InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Lazy Sunday ( Chapter 26 )

~~Chapter 26~~

~Lazy Sunday~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle shuffled out of the bedroom stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, the floppy pink bunny slippers on her feet whispering against the floor.

 

Griffin glanced up from his desk. Judging from the looks of him, he'd already been up for awhile. He didn't comment though he did quirk an eyebrow at the ridiculous slippers before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

 

She spared a moment to offer him a warm smile before wandering toward the kitchen but stopped short as the scent of freshly brewed coffee assailed her nostrils. It surprised her that Griffin had made it for her. He normally complained about the `stinky crap' that she chose to drink in the morning. That he would go out of his way to make sure that she had a fresh pot lent her a warm feeling that she just couldn't quite credit.

 

`He's been different the last couple of days, hasn't he?' her youkai voice pointed out.

 

Come to think of it, things had been `different', hadn't they? It wasn't something that she could put her finger on, exactly, but she'd noticed it just the same. There was a certain level of underlying curiosity that she'd sensed from him. As though he were watching her more closely than usual, she'd felt his gaze on her at odd times. When she looked at him, he invariably looked away. Still, she had to smile despite that. The clumsiness inherent in his attempts to comfort her warmed her through and through. Somehow he understood her upset and told her in his own way that she really didn't have to blame herself, and even if she wasn't completely ready to admit that there really wasn't a thing she could or should have done differently given the circumstances, she also couldn't help but feel for the couple and for their lost daughter.

 

The memories of that awful day still had the power to bring tears to her eyes—maybe they always would—and going to the hospital to check on Kristin had been the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. She'd sent her home yesterday after Kristin had agreed to make a follow up appointment in a week to make sure that everything was healing properly, but Isabelle hadn't missed the coldness in her husband's gaze, not that she could blame him for that, and while she was certain that she'd be exonerated of any malpractice should it come to that, the idea of being held scrutinized by her peers worried her.

 

But Griffin had gone out of his way to make her feel better, hadn't he? She'd known just how hard it had been for him to voluntarily go out with her, known deep down that it wasn't so much her as it was the idea that he'd be gawked at that ultimately bothered him, and he'd done it anyway just to cheer her up. She loved him for that. She loved him for so many things . . .

 

And then there were the nights . . .

 

She wasn't exactly sure what had drawn him into her room the first time; the night after he'd taken her out to dinner. He wasn't there in the morning when she woke, either, not that it mattered. She could smell him fresh on the bed sheets as much as she could feel the warmth of his youki lingering in his wake, and she'd understood that he'd gotten up only moments before—maybe it was the soft click of the door closing behind him that had ultimately roused her. She didn't remember anything about her dreams, and yet the sound of a soft, desperate voice whispering in her head had lingered: `Don't leave me, Isabelle . . . don't leave me . . .'

 

She'd sensed the same presence yesterday morning and even a few minutes ago when she'd finally opened her eyes though she had to admit that his aura wasn't nearly as strong this morning as it had been on the preceding ones. In any case, she didn't let that daunt her. She was definitely making progress, and that was the only thing that really mattered . . .

 

Swallowing the suspect lump that rose in her throat to choke her, Isabelle pulled a rough earthenware mug from the cupboard. It wasn't the first time she'd noticed that almost all of Griffin's dishes were homemade. She'd noticed the kiln behind the house the day after she'd come to stay with him, and somehow the idea that he'd made the items didn't really surprise her. That was his way, wasn't it? Gruff yet gentle, hiding his true nature behind a mask of dry humor and rarely saying the things that he felt inside, he had a way of stating the opposite whenever he was pressed to give voice to his emotions. She wasn't sure when she'd first realized that, either. What he said and what he wanted to say . . . they were always two different things but that was all right with her. She understood him.

 

And maybe he understood her, too. Maybe he'd known that she'd sorely needed to be close to another person, and maybe that was the reason he'd started coming into her room at night. She vaguely recalled the nightmare that he'd managed to chase away. More of a distorted sense of foreboding than an actual evil that she could see, it was Griffin who had soothed her upset; Griffin who had quieted her. She couldn't remember having any bad dreams after that, and yet he'd come to her anyway, or maybe . . . maybe his very presence had the ability to circumvent those dreams . . .

 

`Don't be too quick to believe that Griffin really said that to you,' her youkai pointed out in a cautionary tone. `It could have been part of your dreams, you know.'

 

Her smile widened as she poured a mug of coffee and stood on tiptoe to reach the sugar bowl in the cupboard—Griffin had moved it yesterday after stating that she ingested way too much of the sweetener. `It could have been,' she allowed. `It was so real, though . . .'

 

`Which still doesn't mean that it was. Besides that, even if we are making progress with the man, don't you think that we ought to be careful? I mean, you know how he is. All it'd take is one moment of saying or doing the wrong thing, and we'll be right back to square one.'

 

Letting out a deep breath, Isabelle measured out a couple spoonfuls of sugar and stirred the coffee slowly. `As true as that may be, you know as well as I do that he's been coming into my room in the night, so I'd say we've made more than a little progress.'

 

`Sure, just don't get too complacent,' her youkai agreed.

 

“Hurry up and drink that,” Griffin rumbled as he stepped into the kitchen and lumbered past her to rinse his tea mug in the sink.

 

“Oh? Do we have plans for the day?” she teased, turning around and leaning against the counter as she lifted the coffee mug to her lips.

 

“We don't, but I do,” he retorted. “I want you out of the house in an hour.”

 

“An hour?” she echoed, eyebrows disappearing under her golden bronze bangs. “Why the rush? And why every Sunday morning?”

 

He snorted and set his mug on a clean towel beside the sink to air dry. “None of your business,” he informed her brusquely.

 

“Hmm, careful or I might get jealous,” she parried, pinning him with a wide-eyed, innocent stare. “Do you have a secret lover that you haven't told me about?”

 

He blushed. She figured he would. “Just make sure you're gone,” he grumbled, turning on his heel and stomping out of the room once more.

 

She sighed and shook her head, wondering how difficult it was going to be to get the truth out of the stubborn man. Pausing long enough to refill the mug before hurrying after Griffin, she followed him to the closed bathroom door. She heard the faucet turn on then off again, followed by the distinct thud of something being tapped against the porcelain sink, and deciding that Griffin was decently covered, she pushed open the door.

 

He blinked and shifted his gaze to the side, lowering the old fashioned razor that he had poised to make the initial stroke against his cheek, his eyes darkening menacingly as he lowered his chin to glower at her. “Don't you possess even a modicum of propriety?” he grouched.

 

She giggled. She couldn't help it. The fierceness of the expression was hidden in the froth of thick white shaving lather that coated Griffin's face. “Now you look like a snow bear,” she commented with a saucy grin.

 

Griffin snorted indelicately. “You shouldn't try to be a comedienne. It doesn't work for you. Now get out of here, will you?”

 

“Not until you tell me why you're in such a rush to get rid of me,” she countered, setting the coffee mug aside and reaching for the razor. He held it up out of her reach and snorted indelicately when she grabbed his arm in both of her hands and tugged hard: hard enough to bend his elbow, and she pulled the razor out of his grip before scooting up onto the counter.

 

“If you think I'm letting you anywhere near me with that, then you're crazy,” he mumbled.

 

“Are you scared?” she retorted mildly, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him closer, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated show of impatience. “Oh, please! I'm a doctor, remember?”

 

He snorted again, and she had to wonder if he was blushing under the lather . . . “You're not a surgeon, Jezebel, and you're not going to hone your skills on my face.”

 

“As if I would hurt you!” she scoffed.

 

“Don't think I have enough scars already?” he shot back.

 

She laughed softly and tugged harder on his sleeve. “Don't be such a baby, Dr. Marin . . . Besides, I did my rotations, you know.”

 

“Surgery rotations?” he countered.

 

“And I got lots of practice on cadavers in med-school.”

 

“Not at all comforting,” he growled, trying to snatch the razor and missing.

 

“If you tell me why you're always so anxious for me to leave on Sunday mornings, I'll give you back the razor,” she purred, pulling Griffin close enough to lock her ankles around his waist before she broke into an entirely catty sort of grin, “or not . . .”

 

She didn't have to see through the foam to know damn well that the man was blushing. Uttering an irritated, half-choked sort of growl, he seemed to be frozen to the spot, unable to process the simplest of thoughts, unable to grasp the idea that he could very easily get away from her. After all, he had to be stronger than she was, didn't he? “Jezebel,” he nearly wheezed.

 

She took full advantage of his momentary lapse to pull him even closer, carefully lifting the razor and scraping it down his right cheek. “Why is it that you don't use a regular T-razor?” she asked absently, gently tipping his chin so that she could get a better angle for the next scrape.

 

Griffin grunted, his gaze shifted to the side, trained on the antique handled razor she held in her hand. “Never tried one,” he confessed. She could sense his discomfort, as though he actually thought she was going to cut him, and she spared a moment to offer him a reassuring smile before scraping his cheek once more.

 

“You know, if you didn't shave, you'd probably have a full beard and mustache within twenty four hours,” she mused, leaning to the side to rinse the blade before carefully shaking off the droplets of water and resuming her task once more.

 

He snorted in response but didn't relax; his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as she slowly, methodically, worked.

 

“So?” she prodded at length a she turned his face to start on his left cheek.

 

“So, what?”

 

She smiled. “So . . . why are you so gung-ho on giving me the boot today?”

 

He blinked and shook his head, the scowl settling over his features once more as he snatched the razor out of her hand and shoved her legs away. “I can finish this,” he grumbled. “You need to hurry up and leave.”

 

“Not until you tell me why,” she pressed, stifling the sigh that welled up in her. She'd enjoyed being so close to him, and the loss of it was a harsh thing.

 

Casting her an exasperated glance, he dropped the razor on the counter and planted his hands on his hips, shaking his head slowly and looking for all intents and purposes like he was about to turn her over his knee. “Can't I have any privacy?” he grouched. “One day, Isabelle . . . just one day, and—”

 

“Okay, okay, you win,” she relented, scooting off the counter and lighting on the floor. “Am I supposed to go anywhere in particular or it doesn't matter so long as I'm not here?”

 

He grimaced at the nonchalance in her tone, snatching up the razor and turning it over in his hands a few times, avoiding her gaze as he shrugged. “I don't care . . . Go shopping or something. Just don't come back until at least noon.”

 

“Noon?”

 

“Noon.”

 

“All right,” she agreed as she turned toward the door and grabbed her coffee mug. “Don't miss me too much!”

 

His answer was a pronounced snort, and she had to laugh when she heard the bathroom door close and lock behind her . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Jillian yawned and stretched, smiling as a sense of lethargy filled her with a contented warmth. It was a Sunday morning feeling, she thought, refusing to open her eyes. The warmth of the body beside her made her smile widen, especially since she knew without looking that it wasn't her mate sharing her bed . . .

 

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Evan Zelig's voice cut through the comfortable quiet of the bedroom.

 

“Hmm, why?” she protested, rolling toward her brother and snuggling against his side.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I need your help,” he contended, wrapping his arms around her casually and giving her a little squeeze. “It's about Cain's Christmas present . . .”

 

“Oh? What are you going to get Daddy this year?”

 

“That's the thing,” he admitted with a sigh. “I'm not sure . . .”

 

“Okay, okay,” Jillian agreed with a yawn, reluctantly opening her eyes as Evan rumbled out a soft chuckle. “Hey . . . where's my mate?”

 

“Answering the door,” Gavin replied, shuffling back in the room, the flannel pants he'd obviously grabbed to tug on before he'd gone to do that riding low on his lean hips. “Get out of my bed, Zelig,” he said, sinking down on the opposite side of his mate. “The last thing I smell before going to sleep sure as hell shouldn't be you.”

 

Jillian wiggled around, ferreting away from her brother's grasp that tightened instantly the moment she'd started to revolt. With a giggle, she spared a moment to kiss his cheek before defecting for the other side of the bed and the open arms of her husband who kissed her forehead despite the telling blush that rose in his cheeks. “Morning, Jilli.”

 

“Morning, Gavvie,” she replied, kissing his cheek quite soundly before snuggling against him and closing her eyes once more.

 

“Yeah, yeah, do that later,” Evan said, raising his voice to an obnoxious level as he sat up and swung his long legs off the bed. “We got bigger fish to fry. I'm stealing your mate for awhile,” he declared, reaching back for Jillian's hand.

 

“I haven't gotten my morning lovin's,” she protested, much to Gavin's absolute chagrin.

 

“There are some things that he just doesn't need to know,” Gavin pointed out with a raised eyebrow despite the darkening flush staining his skin.

 

“But I'm pretty sure that Evan knows we have sex,” she pointed out reasonably.

 

Gavin groaned and tugged a pillow over his head as Jillian laughed and let Evan tug her to her feet. “I thought about making a huge-ass cake and having Mama pop out of it, but you know, Cain's old . . . he'd probably have a heart attack and die which would make Bubby tai-youkai, and he's already insufferable enough without adding that to the equation . . .”

 

“Hmm, Daddy's not that old,” Jillian countered as Evan escorted her toward the master bath, ignoring the foreboding look that was being directed at him since Gavin wasn't overly fond of the idea of any man—sibling or otherwise—sitting in the room while Jillian bathed.

 

Gavin heaved a sigh and sat up, wondering exactly why he'd bothered to answer the door. All he'd wanted was a nice, quiet Sunday morning alone, in bed with his mate. Then again, if he hadn't answered, Evan would have probably done something insane, like jimmied the lock or something . . . He was a bit of a nuisance that way . . .

 

No, he might as well give up on the idea that he'd get to spend time alone with Jillian. She'd insisted on staying in Maine between Thanksgiving and New Year's, probably because she still felt more than a little guilty for wanting to talk to Avis about her biological parents. Still, Gavin hadn't minded—even if Evan was harder to get rid of than athlete's foot in a high school locker room . . .

 

Discarding the flannel pants he'd hastily pulled on when Evan had knocked on the door, Gavin grabbed a pair of Levi's out of his drawer and tugged them on over his underpants and was just pulling a short sleeved button down off-white shirt on when the telephone rang.

 

“Hello?” he answered, grabbing the receiver on the nightstand.

 

“Hello, Gavin. How are you?”

 

Gavin frowned thoughtfully as Dr. Avis' voice registered in his head. “Fine, and you?” he asked, unable to ignore years of his mother's insistence that he always be polite.

 

“Good, good . . . I wondered if Jillian was available?”

 

Frown deepening at the strange sort of underlying strain in the doctor's tone, Gavin crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed the center of his chest with his knuckles. “Uh, no . . . she's taking a bath at the moment . . .”

 

“Oh, I see . . . Well, that's fine,” he said heartily—a little too heartily, at least to Gavin's ears. He paused a moment before going on. “You know, I was wondering—just curious, mind—how the research was coming along?”

 

Narrowing his eyes as the distinct clatter of alarm bells rang in his head, Gavin shook his head. “To be honest, I couldn't tell you,” he admitted, “and even if I could I don't think that's really any of your business, you understand.”

 

“Of course, of course . . . I, um . . . I just wanted to wish you both a merry Christmas,” Avis blurted.

 

“I'll pass it on,” he said.

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Avis intoned. “Um, bye.”

 

The line went dead as Gavin muttered, “Bye.”

 

It was strange, wasn't it, and it wasn't all in his head, either. Avis had sounded . . . anxious? But why?

 

He didn't have time to ponder that when the bathroom door opened and Evan swaggered out of the room with an entirely too-bright smile as he casually leaned back against the bureau beside the door, crossing his arms and ankles as the damning grin widened. “So, Gavvie . . . feel like helping me with Cain's Christmas present?”

 

“No,” Gavin said slowly. “I don't think I would . . .”

 

Evan's only response was a soft, lazy chuckle—one that Gavin had learned over the years just never boded well for him . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle knelt down in the snow and drew a deep breath as a little smile surfaced on her face. `Tinkerbell perfume and baby lotion . . . He's cheating on me,' she thought with an inward giggle as she stood up and brushed the snow off her knees.

 

It wasn't difficult to figure out. Judging from the small footprints in the fresh snow beside the newly shoveled path, Isabelle could tell that Griffin did, in fact, have guests—very small guests, judging from the looks of it—and a lot of them, to boot . . . What she didn't understand was why there were so many of them.

 

Then again, she had yet to spend a Sunday morning at home, didn't she? She'd met Jillian for breakfast a couple of times, and last week she'd been at the hospital delivering a baby. When she was still working at the hospital she'd had to work most Sunday mornings, and she remembered driving down to see Grandma and Grandpa on the Sunday after Thanksgiving . . . and all of those times, she'd smelled and felt the presence of other people—children—in the house when she returned, but she'd never really thought to remark on it.

 

Slowly her smile widened. He had been afraid to let her meet his children, hadn't he? Whether he thought she'd tease him or because he would be uncomfortable she understood his weird behavior.

 

Pushing her sleeve up, she shook her wrist and sighed as she checked the time on her watch. She hadn't meant to make it back to the house before noon—Cinderella in the daylight hours—but she was a few minutes early though she'd wasted a few of those minutes investigating the footprints in the snow . . .

 

But the smile she'd been wearing since the discovery of the little girl's scent didn't dissipate. Somehow the idea of seeing Griffin surrounded by pups . . . well, it was an altogether too-pleasant image, and that he loved children was a thought that pleased her more than she could credit.

 

Still she waited until her watch read noon before she reached for the door handle, ignoring the voice in the back of her mind that told her that there was a good chance that Griffin meant for her to stay gone until after the children went home and that the noon deadline wasn't exactly set in stone. Still the desire to see Griffin surrounded by children was just too great, and with that in mind, she pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth of the house, laughing softly at the array of children's snow boots lined up neatly on towels arranged on the floor behind the door. “Honey, I'm home!” she called out, smiling to herself when the unmistakable din of the children who had all been talking at once slowly quieted. She kicked off her boots and stepped into the slippers that she'd left beside the door. She'd bought some Christmas presents, but she'd left them in the car, and since a few of them were for a certain bear-youkai, she figured they were safe enough right where they were at the moment . . .

 

So she stepped into the living room with a bright smile only to be greeted by about a dozen curious little faces, ranging in age from three to about six, she'd say, and it took a moment to find the girl she'd smelled outside. Sitting in Griffin's lap with her hands covered in rough-looking whole wheat flour, she stared at Isabelle with wide, solemn brown eyes as her golden curls caught the watery sunlight filtering through the windows on the far wall. They were all wearing Griffin's shirts over their normal clothes, which was a good thing, considering the mess they were making with their projects. The table was coated with flour, and there were bowls of dried fruits and colored rolled oats scattered around. All in all, it was a regular disaster area, but the children seemed to be having a good time, and it amused Isabelle that Griffin seemed to be taking the mess entirely in stride.

 

“Your wife's home, Mr. Marin,” one of the older girls commented while the boy sitting beside her stared.

 

Isabelle laughed, unable to help herself, at the look of acute discomfort that registered in Griffin's expression. “Uh, she's not—she—we're not married,” he blurted, face reddening with every word.

 

The girl didn't look up from her task of smashing dough on the tabletop with the flat of her palms. “But that's what Mommy says when she comes home,” she reasoned.

 

“Gimme the knife, Brandon!” a tow-headed boy interjected, holding his hand out to the boy beside him.

 

Brandon didn't look up from the shape he was cutting in the dough on the table in front of him. “Wait your turn,” he mumbled. “`Most done . . .”

 

With a smile, Isabelle hurried through the dining room into the kitchen to grab a couple more butter knives. “Here you go,” she said, handing the boy a clean knife.

 

“Thanks, Mrs. Marin,” he replied happily.

 

“She's not Mrs. Marin,” Griffin nearly wheezed as he stood up and set the little girl back into the chair.

 

“Are you going to be Mrs. Marin?” one of the girls asked. She'd lost interest in the project.

 

Isabelle laughed, but Griffin snorted. “There isn't going to be a Mrs.—”

 

“Mommy says it's okay to live with someone when you're gonna be married,” another girl quipped, smashing oatmeal into the surface of a slightly off-kilter star. “That's why Dave lives with us.”

 

“But we're not going to be—” Griffin protested, lifting his hands to rub his face only to notice the flour covering his palms. Scowling at his hands, he stomped off toward the kitchen to wash up.

 

“So what are you making?” Isabelle asked as she stepped over to peek at the children's tasks, deciding that, as entertaining as the given line of questioning was, she'd do well to divert the attention before Griffin lost his composure completely.

 

“O-ma-ments,” the little girl who had been set aside when Griffin stood up commented, her face contorting with her effort to say the word she'd obviously just learned.

 

Isabelle giggled. “Ornaments? Wow . . . I'll bet they'll look great on your Christmas trees.”

 

“Don't talk to them,” Griffin grumbled, lumbering back into the room as he dried his hands on a clean towel. “You'll give them nightmares.”

 

She laughed at that. She couldn't help it. “Will I?”

 

He grunted, reaching over the children's heads to gather the earthenware bowls that they'd used to mix up the dough they were using for their ornaments. “Yes, you would,” he reiterated. “Put your ornaments onto the board there, and you can take them home next week.”

 

A couple of the children protested, saying that they weren't finished but did as they were instructed anyway. Griffin ignored the protests as he continued to gather up the dishes.

 

“Here,” she said, stepping over to take the stack of bowls from him.

 

He shot her a suspect glance but let her take them before turning his attention back to the children once more. “Hurry up. Your parents will be here shortly, and you all need to wash your hands . . . and faces,” he added, quirking an eyebrow at a couple of the children who had managed to get flour all over themselves. “Just leave the shirts there by the door.

 

The little girl stood up in the chair and held her chubby arms out for Griffin, and Isabelle had to wonder if the shirt she wore wasn't too long for her. In any case, she supposed it was a good idea that the child didn't seem inclined to try to walk by herself, and to her amusement, the gruff bear-youkai didn't hesitate as he strode around the table to carefully unbutton the shirt. “And you're the messiest of them all,” he mumbled, his expression one of exaggerated distaste at the prospect of lifting the child up. She giggled loudly, throwing her arms around his neck and leaning toward him as though she were trying to kiss him. He leaned back, curling his top lip and wrinkling his nose in abject disdain, which only served to escalate her laughter.

 

`He's so good with children,' Isabelle mused, reminding herself that he'd probably say something if she continued to stand there and gawk at him.

 

`He's a man of many talents, isn't he?'

 

Smiling to herself as she wandered toward the kitchen, Isabelle couldn't help the warmth that filtered throughout her body. Of course she'd known that he worked for one of the local preschools a couple days a week when he didn't have classes at the university. Still, seeing Griffin interacting with the children was just so unexpected, and the obvious regard they had for him showed. Maybe it was the simple reason that, while children might stare, they were also faster to deal with certain things, like the scars on Griffin's face that she knew only too well bothered the hell out of him. They didn't see him as a monster, and they didn't do more than ask a couple of questions. They hadn't been taught that physical beauty meant everything, and they hadn't learned that all people weren't really created equally in the eyes of society, not that Isabelle believed any such thing, herself. No, but she could understand why Griffin tended to be so reluctant around other people, didn't she? She'd been erroneously judged a few times in her life. Whether people looked at her and just saw another pretty face, or if they heard that her family name was Izayoi and drew their assumptions from that, it was just as daunting as having physical imperfections wasn't it? Even then, she had to admit that Griffin's scars . . . she loved them. He was a real person; a genuine person, and while he was still a damn fine looking man, she had to admit that the scars really did add a certain air of mystery to the man, as well.

 

Setting the bowls beside the sink, she turned on the tap water to fill before heading back for the dining room once more.

 

Griffin was kneeling on the floor in front of the child, carefully unbuttoning the shirt she was using as a smock, and Isabelle couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up in her. Though he was scowling in concentration as he meticulously worked the buttons, the girl was staring at him in something akin to complete awe—hero worship, maybe, and while he didn't necessarily see it or recognize it, Isabelle did. It was the same sort of look she could remember giving her own father so many times when she was younger. “There,” Griffin said, gently tugging the shirt off the girl before dropping it onto the pile beside the door. “Now go make your brother help you wash your hands.”

 

“Okay,” she agreed. Isabelle didn't miss the hint of reluctance in her tone. “Bwandon!” she yelled, darting out of the dining room with her golden curls bouncing. “Help me!”

 

Griffin didn't stand up as he pivoted on the balls of his feet to watch the retreating child.

 

“You never told me I had competition,” she chided, leaning in the doorway as she gazed at the man whom she adored.

 

He turned his head to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “Thought I told you not to come back yet,” he grumbled.

 

“It's after noon,” she replied.

 

He snorted to let her know that he wasn't buying and pushed himself to his feet once more. “Jezebel.”

 

She laughed as she watched him stride out of the room, and judging by the direction of the children's voices, she could tell that they were gathering in the foyer to put on their boots and coats. Their laughter seemed to echo through the house, leaving a warmth behind that couldn't be seen but was there, nonetheless, a welcome intrusion on the pervasive quiet. It was the kind of warmth that only children could bring; the kind of feeling that only a child's laughter could leave in its wake.

 

Froofie whined and barked by turns, too excited by Griffin's guests than he couldn't figure out exactly what to do with himself, and Isabelle smiled when the kitten—still nameless since they just couldn't seem to agree on a name for her yet—poked her head out from under the chest of drawers beside the kitchen doorway.

 

With a contented sigh, Isabelle pushed herself away from the frame and turned around to wash the dishes. Funny how she'd never really noticed it before, wasn't it? The children's laughter . . . it made the house feel even more like a home . . .

 

 

~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~ =~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~

A/N:

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Cynbad146:

You know, I thought this was an exceptionally beautiful chapter. The last part, where Griffin begins to give into his feelings for Isabelle, was so softly descriptive and touching. I was very, very impressed. It made my heart go KA-THUMP quite a few times. I can not wait to read what Isabelle might feel. The "legend" thing is very original and adds alot to the story. Also, Gunnar definitely acted like a young cocky version of Sesshoumaru in some of his words and mannerisms. The "narrowed eyes" was perfect. Though, judging from the bedroom scene, I am not sure he has inherited his grandfather's class. I figure that you want us to see that he has some cold hardness to his character even though he is young. How old is he supposed to be? Thanks! Cynbad146

 

Gunnar is a few months younger than Isabelle and Bas which makes Gunnar almost 33 …

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

Younger women, huh …

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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~