when you spring a leak?”

 

Her smile trembled precariously, his teasing a welcome distraction from her upset. “I . . . I'm sorry for that,” she murmured.

 

Griffin rather clumsily patted her back. “It's all right. Just don't make a habit of it. I don't have many handkerchiefs, and you've ruined that one.”

 

She nodded slowly, wishing for a moment that he'd pull her back against his chest, wincing as the fierce sense of loss swept through her despite her knowledge that he'd only allowed the contact because he'd felt bad for her, in the first place.

 

“About last night . . .” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I should have called, and—”

 

“You had more important things to deal with,” he interrupted. “Just don't make a habit of it.”

 

She sighed as the wan smile faded, as the gravity of the situation slammed down on her once more. “He said he was going to . . . to charge me with malpractice,” she said, a note of sheer hopelessness creeping into her tone. “I deserve it, too . . .”

 

Griffin snorted indelicately. “The hell you do,” he grumbled, his tone taking on a hint of fierce irritation. “You did what any doctor would have done in that situation: no more, no less. They don't take away your license for that.”

 

“I should have done more,” she said though her tone lacked the conviction that it once had, or possibly she was just too tired—mentally exhausted . . .

 

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Should have, would have, could have . . . the world is filled with enough regret, don't you think? Adding to it isn't really going to change anything.”

 

Shaking her head, she reluctantly pulled away from the comfort of his embrace to rub a weary hand over her face. “You don't understand,” she began quietly, her voice as dull and listless as her gaze. “She kept . . . She kept saying that the baby . . . The baby looked like she was sleeping; just sleeping . . .”

 

Griffin didn't reply right away, and when Isabelle finally looked at him, she grimaced inwardly at the thinly veiled anger in his expression. No, it wasn't anger, exactly . . . it was more like . . . frustration . . .? It was difficult to tell with Griffin since he rarely expressed himself in the same way as anyone else. “Are you so arrogant that you really believe you're the only person who ever—?” Cutting himself off abruptly, Griffin drew a deep breath and shook his head, jaw twitching as he struggled for a grasp on his emotions.

 

“Griffin?”

 

Letting out his breath in a rush, he shrugged as though to brush off his outburst. “Their pleas never go away,” he mumbled, cheeks pinking slightly as his scowl deepened; as he averted her gaze entirely. “Never . . .”

 

`Pleas . . .? Nightmares . . . Griffin . . .' she thought though she didn't dare give voice to her thoughts; couldn't have done it if she'd wanted to, anyway . . . But he knew, didn't he? And maybe . . . maybe he understood it all better than she ever would.

 

Rubbing his eyes, he slumped forward, letting his hands dangle between his knees as his scowl shifted into the one she was most familiar with. She had the distinct impression that he was more than a little irritated that he'd let that much slip, and that didn't entirely surprise her. He was too used to keeping things to himself, and while she hadn't really asked him to tell her anything, he'd wanted to reassure her, hadn't he, and that, alone, spoke volumes to her . . .

 

Still, the prospect of having to defend her judgment in this instance weighed heavily on her. Even if she hadn't actually made a bad decision, someone had suffered, and because of that, one of her patients had lost her child, and that was enough to make her feel sick all over again. Worse, though, was the knowledge that she didn't even want to defend herself. How could she when it would ultimately mean that she'd be exonerated while the McKinleys were still left behind to pick up the pieces and try to move on? They wouldn't be able to forget, and Isabelle . . . she shouldn't be afforded that luxury, either, should she?

 

Carefully smoothing out the tear-dampened handkerchief, she couldn't repress the occasional hiccups that still escaped her as she folded and pressed the bit of cloth in an idle sort of way. She felt emotionally drained—not really surprising, she figured. With the circumstances of the last couple of days, it was a wonder she hadn't lost control of herself long before now . . .

 

Clearing his throat, Griffin drew her out of her reverie, and she frowned when she noticed the strange sort of rigidity that had come over him. Still seated on the bed, he wasn't looking at her, and yet she could see the traces of strain evident in the unyielding curves of his back, his shoulders slightly drawn up . . . He seemed as though he were ready to jump at any provocation, but it was the tinge of pink that had crept into his cheeks that captured and held her attention. She could only see the unscarred side of his face from her vantage point, but that didn't really matter. The man looked more uncomfortable than usual, and she had to wonder why that was . . .

 

“Up by the docks,” he blurted suddenly, his voice harsh, breaking slightly and forcing him to clear his throat yet again before he could continue. “There's a restaurant . . . real small . . . sort of out of the way . . . They serve really fresh seafood, though . . . Really good if you don't mind that it's a little on the plain side . . .”

 

Isabelle's eyebrows drew together a little more as she tried to figure out just what he was getting at. She remained silent, which only exacerbated Griffin's acute discomfort. “Not too far, either . . . I walk there sometimes . . . well, not too often, but occasionally . . .”

 

`What's he . . .?' she thought almost absently as she stared hard at Griffin's back.

 

“. . . Quiet, too—sometimes families go there, and the cubs tend to be a little loud . . .”

 

`Oh, my . . . Bitty . . .? You don't think he's . . .?'

 

Her frown deepened. No, she wasn't sure what he was getting at, exactly. With anyone else she might have thought that he was trying to work himself up to asking her out to dinner, but this was Griffin, and . . .

 

“Anyway, I . . . I can pay for it since I'm asking, but—”

 

Blinking in surprise, her eyebrows shooting up to disappear under her bangs, Isabelle's jaw dropped as realization slowly sank in. “Are you asking me out?” she demanded, unable to hide the hint of incredulity in her tone.

 

He turned about ten shades of red in the course of a few seconds, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. “W—I—no!” he growled, shaking his head furiously as his skin darkened to a crimson-purplish sort of mottled shade. “No, I'm just asking you to dinner—it's not a date!”

 

She almost smiled—almost. Under normal circumstances, she supposed she would have, and she probably would have teased him a bit, too. As it was, she could only blink as suspect moisture gathered behind her eyelids again, and she understood that he was trying to make her feel better. “That sounds nice,” she demurred, drawing her feet up and resting her cheek on her raised knees.

 

Her answer didn't seem to appease him very much, but he grunted curtly before pushing himself to his feet and pausing long enough to grab the empty mug off the nightstand. “Fine,” he mumbled under his breath before shaking his arm to expose his watch. “You have five minutes or I'm leaving without you—and no more leaking, understand?”

 

“Five minutes?” she echoed. “That's not much time.”

 

He narrowed his gaze on her and slowly shook his head before turning on his heel and striding toward the doorway. “Four minutes and forty seconds,” he called back over his shoulder.

 

She did smile at that. “Let me grab my shoes,” she said, scooting toward the edge of the bed.

 

He grunted. “Just hurry up,” he complained as he stepped out into the hallway. “Probably want to do something about your face. You're still all blotchy . . .”

 

`It's not a date,' she thought as her smile widened the tiniest bit. Shuffling through her closet, she pulled out a cream colored sweater and a pair of slightly darker wool slacks. Even if it wasn't a date, she could deal with that, she figured. It was enough for her that he was trying so hard to make her feel better, wasn't it?

 

`Absolutely,' her youkai piped up as she hurriedly changed her clothes. `He's just a complicated man; that's all . . .'

 

Pulling her hair out of her collar, Isabelle stared thoughtfully at the carefully folded handkerchief lying on the bed as the hint of a smile gracing her lips slowly illuminated her eyes; as a tremulous sense of cautious hope slowly flickered to life . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

`A scarred bear-youkai . . .'

 

Sitting back with a frustrated sigh, Gunnar Inutaisho tossed the tortoise-shell pen onto the desk with a clatter, curling his fingers against his lips as he pondered the information—or lack thereof—that Myrna had been able to glean. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Griffin Marin was easily a couple hundred years old, probably more.

 

`It shouldn't be this difficult,' he thought sourly, staring at the pale blue light emanating from the computer monitor of his laptop glowing in the dimly lit study. No, it was obvious to him that the guy was hiding something, and the more roadblocks he came up against, the more determined he was to figure everything out. It wasn't normal, and while he could appreciate the compulsion to protect one's privacy, this went a little bit further than that. There was something that the man was desperately trying to hide, damn it, and Gunnar . . . well, he didn't like it, and he'd burn in hell before he'd turn a blind eye on this one, even if Isabelle was angry at him for it.

 

It just didn't make any sense. The guy couldn't have possibly just appeared out of nowhere. He had to have a past even if Gunnar couldn't see it right off. The problem was, though, that even Myrna couldn't even find a thing, and if that was the case, then Gunnar wasn't sure if anyone really could. She was undisputedly the best at what she did, and that she couldn't track down any information did not bode well . . .

 

Heaving yet another sigh, Gunnar dug the cell phone out of his pocket and punched in Myrna's number, tapping his claws against the tempered glass desktop as he waited impatiently for her to answer.

 

“Just can't get enough of me, puppypants?” Myrna greeted after the fourth ring.

 

He snorted. “Having any luck?” he asked without preamble.

 

She let out a deep breath. “Nope.”

 

Restraining the low growl that surged in his throat, Gunnar snatched up the ink pen once more, rapid-fire clicking it in an effort to alleviate his overwhelming frustration at the entire situation. “Unacceptable,” he reiterated, his tone even, level, deathly quiet. “You're not trying hard enough.”

 

“The hell I'm not,” she snapped, obviously irritated by his insistence that she wasn't doing her job right. “No one's ever heard of any bear-youkai, let alone a scarred bear-youkai . . . unless they're covering for him.”

 

“Which is entirely possible, don't you think?”

 

“Certainly possible,” she agreed, “but highly unlikely unless there's something else going on that I don't know about yet.”

 

“Yes, well, isn't that what you're supposed to find out?” he demanded, quirking an eyebrow that Myrna couldn't see.

 

“Look, I'm telling you that there is no record of anyone that fits your description—at least, none that I can find. Unless this guy just dropped out of the sky—”

 

“Unlikely,” Gunnar snorted as the clicking of the ink pen escalated.

 

“—Or you're just making him up—”

 

“I'll pretend you didn't say that.”

 

“—Then I'm not sure what else to do. It'd be different if I could go and talk to some of these people in person. I'd get a better feel as to whether or not they're lying. It's not that difficult to lie to someone when you're not looking them in the eye.”

 

And he had to concede that, too, not that it was any real consolation. Someone somewhere had to know about Griffin Marin, and he wasn't about to let go of it until he had answers. Tightening his grip on the pen, Gunnar grimaced when it snapped in his hand, as black ink seeped out of the now defunct cartridge that had been broken in half in the process. Staring at his filthy palm, lip curled up in a derisive show of minor irritation, Gunnar dropped the debris into the trash can beside the desk and glanced around for something to wipe his hand on.

 

“It's crap,” he grumbled, using the heel of his hand to lever himself out of his chair before stomping around the desk and heading for the doorway. “Unless this guy is some sort of myth or legend or something . . .”

 

“Myths? That sounds almost romantic, you know.”

 

“Hardly,” he snorted, using his elbow to hit the light panel beside the bathroom door and sticking his hand under the motion-sensor faucet. “Focus, will you?”

 

“It's entirely possible,” she mused, her tone taking on a slightly bemused sort of whimsy. “I mean, how many legends were spawned by your grandfather and great-grandfather back in the day?”

 

Gunnar grunted since he'd heard a few of the legends—little more than fairy tales now—over the years. In school, they'd studied some of them, which had always made Gunnar somewhat uncomfortable. After all, he couldn't very well tell anyone that the story of the Shikon no Tama was real though the events had been distorted by history, and he'd hated the retelling of the great dog-youkai who had, according to legend, spirited away a human woman and forced her to bear his half-breed child—the child who Gunnar knew as Uncle Yasha, of course . . . then were the tales of the dog `god' who drove away the lingering youkai then disappeared into history's annals. That `god' was his grandfather, Sesshoumaru, and while the gist of the story was true enough—it was by Sesshoumaru's edict that the youkai went into hiding—the method that was always depicted—the great dog god with one arm outstretched as violent light erupted from his fingertips, as a thousand youkai were destroyed—was entirely inaccurate. Legends made a man a hero or a fool, and Gunnar had never held stock in such nonsense . . .

 

Still, there was a level of truth to Myrna's musings. Anyone who lived long enough was bound to spawn a folktale or two. Someone along the way had to have seen Griffin, and maybe . . .

 

“Myrna,” he said suddenly, shaking his hand off and scowling at the ink that still stained his palm. “Do something for me.”

 

“Sure, sure,” she agreed with a sigh. “Your wish is my command, Oh Great and Mighty Prince of the Puppies.”

 

“Keh,” Gunnar grumbled, grabbing a thick black towel out of the burnished steel ring beside the sink and wrapping it around his hand. “Do a web search, will you?”

 

“A web search?” she echoed.

 

Tossing the towel onto the sofa as he strode through the living room on his way back to the study, Gunnar grunted. “Yes.”

 

He heard the scrape of Myrna's keyboard shelf being pulled out. “Okay . . . what am I searching?”

 

“Legends . . . scarred bears.”

 

The click of the keys punctuated the brief silence. Gunnar didn't have to wait long. Myrna sighed. “Twenty-four-thousand-three-hundred-forty-five matches and climbing,” she remarked. “I suppose you actually think I have nothing better to do than to sit around reading legends on cheesy websites?”

 

“Why? Got a hot date or something?” Gunnar countered.

 

“You're cold, Inutaisho.”

 

“I prefer brutally honest.”

 

“Yeah, and that brutal honesty is going to come back to bite you in the balls one day,” she predicted.

 

“Maybe,” Gunnar replied. “Anyway, send me links to the better sites.”

 

“Mmm . . .”

 

Clicking the phone off, Gunnar dropped it onto the deep crimson desk blotter and bit his cheek thoughtfully. It was a long shot, sure—even he had to acknowledge that. Still, what Myrna had said made sense, didn't it, and even if there weren't any legends about a scarred bear, maybe they'd figure out something that they hadn't noticed before. In any case it was worth a shot . . .

 

Turning away from his desk, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, Gunnar narrowed his gaze as he peered out over the snow-covered landscape and sighed. At this point, anything was worth a shot . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

`It is.'

 

`It's not.'

 

`Yes, it is.'

 

`No, it isn't.'

 

`As much as you'd like to tell yourself it isn't, you know damn well that it is.'

 

`No, it isn't. It really isn't. Repeatedly saying that it is isn't actually changing the fact that it isn't.'

 

`Right, right . . . refresh my memory . . . what exactly is a date, then?'

 

`I don't know, but this is just dinner; that's all.'

 

`Just dinner? Please! That's the classic definition of a date!'

 

Rolling his eyes as he pulled the menu up to cover his face a little better, Griffin snorted inwardly. `Dinner does not constitute a date,' he argued. `It's just eating. Everybody does it. Nothing special.'

 

`Yeah? And who's paying for dinner? In fact, didn't you insist on paying?'

 

`It was polite since I asked her.'

 

`Uh-huh . . . asking a woman to dinner and paying for it . . . not a date . . . ri-i-i-ight . . .'

 

`That's all there is to it,' he maintained stubbornly.

 

`You just felt bad for lying to her.'

 

Griffin scowled at the menu. `When did I lie?'

 

`When you said she was all blotchy . . . she wasn't.'

 

Eyebrows drawing together, Griffin didn't respond to that. He'd always heard that women tended to look anything but attractive after crying. That was what he'd been led to believe, and while he didn't really have much experience as far as sobbing women were concerned, but he had a feeling that Isabelle might be different, anyway. Truth was, she hadn't looked bad despite the slight ruddiness that was her nose and the tell-tale redness that rimmed her eyes. No, the tears had sparkled with the gentle light of the bedside lamp as they clung to her eyelashes—impossibly long; impossibly dark . . . her pale skin was touched with a hint of heightened color in her cheeks that weren't blotchy at all, and maybe . . . Maybe if she had looked even a little bad, he might have been able to ignore the definite twinges that assailed him, and he had to admit, at least to himself, that he just didn't want to see her cry. He was too used to the woman he knew; the Isabelle who would rather laugh off concern than take it to heart, who would rather tease and joke than stomp her foot and harass him to have her way . . .

 

She wasn't a cry-baby, and maybe that had been the hardest part for him to deal with. Seeing her break down like she had . . . it just hadn't sat well with him; not in the least . . . He'd never forget the way she'd looked when he'd opened the door; the overwhelming sadness that had engulfed her, and while he could still feel it lingering in her aura, at least he wasn't as worried that she was about to burst into tears any longer . . .

 

“Everything sounds so good,” Isabelle commented, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil. “What do you recommend?”

 

Yanked out of his reverie, Griffin grunted but didn't emerge from behind his menu. “Oh, the, uh, crab is always good . . . or the lobster . . .”

 

“What are you going to order?” she asked, her tone distracted since she was still reading through the choices.

 

“Oh, uh . . . I don't know . . . probably crab . . .”

 

She nodded rather vaguely. “I could always get the lobster, and we could share,” she ventured.

 

“Or you could order the lobster with a side of crab legs,” he mumbled.

 

She closed the menu and set it aside. “I can't believe I never noticed this place before,” she commented, casting an appreciative eye around the establishment.

 

Griffin very slowly lowered his menu enough to peer over the top without actually lifting his head. “It's not very fancy,” he mumbled in an almost apologetic sort of way.

 

“No, it's not,” she agreed, her eyes bright, curious. “I don't think it has to be. It's got nice atmosphere.”

 

Griffin snorted.

 

`Well, at least you picked a damn fine looking woman to ask on your first date,' his youkai went on, much to Griffin's chagrin.

 

`It's not a date . . . and she's just all right.'

 

`She's a far sight better than `just all right' . . . and I hate to tell you, but it is a date . . .'

 

`No . . . it . . . isn't . . .'

 

His youkai sighed. `Okay, let's examine the evidence, shall we?'

 

`Let's not . . .'

 

`You asked her to dinner.'

 

`She was leaking. I wanted her to stop before she flooded my house.'

 

`Sure, you did, but that's an entirely different discussion. Anyway, you asked her to dinner, and then you took a shower.'

 

`I always take showers.'

 

`Not in the evening, you don't. Need I remind you that you even shaved?'

 

`I always do that, too,' he grumbled.

 

`And brushed your teeth.'

 

`Well, duh . . .'

 

`And your hair . . .'

 

`So?'

 

`You even put on a new shirt—nice package creases, by the way.'

 

`And your point?' Griffin demanded with an inward growl.

 

`Tell me again . . . what is that you have in your pocket?'

 

`My wallet?'

 

`And . . .?'

 

`And what?'

 

`And what else?'

 

Griffin snorted since he knew damn well where his youkai was going with this. `A clean handkerchief in case she springs another leak.'

 

`And . . .?'

 

`Dunno what you're talking about.'

 

`The hell you don't! You're packing breath mints, and the only reason that someone packs breath mints is because that someone is hoping to get a nice, big, fat smoochie.'

 

`. . . Tell me you didn't just use the word, `smoochie' . . . and that wasn't why I have those. I didn't want to bring a tooth brush along; that's all . . .'

 

`Oh, yes, I did, and if that helps you sleep better at night . . .'

 

Griffin sighed and slowly shook his head, deciding that he was much better off ignoring his youkai voice.

 

“Evening, Dr. Marin. Been awhile since your last visit,” the waitress—a middle-aged woman who had once told him that her name was Bertie—said as she stopped beside the small table. “And who's your friend?”

 

Griffin closed the menu and cleared his throat as a heated blush filtered into his cheeks at the slight emphasis that Bertie used on the word `friend'. “Uh, she's just—”

 

“I'm staying with him,” Isabelle explained sweetly.

 

The waitress laughed. “Why, Dr. Marin, I never figured you for the type . . .” she teased.

 

“It's just dinner,” he blurted, his cheeks warming even more with every word that escaped him. “It's not a date or anything . . .”

 

Bertie laughed—a hearty sound—and patted him on the arm. “I didn't think it was,” she said with a wink directed at Isabelle.

 

“N-no, seriously, it isn't,” he insisted.

 

Bertie tapped the end of her nose. “So you'll be wanting separate checks?”

 

Willing himself not to blush any worse than he already was, Griffin forced himself to give a jerky shake of his head. “No . . . i-it's just not a date.”

 

She stared at him for a long moment—he could see the amusement in her expression. “All right,” she agreed at length. “What'll you have?”

 

“I'll, uh . . . the crab platter,” he mumbled, avoiding the woman's discerning gaze.

 

“All right,” she said with a nod. “House chowder and a salad?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“And you, sweetie?” Bertie asked, turning her attention on Isabelle.

 

Isabelle offered the woman a wan polite little smile and handed her menu over. “I think I'll have the same,” she replied.

 

“Good choice. House chowder and salad?”

 

“N—” Isabelle began.

 

Griffin snorted as Bertie took his menu. “Yes.”

 

Isabelle wrinkled her nose but didn't argue with him.

 

“All right, then. It'll just be a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink?”

 

“Diet Coke,” Isabelle ordered.

 

Griffin shook his head, not that she noticed. “Iced tea,” he mumbled.

 

With another quick wink, Bertie hurried away.

 

Isabelle sighed and sat back, rubbing her forearms through the soft sweater that she'd changed into. “I meant to tell you,” she said softly, her smile fading though her eyes remained bright, “thank you.”

 

He blinked a stared at her for a moment. “For what?”

 

She shrugged, idly fingering the edge of the paper napkin arranged under the silverware. “For listening,” she said as though it were the simplest thing in the world. She sighed suddenly and shook her head as a hint of pinkness seeped into her cheeks, and she ducked her head, refusing to meet his gaze. “I'm sorry for earlier . . . I don't know what came over me . . . I never cry—well, not like that . . .”

 

Griffin shifted almost uncomfortably, reaching over to adjust his cane for want of something better to do. “Yeah,” he grumbled, wondering absently if she could sense his discomfort or if she was too deep in thought to notice anything at all. “Just don't make a habit of it. I don't have flood insurance on the house.”

 

Her soft laughter was his reward, and he swallowed hard, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that he'd missed that sound in the last couple of days. The warmth of her smiles, the way her eyes seemed to take on an incandescent glow. . . If her laughter was a color, it'd be a sunny yellow, wouldn't it, and the brilliance that seemed to emphasize every single thing she did had reminded him of things that he used to believe were long dead to him; of cherry blossoms and spring breezes, and the softest chime of laughter that lingered on the wind. Isabelle had brought these things back to him . . . and that bit of knowledge . . .

 

It scared the hell out of him.

 

 

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A/N:

 

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to meeeeeeee…

 

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Final Thought fromGriffin:

At least she stopped leaking …

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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~